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ROBERT    ORD'S    ATONEMENT 


BOBEBT  OBL 


BY 

EOSA   NOUCHETTE   CAREY 

AUTHOR  OF  'NELLIE'S  MEMORIES,'  'BARBARA  HEATHCOTE'S  TRIAL,' 
'  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS,'  ETC. 


POPULAR    EDITION 


LONDON 

RICHARD  BENTLEY  &  SON,  NEW  BURLINGTON  STREET 
in  ®rtimarp  to  $ 
1892 


P'K 


TO 

MY  BROTHERS 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  THE  KING'S  HEAD    .  .  .  .  .  .1 

II.  ROBERT  ORD  STATES  HIS  OPINION  .  .  .  .14 

III.  EGLISTONE  ABBEY     .  .  .  .  .  .24 

IV.  MEG  .  ....       37 

Y.     "I  SHALL  NEVER  BE  HAPPY  AGAIN,  MEG"  .  .         46 

VI.  EIRKBY  VICARAGE  ...  ...      56 

VII.  Miss  MATURIN  is  SENT  TO  COVENTRY          .  .  .66 

VIII.  BELLE  STAYS  AWAY  AGAIN  FROM  SERVICE  .  .  .77 

IX.  NETTIE  UNDERWOOD  .  .  .  .  ,88 

X.  KOTHA          .......      97 

XI.  BRYN  ...  .  .107 

XII.  NETTIE'S  CONSPIRACY          .  .  .  .  .119 

XIII.  NETTIE'S  TEA-PARTY  .  .     132 

XIV.  THE  VICAR  GOES  TO  BRYN   .  .  .  .  .143 
XV.  THE  BLACKSCAR  HERALD     .            .            .            .            .157 

XVI.  TREATS  PRINCIPALLY  OF  TEARS       .  .  .  .173 

XVII.  MRS.  ORD  HEARS  ARTY  HIS  PRAYERS          .            .            .  187 

XVIII.  WHY  MRS.  ORD  GOES  WITHOUT  HER  NEW  DRESS    .            .  198 

XIX.  THE  VICAR'S  ATONEMENT    .....  211 

XX.  GAR'S  SHADOW         ......  224 

XXL  TYLER  AND  TYLER  ...                                    .  237 

XXII.  THE  LITTLE  SISTER                                                                .  248 

[XIII.  DOWN  ON  THE  SANDS  258 


viii  CONTENTS, 

CHAPTER 

XXIV.  BURNLEY-UPON-SEA        ... 
XXV.  A  STORM  IN  A  TEACUP    . 
XXVI.  IN  THE  DARK      . 
XXVII.  "  DON'T  GO,  GARTON  ;  I  WANT  YOU  "     . 
XXVIII.  A  LOVE  IDYLL     .  .  .    . 

XXIX.  BETWIXT  AND  BETWEEN 
XXX.  A  WOMAN'S  REASON  : — "I  LOVE  HIM  BECAUSE  I  LOVE 

HIM"  . 

XXXI.  IN  HOC  SPERO     .  ... 

XXXII.   "GOOD-BYE,  GAR"        .  .  .  . 

XXXIII.  ROBERT  ORD'S  REPENTANCE       .... 

XXXIV.  UNDER  THE  ROD  .  ... 
XXXV.  AN  ERRAND  OF  MERCY  . 

XXXVI.  A  MESSAGE  FROM  THE  SEA         .... 
XXXVII.  ON  THE  DARK  MOUNTAINS 

iXXVIII.  THE  CHILDREN'S  HOME  ,  ... 

XXXIX.  THE  BROKEN  CLAUSE      . 

XL.  FIVE  YEARS  AFTERWARDS          .... 
XLI.  WON  AT  LAST     .... 
XLII.  CONCLUSION 


KOBEKT   OKD'S   ATONEMENT. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE    KING'S    HEAD. 

"  The  sultry  summer  day  is  done, 
The  western  hills  have  hid  the  sun, 
But  mountain  peak  and  village  spire 
Retain  reflection  of  his  fire. 
Old  Barnard's  towers  are  purple  still, 
To  those  that  gaze  from  Toller's  hill ; 
Distant  and  high,  the  tower  of  Bowes 
Like  steel  upon  the  anvil  glows, 
And  Stainemore's  ridge,  behind  that  lay 
Rich  with  the  spoils  of  parting  day, 
In  crimson  and  in  gold  array'd." 

SCOTT'S  Rukeby. 
"  I  used  him  for  a  friend. 
Before  I  ever  knew  him  for  a  friend. 
'Twas  better,  'twas  worse  also,  afterwards 
We  came  so  close,  we  saw  our  differences 
Too  intimately. " 

Aurora  Leigh. 

"BARNARD  CASTLE." 

"All  right  for  Barnard  Castle.  Any  luggage,  sir?"  was  the 
civil  inquiry  addressed  to  the  solitary  occupant  of  a  second-class 
compartment  who  was  leisurely  folding  his  paper  and  shaking  off 
a  liberal  allowance  of  dust  as  he  did  so.  "  Any  luggage  in  the 
van,  sir?"  • 

A  shake  of  the  head  was  the  somewhat  curt  rejoinder  as  the 
gentleman  gave  The  Leeds  Mercury  a  final  fold,  and  shouldering 
his  snabby  black  bag  stepped  on  the  platform,  looking  about  him 
with  the  air  of  a  man  who  was  treading  new  ground,  and  who 
seemed  to  deduce  a  certain  amount  of  pleasure  from  that  fact, 
judging  from  the  curious  glances  he  cast  around  him  as  he  threaded 
the  little  knot  of  passengers  and  porters  who  blocked  up  the  narrow 
doorway. 

Out  into  the  broad  sunny  road  beyond,  where  there  was  a  cloud 

1 


2  ROBERT  ORD^S  ATONEMENT. 

of  gray  dust  and  a  cheeping  and  twittering  of  brown  sparrows,  and 
where  one  homely  country  equipage  was  lumbering  along  by  the 
side  of  a  farmer's  red-wheeled  gig  and  a  donkey-cart. 

"King's  Arms?"  persuasively  suggested  the  conductor,  a  dark 
saturnine  man  with  a  straw  in  his  mouth.  "  King's  Arms  1 — take 
you  up  there  in  three  minutes,  sir;  best  beds  and  best  accom- 
modation in  the  whole  of  Barnard  Castle." 

"Which  are  your  other  inns'?"  asked  the  stranger,  as  three 
unmistakable  commercial  gentlemen  pushed  past  him  to  secure  the 
best  places,  and  two  more  clambered  up  to  the  top  to  the  tune  of 
jingling  seals  and  chains.  "  This  seems  to  be  a  quiet  place,  but  I 
suppose  there  is  competition  even  at  Barnard  Castle." 

"  Law  bless  you,  yes,  sir  !"  replied  the  man  rubbing  his  head, 
"  especially  in  the  season.  Why,  let  me  see,  there's  the  Com- 
mercial, the  Rose  and  Crown,  the  Hangel,  the  Turk's  Head,  and 
the  Bay  Horse,  but  there's  nobody  but  will  say  the  King's  Head 
will  beat  'em  hollow.  Come,  we're  filling  up,  jump  in,  sir,"  but 
the  offer  was  declined.  An  old  blind  woman  with  a  bundle,  a 
basket  of  vegetables,  and  some  sunflowers  tied  up  in  a  blue-spotted 
handkerchief,  had  followed  the  commercial  gentlemen,  and  after 
her  came  two  servant-girls  out  for  a  holiday ;  the  interior  looked 
hot  and  fusty,  and  the  best  outside  places  were  taken. 

"  I  have  no  fancy  for  old  women  and  onions,"  muttered  the 
stranger.  Then  louder,  "  Don't  wait  for  me,  my  man,  I  shall  walk 
on."  And  so  saying  he  strode  off  at  a  pace  which  would  have 
suited  few  men  on  a  hot  June  day,  especially  as  the  sun  was  almost 
vertical,  and  poured  down  its  rays  on  the  long  shadowless  road 
with  a  steady  glare  that  made  the  heaped-up  dust  feel  like  heated 
blankets  to  the  feet. 

He  had  soon  left  the  road  behind  him  and  was  halfway  up  the 
long  straggling  street  that  leads  to  the  market-place,  a  drowsy 
grass-grown  old  place,  where  the  old-fashioned  inns  blinked  sleepily 
at  each  other  across  the  wide  empty  street,  where  a  few  antique 
shops  displayed  fewer  and  still  more  antique  wares,  where  the  green 
weeds  grew  up  between  the  stones,  and  the  stones  were  rutty  and 
uneven  from  age  and  not  from  traffic ;  where  for  six  days  of  the 
week  there  was  an  almost  sabbath-like  stillness,  and  only  a  sem- 
blance of  life  on  market-days ;  where  the  grating  of  wheels  was  the 
exception  and  not  the  rule,  and  the  children  trundled  hoops  and 
upset  their  little  go-carts  fearless  of  horses'  hoofs ;  and  where  a 
few  factory  lads  and  lasses  were  wont  to  congregate  on  a  summer's 
evening, — a  place  which,  in  its  sunny  drowsiness,  reminded  Robert 
Ord  of  some  quaint  old  Continental  town  he  had  once  seen  many 
years  ago. 


THE  KINGS  HEAD.  3 

The  host  of  the  King's  Arms  was  indulging  in  a  siesta  under 
the  shade  of  his  own  portico,  perhaps  seduced  thereto  by  the 
general  sleepiness  of  things  animate  and  inanimate.  Some  fantail 
pigeons  were  strutting  about  in  the  dust  almost  at  his  feet.  He 
woke  up  rather  startled  at  being  suddenly  addressed,  and  seemed 
bent  on  vindicating  himself. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir ;  I  believe — that  is — I  think  I  was 


A  very  sensible  proceeding  on  such  a  hot  morning,"  assented 
the  stranger  politely.  "  I  am  sorry  to  have  disturbed  you.  I 
only  asked  if  you  were  the  proprietor  of  the  King's  Arms  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir ;  Samuel  Morison,  at  your  service.  Here  comes  our 
bus  with  some  of  our  commercial  gentlemen;  perhaps  you  will 
walk  in,  sir,  it  is  piping  hot  outside.  Do  you  wish  for  a  private 
room,  sir?" 

"  I  should  like  a  place  where  I  could  speak  to  you  alone  for  a 
few  minutes,"  was  the  somewhat  impatient  reply.  "  Look  here, 
Mr.  Morison,  my  name  is  Ord.  Now  you  know  my  business  with 
you  and  the  King's  Arms,  and  that  I  have  a  question  or  two  to 
put  to  you  that  I  shall  want  answered  without  delay." 

"  Mr.  Ord ;  certainly,  sir,  a  dozen  if  you  wish.  I  had  no  idea, 
none  whatever,  to  whom  I  had  the  honour  of  speaking.  Come  in 
pray,  sir."  And  so  saying  he  led  the  way  through  a  long  dark  old 
hall,  with  a  far-off  glimpse  of  a  cool  stone  yard,  where  a  gray-haired 
ostler  was  rubbing  down  a  horse,  up  a  narrow  and  still  darker 
staircase  into  a  small  room  looking  over  the  market-place,  with  a 
sweet  stuffy  smell  in  it — the  scent  of  fresh  roses  and  dried  lavender 
together. 

There  was  some  needlework  neatly  folded  on  the  table,  which 
made  Mr.  Ord  hesitate  and  look  inquiringly  at  his  conductor. 

" This  room  is  engaged,  is  it  not?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  but  Miss  Maturin  won't  mind — and  I  have  no  other 
room  unoccupied  at  present ;  she's  lying  down  now  with  a  sick 
headache,  the  chambermaid  told  us,  and  so  it  is  quite  at  your 
service." 

"Who  is  Miss  Maturin?"  was  on  Mr.  Ord's  lips,  but  he 
checked  himself  on  remembering  that  it  was  no  business  of  his, 
and,  declining  refreshments  somewhat  shortly,  took  possession  of 
the  wide  old-fashioned  window-seat,  and  throwing  down  his  black 
bag  turned  round  to  his  host  and  begged  him  also  to  be  seated. 

"  Now,  Mr.  Morison,  I  want  to  know  how  it  came  about  that 
my  aunt — Mrs.  Ord,  that  is — died  at  your  house." 

"Mrs.  Ord,  sir?" 

"  You  see  I  know  all  about  it,  bad  news  travels  fast ;  I  was 


4  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

quite  aware  of  what  happened  before  I  started.  I  got  Mr.  Tracy's 
two  letters  together — by  the  bye,  I  never  thought  of  asking  if  he 
be  here." 

"  Yes,  sir ;  leastways  he  was  here  this  morning,  but  he's  gone 
on  to  Deepdale  with  a  party,  and  we  don't  expect  them  back  till 
latish ;  but  perhaps  you  will  prefer  to  speak  to  Miss  Maturin." 

"Who  in  the  world  is  this  Miss  Maturin?"  broke  out  from 
Mr.  Ord,  this  time  impatiently  enough.  "I  cannot  understand 
what  Miss  Maturin  has  to  do  with  my  business." 

The  landlord  coughed. 

"  Why,  Miss  Maturin  is  the  young  woman — the  young  lady,  I 
should  say — who  served  as  companion  to  the  deceased  lady. 
She's  lived  with  her  nigh  upon  four  years  I've  heard  tell,  and 
some  of  us  do  say  that  hers  has  not  been  a  bed  of  roses ;  leastways 
there  must  have  been  a  power  of  thorns  in  it  too,  judging  from 
the  poor  lady's  ways  and  words  with  her.  But  still  for  all  that 
she's  taking  on  and  pining  that  way  after  her  that  it  makes  one 
quite  sorry  to  see  her,  poor  young  creature."  And  the  compas- 
sionate landlord  wiped  his  eyes  with  the  feeling  of  a  man  who  had 
daughters  of  his  own. 

"  I  suppose  she  is  friendless  and  has  lost  a  comfortable  home  ; 
but  I  think  we  are  wandering  a  little  from  the  subject,  Mr. 
Morison.  I  am  rather  anxious  to  know  what  brought  my  aunt 
to  the  King's  Arms,  Barnard  Castle,  of  all  places." 

"  Yes,  sir ;  and  I  brought  in  Miss  Maturin's  name  because  I 
thought  she  might  give  you  more  information  than  I  could ;  not 
but  what  I  will  willingly  tell  you  all  I  know  about  the  poor  lady." 

"  Well,  sir,  the  first  time  I  ever  set  eyes  on  her  was  last  July, 
when  she  and  Miss  Maturin  arrived  late  one  evening.  They  were 
•on  their  way  from  the  Cumberland  Lakes,  and  there  was  some 
break-down  or  stoppage  on  the  line.  It  is  not  the  first  time,  sir, 
by  a  great  many  that  folk  come  for  one  night  and  end  by  staying 
some  days ;  and  to  make  a  long  story  short,  your  aunt,  Mrs.  Ord, 
sir,  took  a  fancy  to  the  place,  as  she  told  me  in  that  free  pleasant 
way  of  hers  that  she  had  sometimes,  and  she  and  Miss  Maturin 
and  her  maid  and  their  bag  and  baggage  were  with  us  I  should  say 
nigh  upon  five  weeks." 

"Hum,  capricious  as  usual,"  muttered  Mr.  Ord,  under  his 
breath.  "Well,  Mr.  Morison,  I  don't  suppose  you  often  have 
such  a  good  customer  as  my  aunt  1 " 

"  Well,  sir,  the  King's  Arms  has  had  better  and  it  has  had 
worse  in  its  days,  though  I  say  it  that  shouldn't ;  not  but  what  the 
poor  lady  dealt  fairly  enough  with  us,  and  it  is  not  for  the  likes  of 
us  to  judge  them  that  have  gone  before.  But  not  to  detain  you, 


THE  KING'S  HEAD.  5 

sir,  about  three  weeks  ago  comes  a  letter  from  Miss  Maturin, 
post-mark  Clifton,  engaging  rooms  for  Mrs.  Ord  and  herself,  with 
just  a  word  at  the  end  saying  that  she  hoped  the  house  was  quiet, 
for  her  lady  was  a  sad  invalid.  It  seems  that  she  had  been  off 
and  on  ailing  all  the  winter,  and  when  the  fine  weather  came  she 
was  sort  of  restless  and  kept  moving  from  place  to  place,  which 
the  doctors  told  Miss  Maturin  was  a  symptom  of  the  disease. 
Nothing  would  do  but  she  must  have  her  old  rooms  at  the  King's 
Arms,  and  see  a  little  more  of  her  favourite  place,  and  not  all  they 
could  say  or  do  to  dissuade  her  had  the  least  effect.  And  as  I 
said  before,  to  make  a  long  story  short,  she  just  came  in  one  fine 
summer's  evening,  as  I  was  sitting  behind  the  bar  with  a  com- 
mercial gentleman  of  my  acquaintance." 

"  Did  she  look  very  ill  ? "  asked  his  listener,  with  the  first  sign 
of  interest  he  had  shown  yet. 

"  Mr.  Ord,  sir,  there  was  death  in  her  face,"  said  the  landlord 
solemnly.  "She  had  that  look  of  breaking  up  that  isn't  to  be 
misunderstood  in  any  case,  least  of  all  in  a  lady  of  her  age.  Some 
of  us  who  were  following  her  minded  how  she  clutched  at  Miss 
Maturin's  arm  to  steady  herself  from  falling ;  but  all  the  same  she 
said  in  a  cheery  sort  of  a  voice,  'Mr.  Morison,'  she  said,  'I  hope 
you  have  given  me  my  old  rooms,  for  I  am  going  to  disappoint  my 
doctors,  and  get  well  here  as  fast  as  I  can/  and  those  were  the  last 
words  I  ever  heard  her  say." 

A  brief  sigh  from  Mr.  Ord  was  his  sole  comment.  He  had 
put  his  elbow  on  the  window-sill  now,  and  was  looking  down  into 
the  market-place.  Perhaps  the  landlord's  discourse  wearied  him, 
but  he  offered  no  interruption.  Mr.  Morison  cleared  his  throat, 
for  he  was  getting  a  little  husky,  and  proceeded — evidently  his 
story  was  after  his  own  heart,  and  he  thought  he  was  telling  it 
well : 

"  Man  disposes,  sir,  but  the  Almighty  has  the  making  up  of  it 
all  in  the  end ;  and  the  best  of  us  makes  a  sad  mess  of  the  little 
we  do.  Well,  when  we  had  got  the  poor  lady  upstairs,  Miss 
Maturin  and  the  maid  helped  her  to  bed,  which  some  of  us  knew 
she  would  never  leave  again  •  not  Miss  Maturin  though,  for  she 
told  our  chambermaid  that  she  really  thought  Mrs.  Ord  had  taken 
a  turn  for  the  better,  she  was  so  sprightly  like ;  but  when  the 
morning  came  she  was  too  weak  to  rise,  and  the  next  day  and  the 
next,  and  so  it  went  on. 

"  Well,  it  might  have  been  a  week  or  it  might  be  more,  I 
was  down  in  the  Castle  garden  which  belongs  to  the  King's 
Arms,  and  is  so  called  because  it  is  laid  out  partly  in  the  ruins, 
which  is  one  of  the  sights  of  Barnard  Castle,  that  strangers  come 


6  ROBERT  ORD^S  A  TONEMENT. 

to  see — I  was  down  in  the  Castle  garden,  I  say,  getting  in  our 
peas,  when  who  should  I  see  but  Miss  Maturin  coming  down  the 
centre  walk,  and  looking  as  white  as  her  gown.  And  when  she 
gets  up  to  me  she  says  : 

" '  Mr.  Morison,  will  you  send  one  of  your  people  with  this 
to  the  station  immediately  ?  Mrs.  Ord  is  much  worse,  and  I  am 
afraid  she  is  dying.  You  must  not  lose  a  minute — not  one  minute, 
please,  for,'  says  she,  clasping  her  hands,  '  there's  wrong  may  be 
done  that  will  be  past  undoing.'  You  may  not  believe  me,  sir,  but 
what  with  the  sunshine,  her  white  dress,  and  the  scared  look  on 
her  face,  I  was  sort  of  dazed ;  you  might  have  knocked  me  over 
with  a  feather.  For  the  life  of  me  I  could  not  think  what  man  I 
had  to  send,  through  it  not  being  the  full  season,  and  our  single- 
handed  waiter  being  laid  up  with  lumbago,  and  the  boots  having 
gone  up  to  the  station  already  with  a  commercial's  luggage ;  and 
all  the  time  I  was  considering,  she  stood  twirling  the  paper  round 
in  her  long  fingers  in  a  way  that  made  me  giddy. 

"  '  I  think  if  it's  a  telegram  I  had  better  take  it  myself,  Miss 
Maturin,'  I  said  at  last. 

"And  then  she  began  thanking  me  and  telling  me  how  it  was 
to  the  lawyer,  who  lived  in  London,  and  how  he  would  have  to 
travel  perhaps  all  night. 

"  *  I  pray  God  he  may  be  in  time,'  she  finished ;  and  I 
noticed  how  she  sort  of  wrung  her  hands  as  she  spoke." 

"  And  was  he  in  time  ? "  asked  Robert  Ord  in  a  voice  that 
startled  the  worthy  landlord,  it  was  so  quick  and  intense  in  its 
eagerness. 

"  Why  no,  sir ;  leastways  she  never  roused  to  full  conscious- 
ness again.  They  did  all  they  could.  Mr.  Tracy  waited  on  and 
on,  but  it  was  no  manner  of  use.  They  used  to  give  out  that  she 
was  reviving  sometimes,  and  Miss  Maturin  would  come  flying 
down  the  garden  for  Mr.  Tracy,  and  take  him  up  to  the  poor  lady ; 
but  as  soon  as  ever  they  spoke  to  her  she  was  back  again  in  the 
stupor,  and  so  it  went  on  to  the  last." 

"  Has  Mr.  Tracy  been  here  ever  since  ? " 

"  Oh  no,  sir ;  he  went  up  to  London  directly  afterwards,  and 
only  returned  in  time  for  the  funeral.  I  think  he  had  some  idea 
of  finding  you  here." 

"  True ;  but  I  was  away  from  home,  and  received  his  letters 
too  late.  Thank  you  very  much,  Mr.  Morison,  for  all  you  have 
told  me.  I  will  not  trouble  you  with  any  more  questions.  I  can 
wait  for  any  further  particulars  till  Mr.  Tracy  returns.''  The 
landlord  rose  at  the  hint.  "  And  you  do  not  wish  to  see  Miss 
Maturin,  sir  I" 


THE  KING'S  HEAD.  1 

"  I  have  no  objection  if  she  wishes  it;  perhaps  I  may  be  of 
some  use  to  her.  She  is  placed  in  very  unfortunate  circumstances. 
Any  lady  would  feel  such  a  position  keenly,  especially  as  I  am 
afraid  from  what  you  tell  me  that  she  is  without  friends." 

"  Not  a  creature  belonging  to  her  in  the  world,  sir." 

"  And  she  is  young,  you  say  1 " 

"About  one-and-twenty,  sir." 

"  Hum,  hardly  old  enough  to  take  care  of  herself.  Well,  Mr. 
Morison,  I  think  I  shall  be  glad  of  those  refreshments  you  offered 
me  before." 

"You  shall  have  them  at  once,  sir.  I  will  just  give  the 
chambermaid  a  message  for  Miss  Maturin;  and  maybe  she  will 
come  and  speak  to  you  herself." 

Robert  Ord  nodded,  and  the  door  closed  on  his  host.  He  gave 
a  genuine  sigh  of  relief  when  he  was  left  alone,  and  walked  once 
or  twice  across  the  room  with  the  air  of  one  who  had  shaken  off  a 
burden.  But  his  freedom  was  of  short  duration,  for  the  door 
again  opened,  and  a  respectable-looking  young  woman  entered. 

"  Miss  Maturin  desires  her  compliments,  sir,  and  thanks  you 
for  your  kind  message.  But  she  is  very  sorry  to  say  that  she 
cannot  possibly  see  you  till  the  evening,  as  she  is  suffering  from  a 
bad  sick  headache." 

"  I  have  no  wish  to  disturb  Miss  Maturin,  I  assure  you," 
replied  Mr.  Ord  drily,  as  though  he  were  slightly  annoyed.  "  I 
only  offered  my  services,  hearing  from  the  landlord  that  the  lady 
was  without  friends  in  a  strange  place." 

"  Yes,  sir ;  Miss  Maturin  understood  that,  and  she  is  extremely 
obliged  to  you ;  she  desired  me  also  to  say  that  she  hopes  you  will 
make  use  of  your  aunt's  sitting-room,  as  the  inn  is  very  full,  and  it 
is  quite  at  your  disposal." 

"  Thank  you ;  I  may  take  advantage  of  her  kindness  for  a  few 
hours,"  he  replied  a  little  less  stiffly,  but  half  disposed  to  refuse  the 
thoughtful  offer ;  it  was  curious  how  this  continual  mention  of  his 
aunt's  companion  ruffled  him.  "  I  wish  people  would  not  drag  in 
other  people's  affairs  in  the  middle  of  one's  private  business/'  he 
said,  fuming  to  himself  as  soon  as  he  was  left  alone.  "  What  in 
the  world  is  Miss  Maturin  to  me,  or  I  to  Miss  Maturin  ?  That's 
the  worst  of  talking  to  a  garrulous  landlord.  I  declare  I  am  quite 
sick  of  the  name." 

The  coldness  and  hauteur  of  his  manners  had  not  been  lost  on 
the  chambermaid,  who  was  as  quick  to  observe  as  the  rest  of  her 
class  ;  for  in  retailing  the  short  interview  afterwards  to  Miss 
Maturin,  she  described  Robert  Ord  as  the  proudest  as  well  as  the 
handsomest  gentleman  she  had  ever  set  eyes  on — a  double  ex- 


8  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

aggeration,  seeing  that  there  were  many  men  handsomer  and 
prouder  even  than  he.  But  he  was  a  good-looking  man  enough, 
possessing  those  elements  of  manly  beauty  which  are  sufficiently 
attractive  to  the  feminine  eye.  He  was  tall,  and  well  though 
rather  slenderly  built,  and  his  face  was  decidedly  prepossessing, 
though  a  physiognomist  might  have  found  fault  with  his  mouth — 
the  lips  were  too  thin,  and  closed  over  each  other  so  firmly  as  to 
give  an  expression  almost  of  hardness  to  his  otherwise  pleasant 
features.  One  seemed  to  feel  in  looking  at  him  that  his  firmness 
was  a  fault,  that  he  could  be  a  loving  friend  but  a  bitter  enemy, 
and  no  one's  enemy  more  than  his  own.  And  yet  there  was  some- 
thing about  the  man  that  must,  in  either  character,  win  your 
respect.  He  was  so  honest  and  so  terribly  in  earnest.  Women 
always  liked  Robert  Ord,  though  they  feared  him  a  little ;  and 
good  men  valued  his  opinions.  But  perhaps  the  best  criterion  of 
all,  little  children  loved  and  clung  to  him,  and  even  dumb  animals 
followed  him  about,  and  with  unerring  instinct  seemed  to  know  he 
was  their  friend. 

He  was  sorely  in  need  of  refreshments  by  the  time  they  arrived, 
and  did  ample  justice  to  the  excellent  fare  set  before  him,  but  as 
soon  as  his  repast  was  over,  he  strolled  to  the  window-seat  again, 
more  in  the  hope  of  enjoying  a  little  fresh  air  than  of  seeing  any 
special  objects  of  interest. 

"I  always  thought  Blackscar  the  dreariest  place  imaginable," 
he  said  half-aloud,  as  he  leant  his  elbows  on  the  sill  and  looked 
over  the  sunny  market-place,  "  but  one  has  the  sea  there,  with  its 
perpetual  changes,  but  this  Barnard  Castle  looks  as  though  it  has 
gone  to  sleep  for  a  score  of  years  and  has  not  begun  to  wake  up 
yet.  A  nice  little  nest  for  an  idle  man  perhaps — nay,  even  as  the 
landlord  of  the  King's  Arms,  existence  might  be  endurable  here — 
but  not  to  a  restless  Ord,  unless  it  be  Austin."  And  here  he 
broke  off,  as  though  too  indolent  this  hot  summer's  afternoon  to 
carry  on  any  consecutive  train  of  thought,  and  stared  instead  at  an 
enormous  placard  opposite  him,  containing  the  astounding  informa- 
tion that  on  that  very  evening  might  be  seen  one  of  the  most 
remarkable  wonders  of  the  world — the  Blue  and  Hairless  Horse, 
at  the  ridiculous  sum  of  one  penny,  children  half-price. 

"  I  suppose  he  has  fallen  into  some  lime-pit  by  accident  and 
then  got  painted,  but,  all  the  same,  those  louts  of  lads  will  go  and 
believe  in  him,  so  much  for  the  innocent  credulity  of  the  Barnard 
Castlers  j "  and  then  he  leant  out  farther,  as  a  little  equipage 
rattled  over  the  stones  and  stopped  at  a  neighbouring  tin-shop  ;  it 
was  rather  an  odd-looking  turn-out — a  low  carriage  drawn  by  a  pair 
of  fat  sleepy  mules,  with  a  huge  tawny  St.  Bernard  dog  keeping 


THE  KING'S  HEAD.  9 

them  company.  There  was  a  jingle  of  little  bells  about  it  too. 
A  lady  in  a  large  straw  hat  was  driving  a  tall  gentleman ;  there 
was  quite  a  small  crowd  round  them,  and  the  tin -man  looked 
obsequious.  Robert  Ord  found  out  afterwards  that  it  was  the 
owner  of  Rokeby.  After  that  came  a  cream-coloured  performing 
pony,  led  by  a  foreigner  and  escorted  by  small  boys ;  they  dis- 
appeared down  a  dark  entry  however,  and  the  small  boys  dispersed 
with  a  general  whoop  of  disappointment  to  reassemble  presently  in 
hot  pursuit  of  a  Punch  and  Judy  show ;  the  place  was  quiet  enough 
after  that ;  the  pigeons  strutted  again  in  the  sunshine,  and  only  a 
solitary  factory  girl,  with  the  usual  shawl  over  her  head,  passed 
listlessly  along. 

"  I  think  I've  had  enough  of  this,"  said  Robert  Ord,  suddenly 
rousing  himself.  "  It  is  cooler  now  ;  I  will  go  and  have  a  peep  at 
the  Castle  gardens,  and  perhaps  at  the  Castle  itself ;  it  is  better  to 
ventilate  one's  thoughts  when  they  are  as  heavy  as  mine." 

And  being  a  man  of  energy,  Robert  Ord  was  as  good  or  better 
than  his  word,  for  he  not  only  saw  the  ruined  Castle,  with  its 
hermit's  chamber,  and  the  cell  where  through  the  slit  in  the  wall 
the  unhappy  prisoner  could  view  the  enchanting  landscape  with  its 
noble  river  below,  but  he  perambulated  the  town  itself,  and  after 
having  counted  the  inns  and  alehouses  in  the  High  Street,  which 
reached  the  shady  side  of  twenty,  and  explored  the  factory  quarters, 
with  its  bridges  and  grimy  river,  he  returned  to  the  King's  Arms, 
and  having  made  friends  with  the  apoplectic-looking  waiter,  was 
conducted  by  him  across  a  stone  yard  and  through  a  side  gate  into 
the  far-famed  Castle  garden. 

"  Mr.  Morison  is  very  proud  of  his  garden,  sir,"  the  waiter  had 
assured  him ;  and  as  he  strolled  on  after  thanking  him,  he  was 
fain  to  acknowledge  that  Mr.  Morison  had  something  of  which  he 
might  justly  be  proud. 

Beautiful  old-fashioned  gardens  they  were,  lying  within  the 
ruins,  homely  enough,  but  brimful  of  sunshine  and  sweet-smelling 
old-fashioned  flowers,  none  the  less  lovely  that  they  bloomed  in 
the  same  plot  of  ground  with  apple-trees,  cabbages,  and  gooseberry 
bushes. 

He  had  never  seen  such  a  profusion  of  flowers  anywhere ;  they 
might  be  counted  by  hundreds  ;  there  was  a  perfect  blaze  of  colour 
in  the  sunshine,  and  great  brown  bees  were  humming  about  them 
and  filling  their  honey-bags  as  though  rejoicing  in  the  bounteous 
harvest. 

Flowers,  flowers  everywhere;  great  clumps  of  golden-hearted 
lilies,  looking,  as  they  are,  the  white  queens  of  the  garden,  and 
behind  them,  like  ranks  of  sentinels,  tall  dazzling  hollyhocks ; 


10  ROBERT  ORD^S  ATONEMENT. 

roses,  delicious  creamy  tea-roses,  and  rich  crimson  ones,  some  of 
them  deeply,  darkly  purple ;  pale  pinky  roses  hanging  in  clusters 
like  tinted  cups,  blush  and  white  roses — there  was  no  end  to  them 
anywhere ;  they  festooned  the  walls  in  company  with  the  fruit 
trees  and  throve  in  every  border,  bushes  of  them  bloomed  on  the 
ruined  walls  themselves,  or  made  inroads  on  the  gravel  paths. 

There  were  great  orange  beds  of  eschscholtzias,  and  lupins, 
blue,  rose,  and  yellow,  climbing  convolvuli  and  marigolds  of  all 
sorts,  double  daisies  and  stocks,  and  trails  of  rich  dark  nasturtiums, 
with  homely  sweet-peas  running  to  seed ;  flowers  that  brought  back 
the  garden  of  one's  childhood,  when  a  bush  of  southern-wood  was 
one's  delight,  and  monkshood,  sweet-william,  and  yellow -eyed 
pansies  were  the  rarest  flowers  in  the  world. 

Robert  Ord  dearly  loved  old  associations,  and  flowers  were  his 
especial  delight,  and  as  he  strolled  down  the  wide  gravel-paths  and 
under  the  sunny  walls  he  felt  brighter  than  he  had  done  for  many 
a  day ;  for  Robert  Ord  was  a  disappointed  man,  he  had  missed  his 
share  of  this  world's  good  things  somehow,  and  the  world  had  in 
consequence  turned  rather  a  cold  shoulder  on  him.  The  star  of 
the  Ords  was  not  just  now  in  the  ascendant ;  people  had  begun 
to  say  of  them  that  they  were  poor  and  proud,  and  might  have 
managed  better  if  they  had  only  bent  those  obstinate  wills  of 
theirs  a  little  and  learned  to  be  humble.  But  it  was  a  lesson  no 
Ord  had  ever  yet  learned,  and  so  they  had  gone  on  their  ways  chew- 
ing the  bitter  cud  of  experience  with  a  sorry  face  or  a  cheerful  one 
according  to  their  several  natures ;  and  a  little  hardness  had  crept 
into  Robert's  heart,  the  good  things  of  this  world  had  been  pro- 
mised him  and  then  had  been  suddenly  withdrawn,  and  he  had 
grown  sore  with  longing  for  them ;  but  none  the  less  did  he  feel 
some  stirrings  of  hope  within  him  that  brighter  days  might  be  in 
store  for  him  and  his.  He  had  felt  it  as  he  alighted  from  his  hurried 
journey  and  stepped  into  the  dust  and  sunshine,  and  he  felt  it  still 
more  as  he  walked  between  the  gay  coloured  bushes,  and  looked 
across  at  the  blue-black  ruins  of  Barnard  Castle  with  a  pile  of 
amethyst  and  scarlet  clouds  behind  them. 

He  had  stopped  for  a  moment  to  lean  on  the  little  gate  that 
connects  the  upper  and  lower  gardens,  when  the  slow  rustle  of  a 
dress  attracted  his  attention  ;  and  looking  up  he  saw  a  lady  coming 
round  the  angle  of  the  wall,  evidently  towards  him.  She  did  not 
see  him  till  he  had  opened  the  gate  for  her  to  pass ;  then  she 
bowed  slightly  with  a  quiet  well-bred  air,  but  without  raising  her 
eyes.  He  had  just  time  to  notice  that  she  was  tall,  very  young, 
and  dressed  in  rather  deep  mourning,  before  a  sudden  and  most 
unaccountable  impulse  made  him  lift  his  hat  and  say : 


THE  KING'S  HEAD.  11 

" I  beg  your  pardon,  but  am  I  not  addressing  Miss  Maturing" 

She  was  passing  him  as  he  spoke ;  perhaps  the  abruptness  of 
the  question  startled  her,  for  she  hesitated,  seemed  painfully  con- 
fused, and  at  last  stammered  out  in  the  lowest  voice  he  had  ever 
heard : 

"  Yes ;  I  am  Miss  Maturiu.  I  suppose — that  is — I  believe  I 
am  speaking  to  Mr.  Ord." 

"  Certainly." 

"  I  thought  so ;  I  was  sorry  I  could  not  meet  you  as  you  wished, 
in  the  earlier  part  of  the  day.  I  only  came  out  now  to  see  if  the 
air  would  do  my  head  good ;"  she  spoke  quickly,  with  a  flurry  and 
indistinctness  in  her  words,  which  made  them  nearly  inaudible ; 
and  the  nervous  trembling  of  her  hands  spoke  volumes. 

"  She  is  very  young,  and  is  afraid  of  me,"  thought  he ;  and  he 
answered  her  in  his  pleasantest  tones,  as  though  to  reassure  her. 

"  Yes,  there  is  nothing  so  painful  and  depressing  as  a  bad  sick 
headache.  I  have  had  several  in  my  time,  and  know  how  trying 
they  are  to  bear.  This  cool  evening  air  will  do  you  good,  Miss 
Maturin ;  now  as  we  have  met  one  another  so  opportunely  we  may 
as  well  have  our  little  interview  out  here  in  this  lovely  old  garden, 
it  will  be  ten  times  better  than  'that  stuffy  little  room  upstairs, 
and  I  have  so  many  questions  to  ask  about  my  poor  aunt." 

"Have  you?  Yes,  we  will  stop  out  here  if  you  like,"  she 
returned,  looking  round  her  in  a  helpless  sort  of  way,  that  made 
Mr.  Ord  think  she  was  meditating  an  escape.  He  could  not  help 
scrutinising  her  narrowly  as  she  stood  there  under  the  low  apple 
trees — a  tall  slim  creature,  in  her  black  dress,  with  a  lace  kerchief 
tied  over  her  brown  hair,  and  a  face  so  young  and  so  surprisingly 
pale  that  it  moved  him  to  pity  in  spite  of  himself.  He  had  just 
made  up  his  mind  that  she  was  not  at  all  good-looking,  and  that 
she  was  very  unhappy,  when  she  looked  up  at  him  with  a  pair  of 
soft  troubled  eyes  and  said  : 

"  If  you  have  questions  to  ask,  of  course  I  will  stay  and 
answer  them  ;  but  I  thought,  perhaps,  you  would  wait  for  Mr. 
Tracy." 

"  Mr.  Tracy  cannot  tell  me  all  I  want,  Miss  Maturin.  Forgive 
me  if  I  am  too  cruel  in  keeping  you  when  you  are  evidently  in 
need  of  quiet ;  but  my  time  is  short.  A  few  hours  is  all  I  can 
spare  from  my  business,  and  my  talk  with  Mr.  Tracy  must  be  of  a 
far  different  character." 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  she  answered  with  a  little  shiver,  and  turning 
paler  than  ever,  "  it  must  be  all  so  sad  for  you.  Ah,  why  have 
you  come  so  late  1  We  did  what  we  could,  Mr.  Ord ;  indeed  we 
did,  but  it  was  all  too  late." 


12  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

"  I  could  not  come  before,"  he  returned,  anxious  to  defend 
himself,  and  wondering  at  her  exceeding  agitation.  "  I  was 
travelling  for  our  firm,  and  Mr.  Tracy's  letter  never  reached  me ; 
and  as  ill  luck  would  have  it  neither  of  my  brothers  could  come 
either,  for  Garton  had  hurt  his  foot,  and  Austin  could  find  no  one 
to  take  his  duty.  Then  the  funeral  took  place  yesterday.  Was 
the  will  opened  then,  Miss  Maturin  1 " 

"  Yes,"  pressing  her  lips  together. 

"  Who  was  present ?"' 

"Only  Mr.  Tracy,  Mr.  Compton  the  clergyman,  and  myself; 
the  other  executor  could  not  come." 

"  Who  is  the  other  executor  ? "  he  asked  anxiously ;  but  she 
interrupted  him,  almost  in  distress. 

"It  is  Mr.  Morrell  or  Murrell — I  don't  know  which;  but 
please  don't  ask  me  anymore  about  that,  Mr.  Tracy  will  tell  you;" 
and  putting  her  hand  to  her  head,  "I  am  so  confused — oh,  so 
dreadfully  confused  with  it  all." 

"Tell  me  something  about  my  aunt's  illness,"  he  said  kindly, 
and  putting  aside  his  evident  desire  to  know  more ;  for  Robert 
Ord  was  very  tender  over  weakness,  and  very  chivalrous  and 
courteous  to  all  womenkind,  and  this  shy,  timid  girl  excited  his 
compassion.  His  soothing  tone  seemed  to  give  her  confidence,  for 
she  brightened  up  a  little  ;  and  by  means  of  frequent  questioning 
and  an  encouraging  word  or  two  he  was  soon  put  into  possession 
of  all  the  facts  connected  with  his  aunt's  long  mental  illness — an 
illness  aggravated  by  restlessness,  and  resulting  in  the  break-up  of 
all  her  vital  powers. 

"  It  seems  so  dreadful  for  her  to  have  died  at  an  inn,  with  only 
hirelings  round  her,"  finished  Miss  Maturin ;  "if  her  old  friend  Mr. 
Tracy  had  not  been  near  her,  I  should  have  said  it  was  almost 
too  sad." 

"  I  should  think  you  must  have  been  an  old  friend  yourself  by 
this  time,  Miss  Maturin;  you  have  been  three  or  four  years  with  her." 

"  Nearly  four.  I  know  I  tried  to  do  my  duty  to  her.  I  wish 
now  that  I  had  not  tried  quite  so  hard ;  no,  you  will  not  under- 
stand me,  Mr.  Ord,  but  she  seemed  so  lonely,  poor  thing,  and  so 
bitter  with  some  secret  trouble,  that  one  could  not  help  pitying 
her,  and  trying  to  make  her  life  a  little  less  unbearable  to  herself 
and  others.  I  did  not  mean  to  say  that,  God  knows ;  she  was  my 
only  friend,  and  I  miss  her" — and  Miss  Maturin  wiped  away  a 
few  quiet  tears  in  a  way  that  touched  the  young  man  to  the  heart. 

"  Are  you  so  wholly  without  friends  then  c( "  he  asked  gently. 

"I  have  not  any  one  belonging  to  me  in  the  world,"  was  the 
sad  answer. 


THE  KIN&S  HEAD.  13 

"  Pardon  me  ;  not  a  sister,  not  a  brother  ?" 

"  No  ;  I  was  an  only  child." 

"  Tell  me  some  more  about  yourself;  that  is,  if  you  do  not 
mind,"  he  said,  with  quite  an  elder  brotherly  feeling  towards  this 
young  girl,  thrown  so  suddenly  and  so  unprotected  on  the  world ; 
"  not  that  we  Ords  have  much  interest ;  but  I  know  some  good 
women  who  would  go  very  far  out  of  their  way  to  assist  one 
of  their  own  sex." 

She  smiled  gratefully  at  that ;  and  then,  as  though  his  kind- 
ness had  won  her  from  her  timidity,  she  told  him  in  a  few  simple 
words,  all  the  more  pathetic  that  they  were  so  few  and  simple,  the 
particulars  of  her  poor  little  story. 

She  told  him  how  she  had  been  the  only  child  of  an  Indian 
officer,  who  had  died  while  on  his  voyage  home  on  sick  leave,  and 
how  in  two  or  three  short  years  her  mother  had  followed  him, 
leaving  her  a  lonely  child,  only  ten  years  old  ;  how  they  had  left  a 
little  sum  of  money  for  her  maintenance  and  education ;  and  when 
that  was  exhausted,  she  had  become  a  pupil-teacher  in  the  same 
school  where  she  had  been  educated,  from  which  drudgery  Mrs.  Ord 
had  rescued  her. 

"  I  was  only  seventeen  then,"  'concluded  Miss  Maturin,  "  but  I 
was  doing  the  work  of  two  people.  When  I  look  back  I  do  not 
know  which  was  worse,  that  school  life  or  the  years  that  came  after. 
I  don't  think  " — clasping  her  hands  with  a  movement  that  seemed 
habitual  to  her — "  I  don't  think  I  ever  had  a  friend  in  the  world 
except  the  music-mistress,  Mrs.  Carruthers,  and  she  was  good  to 
me.  I  see  now  that  Mrs.  Ord  liked  me,  and  meant  to  be  kind ; 
but  how  could  I  have  guessed  it — how  could  I — how  could  I  ? " 

The  nervous  flurry  of  manner  had  returned,  and  as  she  spoke 
these  last  words  she  looked  so  white  that  Robert  Ord  at  once  pro- 
posed they  should  return  to  the  inn. 

"I  will  see  you  again  to-morrow,"  he  said,  holding  out  his 
hand  with  a  friendly  look  as  they  parted  in  the  hall.  "  I  shall 
not  leave  very  early  in  the  morning  after  all,  and  I  shall  expect 
you  to  tell  me  what  I  can  do  to  help  you." 

"  Thank  you,  thank  you  gratefully  for  all  your  kindness,"  she 
answered  ;  but  either  she  did  not  or  would  not  see  his  hand. 

Robert  Ord  watched  her  gliding  up  the  staircase  like  a  black 
shadow,  and  then  he  turned  the  handle  of  his  door  with  a  brief 
sigh  and  went  in. 


CHAPTER    II. 

ROBERT    ORD    STATES    HIS    OPINION. 

' '  0  false  my  friend  1 

False,  false,  a  random  charge,  a  blame  undue  ; 
Wrest  not  fair  reasoning  to  a  crooked  end  : 
False,  false,  as  you  are  true  ! "  JEAN  INGELOW. 

ROBERT  ORD  had  expected  to  find  the  little  room  as  empty  as 
when  he  left  it ;  he  was  greatly  surprised  therefore  to  see  a  gray- 
haired  gentleman  with  a  florid  face  busily  writing  at  the  centre  table; 
in  the  dim  light  he  had  some  difficulty  in  recognising  him  till  he 
pushed  back  his  chair  and  came  forward  with  outstretched  hand. 

"  Good  evening,  Mr.  Ord." 

"  Good  evening,  Mr.  Tracy ;  you  have  taken  me  quite  by  sur- 
prise. I  had  no  idea  that  you  had  returned." 

"  My  dear  sir,  a  thousand  apologies  for  keeping  you  so  long 
waiting;  here  I  have  been  all  day  with  a  party  at  Deepdale — 
ought  to  have  known  better  at  my  age — time  is  money  to  a  busi- 
ness man.  Never  expected  you  for  a  moment — why  did  not  you 
telegraph  ? " 

"  True,  so  I  might,"  returned  Robert  Ord. 

"  Might !  I  should  think  so.  '  If  he  means  to  come  he'll 
send  a  telegram/  thought  I ;  '  and  if  not,  I  shall  be  off  to  London 
to-morrow.'  What  were  you  doing  at  Glasgow  ? " 

"  Something  wrong  with  our  machinery,  and  they  sent  on  my 
letter  instead  of  opening  it — that's  Gar  all  over — and  so,  of  course, 
there  was  no  way  of  being  present  yesterday." 

"  I  supposed  business  had  kept  you ;  couldn't  the  parson  come 
either?" 

"  Who — Austin  1  No,  just  at  the  last  minute  he  couldn't  find 
any  one  to  take  his  duty.  I  believe  there  was  a  wedding  and  a 
funeral  on  for  that  day." 

"  Humph  !  just  as  well,  perhaps,  as  things  have  turned  out," 
returned  the  lawyer,  taking  out  his  snuff-box  and  tapping  it 
nervously.  "  Of  course  we  were  obliged  to  open  the  will." 


ROBERT  ORD  STATES  HIS  OPINION.  15 

"  So  Miss  Maturin  informed  me." 

"  What !  have  you  seen  Miss  Maturin  ? "  asked  Mr.  Tracy  in 
a  tone  of  unfeigned  astonishment.  "  I  thought  she  told  me  that 
nothing  would  induce  her  to  see  you.  Well,  women  are  queer 
creatures  to  manage — they  tell  you  one  thing  and  do  the  other. 
So  she  told  you  about  the  will,  eh  ? " 

"No,  indeed ;  she  referred  me  to  you." 

"I  am  sorry  for  it;  I  thought  she  was  going  to  save  me  an 
awkward  piece  of  business,"  said  Mr.  Tracy,  ruffling  up  his  gray 
hair  in  a  way  peculiar  to  himself — it  was  coarse  hair,  and  made  a 
grating  sort  of  sound.  "  Crump  took  down  all  the  particulars  of 
the  will — she  was  our  oldest  client — I  never  understood  why  she 
sent  for  my  partner  instead  of  myself,  but  I  understand  it  now ; 
rather  a  hard  customer  she  was  to  manage — confoundedly  hard,  I 
should  say ; "  and  he  rapped  his  snuff-box  thoughtfully  on  the  table 
before  he  took  a  pinch.  "  Pray,  Mr.  Ord,  if  it  be  not  asking  too 
downright  a  question,  was  your  aunt  on  such  very  bad  terms  with 
you  and  the  rest  of  your  family  1 " 

"  I  am  sorry  to  hear  you  asking  that  question,  Mr.  Tracy ;  it 
sounds  ominous.  She  was  on  the  worst  possible  terms  with  us 
all,  sir." 

"  Humph  !  thought  so,"  taking  another  pinch.  "  Couldn't 
comprehend  it  otherwise — had  always  heard  she  had  educated 
and  made  so  much  of  her  three  nephews — brought  them  up,  in 
fact,  as  though  they  were  her  own  sons." 

"So  she  did  till  the  last  four  years.  But,  look  here,  Mr. 
Tracy,  doesn't  it  strike  you  that  we  are  beating  about  the  bush  a  good 
deal  ?  It  does  not  require  much  penetration  to  see  that  you  have  no 
very  good  news  to  give  me.  What  is  the  good  of  all  this  preamble  ? 
Of  course  my  aunt  has  left  all  her  money  to  a  charitable  institution." 

He  spoke  quietly,  but  there  was  an  anxious,  almost  an  eager 
look  about  his  face ;  he  had  told  himself  coming  along  that  he  had 
little  or  no  hope,  and  that  whatever  disappointment  might  await 
him  he  would  bear  it  like  a  man ;  but  he  knew  now  that  hope 
had  been  strong  within  him,  that  he  had  coveted  that  money  as 
earnestly  as  he  knew  how  to  covet  anything — all  the  more  that  it 
had  once  been  within  his  lawful  grasp  before  misunderstandings 
had  arisen,  and  the  Ord  pride  had  estranged  them ;  and  now  his 
heart  was  growing  heavy  and  sore  within  him,  for  Mr.  Tracy's 
jovial  face  looked  graver  and  longer  than  he  had  ever  seen  it. 

"  I  suppose  she  has  endowed  some  orphanage  or  hospital,  or 
left  funds  for  building  another  church ;  she  was  largely  given  to 
such  good  works,"  he  continued,  trying  to  speak  lightly,  but  fail- 
ing utterly. 


16  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

"  I  wish  to  heaven  Miss  Maturin  had  told  you  herself,"  said 
the  lawyer,  rubbing  his  hands  fretfully. 

"  My  good  sir,  what  has  Miss  Maturin  to  do  with  the 
subject  ? " 

"  Unfortunately,  Mr.  Ord,  she  has  everything  to  do  with  it. 
Your  aunt  has  left  her  the  whole  of  her  property."  Robert  Ord 
started  from  his  seat,  with  an  exclamation  rather  strong  than 
polite. 

"  Now  do  be  calm,  my  dear  sir — pray  be  calm  ; "  and  the 
lawyer  took  three  pinches  in  succession  as  he  watched  him  nerv- 
ously. "  I  can't  tell  you  how  heartily  grieved  I  am  for  your  dis- 
appointment, but  pray  be  calm." 

"  The  whole  of  her  property,  Mr.  Tracy  ! — impossible." 

"  Every  penny,  I  give  you  my  word ;  every  stick  and  straw, 
except  a  large  donation  to  the  fishermen  and  a  munificent  bequest 
to  the  Convalescent  Hospital.  Of  course  there  are  minor  legacies 
to  servants  and  executors,  and  she  has  not  forgotten  two  or  three 
old  pensioners ;  but  the  bulk  of  her  property,  in  houses  and  funded 
property,  with  Bryn  and  all  its  furniture,  plate,  etc.,  amounting 
to  about  five  thousand  a  year,  goes  solely  and  entirely  to  Miss 
Maturin." 

"  Miss  Maturin — good  heavens  !  Miss  Maturin  ! "  And 
Robert  Ord's  expression  was  not  pleasant  to  see. 

"Mr.  Tracy,  on  my  word  of  honour  as  a  gentleman,  I  will 
never  believe  my  aunt  intended  to  do  us  this  deadly  wrong." 

"  Tush,  my  dear  sir.  I  have  the  exact  copy  of  the  will  before 
me  now ;  you  may  read  it  for  yourself  in  black  and  white,"  and 
he  pushed  the  papers  towards  Robert  Ord.  "  Look  it  over ;  you 
will  find  the  instrument  correct  and  valid  enough.  Crump  knew 
what  he  was  about  when  he  drew  up  that  document — and  a 
rascally  document  it  is,"  muttered  the  lawyer,  as  he  turned 
towards  the  window.  He  was  a  good-natured  man,  softer-hearted 
than  many  of  his  class,  and  the  sight  of  the  young  man's  pale  face 
moved  him  to  pity.  "  He  has  played  his  cards  as  badly  as  a  man 
could  play  them,"  he  said  to  himself;  "those  Ords  are  all  alike — 
they  never  know  what  is  good  for  them ;  there's  not  one  of  the 
three  could  manage  a  cantankerous  old  woman ;  but  all  the  more, 
it  is  a  grievous  pity  this  fine  young  man  should  be  the  loser. 
Humph !  I  should  like  to  know  the  rights  of  it."  And  he  was 
still  turning  the  matter  over  in  his  mind  when  Robert  Ord  threw 
the  paper  from  him  with  a  gesture  of  anger  and  disgust. 

"  Mr.  Tracy,  I  shall  dispute  that  will.  As  sure  as  I  am  stand- 
ing here  I  shall  do  it." 

"  On  what  grounds,  Mr.  Ord  ? " 


ROBERT  ORD  STATES  HIS  OPINION.  17 

"  On  the  grounds  of  insanity — imbecility,  if  you  like.  My 
aunt  was  not  in  her  sane  mind  when  she  dictated  that  will." 

"  Fudge,  my  dear  sir." 

"Mr.  Tracy!" 

"  Come,  come,  this  is  going  too  far ;  do  let  us  be  reasonable. 
Of  course  I  agree  with  you  that  it  is  a  confounded  shame — that, 
morally  speaking,  the  young  woman  has  no  more  right  to  the 
money  than  I  have,  and  a  more  unjust  will  was  never  executed ; 
but  when  you  talk  of  disputing  the  validity  of  the  document  you 
are  simply  flying  in  the  face  of  reason." 

"  Never  mind,  I  will  go  to  law ;  I  will  have  the  thing  properly 
sifted.  What  right  had  she  to  disinherit  her  lawful  nephews  with- 
out cause,  for  the  sake  of  a  designing  stranger  ? " 

"  Mr.  Ord,  my  good  sir ' 

"  It  is  no  use  dissuading  me,  Mr.  Tracy.  I  have  made  up  my 
mind.  I  will  talk  the  matter  over  with  Austin,  and  he  will  agree 
with  me." 

"  I  think  better  of  the  parson  than  that." 

"  What !  you  think  he  will  not  fight  the  thing  out  with  me  ? 
You  are  mistaken." 

"  No,  no,  Mr.  Ord;  I  think  better  of  him  and  of  you  than  that 
Go  to  law,  indeed  !  Why,  you  have  not  a  leg  to  stand  upon." 

"  How  so  1 "  asked  Robert  Ord.  His  excitement  was  cooling 
a  little  before  the  lawyer's  phlegm. 

"  Why,  in  the  first  place,  the  costs  would  ruin  you ;  and,  in 
the  next  place,  you  would  gain  nothing.  Ask  any  lawyer,  he 
would  tell  you  the  same.  Granted  that  it  is  a  most  unjust  will ; 
but,  after  all,  I  suppose  the  deceased  lady  had  a  right  to  do  what 
she  liked  with  her  own." 

"  I  deny  that  my  aunt  was  in  her  reasonable  senses  when  she 
dictated  that  document." 

"Will  you  undertake  to  prove  that,  Mr.  Ord?  No,  no,  let 
us  glance  at  the  main  facts  of  the  case.  Here  is  a  lady  with — 

with Here  the  lawyer  hesitated  for  a  word.  "Well,  let 

us  say  a  decidedly  unpleasant  temper,  variable  and  capricious  as  the 
winds,  and  full  of  all  sorts  of  jealous  fancies.  Well,  this  lady  brings 
up  her  nephews,  treats  them  in  a  way  like  her  own  sons,  and  finally 
adopts  one  and  makes  him  her  heir.  By  and  by  misunderstand- 
ings arise ;  there's  coolness,  first  with  one  and  then  with  another  of 
the  brothers — all  on  account  of  this  touchy  temper  and  the  Ord  pride 
— no  insanity,  mind  you,  ever  having  been  known  in  the  family ; 
presently  there's  ill  blood  between  her  and  the  heir,  and  she  there 
and  then  refuses  to  have  any  more  to  do  with  him — that's  some 
years  ago — they  don't  meet  again ;  and  when  the  will  is  opened, 

2 


18  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

he  finds  she  has  only  left  him  her  forgiveness  and  a  blessing.  Isn't 
that  the  long  and  the  short  of  it,  Mr.  Ord  ? " 

"  I  believe  you  have  stated  it  pretty  correctly." 

u  Well,  how  can  you  make  out  your  case  for  presuming  the 
deceased  was  of  unsound  mind?  Crump  will  tell  you  she  was 
never  clearer  and  better  than  when  she  dictated  the  points  of  that 
will,  looked  as  hale  and  hearty  as  though  she  would  live  till  eighty — 
was  terribly  irascible  with  him  to  be  sure,  and  rapped  on  the  table 
with  her  gold-headed  cane  every  time  he  ventured  on  a  remon- 
strance. Never  had  such  an  interview  in  his  life;  it  quite  aged  him." 

"  You  really  think  I  cannot  contest  the  will  1 "  asked  Eobert 
Ord  hopelessly. 

"  My  dear  sir,  it  would  be  the  maddest  thing  you  ever  did  in 
your  life,  even  to  attempt  such  a  thing.  Ton  my  word  your  aunt 
was  a  most  unaccountable  creature  though — here  she  led  that  poor 
girl  a  sad  life  of  it,  every  one  says  so,  and  then  goes  and  leaves 
her  all  her  money  as  though  to  make  up  for  it." 

"  Poor  girl  indeed  !  Who  ever  would  have  thought  my  aunt 
could  have  been  so  duped,  and  she  such  an  acute  woman,  too  1 " 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that,  may  I  ask  ?" 

"  Now,  Mr.  Tracy,  is  it  possible  that  you  can  be  so  simple  as 
not  to  see  there  must  have  been  some  undue  influence  at  work  ? 
I  could  not  have  believed  that  any  one  so  young  and  so  seemingly 
simple  could  have  been  so  designing." 

"  There,  she  said  you  would  say  so — she  said  you  would  take 
it  like  this ; "  and  the  lawyer  rubbed  up  his  hair  with  vexation  till 
it  stood  on  end  all  round  like  a  gray  halo.  "  I  can  well  under- 
stand you  feel  inclined  to  play  at  fisticuffs  with  the  world  in 
general  for  having  used  you  so  badly,  but  when  it  comes  to  speak- 
ing ill  of  that  poor  young  woman  because  she  has  innocently 
defrauded  you  of  your  aunt's  property,  I  must  say,  Mr.  Ord,  I 
hardly  expected  it  of  you." 

"  I  suppose  she  has  talked  you  over,  sir,"  sneered  Robert  Ord. 
"  Ah,  I  can  see  it  all  now.  No  wonder  she  dreaded  to  meet  me ; 
no  wonder  she  could  not  look  me  in  the  face  and  answer  my  ques- 
tions ;  fool  that  I  was,  to  be  gulled  by  all  that  seeming  simplicity." 

"  Mr.  Ord,  you  are  cruelly  misjudging  that  poor  girl." 

"Of  course,  Mr.  Tracy,  if  you  are  going  to  take  up  cudgels  in 
her  defence,  I  have  no  more  to  say ;  but  I  should  have  thought  a 
lawyer  the  last  man  to  be  deceived  by  fair  specious  words.  Miss 
Maturin  is  nothing  to  me,  but  I  should  have  certainly  liked  a 
different  sort  of  neighbour  at  Bryn ;  it  is  rather  too  close  to  the 
Vicarage  to  be  pleasant." 

"  Upon  my  word  I  pity  that  young  creature  coming  into  the 


ROBERT  ORD  STATES  HIS  OPINION.  19 

midst  of  you,"  returned  the  lawyer  warmly ;  "  that  was  a  cruel 
provision  of  the  will  obliging  her  to  live  at  Bryn.  When  we  read 
it  out  to  her  she  turned  as  white  as  that  table-cloth."  'What! 
shall  I  have  to  face  them  day  after  day  and  week  after  week  T 
she  said,  turning  to  me.  '  Mr.  Tracy,  it  is  too  dreadful,  I  cannot 
do  it.  I  shall  feel  as  though  I  have  robbed  them  of  their  money.  I 
have  no  right  to  it,  none  at  all ;  and  they  are  all  so  poor,  you  tell  me.'" 

"  We  are  much  obliged  to  Miss  Maturin  for  her  commiseration," 
returned  Robert  Ord  haughtily,  stung  by  the  concluding  words. 

"  My  dear  sir,  do  let  me  proceed ;  it  is  my  duty  to  remove 
this  suspicion  if  I  can.  We  had  some  trouble  to  make  her  under- 
stand that  she  was  sole  legatee ;  she  kept  interrupting  us  by  telling 
us  that  she  was  sure  Mrs.  Ord  had  repented  of  her  injustice,  and 
that  she  had  meant  to  make  another  will  in  favour  of  her  nephew 
Robert ;  and  at  last  she  got  so  urgent  that  we  were  obliged  to  ask 
her  reasons  for  what  she  said." 

"  Well  1 "  asked  Mr.  Ord  eagerly,  as  the  lawyer  paused. 

"  Well,  it  seems  about  a  week  before  her  death  Mrs.  Ord  let 
fall  some  words  about  the  final  disposition  of  her  property  which 
excited  Miss  Maturin's  suspicion,  and  she  begged  her  to  tell  her 
more,  but  she  would  not.  She  only  asked  her  jestingly  how  she 
would  feel  if  she  woke  up  one  morning  and  found  herself  a  rich 
woman ;  and  when  she  said  that,  it  came  upon  her  all  of  a  sudden 
that  some  injustice  was  going  to  be  done,  and  then  and  there  she 
begged  and  prayed  Mrs.  Ord  not  to  leave  her  any  money,  or  not 
more  than  would  keep  her  from  drudgery  all  her  life ;  and  she 
implored  her  by  all  she  held  sacred  not  to  leave  the  world  bearing 
a  grudge  against  any  one,  and  least  of  all  her  own  flesh  and  blood. 
I  don't  know  what  more  she  said,  but  she  told  us  that  Mrs.  Ord 
seemed  much  shaken  by  her  words,  and  not  a  little  touched.  She 
patted  her  kindly  on  the  head — she  was  kneeling  by  her  at  the 
time — and  promised  she  would  think  over  it ;  and  she  was  not  to 
fear  for  herself,  for  she  would  see  that  she  was  remembered ;  and 
later  on  in  the  night,  just  as  she  was  dropping  off  to  sleep,  Mrs. 
Ord  woke  her  and  said  she  was  a  good  girl,  and  that  she  might 
send  for  Mr.  Tracy  if  she  liked,  for  she  had  made  up  her  mind 
now,  for  she  knew  she  had  committed  a  great  mistake,  and  she 
would  see  that  everything  was  put  right. " 

"  Go  on,"  murmured  Mr.  Ord  hoarsely,  as  soon  as  Mr.  Tracy 
leant  forward  to  refresh  himself  with  another  pinch. 

"  All  right,  my  dear  sir ;  I  thought  you  would  be  interested. 
Well,  when  the  morning  came  there  was  a  change  for  the  worse — • 
a  sort  of  lethargy  or  stupor  seemed  creeping  over  her — and  when 
the  doctor  came  it  was  his  opinion  that  she  was  not  far  from  her 


20  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

end.  Then  it  was  that  Miss  Maturin  sent  for  me,  stating  that  she 
had  reasons  for  believing  that  the  poor  lady  wished  to  alter  her 
will.  She  was  rather  incoherent  in  her  expressions.  I  was  a 
stranger  to  her,  you  see ;  but  I  gathered  from  her  excitement  that 
there  was  some  great  interest  at  stake.  Well,  I  did  what  I  could ; 
and,  what  with  Mrs.  Ord  being  our  oldest  client  and  having  large 
dealings  with  our  firm,  and  my  not  having  much  work  on  hand, 
and  being  rather  disposed  to  loiter  in  a  strange  place,  I  just  stayed 
on  a  day  or  two  hoping  for  a  lucid  interval,  but  none  came.  She 
would  revive  a  minute  or  two,  and  then  the  death-like  stupor 
would  return,  and  so  it  was  all  of  no  use." 

"  She  never  rallied  ?" 

"  Not  for  more  than  a  few  minutes  at  a  time.  Miss  Maturin 
used  to  fetch  me  up  to  her  room,  but  it  was  fighting  against  fate ; 
and  so  we  found  when  we  came  to  open  the  will  and  saw  how 
things  were  left.  Good  heavens  !"  continued  the  lawyer  still 
more  vehemently,  "  I  thought  Miss  Maturin  would  have  been 
beside  herself  when  I  read  it.  She  would  hardly  listen  to  us 
when  we  congratulated  her.  She  hated  money,  she  said,  and  this 
great  millstone  should  not  be  hung  about  her  neck.  She  was 
for  delivering  up  the  whole  to  you ;  and  when  we  proved  to  her 
that  that  was  impossible,  she  insisted  on  a  fair  division.  But  you 
see  for  yourself,  Mr.  Ord,  how  such  an  arrangement  is  guarded 
against  in  a  special  clause  of  the  will,  and  how  the  executors  are 
bound  over  to  see  that  the  property,  without  division,  is  for  the  sole 
use  of  Rotha  Maturin  and  her  heirs  for  ever." 

"A  monstrous  injustice!  Mr.  Crump  ought  to  have  refused 
to  have  drawn  up  such  a  will." 

"Why?  She  would  only  have  employed  the  nearest  lawyer; 
and  Crump  saw  no  good  in  offending  a  rich  client.  She  might 
have  had  a  harder  customer  to  deal  with  in  me.  I  am  rather 
given  to  plain  speaking  in  such  matters.  I  have  known  the  Ords 
off  and  on  for  a  score  of  years,  and  I  would  not  have  seen  them  so 
cruelly  wronged  if  I  could  have  helped  it." 

"  Thank  you,  Mr.  Tracy ;  I  am  sure  of  your  sympathy." 

"  Why,  you  may  be  sure  of  that,  my  dear  sir,  and  welcome ; 
and  if  there  be  anything  I  can  do  for  you  at  any  time — short  of 
contesting  the  will — I  will  gladly  do  it.  One  thing  I  must 
confess,  that  I  am  rather  curious  to  know  what  led  to  this  final 
breach,  if  it  be  not  trenching  too  much  on  private  matters." 

"  My  aunt  never  enlightened  you,  then  ?" 

"  No,  she  got  to  be  rather  close  with  me  during  the  last  few 
years  of  her  life.  I  suppose,  as  I  just  hinted,  I  was  too  plain- 
spoken  for  her.  I  know  the  parson  put  his  foot  in  it  by  marrying 


ROBERT  ORD  STATES  HIS  OPINION.  21 

a  young  lady  without  any  fortune ;  that  was  just  after  Mrs.  Ord 
had  endowed  the  church,  and  so  he  never  got  his  new  Vicarage." 

"  There,  that  was  just  one  of  my  aunt's  inconsistencies ;  she 
was  lavish  of  her  money,  always  giving  it  away  in  large  sums, 
which  impoverished  her  property,  and  then  she  insisted  on  our 
marrying  rich  wives  to  repair  the  breaches,  as  it  were.  Who  ever 
heard  of  such  despotism  ?  Austin  was  the  first  to  rebel,  and  so  it 
was  all  up  with  him." 

"But  the  parson  was  never  the  prime  favourite,  Mr.  Robert?" 

"No,  he  was  too  downright  and  outspoken.  She  could  not 
bear  his  sermons,  as  she  called  them.  Did  you  ever  see  his  wife, 
Mr.  Tracy?" 

"  To  be  sure  I  have,  when  I  called  at  the  Vicarage  one  day ; 
a  pretty  bright-coloured  girl,  very  pleasant  spoken,  and  every  inch 
a  gentlewoman." 

"  Oh,  that's  many  years  ago ;  she  looks  worn  now,  and  no  won- 
der, with  four  boys  and  a  small  income  to  manage.  You  were  asking 
me  just  now  how  I  fell  into  disgrace.  Well,  that  was  all  her  fault." 

"Mrs.  Austin's  fault?" 

"  Yes ;  the  vicaress,  as  we  call  her.  Her  mother,  Mrs.  Clinton, 
died,  and  she  and  Austin,  not  being  poor  enough  already,  must 
needs  have  her  sister  to  live  with  them." 

"  Humph  !  I  begin  to  see  light." 

"To  be  sure  you  do.  Of  course  we  fell  in  love  with  each 
other,  and,  as  she  is  ten  times  prettier  than  her  sister,  that's  only 
natural.  I  think  you  might  travel  half  the  world  over  before  you 
find  two  such  women  anywhere." 

"  No  doubt,  no  doubt,  Mr.  Robert,  but  all  the  same  it  was  a 
crazy  move  of  yours." 

"  Of  course  it  was  suicidal,  but  I  was  almost  as  blind  as  men 
in  my  position  usually  are.  I  daresay  if  I  had  foreseen  everything 
I  should  have  acted  just  the  same.  I  could  not  have  helped 
myself;  but  I  certainly  had  no  idea  at  the  time  that  my  aunt 
had  already  chosen  a  wife  for  me.  You  have  heard  of  Mr. 
Ramsay  of  Stretton,  the  great  ironmaster.  He  was  worth,  I 
should  be  afraid  to  say  how  many  thousands,  and  he  had  an  only 
daughter.  This  young  lady  was  destined  by  my  aunt  to  be  the 
future  mistress  of  Bryn.  And  if  my  affections  had  not  been  already 
engaged,  she  would  not  have  chosen  ill  for  me,  for  Emma  Ramsay 
was  a  sweet-looking  creature,  and  most  amiable  and  accomplished  ; 
but  as  I  had  already  proposed  to  Miss  Clinton,  I  was  not  specially 
thankful  when  this  paragon  was  offered  for  my  acceptance.  I 
suspect  her  father  rather  wished  the  match,  as  well  as  my  aunt. 
Well,  I  believe  you  know  my  aunt's  peculiarities,  and  I  will  leave 


22  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

to  your  imagination  the  scene  that  followed  when  I  told  her  that 
Miss  Clinton  and  I  were  engaged.  You  spoke  just  now  of  the 
Ord  pride  in  not  very  complimentary  terms,  if  I  remember  rightly ; 
it  was  well  up  then,  I  assure  you,  and  there  were  bitter  words 
spoken  on  both  sides — not  quite  pleasant  to  remember  now.  It 
ended  in  my  refusing  to  give  up  Miss  Clinton,  or  to  take  Miss 
Ramsay  on  any  terms,  and  that  night  I  shook  off  the  dust  of  Bryn 
with  no  very  enviable  feelings." 

"  Did  Mrs.  Ord  disinherit  you  then  ?" 

"  Virtually,  I  suppose  she  did,  for  she  vowed  that  if  I  married 
Miss  Clinton  I  should  never  touch  a  penny  of  her  money.  Of 
course  Austin  tried  to  patch  up  the  matter  and  make  peace  between 
us,  but  that  only  widened  the  breach,  for  she  told  him  it  was  all 
his  own  and  his  wife's  fault — they  had  tried  to  get  up  the  match 
to  spite  her,  and  that  she  never  wished  to  see  an  Ord  face  again." 

"  Poor  lady !  that  was  when  she  came  up  to  London.  I  thought 
she  looked  ten  years  older  when  I  saw  her." 

"  Yes,  she  shut  up  Bryn  at  once,  and  before  any  of  us  knew 
what  she  was  about  she  had  taken  a  house  in  London.  Austin 
wanted  me  to  go  after  her,  but  I  declined ;  Garton  went,  but  they 
never  had  got  on  well  together,  and  she  would  not  have  anything  to 
say  to  him.  He  came  back  looking  rather  the  worse  for  London 
air,  I  can  tell  you." 

"  And  you  never  attempted  a  personal  reconciliation,  Mr.  Ord  ?" 

"  No,  indeed  !  What  was  the  good  of  bringing  flint  and  steel 
together  ?  I  tried  writing  once,  but  the  answer  I  received  did  not 
encourage  me  to  proceed  with  the  correspondence.  She  would  only 
make  peace  on  her  own  terms,  and  as  that  involved  my  giving  up 
Miss  Clinton,  of  course  I  would  not  listen  to  them ;  and  so  it  went 
on  from  bad  to  worse.  But  I  don't  think  we  any  of  us  quite 
thought  that  she  would  carry  her  animosity  beyond  death."  And 
Robert  Ord's  face  darkened  as  he  remembered  that  bitter  will. 

"  How  is  it  she  never  got  on  with  your  brother  Garton  ?" 

"Oh,  that  is  easily  accounted  for.  Garton  never  would  put 
up  with  her  queer  speeches.  He  was  always  letting  her  see  that 
he  despised  her  vagaries,  and  saying  some  blunt  thing  or  other 
that  hurt  her  feelings.  Gar  always  was  under  a  cloud,  as  it  were. 
She  had  not  any  patience  with  his  wish  to  be  a  clergyman — one 
was  quite  enough  in  any  family,  she  said ;  and  so  there  was  never 
any  sympathy  between  them.  It  was  a  pity,  because  Garton  would 
have  suited  her  best  in  the  end.  Good  heavens,  what  a  miserable 
world  it  is  for  general  crookedness  and  misunderstandings  !" 

"  I  daresay  you  feel  it  so  now.  It  is  very  hard  for  an  idle  man, 
brought  up  in  luxury,  to  have  to  put  his  hand  suddenly  to  the  plough." 


ROBERT  ORD  STATES  HIS  OPINION.  23 

"  Yes,  a  managing  clerk's  place  at  two  hundred  a  year  is  not  a 
very  lively  prospect  after  four  years'  work,  especially  when  one 
has  to  partially  keep  one's  brother." 

"  You  see  no  chance  of  maintaining  a  wife  just  now,  I  am  afraid  ?" 

"  No,  indeed  !  it  is  that  that  makes  me  feel  so  badly  about  it 
all,"  and  Robert  Ord's  voice  took  a  hard  bitter  tone.  "It  is  hard 
lines  for  us.  We  have  been  engaged  four  years,  and  shall  probably 
remain  so  for  four  more.  No  ho{j0  of  a  rise  jus£  now — when 
there  are  two  sons  coming  into  the  business — unless  by  a  lucky 
chance.  It  is  wearing  us  both  out,  I  believe ;  for  of  course  a  man 
cannot  bear  such  a  heap  of  troubles  quite  patiently.  Well,  Mr. 
Tracy,  I  think  I  have  bothered  you  enough  with  our  family  history. 
We  are  sitting  in  total  darkness ;  shall  we  ring  for  lights  and  a  cup 
of  coffee!" 

"  With  all  my  heart,  my  dear  sir,"  returned  Mr.  Tracy,  pulling 
the  bell.  "  Thank  you,  thank  you  for  all  your  confidence.  I 
confess  I  was  curious  to  learn  the  rights  of  this  painful  case,  and 
in  return  I  trust  that  I  have  removed  your  unhappy  suspicion  of 
poor  Miss  Maturin." 

Mr.  Ord  remained  silent. 

"  Come,  sir ;  acknowledge  that  you  have  been  rather  too  hard 
upon  her." 

"  I  don't  think  a  man  can  be  expected  to  be  otherwise  than 
hard  when  he  sees  all  the  good  things  of  this  world  snatched 
suddenly  away  from  him." 

"  Of  course  not,  of  course  not ;  but  I  do  hope,  Mr.  Ord,  that 
you  will  make  things  a  little  less  unbearable  for  her  when  she 
comes  among  you." 

"I  hope  always  to  remember  that  she  is  a  lady,"  returned 
Robert  Ord  in  his  most  high  and  mighty  manner. 

"  There,  that's  an  Ord  all  over.  Why,  bless  my  soul,  however 
do  you  manage  to  get  on  in  the  world  at  all,  Mr.  Robert  1  There, 
forgive  an  old  man's  pertinacity,  for  the  girl  interests  me  somehow. 
Do  not  let  her  see  that  you  harbour  this  unjust  suspicion  of  her. 
Mark  my  words,  my  dear  sir,  it  will  just  break  her  down." 

"  I  am  afraid  she  must  put  up  with  a  general  coolness.  I  am 
very  sorry,  Mr.  Tracy,  as  she  is  a  pet  protegee  of  yours,  but  I 
cannot  help  it.  I  cannot  feel  that  my  aunt  would  have  left  her 
all  that  money  if  she  had  not  been  toadying  for  it  more  or  less. 
She  may  be  quite  innocent,  as  you  say,  but  a  man  is  bound  to  have 
his  own  opinion,  and  I  have  mine.  There,  let  us  change  the 
subject ;  my  head  aches  so  confoundedly  that  I  think  I  will  go  out 
for  a  stroll  to  get  a  little  fresh  air." 


* 

CHAPTER   III. 

EGLISTONE   ABBEY. 

What  prospects,  from  his  watch-tower  high 
Gleam  gradual  on  the  warder's  eye  ! — 
Far  sweeping  to  the  east,  he  sees 
Down  his  deep  woods  the  course  of  Tees, 
And  tracks  his  wanderings  by  the  steam 
Of  summer  vapours  from  the  stream. 

Then  in  broad  lustre  shall  be  shown 

That  mighty  trench  of  living  stone, 

And  each  huge  trunk  that  from  the  side, 

Eeclines  him  o'er  the  darksome  tide, 

Where  Tees,  full  many  a  fathom  low, 

Wears  with  his  rage  no  common  foe  ; 

For  pebbly  bank,  nor  sand-bed  here, 

Nor  clay-mound,  checks  his  fierce  career, 

Condemned  to  mine  a  channell'd  way 

O'er  solid  sheets  of  marble  gray."  SCOTT'S  Roktby. 

ROBERT  OKD  was  in  no  very  placable  mood  the  next  morning ;  his 
long  solitary  walk  in  the  darkness  had  been  followed  by  a  wakeful 
miserable  night  j  anxious  thoughts  had  stared  him  in  the  face  and 
kept  him  company,  and  he  had  failed  to  combat  them  with  his 
usual  courage.  Better  feelings  such  as  he  had  never  experienced 
before  filled  his  veins  with  fever  and  stirred  him  to  impotent 
anger ;  courage  and  hope  were  at  their  lowest  ebb.  And  when  he 
had  succeeded  in  obtaining  momentary  oblivion,  it  was  dearly 
purchased  at  the  expense  of  harassing  nightmares. 

He  arose  with  the  morning  light  jaded  and  unrefreshed,  to  find 
a  new  source  of  annoyance  awaiting  him. 

"  Things  always  go  by  contraries  in  this  world,  at  least  they 
do  with  me,"  he  observed,  as  he  and  Mr.  Tracy  sat  down  to  break- 
fast together  in  the  coffee-room.  "  There's  a  pleasant  sort  of  letter 
for  a  man  to  receive  just  as  he  is  longing  to  shake  off  the  dust  of 
a  place  from  him." 

"What's  the  matter  now1?.    Hum,  letters  of  advice  to  Dar- 


•    EGLI STONE  ABBEY.  25 

lington.  Darlington  1  Why,  that's  not  much  of  a  distance.  Only 
a  matter  of  sixteen  miles  from  here — is  it  ?" 

"  I  should  not  mind  if  it  were  sixty,"  was  the  grumbling  answer. 
"  It  is  not  the  distance  to  which  I  object ;  but  just  now  I  am  not 
exactly  in  the  humour  to  have  a  few  idle  hours  on  my  hands." 

"  Why  not  deliver  the  letters  at  once  then,  and  take  an  early 
train  to  Blackscar  or  Thornborough1?" 

"  Impossible.  You  see  I  have  to  confer  with  our  junior  part- 
ner, Mr.  Clayton.  Well,  he  was  in  Lancashire  last  night.  He 
cannot  be  in  Darlington,  I  should  judge,  till  about  nine  this 
evening." 

"Humph,  I  begin  to  understand;  and  it  is  not  the  sort  of 
place  where  you  would  care  to  spend  a  solitary  day." 

"Well,  not  exactly;  Mr.  Broughton  thinks  it  probable  that 
Mr.  Clayton  may  bring  us  up  news  which  may  oblige  me  to  return 
to  Glasgow  at  a  moment's  notice.  Anyhow  my  orders  are  stringent. 
We  shall  telegraph  from  Darlington  and  await  their  reply.  Of 
course  I  shall  pass  the  night  there." 

"And  you  will  have  your  day  to  yourself.  I  wish  I  could 
keep  you  company,  but  I  must  be  off  by  the  eleven  o'clock  train." 

"To  London?" 

Mr.  Tracy  nodded. 

"  Are  you  going  to  leave  your  protegee  behind  you,  sir  1"  The 
sarcastic  tone  suited  Kobert  Ord  ill.  Mr.  Tracy  rubbed  up  his 
hair  as  he  heard  it. 

"  If  you  mean  by  my  protegee  Miss  Maturin,  she  will  follow 
me  to  London  in  a  day  or  two.  I  don't  mind  telling  you  that  I 
have  invited  her  to  take  up  her  residence  for  a  little  while  in 
Manchester  Square." 

"At  your  house,  Mr.  Tracy?"  and  Robert  Ord  knitted  his 
brow  in  surprise. 

"Yes,  at  my  house,  sir;  have  you  any  objection,  Mr.  Ord? 
I  don't  think  she  will  quite  contaminate  my  wife  and  daughters." 

"Probably  not,"  was  the  curt  answer.  But  Robert  Ord 
winced  a  little  nevertheless  at  the  lawyer's  irony. 

"  She  has  to  hunt  out  a  friend  of  hers  in  London.  That's  her 
present  purpose,  I  believe.  For,  as  you  may  be  aware,  sir,  a  young 
creature  can't  live  quite  alone,  and  she  wishes  this  Mrs.  Carruthers 
to  come  and  live  with  her.  You  may  not  do  the  poor  young 
woman  justice  yourself,  Mr.  Robert,  but  I  think  even  you  must 
confess  that  she  has  a  pretty  clear  notion  of  what  is  fitting  in  her 
position."  To  which  piece  of  intelligence  Robert  Ord  vouchsafed 
no  manner  of  answer. 

The  conversation  languished  after  this.     Mr.  Tracy  took  up 


26  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

his  paper  and  was  soon  absorbed  in  the  leading  article,  and  Robert 
Ord,  after  wandering  listlessly  from  the  table  to  the  windows,  and 
observing  that  there  were  sullen-looking  clouds  about,  and  that  he 
would  as  soon  be  suffocated  as  take  a  walk  on  such  a  sultry  morn- 
ing, took  up  his  hat  and  went  out,  after  bidding  him  good-bye  rather 
stiffly. 

The  day  was  before  him.  But  though  in  his  hard-working  life 
holidays  had  been  scarce  with  him,  and  idleness  a  thing  unknown, 
he  made  no  sort  of  plan  for  himself ;  he  had  taken  a  distaste  to  the 
whole  place  ;  he  was  in  no  mood  to  be  charmed  by  natural  beauty 
— nature  in  her  sweetest  aspect  would  have  failed  to  soothe  him. 
But  as  his  restlessness  goaded  him  to  some  sort  of  action,  he  went 
out,  not  caring  whither  he  went. 

He  had  gone  down  by  the  river  the  previous  evening,  and  he 
remembered  a  little  weir  which  had  pleased  him  with  its  cool 
splash  and  endless  movement.  Perhaps  farther  on  he  might  find 
shade  and  repose.  And  so  he  crossed  the  bridge  again,  and  leaving 
the  factories  behind  him,  struck  into  a  little  footway  across  the 
green  fields,  which  seemed  to  track  the  course  of  the  river.  But 
as  he  walked,  the  dense  thundery  air  added  to  his  oppression,  and 
served  to  increase  his  brooding  sadness.  Two  or  three  anglers 
looked  up  from  their  pleasant  work  in  surprise  at  the  tall  handsome 
man  striding  so  quickly  under  the  trees,  looking  neither  to  the  right 
nor  the  left.  Business  was  alien  to  them  just  now,  the  humming 
gnats  and  great  leaping  trouts  were  more  in  unison  with  their 
holiday  mood.  Robert  Ord  glanced  at  them  half  in  envy  and  half 
in  contempt,  and  marvelled  how  the  world  had  dealt  with  them 
that  they  could  stand  so  happily  on  those  smooth  white  boulders, 
looking  down  into  the  deep  sunny  pools  for  the  silvery  plash, 
which  was  just  now  the  object  of  their  thoughts. 

One  of  them  was  a  poor  artisan,  with  a  disabled  arm — a  thin 
sickly-looking  man ;  he  was  humming  a  Methodist  hymn-tune  as 
he  mended  his  rod — a  sturdy  white  dog  was  barking  savagely  at 
his  own  shadow  in  the  water  at  his  feet.  Robert  Ord  noticed  that 
his  elbows  were  ragged,  and  by  a  queer  transition  of  mood  tossed 
him  a  silver  coin.  The  man  took  it  up  languidly  and  thanked 
him  in  a  subdued  sort  of  way. 

"  There's  a  storm  coming  up,  maister ;  there's  a  taint  of  thunder 
in  the  air,"  he  said  in  a  rough  Yorkshire  dialect,  and  then  he 
went  on  with  his  tune.  Robert  Ord  stood  and  envied  him  before 
he  turned  away.  What  a  bad  bitter  mood  was  on  him  !  As  the 
old  lawyer  quaintly  expressed  it,  he  was  just  in  the  humour  to 
play  at  fisticuffs  with  the  world  at  large. 

A  great  blow  had  just  been  dealt  him,  and  he  was  by  no  means 


EGLISTONE  ABBEY.  27 

a  man  disposed  at  any  time  to  turn  the  other  cheek  to  his  enemy ; 
all  such  smitings  were  odious  to  him,  and  he  was  much  given  to 
show  a  very  muscular  sort  of  Christianity  on  such  occasions.  Mr. 
Tracy's  generous  defence  of  Miss  Maturin  had  secretly  exasperated 
him,  and  he  had  had  some  difficulty  the  previous  night  in  concealing 
the  fact  that  the  whole  tenor  of  the  conversation  had  been  insup- 
portable to  him.  In  his  own  mind  he  called  him  a  fool  for  his 
credulity,  and  mocked  at  the  old-fashioned  chivalry  that  prompted 
him  to  go  down  into  the  lists.  And  being  very  slow  at  all  times 
to  yield  up  a  preconceived  idea,  however  erroneous,  he  was  not  likely 
to  be  won  over  even  by  the  lawyer's  eloquence,  and  least  of  all  by 
his  generous  hospitality. 

He  chose  to  believe  that  Miss  Maturin  had  gained  influence 
over  his  aunt  for  her  own  purposes,  and  nothing  short  of  a  miracle 
would  be  ever  likely  to  alter  his  opinion,  and  of  course,  so  judging, 
he  was  not  disposed  to  hold  out  the  sceptre  of  his  favour  to  so 
hardened  a  sinner  because  she  had  eloquent  eyes  and  a  soft  voice. 

No,  that  was  not  probable,  and  as  he  walked  along  he  strength- 
ened himself  in  his  indignation  all  the  more  that  the  smart  of  his 
injuries  was  fresh  upon  him.  She  had  coveted  that  money ;  all 
those  rich  belongings  had  seemed  desirable  to  her  poverty.  Very 
young  women  could  be  designing  sometimes,  and  scheme  for  their 
own  benefit.  Doubtless  she  had  so  schemed;  doubtless  during 
those  four  years  she  had  so  ingratiated  herself  into  her  protectress' 
favour  with  her  smooth  subtle  ways,  that  it  was  no  wonder  that 
she  had  forgotten  her  own  flesh  and  blood,  seeing  that  her  own 
flesh  and  blood  had  so  sinned  against  her.  Her  hands  were  not 
clean,  so  he  told  himself — not  clean,  that  is,  with  an  honest  white- 
ness, and  as  he  suffered  no  degrees  of  comparison  in  his  mind,  he 
soon  grew  to  believe  that  they  were  of  absolute  blackness,  that  her 
deceit  was  odious,  and  that  any  forgiveness  on  his  part  would  be 
a  reprehensible  act  of  weakness. 

It  never  occurred  to  him  that  he  might  be  drawing  a  wrong 
conclusion,  that  it  was  possible  that  even  his  opinion  might  be 
mistaken,  and  that  he  was  unjustly  condemning  the  innocent. 

There  are  few  gems  without  a  flaw,  comparatively  few,  that  is 
to  say,  and  so  it  is  with  human  nature.  The  time  came  when 
Robert  Ord  owned  that  he  was  more  sinning  than  sinned  against ; 
when  the  scales  of  his  own  self-sufficiency  fell  from  his  eyes ;  when 
he  saw  clearly  and  judged  righteously ;  when  he  owned  that  his 
pride  and  his  uncharitableness  had  wrought  his  troubles  and  marred 
so  long  the  beauty  of  his  life ;  that  he  had  himself  to  thank,  and 
no  other ;  and  when,  in  the  subdued  wisdom  of  his  riper  years,  he 
confessed  "  that  it  was  good  for  him  that  he  had  been  afflicted," 


28  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

and  that  he  had  gained  his  knowledge  through  the  bitterness  ol 
experience. 

He  had  reached  the  Abbey  Bridge  by  this  time ;  about  three- 
quarters  of  a  mile  beyond  lay  Kokeby,  as  he  well  knew,  but  he  felt 
no  sort  of  desire  to  see  it.  Already  he  had  passed  "  Eglistone's 
gray  ruins  "  unnoticed,  and  now  he  stood  leaning  his  elbows  on  the 
stone  battlements  of  the  bridge,  and  looking  moodily  down  into 
the  bubbling  river  with  eyes  that  saw  nothing. 

And  yet  the  scene  that  lay  before  him  was  fair  enough  for  a 
poet's  dream :  behind  him  was  Eglistone,  or,  as  the  guide-books 
have  it,  Athelstone  or  Egglestone  Abbey,  built  on  the  angle  formed 
by  the  little  dell  called  Thorsgill  with  the  Tees. 

In  this  Abbey  Sir  Walter  Scott  laid  the  closing  scene  of  his 
RoJceby. 

From  the  Abbey  Bridge  one  looks  down  the  magnificent  valley 
of  the  Tees,  with  its  richly-wooded  banks ;  the  river  itself  flowing 
in  a  deep  trench  of  solid  rock,  chiefly  limestone  and  marble  ;  and 
from  where  Robert  Ord  stood  the  view  was  exquisitely  beautiful, 
the  whole  course  of  the  river  was  broken  up  by  huge  boulders  of 
snowy  whiteness,  over  which  the  water  bubbled  and  frothed  in  the 
sunshine  with  an  endless  fret. 

By  and  by  the  noonday  glare  disturbed  him,  and  he  left  the 
bridge  and  climbed  down  amongst  the  underwood  to  the  very  edge 
of  the  water ;  the  smell  of  the  cool  dark  vegetation  refreshed  him, 
and  then  he  seated  himself  astride  a  low  bough  that  hung  over  the 
water.  He  had  set  himself  a  task  :  he  was  looking  things  in  the 
face,  as  he  called  it — reviewing  his  past,  present,  and  future,  all 
the  time  that  he  was  dropping  the  loose  pebbles  into  the  current 
and  watching  the  tiny  eddies  in  which  they  disappeared.  The 
shiver  of  leaves  and  the  wet  splash  of  large  drops  on  his  face 
recalled  him  from  this  dreamy  introspection,  and  the  low  growling 
of  suppressed  thunder  warned  him  that  a  storm  was  impending. 
The  air  was  close  to  suffocation,  and  the  clouds  looked  electric. 
He  always  keenly  enjoyed  a  storm,  and  as  he  scrambled  up  the 
banks  it  came  into  his  head  that  he  would  seek  shelter  in  the 
Abbey  ruins  that  towered  a  little  way  above  him ;  it  would  be 
better  than  having  to  exchange  civilities  with  the  toll-gate  keeper 
on  the  bridge. 

The  drops  were  coming  down  faster  now,  with  an  ominous 
pattering  and  splutter,  and  he  was  obliged  to  hasten  his  steps ;  but 
as  he  ran  up  the  green  slopes  and  was  about  to  vault  over  the  low 
palings,  he  saw  to  his  chagrin  that  some  one  else,  a  female,  had 
taken  shelter  in  the  same  refuge. 

For  a  moment  he  had  half  a  mind  to  retrace  his  steps,  and  was 


EGLISTONE  ABBEY.  29 

turning  round  for  the  purpose,  but  on  second  thoughts  he  restrained 
his  impulse.  The  rain  was  coming  down  now  with  a  steady  down- 
pour that  would  have  drenched  him  to  the  skin,  and  he  saw  that 
the  person,  or  lady,  whichever  it  might  be,  was  standing  vainly 
trying  to  shelter  herself  under  a  broken  buttress  :  mere  humanity 
prompted  him  to  go  to  her  assistance ;  Robert  Ord  was  a  gentleman 
both  by  instinct  and  education ;  in  another  minute  he  was  beside 
her. 

"  You  will  get  very  wet  if  you  stand  under  the  ruined  window," 
he  said  courteously,  as  though  to  a  perfect  stranger,  but  at  his 
first  word  she  turned  round  and  looked  at  him. 

It  was  Miss  Maturin. 

She  had  evidently  seen  him  coming  up  from  the  road,  for  his 
sudden  appearance  did  not  seem  to  surprise  her.  She  looked  up 
at  him  half  timidly,  half  wistfully,  as  though  she  hoped  that  he 
would  greet  her ;  she  even  made  a  movement  as  though  she  would 
put  out  her  hand  to  him,  but  something  of  sternness  in  his  face 

I  forbade  this. 
"You  here,  of  all  places  in  the  world,  Miss  Maturin  !"     And 
now  it  was  impossible  for  her  to  mistake  the  surprised  displeasure 
of  his  voice. 
"Yes,  I  was  down  on  the  river -bank,  and  the  rain  overtook 
me,"  she  faltered. 
"You  have  chosen  a  very  poor  refuge  then,"  he  returned; 
"  there  is  a  better  shelter  over  there,"  and  he  pointed  to  a  low 
range  of  out-buildings  that  skirted  the  Abbey. 
But  she  hesitated  a  moment. 

"  Pray  do  not  lose  time  or  we  shall  have  the  storm  upon  us," 
he  continued  impatiently.  "You  do  not  mind  the  wet  grass,  I 
suppose." 

She  shook  her  head,  and  mutely  pointed  to  her  dripping  dress, 
which  was  clinging  round  her  in  lank  folds,  and  in  another  moment 
he  had  hurried  her  across  the  wide  green,  and  they  were  standing 
together  under  the  doorway  of  a  ruined  dwelling-house. 

"  What  a  desolate  place,"  he  muttered,  as  he  relieved  her  of 
her  wet  cloak,  and  bade  her  shake  out  her  dress,  after  which  he 
proceeded  to  eject  a  coal-black  heifer,  evidently  an  occupant  of  the 
tenement.  Several  horned  heads  appeared  from  time  to  time,  and 
seemed  greatly  astonished  at  being  refused  admittance. 

"  They  have  turned  it  into  a  cattle-shed,  I  suppose,"  he  con- 
tinued, looking  round  at  the  crumbling  walls  and  grateless  fireplace 
of  their  undesirable  refuge  ;  and  then,  without  waiting  a  reply,  he 
picked  his  way  among  the  mouldering  bricks,  and  leant  against  the 
empty  framework  of  the  window. 


30  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

It  was  not  an  exhilarating  scene,  and  one  can  forgive  Robert 
Ord  if,  in  his  present  mood,  he  looked  at  it  with  lowering  brows 
and  wished  himself  a  hundred  miles  away. 

The  whole  place  was  misty  with  driving  rain,  the  sky  sullen 
and  lurid ;  every  now  and  then  there  was  the  glare  and  dazzle  of 
sudden  lightning,  the  tree-tops  looked  gray  and  indistinct,  the  river 
ran  molten,  the  cattle  herded  together  under  the  projecting  eaves, 
lowing  their  discontent  with  their  sweet  breath  full  on  Robert  Ord's 
face.  Across  the  green  space  rose  the  gray  old  ruins ;  some  birds 
had  taken  refuge  in  the  great  bare  east  window,  and  twittered  and 
trimmed  their  wet  plumage.  Loose  stones  and  mortar  crackled 
down  the  yawning  chimney  where  Miss  Maturin  stood  shaking  out 
the  folds  of  her  dress  and  looking  wistfully  at  him. 

She  had  on  a  little  straw  hat,  aiid  she  had  tied  it  in  gipsy 
fashion  over  her  face,  with  a  broad  black  ribbon;  her  face  was 
paler,  if  possible,  and  there  was  a  red  swollen  look  about  her  eyes 
as  though  she  had  been  weeping.  He  thought  her  even  plainer 
than  he  had  yesterday ;  but  he  could  not  deny  that  her  expression 
was  very  sweet. 

She  eyed  him  timidly  for  a  few  minutes  before  she  could 
summon  up  courage  for  her  simple  question. 

"  Do  you  think  we  shall  have  to  wait  long,  Mr.  Ord  ?  I  mean 
is  the  rain  nearly  over  V 

"  Over  1  Well,  no.  I  am  afraid  there  is  no  chance  of  our  leav- 
ing here  for  another  three-quarters  of  an  hour  or  so,"  he  returned, 
moving  his  arm  for  a  moment  from  the  dripping  window-sill. 

"  Three-quarters  of  an  hour  !"  she  exclaimed,  in  a  tone  of  such 
genuine  dismay  that  he  smiled  grimly  in  spite  of  his  own  discom- 
fiture. 

"  I  am  sorry  that  you  are  so  uncomfortable ;  but  the  fact  is  we 
cannot  help  ourselves." 

"  Mr.  Tracy  told  me  that  he  thought  it  would  not  rain,  or  I 
would  never  have  ventured  so  far,"  she  continued,  as  though  dis- 
tressed at  the  awkwardness  of  her  position. 

"  Mr.  Tracy  was  a  bad  prophet,  then,"  he  replied  coldly ;  and 
then  he  turned  himself  again  as  though  to  study  the  prospect.  He 
had  nothing  to  say  to  her ;  between  them  there  was  a  gulf  which 
he  had  determined  nothing  should  induce  him  to  bridge  over.  If 
they  were  to  remain  there  an  hour  he  would  only  address  a  curt 
observation  or  two.  She  had  come  between  him  and  his  lawful 
rights,  and  he  was  not  likely  to  forget  that  for  a  moment ;  and,  as 
he  remembered  his  wrongs,  the  frown  gathered  darkly  to  his  brow. 
No  wonder  her  heart  sank  within  her  as  she  watched  him. 

"  I  was  right,  and  he  hates  me,"  she  said  to  herself  mournfully; 


EGLISTONE  ABBEY.  31 

"  and  he  was  so  gentle  with  me  yesterday  before  he  knew  all ;"  and 
then,  with  the  courage  of  sudden  impulse  which  comes  sometimes 
to  the  weakest  and  the  most  timid  women,  she  determined  that  at 
all  cost  she  must  speak  to  him.  She  had  had  a  final  interview 
with  Mr.  Tracy  that  morning,  and  had  gathered  much  in  spite  of 
the  lawyer's  guarded  speech.  She  knew  that  Robert  Ord  had  been 
bitterly  disappointed,  that  there  had  been  hard  words  said,  and 
harder  things  thought  than  were  ever  likely  to  come  to  her  know- 
ledge. And  as  she  looked  at  the  rigid  lines  of  the  handsome  face 
before  her,  and  remembered  the  few  icy  words  with  which  he  had 
addressed  her,  she  felt  that  her  task  would  not  be  a  pleasant  one ; 
but  none  the  less  did  she  resolve  that  she  would  ask  his  forgiveness 
for  being  the  innocent  cause  of  his  wrong.  "  I  must  meet  him 
again  and  again,  as  I  must  meet  all  of  them,"  she  thought.  "  Oh  ! 
if  I  could  only  soften  him,  if  but  one  of  them  would  look  kindly  on 
me  and  be  my  friend,  I  think  I  could  bear  it  better,"  and  then  in 
her  impulse  she  moved  a  little  closer  to  him. 

"  Mr.  Ord,  I  must  speak  to  you,"  she  began ;  but  as  he  turned 
round  she  stopped,  scared  by  the  very  sternness  of  his  face. 

"  I  am  quite  at  your  service,"  he  returned ;  but  not  looking  at 
her  nevertheless. 

"  Yes,  I  know ;  but  then  there  are  some  things  so  hard  in  the 
telling." 

"  Some  things Well— yes." 

"  But  none  so  hard  as  this.  Do  you  know,  Mr.  Ord,  when  you 
spoke  to  me  last  night  I  was  almost  dumb  before  you." 

"  I  remember  it  well,  Miss  Maturin." 

"  You  questioned  me  then,  but  I  could  not  answer  you  ;  I  felt 
almost  desperate  when  I  thought  of  all  that  there  was  to  tell.  Mr. 
Ord,  shall  I  ever  be  able  to  tell  you  how  grieved  I  am  for  what  has 
happened1?" 

Then  the  blackest  frown  that  had  ever  been  seen  on  Robert 
Ord's  brow  gathered  there  again.  She  had  dared  to  speak  on  that 
subject  to  him — to  him  ! 

"Oh,  Mr.  Ord!" 

"Well,  what  now  ?"  he  asked  haughtily. 

"Because  I  can  see  it  in  your  face,  because  I  can  feel  it  here," 
putting  her  hand  on  her  heart ;  "  because  I  know,  as  well  as  though 
I  had  heard  them,  all  the  bitter  things  you  have  said  and  felt.  Do 
you  think  I  blame  you  1  Not  I.  You  have  been  cruelly  wronged, 
you  and  all  of  them ;  but  your  suffering  is  nothing  compared  to  mine." 

She  spoke  passionately,  but  without  any  idea  of  defending  her- 
self ;  for  the  anger  of  his  look  stung  her  beyond  endurance.  Her 
spirit  was  fairly  roused  now. 


32  ROBERT  OR&S  ATONEMENT. 

"  You  know  that  if  it  had  been  in  my  power  this  thing  should 
never  have  happened  to  you." 

Then  he  remained  absolutely  silent. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Ord,  this  is  too  cruel,  when  you  know  how  wretched, 
how  utterly  wretched,  all  this  terrible  money  has  made  me."  And 
then  she  broke  down,  and  for  a  moment  wept  before  him  as  though 
she  were  heart-broken.  "  Do  you  not  think  that  if  I  could  undo  it 
I  would  ?  God  knows  that  it  is  not  my  fault  that  all  this  trouble 
and  wrong  have  come  upon  you." 

"  I  accuse  you  of  nothing,  Miss  Maturin." 

"  No ;  but  your  silence  does ;  it  accuses  me  terribly.  Do  you 
think  I  was  to  blame  in  anything  ?  that  I  might  have  sent  for  you 
before?" 

"  No,  I  do  not  think  that." 

"  Then  in  what  have  I  failed  V1  she  continued,  her  face  growing 
paler ;  for  it  was  impossible  to  mistake  his  manner.  But  again  he 
hesitated. 

He  was  wishing  himself  most  earnestly  away  by  this  time.  No 
appearance  of  innocence  on  her  part  could  alter  his  opinion,  so  he 
told  himself;  but  something  of  the  hard  bitter  humour  was  oozing 
away.  In  reality  he  was  gentle  at  heart,  and  he  could  not  bear  to 
treat  her  churlishly.  She  might  be  what  he  thought  her,  but  he 
could  not  bring  himself  to  tell  her  his  suspicions.  Not  at  least 
unless  she  should  drive  him  to  it ;  but  his  silence  was  betraying 
him. 

"Miss  Maturin,"  he  said,  not  unkindly,  "this  is  a  very  un- 
fortunate subject  you  have  chosen ;  pray  let  us  change  it." 

But  she  shook  her  head. 

"  Not  till  you  have  answered  my  question,  Mr.  Ord." 

"  I  must  decline  to  answer  it." 

"  What !  you  decline  to  tell  me  wherein  I  have  deserved  blame ; 
is  that  generous,  is  that  fair?" 

"  You  forget.  I  accuse  you  of  nothing.  The  time  for  all  such 
accusation  is  past.  Let  us  consider  the  matter  at  an  end.  I  may 
hold  my  own  opinion,  but  I  do  not  care  to  allude  to  it  again." 

"Allude  to  what?"  she  returned,  looking  bewildered.  "  What 
is  at  an  end  ?  Do  you  not  see  how  hard  all  this  is  for  me  ?  You 
will  not  speak  to  me  because  I  am  the  innocent  cause  of  all  this 
trouble." 

"  Pardon  me,  I  do  not  regard  you  as  the  innocent  cause,  Miss 
Maturin.  There,  it  is  your  own  fault.  I  would  have  spared  you 
this.  You  are  compelling  the  truth  from  me." 

"  Yes,  yes ;  I  know." 

Thus  driven  in  a  corner,  he  continued  steadily : 


EGLISTONE  ABBEY.  33 

41 1  cannot  regard  you  as  innocent.  In  my  own  mind  I  think 
there  must  have  been  undue  influence  at  work,  or  my  aunt  would 
never  have  left  you  all  her  money.  Ah,  you  shrink  from  me. 
Why  did  you  make  me  tell  you  this  ?" 

"You  believe  this — you  believe  this  of  me,  Mr.  OrdT' 

"  I  have  thought  so,  arid  I  think  so  still ;  but  I  am  grieved 
that  you  oblige  me  to  speak  so  plainly.  I  do  not  wish  to  be 
churlish  to  a  lady.  I  think  that  you  were  young  and  friendless 
and  needed  help,  and  the  position  was  one  of  great  temptation. 
We  were  strangers  to  you,  and  under  a  cloud ;  you  were  hardly 
aware  of  the  moral  wrong  you  were  doing ;  you  might  only  have 
coveted  a  small  portion  of  my  aunt's  wealth.  I  can  quite  believe 
you  are  sorry  now  for  what  has  happened,  but  how  can  such  sorrow 
avail  us  1" 

"You  believe  this  of  me1?"  she  repeated  in  the  same  tone,  but 
he  never  forgot  the  look  with  which  she  said  it ;  it  haunted  him 
long  afterwards — there  was  no  anger,  but  the  incredulous  sorrow 
in  her  eyes  moved  even  him  to  compassion. 

"  Miss  Maturin,  do  let  us  say  no  more." 

"There  is  nothing  more  to  be  said,"  she  answered  wearily, 
and  her  hands  dropped  to  her  side'  as  she  spoke.  "  I  must  bear 
it,  I  suppose.  I  cannot  defend  myself,  for  you  would  not  believe 
my  word ;  you  have  not  believed  all  that  Mr.  Tracy  has  told  you, 
of  how  I  have  worked  and  watched  for  you."  Nothing  could 
exceed  the  hopelessness  with  which  she  said  this. 

"I  am  sorry  all  this  has  occurred." 

Then  for  a  moment  the  colour  came  into  her  pale  face. 

"Are  you  sorry,  Mr.  Ord?  Well,  that  is  something.  No,  I 
will  not  let  this  imputation  crush  me ;  I  will  not,  I  will  not.  I 
don't  think  you  quite  know  what  you  have  done,  being  a  stranger, 
but  I  forgive  you ;  you  have  almost  broken  my  heart,  but  you  have 
given  me  an  object  in  life." 

"How  so,  Miss  Maturin?" 

"  Ah  !  you  do  not  know  me ;  I  am  a  poor  creature,  but  I  can 
be  very  patient.  I  will  not  call  Heaven  to  witness  my  innocence, 
for  you  would  not  believe  my  words ;  but  I  will  never  rest,  I  will 
never  cease  from  striving  day  after  day,  and  year  after  year,  till  I 
remove  this  suspicion.  Mr.  Ord,  it  will  be  my  one,  my  only 
thought." 

"You  heap  coals  of  fire  on  my  head,"  he  returned,  but  the 
sarcasm  somehow  failed  him. 

Once  more  she  looked  at  him  with  that  mild  reproach  in 
her  eyes. 

"  Yes,  the  time  will  come  when  you  will  own  that  you  have 

3 


34  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

wronged  me ;  it  may  be  years  hence,  but  I  know  it  will  come,  when 
you  will  surely  own  it." 

"  Be  assured  that  I  shall  not  delay  coming  to  you  if  any  such 
taking  back  of  words  be  necessary." 

"  No,  I  know  you  will  not ;  I  can  see  that  you  are  true,  though 
you  are  so  terribly  hard;"  and  then  she  moved  away  from  him, 
and  he  saw  a  look  in  her  face  as  though  she  was  heart-broken. 

"I  hope  I  am  having  a  very  pleasant  day,  on  the  whole," 
thought  Robert  Ord  bitterly,  as  he  walked  up  and  down  among 
the  brick-heaps  :  he  had  done  his  work — she  had  forced  him  to  do 
it ;  but  the  result  did  not  satisfy  him.  What  good  was  it  to  him 
that  he  had  convicted  her  of  her  sin  if  she  would  not  own  that  she 
had  so  sinned  ?  He  had  grappled  with  her,  and  she  had  glided 
from  him  with  a  look  of  reproach  which  haunted  him  against  his 
will ;  do  what  he  would,  he  could  not  banish  a  certain  feeling  of 
remorse  as  he  thought  of  it.  He  had  accused  her  of  virtual  dis- 
hongsty,  or  at  least  of  obtaining  an  undue  influence  over  his  aunt, 
and  she  had  not  defended  herself  by  so  much  as  one  word.  Surely 
he  had  been  gentle  enough  with  her.  He  had  been  betrayed  into 
anger  once  or  twice,  and  had  then  repented  and  refrained  himself. 
With  all  his  wrath  he  had  not  said  anything  specially  bitter, 
though  the  sternness  of  his  look  or  tone  might  have  rebuked  her. 
But  of  what  avail  was  all  this  mildness  and  refraining,  since  she 
would  insist  on  assuming  the  airs  of  heart-broken  innocence  ?  It 
made  him  feel  as  though  his  magnanimity  had  been  thrown  away ; 
and  yet  a  few  hours  ago  he  had  sworn  that  on  no  account  could  he 
bring  himself  to  forgive  her. 

These  were  not  pleasant  thoughts,  as  he  stumbled  over  the 
brick-heaps,  among  the  mouldering  passages.  How  he  loathed  the 
whole  place  with  an  impatient  loathing  that  recurred  to  him  in 
future  days  !  He  could  always  recall  that  scene,  it  was  so  vivid 
in  his  memory — that  desolate  dwelling,  with  the  strips  of  plaster 
clinging  to  the  damp  mouldering  walls ;  the  gaping  window- 
frame,  the  broad  green  level,  and  gray  ruins  misty  with  driving 
rain ;  the  dull  thud  of  horned  heads  striking  impatiently  against 
the  doorway;  and  always  motionless,  always  the  central  figure 
in  that  picture,  the  tall  figure  in  the  clinging  black  draperies :  he 
could  see  the  curve  of  the  long  neck,  the  small  head  bent  slightly 
forward,  the  fluttering  of  the  thin  hands ;  could  almost  hear  the 
monotonous  tones  of  the  low  murmuring  voice,  "Yes,  the  time 
will  come  when  you  will  own  that  you  have  wronged  me."  When 
and  how  did  that  time  come  to  Robert  Ord  1 

The  rain  was  ceasing  now ;  he  had  just  become  aware  of  the 
fact,  and  wondering  how  he  was  to  break  the  silence  and  open 


EGLI STONE  ABBEY.  35 

his  lips  to  speak  to  her,  when  she  relieved  him  of  his  embar- 
rassment. 

"  The  rain  is  over  now,  I  believe,"  she  said,  turning  round  to 
him.  There  was  not  a  trace  of  colour  in  her  face,  but  her  calmness 
was  wonderful :  all  the  tremor,  the  nervous  agitation  that  had  so 
disturbed  him  yesterday,  had  left  her ;  she  looked  like  one  who  had 
unexpectedly  received  a  deadly  blow,  but  who  was  rallying  from  it. 
Her  perfect  self-possession  astonished  him. 

"The  storm  has  not  turned  its  back  upon  us  yet,"  he  returned, 
trying  to  speak  with  equal  sangfroid,  "  but,  if  you  are  willing,  we 
will  take  advantage  of  this  lull ;"  to  which  she  briefly  assented, 
and  in  another  minute  they  were  walking  side  by  side  along  the 
high  road  and  under  the  dripping  trees,  greatly  to  his  surprise, 
for  he  had  expected  her  to  decline  his  escort;  but  he  did  not 
know  her. 

There  was  another  awkward  silence,  which  neither  attempted 
to  break,  and  then  he  took  courage  and  relieved  himself  of  a 
perplexity. 

"  Miss  Maturin,  after  what  has  passed  there  can  hardly  be  very 
cordial  feelings  between  us,  as  it  isx  impossible  for  me  to  consider 
myself  otherwise  than  injured ;  but  still,  as  I  said  before,  you  may 
not  have  anticipated  all  these  consequences.  I  do  not  wish  to 
judge  you  harshly.  I  feel  sorry  that  you  compelled  me  to  speak." 

A  dim  smile  flitted  across  her  face,  more  mournful  than  any 
tears. 

"Do  you  mean  there  can  be  peace  between  us?  I  certainly 
do  not  wish  it  otherwise,  Mr.  Ord." 

" Neither  do  I,"  he  returned  hastily.  "What  is  done,  is  done. 
I  have  no  wish  to  make  your  position  wholly  unbearable.  I  sup- 
pose we  can  always  exchange  the  civilities  of  strangers  ?" 

"  I  have  no  intention  whatever  of  avoiding  you,  Mr.  Ord." 

"  You  could  not  if  you  wished,"  he  returned,  piqued  by  her 
perfect  indifference.  "  Bryn  and  Kirkby  Vicarage  are  too  close 
together." 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  she  answered,  with  a  shiver.  "Do  you  think 
I  forget  what  lies  before  me  1  If  you  will  let  me  come  amongst 
you,  I  will  come ;  if  not,  I  will  bide  my  time.  I  do  not  mean  to 
shun  any  of  you.  Why  should  I  ?  I  have  done  nothing  of  which 
to  be  ashamed — all  such  shunning  will  be  on  your  side." 

"  I  cannot  answer  for  it  that  we  shall  be  very  cordial,  Miss 
Maturin." 

"  Of  course  not.  Do  you  think  I  expect  it  ?  Of  course  you 
will  make  my  life  bitter  amongst  you.  But  then  I  do  not  mean 
to  blame  you.  You  are  very  unjust.  You  do  not  know  how  to 


36  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

be  merciful.  But  I  can  wait  my  time."  And  after  that  he  had 
nothing  to  say. 

It  was  a  strange  dreary  walk,  and  one  which  they  were  not 
likely  to  forget.  It  was  a  relief  when  they  had  left  the  river 
behind  them,  and  were  treading  the  well-worn  pavement  of  the 
High  Street ;  and  still  more  a  relief  when  they  had  reached  the 
portico  of  the  King's  Arms. 

And  then  they  parted. 

"  I  suppose  I  may  not  offer  you  my  hand,  Miss  Maturing"  he 
said,  with  some  slight  feeling  of  compunction,  as  she  turned  her 
white  wistful  face  to  him. 

"  No,  Mr.  Ord,  you  may  not ;  you  must  never  offer  it  to  me 
again  till  you  have  taken  back  all  you  have  said — till  you  have 
cleared  me  from  this  terrible  imputation."  And  then,  when  she 
had  said  this,  she  left  him  and  went  in. 


CHAPTER    IV. 

MEG. 

"  Oh,  what  makes  woman  lovely  ?     Virtue,  faith, 
And  gentleness  in  suffering.     An  endurance 
Through  scorn  or  trial :  these  call  beauty  forth, 
Give  it  the  stamp  celestial,  and  admit  it 
To  sisterhood  with  angels  ! "  BRENT. 

IN  a  well-known  suburb  of  London — a  suburb  so  widely  known 
that  its  very  name  will  bring  a  flood  of  reminiscences  to  many  of 
us — there  is  a  retired  and  pleasant  thoroughfare  called  Chatham 
Place. 

The  glory  of  Hackney  is  departed.  The  traces  of  past  grandeur 
are  fast  fading  away  from  its  sunny  old  streets.  The  monster 
tide  of  fashion  that  has  set  in  during  late  years  has  swept  family 
after  family  westward.  The  wealthy  citizens  who  lived  in  these 
great  brick  mansions,  dwelling  not  figuratively  but  in  reality  under 
their  fig-trees,  pleasant  old  places  set  in  the  midst  of  shady  gardens, 
have  long  ago  migrated,  each  man  according  to  his  several  degrees 
of  consequence  and  ambition — some  to  the  sun-baked  pavements 
of  West-End  squares  and  streets ;  a  few  to  the  humbler  precincts 
of  Russell  Square;  while  others,  less  ambitious,  and  pining  for 
green  fields  and  country  lanes,  have  sought  out  dwelling-places  for 
themselves  at  Hampstead  or  Highgate,  never  dreaming  that  those 
fields  would  soon  lie  low,  and  those  leafy  lanes  be  trodden  under 
foot,  under  the  ever -advancing  needs  of  increasing  population. 
Alas  !  for  those  brick-and-mortar  paradises ;  those  long  winding 
streets,  modernised  and  uninteresting,  where  not  so  many  years 
ago  the  children  loitered  in  the  narrow  lanes  to  gather  hawthorn 
and  sweetbrier  roses,  or  dabbled  knee -deep  in  fields  of  golden 
buttercups ;  where  the  blackbirds  and  the  thrushes  used  to  sing 
in  the  early  mornings,  and  in  summer  the  air  was  full  of  the  sweet- 
ness of  new-mown  hay.  Now  one  walks  as  a  stranger  through  the 
old  spots,  remembering  as  in  a  dream  some  favourite  clump  of 
trees  or  well-worn  stile  where  a  glittering  gin-palace  now  flanks 


38  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

the  path,  or  a  labyrinth  of  intersecting  roads  branch  into  endless 
lines  and  divisions  of  undeviating  and  hopeless  uniformity. 

But  though  such  glory  as  it  once  possessed  is  departed  from 
Hackney,  there  is  still  a  pleasant  air  of  repose  and  quiet  about  its 
old  familiar  streets.  Here  and  there  some  of  the  old  families  still 
linger,  clinging  fondly  to  bygone  associations,  and  despising  the 
tyrannies  of  fashion.  The  whole  place  is  a  little  oppressive  and 
heavy  in  its  respectability.  There  is  monotony  in  its  aspect — one 
day  resembles  another — but  one  feels  a  dim  sort  of  tenderness  for 
it  nevertheless :  one  is  haunted  by  a  desire  to  linger  long  in  the 
shady  churchyard,  where  the  old  church-tower  and  the  church  are 
so  strangely  dissevered,  and  where  one  walks  down  the  flagged 
path  under  the  trees,  with  the  dead  lying  on  either  hand,  and  the 
children  plucking  daisies  out  of  the  rank  grass,  or  playing  on  the 
gray  discoloured  gravestones. 

Branching  off  from  the  churchyard,  and  passing  under  the 
railway  bridge,  one  finds  oneself  in  Chatham  Place.  Here  quiet 
would  become  dreariness  save  for  the  hum  of  voices  proceeding  at 
set  hours  from  the  great  schoolhouse.  It  is  impossible  to  connect 
life  and  activity  with  Chatham  Place.  The  houses  are  dull  and 
obscure,  standing  back  in  long  narrow  gardens,  with  great  gates 
that  swing  solemnly  backward  and  forward.  The  windows  are 
long  and  narrow,  and  scarcely  require  the  adjuncts  of  wire  blinds. 
But  they  look  pleasantly  on  a  long  strip  of  triangular  green,  where 
a  few  sheep  and  cows  are  always  browsing,  and  beyond  which  lies 
Homerton  Terrace.  There  are  few  trees,  but  plenty  of  dust  and 
sunshine.  There  is  no  deafening  traffic  to  jar  one's  nerves.  All 
the  knockers  are  bright  as  gold,  and  the  one  stone  step  is  con- 
spicuous for  its  whiteness.  Few  footsteps  crunch  in  the  long 
gravel-path.  Here  again  respectability  and  monotony  go  hand  in 
hand. 

In  one  of  these  houses,  many  years  before  the  events  we  have 
recorded  took  place,  lived  Mrs.  Carruthers,  Rotha  Maturin's  friend 
— or  Meg  Browning,  as  she  was  then. 

Meg,  as  she  was  always  called — for  never  in  all  her  days  had 
any  one  been  known  to  call  her  by  her  baptismal  name  of  Margaret 
— Meg  lived  with  her  father  and  mother  in  one  of  these  shady  old 
houses  in  Chatham  Place. 

Meg's  father  was  a  clerk  in  some  mercantile  house — a  hard- 
working industrious  man,  going  forth  to  his  business  in  the  early 
morning  and  never  returning  till  late  at  night.  And  her  mother 
had  failing  sight  and  delicate  health.  Never  was  any  youth  less 
gay  and  exciting  than  Meg's,  but  never  was  any  richer  in  dutiful 
unselfish  happiness. 


MEG.  39 

Meg  helped  her  father.  She  treasured  and  made  much  of  her 
one  talent — rising  early  and  taking  rest  late,  that  she  might  bring 
it  to  fruition.  By  and  by  came  the  reward  to  her  industry,  when 
she  gave  music  lessons  in  the  same  school  where  she  had  learned  as 
a  girl.  But  Meg  did  more  than  this  :  besides  her  daily  drudgery 
at  Miss  Binks',  and  her  trudgings  backwards  and  forwards  across 
the  churchyard,  she  had  her  household  duties  to  transact.  She  had 
her  simple  cookeries,  and  fine  ironings,  and  plaitings  of  her  mother's 
caps,  and  hemming  of  her  mother's  snowy  handkerchiefs.  She  had 
shirt-fronts  to  stitch,  and  to  unpick  and  rectify  her  mother's  knit- 
ting, always  ragged  with  dropped  stitches.  She  had  to  read  the 
paper,  or  make  conversation  when  her  father  came  home  tired  at 
night;  sometimes  to  play  cribbage  with  one  or  the  other,  or  to 
take  a  hand  at  whist  when  her  father  chose  to  play  dummy. 

Then  on  Sunday  morning  she  would  go  across  the  churchyard 
hanging  on  her  father's  arm.  She  would  sit  with  him  under  the 
sunny  west  window  in  the  old  pew,  and  look  out  his  places  in  the 
Psalm-book — they  sang  Tait  and  Brady  then.  She  must  remem- 
ber all  the  heads  of  the  sermon  for  her  mother's  benefit,  and  retail 
them  in  the  hot  drowsy  afternoon,  when  her  father  was  having  his 
after-dinner  nap.  And  in  the  evening  she  read  long  pages  to  them 
both  out  of  Blair's  Sermons  and  Harvey's  Meditations,  with  some- 
times a  spell  of  Doddridge's  Rise  and  Progress.  In  the  twilight 
she  would  play  to  them  the  old-fashioned  tunes  they  loved — 
Luther's  grand  old  hymn,  "How  cheerful  along  the  gay  mead," 
with  a  spice  of  the  Old  Hundredth ;  while  the  parents  would  sit 
hand  in  hand,  listening  with  tears  in  their  eyes  :  the  father  joining 
in  now  and  then  with  odd  trills  and  roulades  of  the  old  style. 

Then  for  pleasures :  did  they  not  go  once  or  twice  in  the 
summer  to  the  grand  London  parks,  and  listen  to  the  band  in 
Kensington  Gardens,  and  feed  the  ducks  in  St.  James',  or  go  over 
to  Battersea,  or  take  the  steamer  to  Greenwich?  And  in  the 
winter  did  not  Meg's  father  take  her  twice  to  hear  Shakespeare's 
plays,  Hamlet  and  Henry  V.,  regaling  her  all  the  way  there  and 
back  with  glorious  tales  of  Mrs.  Siddons  and  the  Kembles  1 — dis- 
sipations which  made  her  lie  a  whole  half-hour  longer  in  bed  the 
next  morning. 

Meg  had  no  young  friends,  but  she  never  missed  them ;  she 
had  an  odd  sturdy  character  of  her  own — individuality  that  would 
have  marked  her  in  a  crowd.  She  had  very  little  in  common  with 
girls  of  her  own  age.  She  worked  while  they  played ;  she  was  old- 
fashioned,  reserved,  a  trifle  repellent — and  then  she  was  no  beauty. 

To  tell  the  truth,  one  could  not  conceive  a  woman  more  un- 
attractive. She  had  just  the  sort  of  face  and  figure  about  which 


40  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

there  could  be  no  doubt.  Positive  ugliness  is  difficult  to  redeem. 
Meg's  defects  were  lamentable.  A  husband  would  be  the  last 
thing  one  could  prophesy  for  her.  And,  to  tell  the  truth,  Meg 
was  so  sensible  as  to  know  her  shortcomings.  In  her  own  person 
she  never  dreamt  of  love. 

Meg  had  a  tall  bony  figure  ;  she  had  broad  high  shoulders  and 
angularities  innumerable,  added  to  which  she  was  short-sighted  and 
stooped  ;  she  had  a  strong  Scotch  face,  hard-featured  and  freckled, 
with  high  cheek-bones,  with  large  light  eyes  rather  grave  than 
mirthful,  and  flaxen  hair  without  glint  or  gloss,  which  she  combed 
up  regardless  of  ornament  into  a  knot  behind. 

Meg  knew  her  plainness,  and  wore  sad-coloured  gowns,  like  a 
Quakeress.  Her  mother  bought  her  sometimes  knots  of  ribbons 
and  pinned  them  on  with  her  own  hands ;  but  they  hardly  looked 
well  against  her  complexion.  Meg's  colours  were  all  muddled  and 
ran  into  each  other,  faint  thick  reds  and  browns ;  her  forehead  was 
sallow ;  and,  worst  of  all,  in  speech  her  voice  was  rather  too  deep 
and  unmusical,  somewhat  masculine  in  fact. 

Meg's  one  beauty  was  her  passionate  love  of  music.  Those 
strong  large  hands  of  hers  could  draw  sweetest  tones  from  the 
cracked  old  piano,  purchased  second-hand  on  Meg's  one-and-twen- 
tieth  birthday,  to  replace  a  spinnet  nearly  dumb  with  age.  As  she 
played,  a  grave  solemn  light  would  shine  in  her  eyes,  her  voice 
would  give  out  rich  deep  notes ;  there  was  something  grand  about 
Meg  then.  "  Oh,  Day  of  Wrath  !  oh,  Day  of  Mourning  !"— Meg 
would  sing  the  "  Dies  Irse "  in  a  way  that  would  have  thrilled 
you  to  hear  her. 

When  Meg  was  almost  seven-and-twenty  her  father  died.  He 
had  worked  as  man  and  boy  for  more  than  fifty  years,  and  had 
laid  by  a  few  thrifty  savings  for  his  widow ;  besides  which,  a 
maternal  aunt  had  left  a  few  hundreds  to  Meg.  With  a  little 
prudence  they  might  still  continue  to  live  in  the  old  way ;  nay 
more,  Meg  was  able  to  relinquish  a  few  of  her  labours,  and  to 
minister  more  fully  to  her  mother's  needs,  who  had  become  totally 
blind.  Meg  played  oftener  now  for  her  own  pleasure,  and  picked 
up  stitches  with  a  vigorous  hand  as  she  listened  patiently  to  the 
long  list  of  ailments  which  constituted  her  mother's  chief  topic  of 
conversation,  interlarded  with  stories  of  her  dearly  remembered 
youth. 

Meg  used  to  look  up  and  nod  by  way  of  parenthesis.  She  was 
never  a  great  talker,  even  in  her  most  confidential  moments ;  but 
her  face  would  be  a  marvel  of  content.  She  would  glance  out  at 
the  long  narrow  garden  with  its  cabbages  and  sunflowers,  where 
some  fine  linen  would  generally  be  bleaching  on  the  lawn,  and  then 


MEG.  41 

back  at  the  horsehair  chair,  at  her  mother's  placid  wrinkled  face, 
with  its  gray  hair  and  snowy  closely-crimped  cap,  at  the  drab  silk 
shawl  and  net  kerchief,  and  great  strip  of  yellowish  soiled  knitting, 
and  the  pins  which  moved  so  feebly  in  and  out.  "  Another  stitch 
dropped,  mother;  it  will  be  Jacob's  ladder  soon,"  she  would  say, 
with  a  little  laugh  ;  and  she  would  run  off  row  after  row  with  her 
nimble  fingers,  humming  a  low  soft  tune  as  she  did  so.  She 
thought  her  mother's  conversation  the  most  delightful  in  the  world ; 
the  old  lady's  prose  never  seemed  to  weary  her.  She  would  listen 
to  a  story  she  had  heard  a  dozen  times  over,  with  never-varying 
interest;  her  nods  would  be  brisk  and  regular,  and  she  would 
even  look  disappointed  when  a  brief  nap  interrupted  the  narrative 
in  the  most  graphic  part. 

Perhaps  there  is  a  serpent  in  every  paradise ;  even  the  humble 
household  in  Chatham  Place  was  not  to  be  exempt  from  its 
tempter  in  human  shape.  » 

Meg  was  nine-and-twenty  when  she  met  Jack  Carruthers  for 
the  first  time — handsome  Jack  Carruthers,  as  his  fellow -clerks 
called  him.  It  was  at  a  birthday  party  at  one  of  her  pupil's 
houses,  and  Meg  was  to  go  and  play  for  them  while  they  danced 
— at  least,  that  is  how  she  interpreted  the  invitation.  One  may 
be  sure  Jack  thought  little  about  the  tall  angular  woman  in  black, 
who  played  polkas  and  schottisches,  bringing  rare  music  out  of 
rather  a  wooden  instrument.  When  she  was  not  wanted,  Meg 
hunched  her  shoulders,  and  peered  curiously  at  some  engravings 
at  a  side  table.  No  one  noticed  or  spoke  to  her.  Jack  quizzed 
her  a  little  as  he  flirted  with  handsome  Susan  Smithers.  After 
supper,  when  she  sang  some  Scotch  songs  to  them  in  that  deep  rich 
voice  of  hers,  he  condescended  to  ask  who  that  woman  was  ;  and 
was  told  in  sneering  whispers  by  a  friend  of  his  that  she  was 
"the  daughter  of  old  Dick  Browning.  One  of  our  fellows,  Jack, 
and  a  precious  old  skinflint — so  I've  heard.  Worked  hard  all  his 
life.  Plenty  of  money.  Must  have  saved  no  end  of  tin.  Made 
his  daughter  drudge,  though,  as  a  music  teacher.  Plays  well, 
doesn't  she  ?  Not  much  of  a  beauty  to  look  at,  though.  Daughter 
has  some  cool  hundreds  of  her  own,  I'm  told.  Lives  with  an  old 
blind  mother  in  Chatham  Place.  Eh  *\  what  (\  want  an  introduc- 
tion 1  That's  right,  my  boy;  wide  awake,  as  usual.  Think  I'll 
try  and  cut  you  out  myself;  only  it  would  not  be  friendly. 
Mind  you  pay  me  the  money  you  owe  me  on  your  wedding- 
day  ; "  and  so  on,  with  many  claps  on  the  shoulders. 

Jack  makes  a  grimace  and  haw-haws  a  little,  but  finally  walks 
up  as  bold  as  brass,  and  begs  to  thank  Miss  Browning  for  her 
charming  music,  Jack  adores  music,  and  so  on.  Meg  reddens 


42  ROBERT  ORD^S  ATONEMENT. 

rather ;  perhaps  she  is  not  accustomed  to  be  addressed.  She 
drops  her  eye-glasses  nervously.  She  says  very  little,  but  stam- 
mers a  great  deal.  She  looks  up  at  him  shyly  once  or  twice, 
and  thinks  she  has  never  seen  so  personable  a  man.  Jack  is 
very  handsome,  certainly ;  he  has  a  fine  brown  complexion  and 
bold  black  eyes,  and  his  whiskers  curl  most  delightfully ;  perhaps 
his  lips  are  thick,  and  his  face  rather  coarse,  but  to  Meg  he 
seemed  a  stalwart  Adonis.  Something  in  her  frame  seemed  to 
beat  most  strangely,  as  he  stood  by  her  chair,  pulling  his  whiskers 
and  speaking  quick  determined  sentences ;  he  made  her  sing  some 
more  Scotch  songs,  and  chanted  a  sonorous  bass  by  way  of  chorus. 
And  when  she  rose  to  go,  his  friend  and  he  walked  with  her  all 
the  way  home  to  Chatham  Place,  Jock  carrying  her  music-roll. 

Where  there  is  a  will  there  is  a  way.  How  it  fell  out  Meg  never 
knew  ;  but,  before  many  weeks  had  elapsed,  Jack  Carruthers  had 
made  good  his  footing  in  tjie  little  house  at  Chatham  Place,  and 
was  well  received  by  both  mother  and  daughter.  At  first  he 
brought  his  friend,  but  afterwards  he  came  alone.  By  and  by  Meg 
would  stand  regularly  at  the  window  of  an  evening,  watching  until 
she  saw  him  striding  from  under  the  dark  railway  bridge.  When 
he  reached  the  row  of  posts  she  would  turn  from  the  window  with 
a  blush  on  her  sallow  face,  and  pick  up  her  mother's  stitches 
nervously,  with  her  heart  beating  so  loudly  that  she  could  hardly 
breathe. 

Jack  would  bring  her  new  music  and  flowers,  little  bunches  of 
narcissus  and  jonquils,  or  fragrant  clove-pinks,  which  he  would  buy 
in  the  city  for  a  few  pence.  Sometimes,  as  he  sat  on  the  top  of 
the  omnibus,  he  would  employ  himself  in  picking  off  the  dead 
leaves.  Meg  thought  them  the  most  beautiful  bouquets  in  the 
world,  and  would  redden  more  than  ev0r  as  she  put  them  in  water. 
She  would  sit  quite  silent  in  her  great  happiness,  while  Jack 
played  with  her  ball  of  darning  cotton,  and  discoursed  on  politics 
in  his  bluff  quick  way.  By  and  by  he  would  ask  her  to  play  or 
sing,  and  then  nothing  could  exceed  her  bliss. 

They  say  love  can  beautify  even  a  plain  woman.  Meg  became 
almost  brave  in  her  attire ;  her  hands  got  white  and  soft  by  magic, 
and  her  hair  grew  smooth  and  almost  glossy ;  she  still  wore  her 
sad-coloured  gowns,  but  she  brightened  them  up  with  knots  of 
pink  ribbons — a  faint  drowsy  pink  being  the  only  colour  that 
blended  with  her  faded  tints — and  girded  herself  with  wonderful 
aprons  worked  in  floss  silks.  Jack  used  to  note  these  changes 
with  a  satirical  eye  as  he  stood  in  the  dark  corner  by  the  piano. 
He  was  sure  of  the  cool  hundreds  now.  Sometimes  he  would 
sigh  or  swear  softly  to  himself  as  he  walked  home  across  the 


MEG.  43 

churchyard,  and  through  Clapton  Square,  and  past  the  five 
houses,  and  so  on,  on  his  way  to  Stamford  Hill,  where  he  lived — 
"things  must  be  at  a  pretty  pass  indeed  with  Jack  Carruthers 
when  he  took  it  into  his  head  to  marry  Meg  Browning." 

Things  were  at  a  pretty  pass  indeed  ! 

I  do  not  know  in  what  language  Jack  couched  that  villainous 
proposal  of  his.  He  was  a  tolerably  hardened  reprobate — most 
likely  he  did  it  coolly  enough.  Meg's  head  drooped  over  her 
hands,  and  great  tears  splashed  on  the  keys — Jack  could  almost 
hear  them  ;  the  deep  passionate  nature  which  lay  beneath  all  her 
reserve  and  shyness  awoke  to  life  at  his  first  words  with  a  sud- 
denness that  frightened  herself.  Oh,  the  power  of  love  in  such 
women — the  pure  unselfish  worship,  the  profound  adoration,  the 
blindness,  the  credulity !  Meg,  raining  tears  of  unalloyed  happi- 
ness, placed  her  hand  in  Jack's,  and  felt  as  though  Heaven  had  no 
more  to  offer  her. 

Jack  was  an  ardent  wooer  :  he  was  all  impatience — perhaps  his 
creditors  were  pressing.  Meg  was  nearly  thirty  now;  even  her 
mother  agreed  that  there  was  no  reason  for  them  to  wait. 

The  little  household  in  Chatham  Place  was  to  go  on  much  as 
usual.  Jack  was  to  be  received  the're  as  an  inmate — Meg  could  not 
leave  her  mother.  Jack  entreated  her,  almost  with  tears  in  his 
eyes,  not  to  go  to  any  needless  expense  on  his  account :  Meg  was 
for  refurnishing ;  the  shabby  horsehair  chairs  and  sofa  were  insup- 
portable to  her  now.  With  tender  reluctance  she  renounced  her 
ambitious  projects  and  contented  herself  with  a  little  painting  and 
papering  and  a  gay-coloured  chintz. 

Poor  Meg  !  she  wove  one  blissful  dream  after  another  as  she 
sewed  those  chair  -  covers ;  the  great  sprawling  lilies  and  roses 
were  not  brighter  or  more  preposterous  than  some  of  those 
dreams. 

The  wedding  was  a  very  humble  one.  Meg  had  few  friends, 
and  Jack  had  potent  reasons  why  he  would  ask  none  of  his ;  so 
one  sunny  May  morning  Meg,  dressed  in  her  new  gray  silk,  took 
Jack's  arm  and  walked  with  him  under  the  dark  railway  arch,  and 
between  the  long  rows  of  grassy  hillocks,  where  the  children  looked 
up  from  their  daisy-wreaths,  to  the  old  parish  church,  and  there 
signed  her  name  for  the  first  time  as  Meg  Carruthers. 

Meg's  passionate  happiness  did  not  last  long;  before  many 
weeks  were  over  she  was  a  broken-hearted  woman. 

Meg  knew  she  was  the  dupe  of  a  heartless  profligate ;  she  knew 
that  he  had  married  her  to  save  himself  from  a  debtor's  prison, 
that  he  loathed  his  bondage,  and  could  not  conceal  his  scorn  of 
the  woman  who  had  linked  her  fate  with  his ;  but  she  had  more 


44  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

than  this  to  bear.  Jack,  gross  in  his  vices,  came  home  night  aftei 
night  to  the  affrighted  women  with  curses  on  his  lips,  and  speaking 
in  the  thick  voice  of  the  drunkard,  terrifying  those  pure  souls 
immeasurably,  and  filling  Meg's  cup  of  woe  to  the  brim. 

Alas,  what  she  suffered  !  Scorned,  despised,  and  often  hardly 
used,  she  yet  clave,  as  only  a  woman  can,  to  the  reprobate  she 
called  husband  :  when  he  cursed  she  held  her  peace  ;  in  his  rare 
moments  of  sullen  half-contemptuous  amity  she  played  and  sang  to 
him,  striving  to  win  him  a  little  from  his  indifference;  many  a 
rude  blow  she  averted  by  hiding  her  head  in  his  breast,  or,  if  he 
flung  her  from  thence,  she  would  crush  down  the  sobs  that  almost 
strangled  her,  and  look  up  in  his  face  and  try  to  smile  with  the 
black  bruise  from  his  grip  still  smarting  on  her  poor  arm. 

She  denied  him  nothing  ;  every  penny  of  her  little  hoard  was 
wrung  from  her,  and  when  all  was  gone,  she  made  no  complaint, 
but  took  up  her  old  drudgery  again,  and  went  out  in  the  sleet 
and  snow  morning  after  morning  that  her  mother  might  want  for 
nothing. 

Oh,  what  he  made  her  endure  for  her  mother's  sake  !  Meg's 
filial  love  was  a  passion.  Day  after  day  she  saw  the  tears  roll 
down  the  wrinkled  cheeks  from  those  sightless  eyes,  as  she  left 
her  beside  her  lonely  hearth.  No  more  picking  up  of  stitches  and 
sweet  endless  gossips  in  the  sunshine.  One  by  one  Meg  saw  her 
mother's  little  comforts  disappear,  saw  how  gradually  but  surely 
the  miseries  of  their  daily  life  preyed  on  her  tender  heart. 

"  Meg,  I  shall  never  hold  your  baby  in  my  arms,"  she  would 
say,  as  her  daughter  led  her  upstairs  of  a  night  and  undressed  her 
like  a  child,  "but  I  pray  God  that  it  may  be  a  girl."  And  Meg 
felt  that  her  words  would  come  true,  for  two  days  after  she  closed 
those  blind  eyes,  and  kissed  them  in  the  coffin,  she  lay  down  on 
her  bed  of  pain,  and  knew  that  the  baby  that  never  nestled  in  her 
breast  was  dead  also. 

There  is  not  much  to  tell  after  this.  Meg  was  never  a  demon- 
strative woman  in  her  happiness,  and  she  was  not  confidential  in 
her  misery.  She  was  a  strong-minded  woman — she  bore  her 
troubles  in  a  strong-minded  way,  making  small  ado  and  shedding 
few  tears ;  she  never  reproached  her  husband  for  her  mother's  and 
baby's  death,  though  in  an  indirect  way  he  was  the  cause  of  both ; 
there  was  nothing  melodramatic  about  Meg ;  in  their  most  terrible 
scenes  the  woman  kept  silence. 

Jack  got  everything  he  could;  then  he  went  into  debt,  the 
furniture  was  seized — not  a  stick  or  straw  was  left  in  the  old 
house  in  Chatham  Place.  Meg,  tearless  still,  locked  the  door 
with  her  own  hands  and  asked  her  husband  whither  they  should  go. 


MEG.  45 

One  cannot  repeat  his  answer,  but  Meg  knew  then  that  her 
husband  had  resolved  to  rid  himself  of  a  hated  incumbrance. 
A  year  and  a  half,  only  eighteen  months  ago,  she  had  passed  under 
that  dark  archway,  a  bride  leaning  on  her  lover's  arm ;  now  she 
stood  looking  again  towards  the  archway,  knowing  that  she  was 
worse  than  widowed. 

"  I  have  never  reproached  you,  Jack,  and  I  never  will ;  but  I 
did  not  think  you  would  leave  me,"  was  her  sole  answer,  as  she 
looked  at  the  bloated  handsome  face,  still  so  cruelly  handsome  to 
her ;  perhaps,  reprobate  as  he  was,  that  tender  forgiveness  abashed 
him,  for  he  hung  his  head. 

"I  don't  think  we  were  made  to  pull  together,  Madge,"  he 
said  rather  huskily.  "It  is  not  your  fault — you  are  a  good 
woman,  I  know,  and  I  have  been  your  curse ;  but,  anyhow,  you 
won't  see  the  face  of  Jack  Carruthers  again." 

And  Meg  believed  him. 

She  went  to  her  desolate  lodgings  that  night,  just  in  sight  of 
the  old  house ;  she  could  not  wear  mourning,  but  no  widow 
ever  lamented  as  she  did  over  the  grave  of  her  lost  love.  There 
was  something  grand  in  her  exceeding  silence ;  from  morning  to 
night  she  worked  uncomplainingly  at  her  old  drudgery,  sitting  by 
her  lonely  fire  through  the  long  evening,  with  only  grievous 
thoughts  for  company ;  and  every  night  and  morning  she  prayed  for 
Jack  as  only  the  loving  and  heavy-laden  can  pray. 

How  many  such  prayers  shall  be  written  in  letters  of  gold  by  the 
Recording  Angel !  How  many  and  how  great  the  sum  of  them  ! 


CHAPTER  V. 

"l  SHALL  NEVEK  BE  HAPPY  AGAIN,  MEG." 

"  A  little  by  his  act  perhaps,  yet  more 
By  something  in  me,  surely  not  my  will, 
I  did  not  die.     But  slowly,  as  one  in  swoon, 
To  whom  life  creeps  back  in  the  form  of  death, 
With  a  sense  of  separation,  a  blind  pain 
Of  blank  obstruction,  and  a  roar  i'  the  ears 
Of  visionary  chariots  which  retreat 
As  earth  grows  clearer  .   .   .   slowly,  by  degrees, 
I  woke,  rose  up  ...   Where  was  I  ? — in  the  world  j 
For  uses  therefore  I  must  count  worth  while. " 

Aurora  Leigh. 

IT  was  a  drowsy  hot  afternoon,  and  the  small  patch  of  green,  which 
was  generally  an  object  of  rejoicing  to  the  inhabitants  of  Chatham 
Place,  an  oasis  in  their  desert,  was  all  burnt  and  barren,  offering 
but  poor  pasturage  to  a  few  forlorn-looking  sheep  that  had  long 
ago  discontinued  cropping  the  dry  herbage,  and  were  now  herded 
together  for  shade.  Sunshine  and  dust  were  the  order  of  the  day ; 
the  pavements  were  bleached  and  glaring,  the  trees  distilled  gray 
dust  on  the  passenger's  head,  the  roads  were  ruled  into  tiny  furrows 
of  the  same,  the  paint  on  the  doors  was  blistered  and  peeled  in 
long  brown  flakes,  and  the  bright  knockers  were  like  molten  lead. 
The  very  windows  gaped  wide  open,  as  though  striving  for  more 
air ;  wire  blinds  were  withdrawn ;  and  there  was  a  flutter  of  white 
curtains.  Sometimes  through  the  half-open  doors  one  caught  a 
glimpse  of  green  leaves ;  here  and  there  a  canary  piped  loudly  in 
its  gilded  cage ;  some  brown  sparrows  twittered  on  the  hot  ledges. 
The  children  had  betaken  themselves  to  the  shelter  of  the  railway 
arches,  and  were  hooting  amongst  them  like  so  many  owls ;  the 
chiming  of  many  voices  from  the  National  School  rose  and  fell  in 
one  drowsy  hum ;  there  was  pent-up  animal  life  there — a  discon- 
tented hive  of  busy  workers  longing  for  the  sunshine,  sturdy 
urchins  yearning  to  join  their  vagrant  companions  among  the  dark 
railway  arches,  restless  fingers  counting  marbles  to  the  tune  of  the 


"7  SHALL  NEVER  BE  HAPPY  AGAIN,  MEG:'      47 

multiplication-table ;  outside,  a  sky  intensely  blue,  plenty  of  yellow 
sunshine,  but  the  glare  and  glitter  almost  oppressive. 

Meg,  sitting  in  her  little  back  parlour,  all  shade  and  coolness, 
could  hear  the  droning ;  the  mixed  indistinguishable  hum  in  the 
clear  summer  air  soothed  and  lulled  her;  those  crescendoes  and 
falls  of  shrill  young  voices  softened  by  distance  had  a  music  of 
their  own.  Meg  used  to  listen  to  it  as  she  plodded  through  her 
darning.  She  could  picture  the  great  bare  rooms  with  the  rows  of 
rosy  faces  and  sunburnt  white  heads ;  she  used  to  nod  and  smile 
at  the  little  ones  as  they  came  trooping  past  her  windows ;  some 
of  them  would  drop  a  shy  curtsey.  The  solitary  woman,  in  spite 
of  her  grimness,  had  ways  with  her  that  could  touch  children.  In 
the  churchyard  she  would  stop  and  speak  to  them ;  once  she  found 
a  boy  who  had  strayed  all  the  way  from  Bethnal  Green  with  a 
baby  sister.  Meg  found  them  both  asleep  on  her  mother's  grave, 
with  a  tattered  handkerchief  full  of  chickweed  and  dandelion  be- 
side them.  Meg  took  them  all  the  way  home,  carrying  them  in 
her  arms  by  turn ;  the  youngest  child  cried  at  parting  with  her. 

Those  summer  days  were  very  lonely  with  Meg ;  it  was  holi- 
day time  now  at  Miss  Binks',  and  the  large  preparatory  school 
where  she  gave  lessons ;  her  two  or  three  private  pupils  had 
betaken  themselves  to  the  seaside,  and  Meg  patched  and  mended, 
turned  her  old  gowns,  and  thought  weary  thoughts  through  the 
long  hot  hours ;  in  the  evening  she  took  slow  aimless  walks  over 
the  downs — there  were  downs  then — coming  back  jaded  and 
unrefreshed  in  the  twilight  to  her  patching  again.  She  had  no 
piano  now,  and  the  few  books  her  pupils  lent  her  were  soon  ex- 
hausted ;  her  only  pleasure  was  to  water  her  geraniums  and  feed 
her  linnet.  When  this  was  over  she  knew  that  nothing  more 
would  occur  to  break  the  monotony  of  these  endless  days.  No 
wonder  that  before  a  week  was  over  she  would  have  given  any- 
thing to  resume  her  old  drudgery;  the  hot  walks  through  the 
churchyard,  the  long  hours  in  a  close  schoolroom,  the  din,  the 
ceaseless  headache,  the  thankless  labour,  all  appeared  enviable  by 
the  side  of  this  enforced  idleness.  Sometimes  she  felt  as  though 
she  must  give  it  all  up,  as  though  she  could  not  bear  the  solitude 
a  day  longer ;  she  must  go  into  the  world,  learn  nursing,  visit  the 
hospitals,  do  anything  or  everything,  so  that  she  might  be  brought 
face  to  face  with  her  kind,  and  be  of  use  to  some  one ;  she  was 
wearing  her  heart  out  only  just  to  gain  her  daily  bread,  and  what 
would  that  avail  her,  seeing  that  her  bread  was  only  bitter  to  her  ? 

To  be  of  use,  to  be  necessary  to  some  one,  not  to  be  loved,  that 
was  all  her  thought  now.  Meg  had  awakened  from  that  pitiful 
dream  of  hers,  self-degraded,  perhaps  a  little  hardened,  but  with  a 


48  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

fearful  thirst  and  misery  of  love  aroused  within  her  that  nothing 
could  allay ;  like  many  another  fond  worshipper,  she  had  fallen 
down  before  a  stock  and  a  stone ;  nay,  worse,  she  had  suffered 
such  usage  that  any  other  woman  would  have  found  it  hard  to 
forgive ;  she  knew  there  were  bruises  that  she  would  carry  about 
with  her  to  her  dying  day,  and  yet  she  had  only  clung  to  the  hand 
that  inflicted  them.  If  he  had  come  back  to  her  would  she  not 
forgive  him  1 — ay,  unto  seventy  times  seven.  But  he  would  never 
come  back. 

Poor  Meg !  she  was  resolving  all  sorts  of  weary  fancies  in  her 
mind  on  this  afternoon;  while  she  was  piecing  the  old  faded 
mantle  that  must  last  her  through  the  summer,  she  was  chiding 
herself  for  her  cowardice.  Why  are  some  women  so  slow  to  plan 
or  rather  carry  out  any  self-conceived  line  of  action  for  themselves  1 
had  her  secluded  life  checked  all  spirit  of  enterprise  1  why  should 
she  be  so  afraid  to  risk  her  little  all  and  venture  on  an  untrodden 
path  1  What  if  she  should  fail  1 — she  was  the  only  sufferer.  Her 
solitude,  the  harass  of  these  cruel  and  incessant  memories,  were 
killing  her  by  inches ;  she  was  a  woman  of  iron  nerve,  but  this 
was  beyond  even  her  endurance,  and  yet  she  shrank  from  taking 
the  first  step  into  the  new  life. 

If  only  some  one  would  help  her  !  And  then  the  pieces  of  silk 
fell  apart  in  her  hands  as  a  low  tap  at  her  door  startled  her  from 
her  reverie.  Visitors  were  so  rare  with  Mrs.  Carruthers  that  she 
scarcely  raised  her  head  as  she  uttered  the  mechanical  "Come  in." 
It  was  only  her  landlady  or  the  maid  with  her  tea  equipage,  she 
thought ;  it  was  therefore  no  slight  surprise  to  her  when  the  door 
was  pushed  briskly  open,  and  a  tall  slight  girl  in  mourning  came 
forward  with  outstretched  hands. 

"  Meg,  my  dear  old  Meg  ! " 

"  Kotha  !  Good  heavens  ! "  And  then  they  embraced  each 
other  after  the  fashion  of  women ;  Rotha,  with  a  little  flurry  of 
demonstration  that  seemed  habitual  to  her,  clinging  to  her  friend 
with  quick  earnest  kisses  in  an  almost  childish  way. 

"  Are  you  glad  to  see  me,  Meg  1 " 

"  Not  more  glad  than  surprised."  But  Meg,  in  spite  of  her 
characteristic  abruptness,  looked  more  than  her  words.  There  was 
a  pleasant  light  of  welcome  in  her  eyes  as  she  cleared  the  litter  of 
work  from  the  one  arm-chair,  and  brought  out  the  little  round 
footstool.  She  did  not  sit  down  and  talk  to  her,  as  most  women 
would,  but  after  her  first  greeting  moved  quietly  about  the  room, 
letting  down  the  blind  and  arranging  the  table,  bestirring  herself 
for  her  comfort  in  her  quick  short-sighted  way ;  the  hard  muscles 
of  her  face  relaxing  visibly  as  she  untied  Botha's  bonnet  and  shook 


•'/  SHALL  NEVER  BE  HAPPY  AGAIN,  MEG."      49 

out  the  dust  from  her  mantle.  Those  large  strong  hands  were 
very  gentle  in  their  touch,  as  Rotha  well  knew;  they  had  an 
odd  knack  with  them  that  made  you  comfortable  in  spite  of  your- 
self. Rotha  knew  Mrs.  Carruthers'  ways  by  this  time ;  she 
was  well  aware  that  she  must  bide  her  time  for  talking.  Her 
dusty  walk  had  wearied  her,  she  looked  even  paler  than  usual. 
The  room  was  deliciously  cool  and  shady.  She  lay  back  con- 
tentedly in  her  arm-chair,  while  Meg  squared  her  high  shoulders 
and  peered  into  corners.  It  was  five  o'clock.  The  little  tea-table 
must  be  spread  and  garnished.  There  were  mysterious  whispers ; 
the  red -armed  maid -of -all -work  appeared  and  disappeared  con- 
tinually. All  at  once  there  was  a  delicious  fragrance  of  mignon- 
ette and  hot  bread  together ;  tiny  curls  of  blue  smoke  wreathed 
the  little  black  teapot.  Meg  would  not  talk  to  her  visitor,  but 
she  was  compounding  a  cup  of  tea  for  her,  such  as  her  soul  loved, 
and  Rotha,  who  knew  her  quaint  ways,  and  was  wearied  past 
weariness,  sat  meekly  sipping  it,  taking  in  everything  with  quick 
womanly  instinct — the  dull  room,  Meg's  worn  face  and  shabby 
dress,  the  wedding-ring  hanging  so  loosely  on  the  thin  wasted 
finger,  everything  down  to  the  faded  patches  that  were  being 
turned  and  pieced.  That  quiet  observation  was  telling  her  more 
than  hours  of  talk.  "She's  dying  of  ennui  and  dullness,  and 
feeding  on  her  own  thoughts,"  said  Rotha  to  herself.  "Why 
should  we  not  be  the  happier  for  each  other's  company  1  Things 
will  not  be  quite  so  hopeless  if  I  can  infuse  a  little  sunshine  into  her 
life;"  and  then  she  leant  forward  with  a  little  colour  and  eagerness. 

"  Ah,  there  is  the  netting.  I  suppose  I  may  talk  now  1 "  for 
Mrs.  Carruthers  had  brought  forth  a  long  strip  of  netting,  yellow 
with  age,  and  was  weaving  her  shuttle  to  and  fro  as  though  her 
life  depended  on  it.  Meg  nodded  as  she  pulled  and  knotted  vigor- 
ously, but  made  no  other  answer. 

"  I  am  glad  I  may  talk  now,"  she  repeated ;  "  I  have  been 
watching  you  for  such  a  long  time.  Do  you  know  your  face  has 
been  telling  me  tales  1 " 

Mrs.  Carruthers  shook  her  head. 

"  Oh,  but  it  has ;  you  are  so  changed,  my  poor  Meg.  You 
look  so  thin  and  worn ;  and  there  are  positively  gray  streaks  in 
your  hair.  You  were  not  gray  when  I  saw  you  last,  dear  Meg." 

Again  that  mournful  shake  of  the  head. 

"  And  then  you  are  so  silent ;  you  will  not  talk  to  me  now. 
I  am  treading  on  forbidden  ground,  I  suppose.  Do  you  think 
that  I  do  not  know  what  your  life  has  been  ? " 

"  Oh,  Rotha ;  hush  !  "  and  Meg's  voice  was  almost  grating  in 
its  harshness. 


50  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

"No,  I  shall  not  'hush!' — you  are  always  trying  to  silence 
me.  You  would  not  write  to  me,  and  now  you  will  not  speak. 
I  know  he  has  left  you,  that  you  are  deserted  and  broken-hearted ; 
but  I  never  knew  how  broken-hearted  till  I  saw  your  face,  Meg." 

"  Roth  a,  if  you  have  any  pity  for  me — 

"  Pity  !  I  wonder  if  any  one  ever  felt  such  pity  as  I  have  1 
When  I  heard  your  child  was  dead  I  thought  and  almost  hoped 
that  you  might  die  too.  I  so  trusted  and  prayed  that  your  baby 
might  comfort  you." 

A  quick  catch  of  the  breath,  a  quivering  of  those  harsh  muscles, 
and  Meg  covered  her  face  with  her  hands. 

"  If  you  only  knew  how  I  longed  to  come  to  you  !  You  have 
been  so  good  to  me.  Do  you  think  I  shall  ever  forget  those  old 
days  ?  No  one  ever  understood  and  loved  you  as  I  did.  Try  and 
speak  to  me,  dear." 

Meg  raised  her  head  from  her  hands.  She  so  rarely  wept  that 
her  face  was  quite  burnt  and  blistered  with  her  tears.  Nothing 
but  the  mention  of  her  child  ever  caused  them  to  flow :  ill  usage 
she  could  bear,  contempt,  drudging  labour ;  but  the  thought  of  the 
little  coffined  body — flesh  of  her  flesh — which  her  eyes  had  never 
looked  upon  and  her  arms  had  never  cradled,  touched  the  spring 
of  her  womanhood. 

"  Rotha,  I  cannot  bear  it ;  you  must  not  speak  to  me  of  my 
child." 

"  Why  not,  dear  Meg  ? " 

"  Why  not  ?  Do  you  not  know  they  took  him  away  and 
buried  him  ?  They  never  brought  him  to  me  and  laid  him  in  my 
arms  ;  no,  not  for  one  moment ;  though  he  was  beautiful  as  the 
day — that  was  his  father's  doing." 

"  He  did  it  for  the  best." 

"  Perhaps  so.  They  tell  me  that  I  was  delirious.  My  mother 
had  only  been  dead  a  few  days  then.  It  was  all  trouble  and 
misery  together.  But  I  did  so  pray  that  my  child  might  win  me 
his  love,  Rotha." 

"  It  was  not  worth  the  winning,  my  poor  Meg." 

"  Not  to  others,  perhaps  ;  but  to  me  it  was  everything.  You 
should  not  have  said  that,  Rotha.  Though  he  were  black  beyond 
all  blackness,  he  is  my  husband." 

"  There,  I  have  made  you  angry." 

"  I  should  think  any  wife  might  be  angry  at  such  a  speech ; 
but  you  are  only  a  child,  Rotha.  I  don't  expect  Jack  will  ever 
come  back  to  me.  Why  should  he,  unless  he  be  in  trouble  1  But 
somehow  I  feel  I  shall  see  him  again." 

"I   trust   not,  for  your  own  sake.     No,   you  must   not  be 


"  "/  SHALL  NEVER  BE  HAPPY  AGAIN,  MEG."      51 

vexed  with  me — it  is  the  honest  truth,  only  I  did  not  mean  it  to 
escape  me." 

"Ah,  there  again;  you  have  never  loved,  or  you  would  not 
say  such  things.  Child,  I  cannot  die  till  I  have  seen  him  again." 

"Meg!" 

"  How  frightened  you  look !  I  am  not  mad ;  indeed,  I  am 
speaking  in  sober  earnestness.  But  now  you  know  why  it  is  best  for 
me  to  keep  silence.  The  heart  knoweth  its  own  bitterness,  Rotha." 

"  Its  own  bitterness  ?     Well,  yes." 

"  You  know  me  best,  but  you  cannot  understand  my  feeling. 
You  think  me  daft  for  hinting  at  such  things.  When  you  have 
lived  a  little  longer  you  will  know  that  still  waters  run  deepest." 

"  I  always  knew  you  were  very  deep  and  still,  Meg ;  but — 
but " 

"  But  you  did  not  expect  that  I  could  love  quite  so  fervently — 
that  is  what  you  were  going  to  say.  Well,  I  am  not  offended. 
What  has  a  grim  woman  such  as  I  am  to  do  with  such  things  ? 
Why  did  I  ever  love?  But  he  made  me.  Oh,  Jack!  Jack!" 
And  Meg  rocked  herself  to  and  fro  in  infinite  distress. 

"  Ah,  [  must  hush  you  now." 

"  Yes,  you  must  hush  me ;  I  deserve  it.  I  am  forgetting  my- 
self. But  it  is  all  your  fault.  Why  did  you  come  and  speak  to 
me  of  my  trouble  ?  You  harass  and  excite  me ;  you  know  I  never 
talk  of  such  things.  You  have  stirred  me  up  dangerously  to-night, 
Rotha." 

"  If  I  have,  I  must  calm  you.  Don't  shake  your  head,  Meg, 
and  think  it  beyond  my  power.  I  shall  throw  no  oil  on  the 
troubled  waters ;  instead  of  that  there  must  be  a  mingling  of  salt 
tears — a  general  brackishness.  Since  I  have  seen  you  I  have  been 
in  the  deep  waters  myself." 

"  Do  you  mean  you  have  been  in  trouble  ?" 

"Trouble?  Well,  yes,  I  suppose  so.  I  have  sounded  and 
found  it  forty  fathoms ;  there  is  no  anchoring  anywhere." 

Meg  gave  a  faint  smile. 

"  There,  I  knew  I  could  quiet  you.  You  always  had  a  fancy 
for  my  quaint  similes.  How  many  years  is  it  since  we  last  met  ?" 

"  Three,  is  it  not  V ' 

"  Three,  or  thirty — I  forget  which.  I  don't  like  mentioning 
my  troubles  in  the  same  breath  with  yours — it  seems  too  much 
like  weighing  iron  and  feathers  together;  but  I  don't  think  I 
would  willingly  live  those  years  over  again." 

"Probably  not." 

"  No,  indeed ;  there  were  days  and  months  when  I  thought  of 
Miss  Binks'  as  though  it  were  paradise  itself.  You  used  to  pity 


52  ROBERT  ORD^S  ATONEMENT. 

me  and  tell  me  that  I  was  always  tired.  Oh,  Meg,  how  I  used  to 
long  even  for  the  headaches  and  cramped  fingers  again!" 

"  Poor  child  !  you  look  utterly  worn  out  now." 

"  Worn  1  I  should  think  so ;  they  have  crushed  all  my  youth 
out  of  me  between  them ;  and  yet  it  will  not  quite  die,  poor  thing. 
Sometimes  I  feel  so  old.  There,  take  up  your  netting  again ;  I 
have  a  long  story  to  tell  you,  and  I  mean  to  tell  it  in  my  old 
place."  And  Eotha  brought  her  footstool  and  laid  her  head 
against  Meg's  shabby  gown. 

How  she  talked ;  how  she  poured  it  all  out  as  one  woman  will 
to  another ;  with  what  utter  abandon,  relief,  and  passion  of  words  ! 
No  stammering,  no  painful  suppression  of  pent-up  pain,  no  fear  of 
being  misunderstood  here.  She  made  Meg  see  it  all  as  though 
she  had  been  present.  That  interview  in  the  Castle  garden, 
with  the  sunset  and  the  apple-trees  and  the  ruins,  the  almost  guilty 
terror  with  which  she  met  Robert  Ord,  and  the  miserable  cowardice 
that  kept  her  tongue-tied  in  his  presence,  and  the  crumbling  walls 
of  Eglistone  Abbey ;  how  graphically  she  described  it  all !  No 
wonder  Meg's  netting  fell  from  her  hands,  and  that  she  scarcely 
stirred  or  breathed  in  her  profound  interest. 

"My  poor  child!"  That  was  all  she  said  when  Rotha  had 
finished,  but  the  tones  conveyed  a  world  of  pity,  and  once  again, 
very  tenderly,  "My  poor  child  !" 

"  You  may  very  well  call  me  that."  And  then  there  was  a 
long  silence  between  them  •  only  Meg  gently  stroked  the  hand  that 
lay  so  listlessly  on  her  lap.  It  was  not  a  pretty  hand,  not  specially 
small  or  well  shaped,  but  very  thin  and  white,  and,  as  Meg  touched 
it,  it  felt  to  her  in  its  soft  helplessness  like  the  hand  of  a  sick  child. 

"I  shall  never  be  happy  again,  Meg." 

"  No,  you  must  not  say  that." 

"  Why  must  I  not  say  it  1  I  could  have  borne  anything  but 
that ;  but  his  accusation  has  crushed  all  the  spirit  out  of  me." 

"It  was  very  hard,  certainly." 

"  Was  it  not  terribly  hard,  and  so  cruel !  But  I  must  not  think 
of  that  now." 

"  I  must  say  that  I  think  you  acted  very  nobly." 

"Oh  Meg!" 

"  Yes,  nobly.  I  always  thought  that  you  were  so  proud,  Rotha, 
and  yet  you  could  bear  yourself  as  though  you  were  not  angry  with 
the  man." 

"  No  more  I  was.  I  quite  wonder  at  myself  now  for  my  want 
of  anger ;  but  then  his  wrongs  were  so  great,  he  looked  so  wan  and 
sad  with  all  his  harshness,  that,  though  I  was  utterly  wretched,  I 
could  not  find  it  in  my  heart  to  speak  bitterly." 


"7  SHALL  NEVER  BE  HAPPY  AGAIN,  MEG."      53 

"  Of  course  I  think  that  you  were  right,  but  yet " 

"Well,  Meg?" 

"  I  hardly  like  to  finish  my  sentence ;  it  sounds  unsympathetic 
after  what  you  have  told  me ;  but  it  does  strike  me  that  you  are 
just  a  little  morbid  about  it  all." 

"  Now  you  are  going  to  be  unkind." 

"No,  you  must  not  say  that — you  must  not  think  for  a 
moment  that  I  do  not  pity  you.  I  am  sure  it  is  all  miserably 
hard.  Your  position  for  the  present  must  be  cruel.  But,  Rotha, 
don't  make  it  quite  unbearable  by  taking  too  morbid  a  view  of  it 
— that  was  always  your  danger." 

"  But  not  in  this  instance,"  she  interposed  eagerly. 

"  Yes,  in  this  instance.  Surely  it  is  no  fault  of  yours  that  the 
man  cannot  get  his  rights." 

"No,  certainly  not." 

"  Neither  are  you  to  blame  for  being  the  innocent  cause  of  his 
suspicion.  It  is  true  he  has  it  in  his  power  to  injure  you  and 
make  you  miserable,  and  yet  it  seems  to  me  as  though  you  could 
avoid  such  misery." 

"  How  so  ?" 

"By  accepting  it  as  your  cross.  You  have  already  by  your 
Christian  forgiveness  robbed  your  pain  of  its  chief  sting.  I  would 
have  you  bear  yourself  now  as  though  you  were  indeed  guiltless." 

"And  do  I  not  so  bear  myself1?"  she  returned,  somewhat 
proudly. 

"  No,  you  are  failing  utterly.  You  are  letting  the  pain  and 
misery  of  it  all  wear  you  to  the  heart ;  there  is  a  look  on  your 
face,  Rotha,  that  I  cannot  bear  to  see.  I  say  again  that  you  are 
taking  too  morbid  a  view  of  it  all." 

"  I  cannot  help  it  if  you  fail  to  understand  my  feelings." 

"  I  know  them  well,  Rotha." 

"  No,  you  do  not,  or  you  would  not  accuse  me  of  being  morbid, 
Meg.  I  told  you  that  I  wondered  at  myself  for  my  forbearance ; 
but  I  shall  always  feel  as  though  I  have  wronged  Robert  Ord." 

"And  why  him  only — why  not  the  others'?" 

"  The  others  of  course.  But  do  you  not  see  he  was  her  favourite, 
the  child  of  her  adoption,  whom  she  loved  and  forgave  at  the  last. 
Meg,  you  may  call  me  over-scrupulous,  unreasonable,  anything  you 
like ;  but  I  know,  and  she  knows  that  the  money  is  his." 

"  Absurd !  it  is  yours  by  will.  Have  you  not  told  me  so 
yourself?" 

"  Of  course  I  am  mistress  of  Bryn  ;  but  that  does  not  alter  my 
words.  Meg,  Mrs.  Ord  was  going  to  destroy  that  will." 

"  Yes,  I  know." 


54  ROBERT  ORD^S  ATONEMENT. 

"Every  time  she  roused  from  that  dreadful  stupor  she  was 
trying  to  collect  her  faculties  for  the  effort.  She  used  to  look  at 
me  so  piteously,  as  though  to  ask  me  to  help  her ;  but  it  was  all  no 
use :  before  she  could  say  a  word  to  us  she  was  floating  away  again." 

"True,  but  was  that  your  fault,  Rotha?" 

"  Just  before  she  died  she  beckoned  me  to  her ;  I  could  see  her 
hands  groping  over  her  chest  as  though  she  wanted  to  write.  She 
made  me  put  my  ear  quite  close  to  her  lips,  and  as  clearly  as  I 
hear  you  now,  I  heard  her  say,  '  Rotha,  mind  it  is  all  for  Robert ;' 
and  then  the  death-rattle  stopped  her.  Meg,  she  was  thinking  of 
him  then." 

"  I  daresay,  poor  woman  !     It  was  very  sad." 

"  Yes,  but  saddest  for  him.  I  have  heard  so  much  of  him,  of 
them  all — not  from  his  aunt,  she  never  mentioned  them,  but  from 
Mr.  Tracy  and  the  maid.  They  are  all  very  good,  but  so  poor  and 
proud,  and  full  of  strange  crotchets.  They  say  that  Robert  Ord 
has  been  engaged  for  years,  and  now  that  they  can  never  marry. 
How  they  must  hate  me,  the  very  sound  of  my  name !  and  yet 
you  tell  me  that  I  am  morbid." 

"  I  say  so  still.     I  cannot  take  back  my  words." 

"  Perhaps  not.     You  were  always  an  obstinate  woman." 

"  My  dear,  no ;  but  simply  straightforward  and  matter  of  fact, 
thank  God,  or  how  should  I  have  got  through  my  own  troubles  2 
You  are  too  gentle  and  imaginative,  Rotha.  You  are  a  brave 
creature,  you  have  plenty  of  endurance,  but  you  are  so  unselfish 
and  scrupulous  that  you  will  wear  yourself  out." 

"  Scruples  are  not  specially  heinous  sins,  Meg." 

"  Are  they  not  ?  I  don't  know.  It  seems  to  me  that  all  this 
business  is  not  in  your  hands  at  all ;  that  this  wealth  has  come  to 
you  by  a  direct  interposition  of  Providence — whether  for  good  or 
ill  the  future  and  your  own  conduct  must  decide ;  but  one  thing  I 
am  sure  of,  that,  being  yours,  you  will  have  to  give  an  account  of 
your  stewardship." 

Rotha  dropped  her  head. 

"My  darling,  I  do  feel  as  though  I  am  very  hard  on  you." 

"  No,  not  hard ;  but  you  are  always  so  dreadfully  sensible." 

"  I  wish  I  were ;  I  wish  I  were  half  as  brave  and  forgiving  as 
you,  Rotha.  Do  you  really  mean  that  you  will  have  the  courage 
to  face  all  those  Ords  now  he  has  set  them  against  you  ? " 

"  Of  course  if  they  will  open  their  doors  to  me  I  shall  go 
amongst  them ;  but  there  is  not  much  fear  of  that." 

"  They  will  not  ask  you  to  the  Vicarage." 

"  Then  assuredly  we  shall  not  meet,  for  they  will  never  come 
to  Bryn.  Oh  dear  !  oh  dear  !  I  wonder  how  the  same  village  can 


"/  SHALL  NEVER  BE  HAPPY  AGAIN,  MEG:'      55 

hold  us.     I  suppose  once  a  week  we  shall  all  own  we  are  miserable 
sinners  together." 

"  You  mean  you  will  meet  at  church  ? " 

"Well,  I  suppose  so.  I  wonder  if  the  Vicar  will  consider  it 
his  special  mission  to  convert  so  hardened  a  reprobate.  Meg,  I 
declare  I  am  so  sick  at  heart  I  would  as  soon  joke  about  it  as  not." 

"  I  would  rather  have  your  woebegone  look  than  that." 

"  You  shall  have  both.  I  have  not  forgotten  all  my  dry 
humour  in  spite  of  my  misery.  Anyhow,  we  shall  have  time  to 
get  tired  of  each  other,  for  no  one  else  will  come  to  us.  I  wonder 
if  I  shall  dare  to  visit  the  cottages ;  perhaps  I  shall  if  you  will 
mount  guard  at  the  door." 

"  Are  you  joking  1 " 

"No,  indeed  ;  I  was  in  sober  earnest." 

"  I  thought  you  spoke  as  though  I  should  be  with  you." 

"  Yes,  of  course ;  but  still  I  am  not  joking.  One  thing  I  can 
certainly  assure  you — that  I  shall  never  go  to  Bryn  without  you." 

"  Eotha,  you  cannot  be  serious  1 " 

"And  why  not?  Do  you  suppose  that  I  can  live  by  myself? 
I  should  have  thought  Chatham  Place  and  Miss  Binks  would  have 
taught  you  propriety  by  this  time/' 

"  My  dear,  you  must  not  allow  yourself  to  be  influenced  by 
merely  generous  feeling.  You  think  I  am  poor  and  lonely,  and 
that  is  why  you  think  of  it." 

"  Perhaps  so  ;  and  because  I  am  rather  fond  of  you  in  spite  of 
your  queer  ways." 

"As  you  would  be  fond  of  any  other  broken-down  creature 
whom  you  could  benefit.  I  know  your  goodness  of  old,  Rotha." 

"  Goodness,  eh  ?  Now,  you  are  going  to  make  me  angry.  I 
have  given  you  three  reasons  why  I  want  you,  but  I  have  still 
another  remaining." 

"  And  what  is  that  1 " 

"  That  you  are  my  only  friend,  and  what  I  cannot  demand  as 
a  right  I  must  ask  as  a  favour." 

"And  do  you  really  want  me — really,  Rotha?"  The  harsh 
face  was  wonderfully  softened  now. 

"  Yes,  really  and  truly.  Can  anything  be  more  natural  1  I 
have  known  you  half  my  life.  When  I  was  a  lonely  schoolgirl, 
and  a  still  more  lonely  teacher,  you  were  kind  to  me.  It  will  give 
you  more  interest  in  life  to  know  you  are  useful  to  some  one.  If 
we  shall  not  be  happy,  at  least  we  can  make  each  other  less 
miserable.  Meg,  will  you  come  ? " 

"  Yes,  I  will.     God  bless  you,  Rotha  ! "    And  the  warm  hand 
clasp  set  the  seal  to  Jier  words. 


CHAPTER    VI. 

KIRKBY    VICAEAGE. 

"  It  was  a  village  built  in  a  green  rent 
Between  two  cliffs  that  skirt  the  dangerous  bay." 

JEAN  INGELOW. 

'  *  For  contemplation  he,  and  valour  form'd  ; 
For  softness  she,  and  sweet  attractive  face : 
He  for  God  only,  she  for  God  in  him." 

MILTON. 

SOMEWHERE  in  the  north  of  England  there  is  a  small  seaport  town 
called  Blackscar.  On  the  whole  it  is  not  a  prepossessing  place. 
Its  chief  attractions  are  its  fine  bay  and  extensive  sands,  but  the 
town  itself  is  tasteless,  not  being  yet  seasoned  with  the  salt  of 
fashion.  It  consists  mainly  of  two  long  streets,  running  as  nearly 
as  possible  parallel  with  each  other — the  wide  old-fashioned  High 
Street,  and  the  other  looking  seaward,  embracing  the  small  har- 
bourage, always  full  of  fishing-smacks  and  such  small  gear,  and  the 
handsome  sea-wall  running  directly  on  to  Kirkby,  a  small  suburb  of 
Blackscar,  which  looked  as  though  it  led  to  the  end  of  everything. 

Kirkby  is  nothing  more  nor  less  than  a  village,  and  its  most 
enthusiastic  admirer  can  find  little  to  say  in  its  praise.  The  first 
impression  generally  left  on  the  visitor  is  a  sense  of  meagreness 
and  desolation.  One  looks  over  a  narrow  row  of  kitchen-gardens 
and  grass  hillocks  to  the  grand  sweep  of  sands  beyond.  There  to 
the  left  is  the  low  range  of  rabbit-warrens  belonging  to  Bryn,  and 
beyond  a  small  slip  of  land  stretching  out  into  the  sea  like  a  one- 
pronged  fork,  called  Welburn.  At  low  tide  one  can  discern  the 
black  shining  edges  of  some  dangerous-looking  rocks,  which  tell 
a  tale  of  their  own.  Shipwrecks  are  plentiful  at  Kirkby  and 
Welburn,  as  their  inhabitants  know  to  their  cost. 

Kirkby  itself  is  not  conspicuous  for  beauty  of  architecture, 
except  as  concerns  its  church.  It  has  its  grammar-school,  its  rows 
of  low  bay-windowed  lodging-houses,  but  those  fronting  the  sea 
are  principally  cottages,  to  which  the  kitchen-gardens  appertain. 


KIRK  BY  VICARAGE.  57 

Walking  along  the  sandy  road  from  Blackscar,  and  passing  the 
schoolhouse,  one  sees  first  a  patch  of  whitewashed  or  yellow  walls, 
with  blinks  of  diamond-pa ned  lattices,  then  a  brown  narrow  house, 
with  a  window  on  each  side  of  the  door  and  a  scanty  plot  of 
ground  in  front ;  next  a  low  gray  house  with  old-fashioned  bay- 
windows,  and  at  the  bend  of  the  road,  before  the  fence  shuts  off 
stubbly -looking  land  and  distant  furnaces,  a  substantial  stone 
building,  with  its  pleasant  windows  looking  seaward,  and  this  is 
Bryn. 

Bryn,  from  its  many  windows,  looks  straight  down  the  Kirkby 
street  and  full  at  the  gray  old  Vicarage,  with  Robert  Ord's  house 
adjoining  it.  The  three  gardens  run  parallel  together,  though 
they  do  not  positively  join.  From  the  back  they  look  over 
the  purple  range  of  the  Leatham  Hills.  There  is  a  certain  weird 
look  in  that  view  by  night.  The  church  stands  out  finely  with 
its  old  lich-gate.  The  graves  are  sparse  and  scattered.  From  the 
church  porch  one  can  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  dark  sea-line ;  some- 
times there  is  the  fret  of  endless  splashing ;  the  sand  comes 
swirling  up  the  long  road.  At  night  the  blue  blackness  of  the  sky 
is  illumined  by  the  lurid  fires  from  the  distant  furnaces.  One 
comes  out  of  the  warm  lighted  church  into  the  darkness,  into  the 
salt  cool  air  under  the  star-lit  heavens,  to  the  silent  sleeping 
village ;  and  the  distant  lights  from  the  town. 

The  Vicarage  itself  had  a  pleasant  homely  look ;  in  reality  it 
was  once  two  houses.  One  rarely  understood  at  first  the  multi- 
plicity of  small  rooms  and  passages.  There  were  enough  and  to 
spare  :  every  one  seemed  to  have  his  or  her  sitting-room,  christened 
after  its  owner.  There  was  the  Vicar's  study,  and  the  mother's 
room ;  Garton's  den,  which  the  boys  shared ;  and  the  little  outer 
study,  in  reality  the  Vicar's  also,  where  they  did  their  lessons. 
The  dining-room  was  a  mere  passage-room,  and  was  only  used  at 
meal-times.  There  was  a  continual  cloth  spread — a  perpetual 
clatter  of  knives  and  forks.  Upstairs  was  the  gathering-place  of 
the  whole  family,  especially  of  an  evening,  and  this  was  Belle's 
room — drawing-room  being  a  title  abhorred  at  the  Vicarage. 

The  mother's  room  was  suited  for  tete-d-tetes,  for  quiet  droppings- 
in  of  two  or  three ;  a  place  for  the  Vicar  to  sit  before  the  fire,  with 
his  long  coat  tucked  over  his  knees,  and  read  his  letters.  It  had 
a  great  crimson  couch  appropriated  by  invalids.  Here  sick  bodies 
and  sick  hearts  were  nursed  by  the  mother  herself.  Every  one 
loved  the  room ;  it  was  always  so  full  of  sunshine  and  sweet  wel- 
comes. The  great  window  opened  wide  on  the  pleasant  lawn,  with 
its  beds  of  scarlet  geraniums  and  roses.  Two  great  ducks  waddled 
and  straddled  all  day  among  the  flower-beds,  in  company  with  a 


58  ROBERT  ORD^S  ATONEMENT. 

white  kitten  and  Jock  and  Jasper,  the  Vicar's  two  dogs.  Here 
the  mother  sat  in  her  low  chair,  with  her  work-baskets,  repairing 
dilapidated  garments,  and  minding  her  youngest  born  ;  but,  dear  as 
the  room  was,  the  family  reunions  were  always,  by  mutual  consent, 
held  in  Belle's  room. 

There,  there  was  more  space  and  less  cosiness ;  then  its 
windows  were  so  delightful,  the  front  bay  looking  over  the  sands 
and  the  rabbit-warren,  and  the  back,  with  its  view  of  the  Leatham 
Hills,  though  one  could  not  see  the  church  itself. 

Here  there  was  everything  for  the  needs  and  requirements  of 
a  family.  A  sweet-toned  piano  and  a  harmonium,  a  large  round 
table,  plenty  of  easy- chairs,  writing-desks,  and  drawing-boards, 
and  much  wholesome  litter ;  everything  a  little  shabby,  perhaps ; 
the  chintz,  a  pretty  Chinese  blue,  pieced  and  faded;  but,  as  Guy 
somewhat  vaguely  expressed  it,  "  a  lump  of  comfort." 

Robert  Ord,  walking  along  the  sea-wall  and  looking  across  at 
the  sunset,  has  a  pretty  tolerable  picture  of  it,  and  the  party  sure 
to  be  assembled  in  it  at  this  hour.  For  it  is  just  after  tea,  and 
before  the  bell  rings  out  for  the  evening  service ;  the  day's  work 
is  over,  and  the  Vicar  and  his  boys  are  sure  not  to  be  far  apart. 

Yes ;  sure  enough  there  is  the  Vicar  in  his  usual  place  before 
the  fireless  grate,  haranguing  his  boys  and  his  women-folk  to  his 
heart's  content,  and  possibly  to  theirs  too,  to  judge  from  their 
faces. 

The  Rev.  Austin  Ord  and  his  wife  are  a  goodly  pair.  Perhaps 
the  Vicar  is  a  little  ponderous — not  that  he  need  pray  just  yet  to 
be  delivered  from  the  burden  of  his  flesh — but  he  is  a  large  grand- 
looking  man,  with  everything  large  about  him. 

Not  that  he  is  specially  well  favoured — Robert  is  the  only  hand- 
some Ord  amongst  them ;  but  he  has  a  face  that  is  pleasant  to 
look  upon.  The  mouth  may  be  a  little  querulous  or  obstinate; 
but  the  forehead  is  so  massive,  and  the  large  gray  eyes  open  so 
widely  and  honestly,  and  yet  so  keenly ;  there  is  such  strength  and 
such  goodwill  in  his  expression ;  there  is  something  so  boyish  too 
in  the  crisp  curly  hair,  that  never  can  be  straightened,  and  which 
one  sees  reproduced  on  the  curly  heads  of  his  growing  lads. 

The  time  has  gone  past  for  calling  Mary  Ord  beautiful :  cares 
and  the  harass  of  daily  life  have  sharpened  the  round  cheek,  and 
taken  away  its  bloom;  the  cheek  is  very  thin  now,  the  Vicar 
thinks  sometimes,  with  a  sigh ;  but  still  she  has  never  been  fairer 
in  his  eyes,  and  in  truth  there  is  still  much  comeliness  left. 

The  mother,  or  Mother  Mary,  as  her  brothers-in-law  persist  in 
calling  her,  was  just  one  of  those  soft-looking  women  whom  it  was 
impossible  not  to  love.  She  was  not  very  young,  but  as  yet  no 


KIRK  BY  VICARAGE.  59 

gray  had  touched  her  pretty  wavy  hair.  She  had  just  the  same 
wide-open  gray  eyes  as  her  husband,  only  perhaps  they  opened 
more  softly  than  his,  and  her  laugh  had  the  same  happy  clear  ring 
in  it.  She  was  one  of  those  mothers  whose  arms  and  laps  are 
.never  quite  empty.  Her  great  boys  liked  to  rest  there  still  some- 
times. Mother's  shoulder  always  rested  their  aching  heads;  to 
them  it  was  their  natural  pillow.  Garton,  in  spite  of  his  three- 
and-twenty  years,  liked  to  crouch  at  her  footstool  in  company  with 
Jock  and  Jasper,  and  it  was  Arty's  favourite  place.  No  one  could 
have  been  with  her  an  hour  and  not  have  opened  his  or  her  heart 
to  her.  It  was  not  that  she  was  so  clever,  but  that  her  sympathy 
was  always  ready. 

Belle,  who  had  double  her  attractions,  was  not  half  so  lovable ; 
not  that  she  ever  failed  in  gentleness,  but  she  was  always  so  pre- 
occupied. It  was  rather  sad  at  times  to  watch  the  younger  sister. 
There  was  a  grave  anxious  expression  about  her  face  that  marred 
its  beauty.  At  such  times  she  would  look  like  a  faded  queen. 
Mary  Ord  was  often  tired,  painfully  overwrought,  perhaps  a  trifle 
querulous,  but  there  was  no  such  look  in  her  face,  though  mind 
and  body  were  often  sorely  overtaxed ;  and  only  she  and  her  hus- 
band knew  with  what  difficulty  they  made  ends  meet  and  provided 
for  their  growing  boys.  No  anxiety  ever  seemed  to  rob  her  for 
long  of  her  sweet  content.  She  was  one  of  those  women  who  take 
a  man  for  better  and  for  worse,  and  who,  when  the  worst  comes, 
make  no  ado,  but  work  on  cheerfully  as  long  as  strength  lasts. 

Belle  was  equally  courageous,  but  she  failed  in  the  cheerfulness. 
She  was  quiet,  but  it  was  not  the  quiet  of  repose ;  perhaps  her 
long  engagement  was  trying  her ;  perhaps  Robert  Ord,  in  spite  of 
his  fondness,  was  not  a  very  patient  lover.  Some  men  are  apt  to 
be  a  little  peremptory  and  domineering  with  the  woman  they  love. 
In  spite  of  their  mutual  affection  they  were  not  perfectly  suited  to 
each  other. 

Unfortunately,  Belle  was  of  a  shy  reserved  nature.  She  was 
not  one  to  talk  much  of  her  own  feelings  at  any  time.  Robert, 
who  was  quick  and  ardent,  felt  himself  sometimes  almost  repulsed 
by  her  silence.  At  such  times  he  would  reproach  her  in  no  mea- 
sured words.  But  I  don't  think  she  ever  fully  answered  him.  He 
would  come  round  presently,  touched  by  the  gentleness  and  sorrow 
in  her  face,  and  try  and  atone  for  his  anger,  and  she  would  not 
reject  such  atonement ;  but,  as  she  sat  with  her  hand  in  his,  she 
would  be  longing  to  tell  him  that  he  was  dearer  to  her  than  any- 
thing in  the  world — that,  if  needs  be,  she  could  die  for  him,  but 
that  she  could  not  open  her  lips  to  answer  his  reproaches.  Those 
who  did  not  know  Belle  Clinton  called  her  cold ;  but  they  were 


60  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

wrong.  There  was  no  coldness  about  her ;  she  would  have  worked 
her  fingers  to  the  bone  for  Mary  and  her  boys.  When  they  were 
ill  she  nursed  them  night  and  day.  But  not  even  to  her  sister 
could  she  fully  open  her  heart.  She  would  sit  at  her  side  for  hours, 
working  silently,  or  letting  her  chat  about  her  boys  and  parish ; 
but  when  the  conversation  turned  to  her  own  affairs,  either  evading 
her  questions  or  answering  them  with  grave  reserve,  till  Mary  was 
obliged  to  quit  the  subject. 

The  Vicar  used  to  quiz  Belle  rather  mercilessly  for  this  failing 
of  hers.  In  his  heart  he  thought  her  rather  tame  and  spiritless.  His 
own  wife  had  a  brisk  tongue  of  her  own,  and  was  much  given  to  state 
her  opinions  on  all  subjects  rather  freely;  but  I  think  he  loved  such 
briskness.  Belle's  reticence  was  rather  a  fault  in  his  eyes.  In  his 
opinion  she  was  too  much  given  to  occupy  her  own  corner,  though 
it  must  be  owned  that  she  was  seldom  quite  alone  in  it.  Belle's 
special  nook  was  by  the  window  that  looked  over  the  Kirkby  sands : 
here  she  could  see  down  the  village  street.  She  knew  the  exact 
time  that  Kobert  would  come  from  his  daily  work  at  Thorn- 
borough,  and  would  be  at  the  window  watching  for  him  as  he  went 
into  his  own  gate.  He  and  Garton  would  sit  down  every  evening 
to  their  solitary  meal.  By  and  by,  when  the  Vicarage  folk  were 
gathering  round  their  more  social  board,  the  brothers  would  come 
in — Eobert  having  freed  himself  from  the  dust  and  smoke  of  the 
day — and  take  their  special  places — Robert  by  Belle,  and  Garton 
under  his  sister-in-law's  wing ;  but  they  would  rarely  join  in  the 
meal  itself.  Austin  had  too  many  mouths  to  feed  already,  Robert 
always  said.  He  would  let  both  Austin  and  Mary  know  sometimes 
how  it  galled  his  pride  to  see  his  future  wife  dependent  on  their 
hands.  He  used  to  tell  Belle  so  over  and  over  again.  It  did  not 
make  her  position  more  comfortable.  Belle  was  working  quietly 
in  her  corner  now,  while  the  Vicar  was  holding  out  on  the  subject 
of  church  decorations,  Mary  and  the  boys  making  their  comments. 
The  lads  always  joined  freely  in  their  parents'  conversation,  some- 
times interrupting — after  the  manner  of  boys — 

"I  say,  father,"  exclaimed  Guy,  the  eldest,  a  big  broad- 
shouldered  lad,  with  his  father's  curly  head  caricatured  to  a  nicety, 
"  Garton  will  turn  rusty  if  you  say  anything  to  him  about  it." 
For  by  a  sort  of  tacit  understanding  the  boys  never  called  Garton 
uncle,  though  they  were  profoundly  respectful  to  Robert,  and, 
strange  to  say,  their  parents  never  disapproved  of  this  freemasonry. 
"  They  can't  help  seeing  that  he's  half  a  boy  himself,"  as  the  Vicar 
said,  who  was  rather  more  indulgent  to  his  younger  brother  than 
Robert  was  ever  likely  to  be. 

"Garton   will   not   like  your   interfering,  Austin,"  observed 


KIRKBY  VICARAGE.  61 

Mary;  "the  decorations  are  quite  in  his  province."  And  then 
she  took  mental  measurements,  to  judge  from  the  way  in  which 
she  was  eyeing  a  piece  of  black  serge. 

"  Gar  should  choose  a  more  efficient  staff  of  workers,  then," 
retorted  the  Vicar;  "his  designs  are  very  good— rather  elaborate, 
perhaps — but  then  he's  such  a  capital  hand  himself :  all  I  complain 
about  is,  that  there  is  no  such  thing  as  satisfying  the  womenkind 
— they  are  always  taking  offence  :  if  you  appoint  one  to  wreathe 
the  font  she  is  sure  to  turn  sulky  because  she  is  not  chosen  to  do 
the  chancel.  Why,  there  was  quite  a  mutiny  last  harvest  festival 
amongst  the  Misses  Travers,  and  all  because  Miss  Knowles  had 
the  pulpit  and  lectern,  and  they  only  the  reading-desk.  It  is  no 
good  Garton  having  the  management  if  they  are  to  come  and 
bother  me  for  weeks  beforehand." 

"  But  there  can  be  no  talk  about  a  harvest  festival  for  months 
to  come,  Austin :  why,  this  is  only  the  end  of  June."  And  Mary 
put  down  her  black  serge  with  a  sigh  which  the  Misses  Travers' 
wrongs  had  certainly  not  evoked. 

"Can't  you  make  that  do1?"  interrupted  the  Vicar,  with  some 
appearance  of  interest. 

"  No,  it  will  want  another  breadth.  Arty  grows  so.  I  wish 
I  could  afford  a  suit  for  him.  He  does  look  so  shabby  at  church 
on  Sunday  morning." 

"  I  never  see  anything  but  his  clean  collar,"  replied  the  Vicar, 
leaning  forward  to  pat  the  head  of  a  very  small  boy  curled  up  on 
his  mother's  footstool.  "  Never  mind ;  Arty  must  wait,  that's  all. 
No,  of  course  there's  no  question  of  another  festival  till  the  harvest 
is  in,  you  silly  woman.  What  put  it  in  my  head  was,  I  was  walking 
down  towards  Leatham  with  Farmer  Dykes,  and  he  was  showing 
me  his  crops.  '  I  hope  I  shall  have  some  sheaves,  as  usual,  this 
autumn,'  I  observed;  and  he  promised  me  I  should  have  some 
oats  and  barley,  as  well  as  wheat,  and  then  I  remembered  that  you 
always  get  them  from  another  man." 

"  Never  mind ;  we  shall  only  have  a  double  supply,"  returned 
Mary.  She  was  rather  absent,  for  a  wonder  :  her  mind  was  still 
running  on  the  serge.  "  I  can't  help  wishing  I  could  have  done 
without  that  new  dress,  Austin ;  but  my  old  one  was  too  shabby, 
I  am  afraid." 

"  I  don't  know  how  you  could  have  avoided  putting  on  mourn- 
ing for  my  aunt,  Mary,  if  that  is  what  you  mean."  The  Vicar's 
voice  was  a  little  displeased. 

"  My  dear  Austin,  what  an  idea  !  I  should  have  worn  my  old 
black  gown,  of  course;  but  I  daresay  you  are  right,  and  new 
mourning  is  more  respectful.  There,  I  will  not  say  any  more 


62  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

about  it.  Arty  must  go  shabby  this  summer,  poor  little  fellow  !" 
and  Mary  put  away  the  serge  resolutely,  and  consoled  herself  with 
kissing  the  yellow  glossy  curls. 

"  I  do  wonder,"  she  continued  presently,  looking  up  at  her  hus- 
band cheerfully,  "what  has  prevented  Robert  from  writing  to  us?" 

"  Writing? — nonsense  !     Belle  has  a  letter,  I  believe." 

"  Yes,  just  a  line  to  say  why  he  was  detained.  But  he  must 
know  how  anxious  we  all  are." 

"  No  news  is  good  news,  mother,"  observed  Guy. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  repeated  doubtfully;  "it  does  seem  to 
me  that  if  he  had  any  good  news  to  impart  he  would  not  have  kept 
us  in  such  suspense — it  is  not  like  him." 

"  No,  it  is  not,"  returned  the  Vicar  slowly. 

"  If  it  were  Garton,  he  would  delight  in  keeping  us  all  in  the 
dark,  and  startling  us  by  a  sudden  burst  of  good  news  when  we 
had  ceased  to  expect  it.  But  Robert  is  different — and  then  he 
has  Belle  to  consider."  And  she  looked  across  significantly  at  her 
sister ;  but  Belle  did  not  raise  her  head. 

"  There's  Garton  himself !  Talk  of  the — et  cetera,  you  know," 
began  Guy,  laughing;  but  his  father  shook  his  head  warningly. 
He  never  preached  long  sermons  to  his  boys,  but  he  was  quick  in 
rebuking  them.  In  a  minute  there  was  a  rush  of  all  four  lads  to 
the  window,  Arty  scrambling  up  on  the  window-seat  in  the  greatest 
hurry  of  all. 

The  two  younger  boys  were  great  contrasts  to  each  other. 
Rupert  was  a  long  loose-limbed  fellow,  rather  plain  in  face,  and 
somewhat  freckled  ;  Laurence,  or,  as  he  was  generally  called,  Laurie, 
was  a  slight  fair  boy,  very  tall  and  slender,  and  carrying  himself 
with  a  slow  sleepy  grace  of  movement  which  won  for  him  the 
name  of  Lazy  Laurie.  All  three  boys  sang  in  the  choir,  but 
Laurie's  voice  was  the  sweetest  of  all. 

"  Halloa,  Garton,  where's  the  Shadow  ?"  shouted  saucy  Guy, 
as  he  leant  over  his  brother's  head.  A  tall  dark  young  man,  in  a 
flapping  wideawake  and  a  long  and  rather  singularly-cut  coat,  looked 
up  as  he  swung  back  the  little  brown  gate,  and  nodded  to  the  boys. 

"All  right ;  I  am  coming  in  directly.     Robert's  up  at  Blackscar. " 

"You  don't  mean  it !" 

Belle  put  down  her  work  and  listened  breathlessly.  The  inter- 
jection came  from  the  Vicar. 

"  Yes,  he  is :  he  has  a  little  business  detaining  him,  but  he 
asked  me  to  come  on  and  let  you  know  he  was  here." 

"  There's  the  church  bell,  Gar  !" 

"  So  there  is.  Never  mind.  I  must  come  up  a  moment.  I 
want  to  speak  to  Mother  Mary." 


KIRK  BY  VICARAGE.  63 

Two  of  the  boys  ran  down  to  open  the  door  directly,  with 
Arty  trotting  after  them,  sure  of  a  ride  upstairs  again  on  his 
uncle's  shoulder ;  and  true  enough  there  he  was  a  minute  after- 
wards, his  small  face  completely  hoodwinked  by  Garten's  wide- 
awake, and  shouting  lustily. 

Most  people  would  have  considered  Garton  Ord  a  plain  man — 
at  least,  not  exactly  a  handsome  one ;  but  his  individuality  would 
have  distinguished  him  among  a  thousand ;  and  yet  it  was  a 
singular  face  too,  almost  an  ascetic  one,  with  its  brown  irregular 
features,  and  dark  closely-cropped  hair.  When  at  rest  there  was 
something  a  little  stern  and  sad  about  it ;  but  then  it  was  seldom 
in  repose.  With  every  change  of  thought  or  feeling  the  irregular 
features  worked  powerfully.  Never  was  there  such  a  face  for 
betraying  emotion  of  any  kind.  At  any  sally  from  the  boys  there 
would  be  a  display  of  white  teeth ;  the  muscles  would  relax,  there 
would  be  wonderful  puckers  and  lines ;  and  at  the  least  provocation 
the  strong  frame  rocked  to  and  fro  with  suppressed  merriment. 

Never  was  there  such  restlessness,  such  continued  movement, 
in  any  man — never  such  quick  transition  from  one  extreme  to 
another.  People  could  not  make  out  Garton  Ord,  the  boyish 
ascetic  baffled  them ;  there  was  too  great  a  mingling  of  the  riclicu- 
lous  and  the  sublime  in  his  nature ;  no  one  seemed  quite  to  under- 
stand which  predominated,  any  more  than  they  could  understand 
the  cause  of  his  variable  temperament.  Robert  called  him  weak, 
and  vowed  that  he  wanted  ballast.  But  Austin,  more  accustomed 
to  read  human  nature,  was  wont  to  speak  highly  of  his  purity  and 
singleness  of  aim;  and  no  one  regretted  more  than  he  when  a 
stubborn  fit  of  illness  prevented  Garton  from  obtaining  his  degree. 
He  had  always  set  his  heart  on  securing  him  as  his  curate,  and  he 
was  consequently  grievously  disappointed  when  his  brother  failed 
to  pass. 

"It  is  just  like  my  bad  luck,  Austin,"  he  groaned,  when  the 
Vicar  came  in  to  comfort  him ;  "  but  I  don't  think  I  should  take 
it  to  heart  so  much  if  it  were  not  for  Robert." 

"  Robert  is  just  as  sorry  as  I  am,  Gar." 

"Yes,  but  not  for  the  same  reasons.  He  is  thinking  about 
how  he  is  to  give  me  bread-and-butter,  I  suppose.  He  will  have 
it  that  if  I  had  read  more  I  should  not  have  failed  in  obtaining 
my  degree." 

"  I  think  with  him  that  you  do  not  read  enough." 

"  But  I  suppose  that  you  will  allow  that  I  could  not  help  my 
illness?" 

"  No,  indeed — that  was  very  unfortunate." 

"Everything  is  unfortunate;  but  if  Robert  means  to  make 


64  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

himself  disagreeable  because  I  have  failed,  I  may  just  as  well  get 
quit  of  the  whole  business." 

"I  thought  you  had  set  your  heart  on  entering  the  Church ;" 
and  then,  as  he  noticed  Garten's  face  work  in  an  agitated  manner, 
he  put  his  hand  kindly  on  his  shoulder. 

"Well,  never  mind;  don't  be  downhearted,  Gar.  I  don't 
think  you  are  to  blame  in  this  instance.  You  know  Kobert's 
special  grievance  is  that  you  waste  half  your  time  with  boys. 
Perhaps  it  would  be  as  well  to  check  that  a  little ;  a  curate  can't 
have  half  a  dozen  village  lads  perpetually  at  his  heels." 

"Do  you  mean  to  class  Guy  and  Laurie  among  village  lads?" 
demanded  his  brother  sulkily. 

"  Well,  no ;  I  had  some  one  else  in  my  mind  just  then.  Well, 
we  will  not  talk  any  more  about  that.  The  lad's  a  nice  lad, 
though  you  are  taking  him  out  of  his  proper  place.  What  Robert 
and  I  have  to  consider  now  is  how  we  are  to  contrive  to  give  you 
another  chance." 

"  I  suppose  it  is  no  good  applying  to  Aunt  Charlotte  again  V1 

"  No,  I  will  not  have  that.  We  must  wait  a  little,  and  see 
how  things  turn  out.  I  suppose  by  a  little  contrivance  we  might 
manage  it, — that  is,  if  Robert  gets  a  rise.  But  it  is  rather  hard 
that  you  should  be  a  drag  on  him,  poor  fellow  ! " 

"  I  think  I  had  better  give  it  up,  Austin." 

"  No,  no  ;  not  till  we  have  thought  over  it  a  little.  In  the 
meantime  you  can  do  the  part  of  a  lay  curate  and  help  me  with 
the  boys,  and  we  will  read  together  when  I  have  time."  And 
then  the  Vicar  took  up  his  felt  hat  and  went  out. 

And  so  Garton  was  eating  his  brother's  bread  and  grumbling 
terribly  over  it ;  but  he  did  what  he  could  in  return.  He  taught 
the  Vicar's  boys,  and  was  his  right  hand  in  the  parish.  He  was 
sacristan  and  leader  of  the  choir,  and  sometimes  bell-ringer  too ; 
he  turned  those  thews  and  sinews  of  his  to  account.  Often  at  five 
o'clock  in  the  morning  he  was  digging  in  the  Vicar's  garden,  or  in 
their  own  adjoining ;  though  he  was  not  always  punctual  in  his 
readings  with  his  brother,  he  was  always  in  his  place  at  the  two 
daily  services.  People  used  to  marvel  to  see  the  brown  ascetic 
face  always  in  the  choir-stall.  Ten  minutes  after  he  would  be 
striding  away  to  the  schoolhouse,  still  in  his  cassock,  with  a  troop 
of  boys  after  him,  laughing  as  heartily  as  any. 

"  Well,  Garton,  what  is  it  you  want  with  me  V  asked  Mrs. 
Ord,  when  Arty  had  been  rescued  from  his  perilous  position  and 
deposited  on  her  lap. 

"  Oh,  it  is  only  a  lot  of  surplices  I  want  you  and  Belle  to 
mend ;  can't  stop  to  explain  now ;  facts  speak  for  themselves." 


KIRK  BY  VICARAGE.  65 

And  he  pointed  breathlessly  to  Laurie,  whose  arms  were  closely 
packed  with  rather  dingy-looking  linen. 

"  All  those  for  me,  Garton  T  and  Mary  looked  rather  alarmed. 

"  Yes ;  one  or  two  are  slit  down,  and  some  of  the  sleeves  must 

be  curtailed  in  length  ;  and  Symond's  is  too  long  for  him,  and— 

and » 

"  Oh,  go  away,"  returned  Mrs.  Ord  good-humouredly,  packing 
him  off;  "you  can  leave  them  on  the  table  till  you  have  time  to 
explain.  How  long  did  Robert  say  that  he  would  be  ?" 

"  Half  an  hour  or  so  ;  couldn't  get  a  word  out  of  him.  It  is 
my  opinion  he  looks  rather —  And  then  Garton  stopped,  and 

looked  hesitatingly  at  Belle. 

"  Rather  what  ?     No ;  she  is  not  listening,  Gar." 
"Oh,  I  don't  know;   let  us  wait  and  hear  what  he  has  to 
say  for  himself.     Come  along,  boys ;"  and  he  was  out  of  the  room 
in  a  moment. 

"What  did  Garton  mean  by  his  unfinished  sentence,  Mary?" 
asked  Belle,  when  they  were  left  alone. 

"  I  don't  know ;  you  heard  as  much  as  I  did.     I  am  afraid  he 
thinks  that  Robert  has  not  very  good  news  to  communicate." 
"  I  never  expected  any  very  good  news." 
"  No  ;  nor  I." 

"  But  still  I  am  afraid  Robert  does.  And  after  all,  Mary,  she 
may  have  left  him  a  little." 

"Oh,  a  little  would  be  something." 

"  Of  course  it  would.  They  want  Garton  to  make  up  for  the 
time  he  has  lost  during  his  illness.  As  far  as  that  goes,  I  think 
his  reading  with  Austin  is  a  failure." 

"  I  don't  think  Austin  will  ever  make  much  of  him." 
"  Robert  says  he  is  too  much  a  Jack-of-all-trades  in  the  village. 
He  has  too  much  and  too  little  to  do  ;  in  his  opinion  he  wants  to 
be  regularly  coached,  as  he  calls  it, — he  is  so  lax  and  desultory. 
But  I  don't  think  he  ought  to  look  to  Robert  or  to  Austin  either 
for  any  further  help." 

"  Austin  is  too  rash  and  generous,  considering  he  has  four  boys 
of  his  own,"  replied  Mary,  who  in  her  secret  mind  was  still  hankering 
after  the  serge  frock  for  Arty ;  "  and  yet  I  think  we  must  all  allow 
that  it  would  be  a  pity  for  Garton  to  waste  his  college  education. 
Austin  is  so  sure  that  his  heart  is  quite  set  upon  entering  the  Church." 
"  Yes ;  if  we  could  only  depend  on  his  health  and  application. 
But  if  Robert  could  have  his  way,  I  am  sure  he  would  be  in  a 
situation  at  Thornborough  by  this  time." 

"  Oh,  we  all  know  Robert's  opinion,"  returned  Mary,  rather 
hastily ;  and  then  the  conversation  dropped. 

5 


CHAPTER   VII. 

MISS   MATTTRIN   IS    SENT   TO    COVENTRY. 

"  But  when  the  heart  is  full  of  din, 

And  doubt  beside  the  portals  waits, 
They  can  but  listen  at  the  gates 
And  hear  the  household  jar  within." 

In  Memoriam. 
"  Over  proud  of  course, 

Even  so  !     But  not  so  stupid  .  .  blind  .  .  that  I, 
Whom  thus  the  great  Taskmaster  of  the  world 
Has  set  to  meditate  mistaken  work, 
My  dreary  face  against  a  dim  blank  wall, 
Throughout  man's  natural  lifetime  could  pretend 
Or  wish."  Aurora  Leigh. 

IN  spite  of  Garten's  prophesied  half -hour  Robert  Ord  did  not 
make  his  appearance  until  the  elder  branches  of  the  family  were 
gathered  round  the  supper-table.  Belle,  who  had  stayed  away 
from  the  evening  service  in  the  secret  hope  of  securing  a  quiet  talk 
with  him  before  the  others  came  in,  was  much  chagrined  at  the 
failure  of  her  little  scheme,  but  as  usual  she  kept  her  disappoint- 
ment to  herself.  But  the  Vicar  was  not  quite  so  reticent. 

"  I  cannot  think  what  possesses  Robert  to  absent  himself  like 
this  !"  he  said,  rather  irritably,  as  he  cut  the  thick  slices  of  bread 
with  no  very  sparing  hand.  "  He  is  certainly  treating  us  rather 
badly."  And  then  they  heard  the  door-bell  ring,  and  a  moment 
after  Robert  Ord  was  amongst  them.  He  went  the  round  of 
greetings  in  his  ordinary  manner.  Nevertheless  the  Vicar  and 
his  wife  exchanged  meaning  glances  as  he  took  his  seat  silently  at 
the  table.  The  Ord  look — as  Mary  called  it — was  strong  on  him 
this  evening,  and  already  they  augured  no  good  news  from  his  face. 
Belle,  as  she  made  room  for  him,  could  not  conceal  her  anxiety. 

"  How  tired  you  look,  Robert !  Are  you  sure  you  are  not  ill  T' 
she  asked  in  a  low  voice — not  willing,  however,  that  her  question 
should  be  overheard.  But  Robert  was  in  no  mood  for  such  soft 
questioning. 


MISS  MA  TURIN  IS  SENT  TO  COVENTRY.         67 

"  Tired  1  Well,  I  suppose  I  am ;  but  I  do  not  see  how  the 
failure  of  one  night's  rest  is  to  make  me  ill."  Then  Belle  knew 
that  things  were  not  going  well  with  him. 

"I  think  you  might  have  written  and  explained  matters  a 
little,"  began  the  Vicar  in  a  slightly  aggrieved  tone.  "You 
might  have  understood  that  it  was  impossible  for  us  not  to  feel 
anxious." 

"  I  should  certainly  have  written  if  I  had  had  any  good  tidings 
to  communicate." 

"  Ah  !  that  was  just  what  Mary  said.  Some  of  us  were  flatter- 
ing ourselves  that  no  news  was  good  news ;  but  she  would  have 
nothing  to  say  to  such  lying  prophets." 

"  Mary  was  perfectly  right." 

Then  the  Vicar  remained  silent. 

"  I  thought  you  would  understand  how  it  was,  Austin." 

"  Well,  perhaps  I  did ;  but  one  cannot  help  being  like  Pan- 
dora's box,  and  having  a  little  bit  of  hope  at  the  bottom." 

"  Ah,  that  was  just  my  case." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say/'  began  the  Vicar  again  after  a  pause, 
and  letting  his  knife  fall  heavily  from  his  hand, — "  do  you  mean  to 
say  that  she  has  willed  away  all  that  property?" 

"  Every  penny." 

"  That  she  has  left  you  literally  nothing  ? " 

"  Nothing  at  all,  Austin." 

"  Good  heavens  !  What  injustice  !  Not  to  any  of  us — not 
even  to  Garton?" 

"  Certainly  not  to  Garton.  I  was  not  aware  that  you  expected 
a  reversal  in  your  own  favour." 

"  To  tell  you  the  truth,  Robert,  I  have  got  quite  as  much  as  I 
expected.  I  knew  her  better  than  any  of  you.  Perhaps,  as  I  said 
before,  I  had  a  lurking  hope  that  it  might  be  found  that  she  had 
remembered  one  of  us  at  the  last ;  but  I  was  never  so  sanguine  as 
you  were." 

"  I  always  told  myself  that  I  had  no  hope  at  all." 

"  Oh,  but  you  had — one  could  see  it  in  your  face.  You  were 
too  much  excited ;  you  looked  a  different  man  that  morning  when 
you  started.  I  took  myself  to  task  afterwards  that  I  had  not  given 
you  a  word  of  warning." 

"  I  do  not  think  I  needed  the  warning,  Austin." 

"  But  I  should  have  given  it  to  you  all  the  same ;  and  I  feel 
now  as  though  some  such  word  of  consolation  is  due  from  me,  but 
for  the  life  of  me  I  hardly  know  how  to  say  it." 

"  I  think  you  may  reserve  it,  as  we  are  all  fellow-sufferers." 

"  Yes,  but  then  the  cases  differ.     My  injuries  are  the  same, 


68  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

certainly ;  but  then  I  did  not  permit  myself  to  hope.  I  knew  that 
there  would  be  no  absolving  of  such  an  offence  as  I  had  committed ; 
but  with  you  it  was  otherwise." 

"  I  suppose  I  may  be  considered  the  chief  mourner  ?"  But 
the  Vicar  was  too  much  in  earnest  to  comprehend  the  bitter  joke. 

"  Oh,  as  to  that,  there  was  not  much  love  lost  on  either  side ; 
but  I  must  say  that  I  think  you  have  been  shamefully  used, 
Robert."  Then  Mary  got  up  and  came  round  to  her  husband. 

"  Mary  thinks  that  you  deserve  equal  pity,"  observed  Robert, 
on  whom  this  little  by-play  was  not  lost. 

"  No,  she  cannot  think  that." 

"  Oh,  but  I  do,  Austin  !  I  think  you  made  quite  as  great  a 
sacrifice  for  me  as  ever  Robert  did  for  Belle.  And  there  is  some- 
thing else  that  I  think " 

"What  is  that,  dear?" 

"I  think  you  are  both  so  good  and  noble  that  all  this  loss 
will  be  made  up  to  you.  I  am  not  a  bit  afraid  of  poverty  for  you, 
Austin ;  and  were  you  ten  times  poorer  I  would  not  change  my 
opinion,  that  I  am  the  happiest  woman  in  the  world."  No  wonder 
that  the  Vicar  felt  himself  comforted. 

"  You  forget,  Mary,  that  Belle  is  not  equally  fortunate,"  said 
Robert,  still  more  bitterly.  "Remember  she  has  not  the  comfort 
of  feeling  that  she  is  bearing  poverty  for  my  sake." 

"  Ah  !  I  see  what  you  mean." 

"I  think  Austin  is  lucky  in  having  such  a  wife ;  in  my  opinion 
he  is  scarcely  to  be  pitied  at  all." 

"That  is  just  what  I  think,"  interrupted  the  Vicar,  with  a 
proud  look  at  his  Mary. 

"  Of  course  he  has  been  injured ;  but  then  it  is  the  duty  of  his 
cloth  to  forgive  all  such  injury.  He  has  certainly  many  mouths 
to  feed,  but  as  yet  there  has  been  no  difficulty  in  feeding  them." 

"  Mary  and  I  know  better  than  that,"  replied  Austin.  "  But 
you  are  right,  Robert ;  somehow,  in  one's  needs,  one  always  finds 
'the  stone  rolled  away'  at  the  right  moment." 

"Yes,  and  then  you  have  the  happiness  of  doing  the  day's 
work  together.  I  think  you  will  allow  that  our  case  is  somewhat 
different." 

"  Belle  is  not  a  bit  afraid  of  poverty  either,  take  my  word  for 
it,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Ord.  Then  Belle  looked  up  and  made  a  sign 
for  her  sister  to  be  silent. 

"  I  am  not  going  to  try  her  courage  just  yet,  Mary.  We  have 
been  engaged  for  more  than  four  years  now ;  and,  as  far  as  I  can 
see,  we  shall  have  four  more  to  wait." 

"  Oh,  I  hope  not." 


MISS  MA  TURIN  IS  SENT  TO  COVENTRY.         69 

"  What  is  to  prevent  it  1  Sometimes  I  think  we  shall  never 
be  married."  Then  Mary  saw  that  Belle  gave  a  long  shiver. 

"  I  declare  that  I  ana  getting  quite  desperate ;  Austin  knows 
that  I  am.  And  to  think  that  only  a  designing  girl  stands  between 
me  and  my  happiness  ! "  And  Robert  Ord's  face  darkened  as  he 
remembered  that  interview  in  Eglistone  Abbey. 

"  My  dear  Robert,  I  do  not  understand  you.  I  thought  all  the 
money  had  gone  to  some  hospital  or  other  1" 

"  No ;  I  have  kept  back  that  part  to  the  last.  Don't  go  away, 
Garton ;  the  story  is  too  good  to  be  lost.  I  think  you  ought  all 
to  know  what  sort  of  a  neighbour  we  are  going  to  have  at  Bryn." 
And  then,  as  they  pressed  round  him,  he  told  them  of  his  talk  with 
Mr.  Tracy. 

"A  designing  woman,  indeed!"  exclaimed  Mary,  who  was 
rather  given  to  be  a  little  rash  in  her  judgment. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  that,  Austin  ?"  asked  Garton.  He  had 
never  ceased  for  one  moment  to  rock  himself  slowly  during  the 
conversation,  and  as  he  asked  the  question  his  teeth  quite  gleamed 
from  under  his  slight  moustache.  But  the  Vicar  made  no  answer. 

"Did  you  accuse  her  to  her  face?"  asked  Belle,  whose  indig- 
nation was  stronger  even  than  Mary's. 

"  Well,  not  at  first."  And  then  he  went  on  to  tell  them  about 
the  thunderstorm  and  the  strange  meeting  in  the  ruined  abbey,  and 
how  the  accusation  had  been  drawn  from  him;  and  after  that 
Mary  again  gave  it  as  her  opinion  that  Miss  Maturin  must  be  a 
very  designing  person. 

"  No  wonder  she  was  afraid  when  she  met  you  in  the  Castle 
garden,  Robert." 

"  Yes,  and  to  think  that  I  was  fool  enough  to  pity  her ;  and 
then  there  was  that  want  of  anger  on  her  part  that  was  enough  to 
excite  any  man's  suspicion." 

"  She  would  certainly  have  defended  herself  if  she  had  been 
innocent — do  you  not  think  so,  Austin  T'  But  the  Vicar  was  again 
silent ;  he  had  left  his  chair  and  was  walking  up  and  down  the 
room  with  heavy  footsteps ;  it  seemed  as  though  he  hardly  dared 
trust  himself  to  speak. 

"  Yes,  of  course  she  would,  Robert.  I  cannot  think  how  you 
could  have  been  so  forbearing." 

"Well,  I  do  not  know  myself,  Mary.  There  was  something 
about  her  that,  in  spite  of  her  sin,  almost  disarmed  anger;  she 
looked  so  wretchedly  unhappy." 

"  I  am  glad  of  it ;  she  will  find  that  her  ill-gotten  riches  will 
only  bring  misery  to  her  after  all.  I  declare  I  can  hardly  believe 
in  such  duplicity  and  double-dealing." 


70  ROBERT  ORiyS  A  TONE  ME  NT. 

"My  dear  !"     The  rebuke  came  from  her  husband. 

"Let  me  speak,  Austin.  I  don't  wonder  at  all  now  that 
Robert  should  have  felt  it  so  bitterly  ;  it  makes  it  almost  unbear- 
able for  him  and  Belle." 

"  What  has  Belle  got  to  do  with  it  1  It  is  all  the  same  to  her 
whether  the  money  goes  to  a  hospital  or  to  Miss  Maturin." 

"  No,  not  quite,  Austin." 

"  Isn't  it,  Belle  ?  Well,  I  should  have  thought  so."  And  then 
the  Vicar  resumed  his  walk. 

"  And  what  makes  it  worse  for  us  all  is  that  she  is  coming  to 
Bryn."  And  Mary,  who  had  been  rather  chilled  by  her  husband's 
last  words,  roused  herself  again  to  renewed  anger.  "  I  cannot 
imagine  how  she  can  have  the  boldness  to  show  her  face  among  us." 

"  That  is  just  my  feeling,"  argued  Belle. 

"  She  will  be  visiting  the  cottages,  and  putting  down  her  name 
in  the  list  of  charities.  Those  sort  of  people  always  do." 

"  Very  probably,  my  dear." 

"  And  she  will  waylay  you  and  pretend  to  be  interested  in  the 
schools,  and  play  at  being  Lady  Bountiful ;  and  perhaps  even  she 
will  come  to  you  for  advice,  Austin  ! "  And  Mrs.  Ord  opened  her 
eyes  very  widely. 

"  Perhaps  she  will,  Mary ;  and  then  certainly  I  shall  give  it 
her.  I  think  I  can  promise  you  that  it  will  be  sound  wholesome 
advice." 

"Oh,  Austin,  you  are  not  joking  T 

"  No,  indeed ;  I  was  never  more  serious  in  my  life." 

"  Austin  has  some  crotchet  in  his  head.  I  should  not  be 
surprised  if  he  is  going  to  prove  to  us  that  we  are  all  wrong  in  our 
judgment." 

"Well,  I  must  say  that  I  do  think  you  are  all  a  little  too  hard 
on  Miss  Maturin." 

"  There  ! — I  told  you  so,"  returned  Garton  triumphantly. 

"  No,  no,  Gar ;  don't  misunderstand  me.  Robert  looks  quite 
troubled  enough  without  that.  I  am  not  at  all  disposed  to  be  too 
charitable  in  my  estimate  of  this  young  lady.  I  think  it  is  quite 
possible  that  Robert's  opinion  may  be  right." 

"  Of  course  it  is  right." 

"  Yes,  it  is  quite  possible ;  he  is  generally  tolerably  correct  in 
his  surmises  about  people ;  but  it  is  not  fair  to  condemn  wholly  on 
circumstantial  evidence.  I  do  not  think  you  need  treat  her  as 
though  she  were  quite  a  Pariah,  Mary." 

"Now,  Austin!" 

"  Robert  may  be  mistaken,  you  know." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  think  that  at  all  likely." 


MISS  MA  TURIN  IS  SENT  TO  COVENTRY.         71 

"  Well,  I  do  not  know.  Mr.  Tracy  is  as  shrewd  an  observer 
jf  human  nature  as  Robert,  and  you  see  he  defended  her." 

"Mr.  Tracy  is  an  old  fool,  who  is  talked  over  by  any  soft- 
spoken  woman  who  likes  to  take  the  trouble,"  interrupted  Robert 
wrathfully. 

"  Well,  he  may  be,  but  still  he  is  a  clever  lawyer,  and  he  was 
loath  to  cast  the  first  stone,  you  see.  I  say  again  that  we  ought 
not  to  condemn  her  entirely  on  circumstantial  evidence." 

"I  shall  hold  my  own  opinion,  Austin." 

"  Well,  so  shall  I,  and  you  see  I  am  disposed  to  agree  with  you; 
but  here  is  Mary  talking  as  though  she  cannot  say  her  prayers  in 
the  same  church  with  her." 

"  That  is  because  she  takes  iny  view  of  the  subject." 

"  I  do  not  believe  any  of  us  differ  from  you,  Robert;  but  I  can't 
say  I  am  much  struck  by  either  your  or  Mary's  Christian  feeling." 

"  Please  don't  get  up  in  the  pulpit,  Austin." 

"  Oh,  but  I  must ;"  and  the  Vicar  made  himself  look  very  big 
as  he  spoke.  "  I  think  both  Mary  and  you  deserve  a  sermon,  and 
I  am  going  to  deliver  one."  Then  Mary  looked  up  in  his  face  with 
soft  appealing  eyes. 

"  I  daresay  you  are  right,  Robert,  and  that  Miss  Maturin  did 
obtain  an  undesirable  influence  over  Aunt  Charlotte  during  those 
four  years ;  but  then  I  do  not,  think  that  we  ought  to  shut  our  eyes 
to  her  youth  and  temptation.  In  her  case,  perhaps,  we  might  have 
done  likewise." 

"Well,  I  do  not  see  that." 

"  Nay,  Robert ;  it  was  a  position  of  awful  temptation  for  any 
girl,  especially  if  she  were  poor  and  homeless." 

"  That  is  what  I  told  her.  Remember  I  was  the  first  to  excuse 
her.  I  was  not  half  so  hard  upon  her  as  she  deserved." 

"  No,  you  were  tolerably  merciful ;  it  is  only  women  who  use 
nothing  but  superlatives  in  their  anger  Don't  shake  your  head, 
Mary ;  I  am  ashamed  of  you." 

"  Never  mind  what  he  says,  Mary." 

"You  are  not  a  bit  fit  to  be  a  clergyman's  wife.  Robert  is 
quite  fiery  enough  without  your  stirring  him  to  fresh  anger ;  and 
it  seems  to  me  that,  as  long  as  we  are  deprived  of  it,  it  cannot 
matter  to  us  who  has  Aunt  Charlotte's  money." 

"Austin,  how  can  you  be  so  absurd]" 

"Absurd,  am  I ?  Never  mind,  Robert,  there  is  method  in  my 
madness.  I  assure  you  that  it  does  not  make  the  slightest  differ- 
ence to  me  who  has  the  property,  providing  the  hands  that  hold  it 
are  clean." 

"I  am  glad  you  have  added  that  proviso." 


72  ROBERT  ORD^S  ATONEMENT. 

"  Yes,  indeed — that  is  of  the  greatest  moment  to  me.  Think 
of  the  influence  over  the  parish." 

"  Oh,  I  am  not  thinking  about  that." 

"  But  I  am,  and  that  is  why  Mary  made  me  tremble.  Think 
how  terrible  it  would  be  to  have  a  person  of  that  sort  up  at  Bryn. 
I  do  not  look  at  it  quite  with  Mary's  eyes,  but  nevertheless  I  think 
my  position  will  be  an  awkward  one." 

"  That's  your  own  look-out,  Austin.  I  know  what  I  should  do 
in  your  case." 

"So  do  I.  You  would  have  me  follow  her  advice  and  send 
Miss  Maturin  to  Coventry." 

"  Austin,  I  do  think  you  are  very  naughty." 

"  Was  not  that  what  you  wished  me  to  do,  Mary  1  There  will 
be  no  possibility  of  crossing  over  to  the  other  side,  unfortunately, 
unless  we  land  ourselves  among  the  cabbages ;  but  I  will  promise 
to  draw  down  my  felt  hat  over  my  eyes  whenever  I  see  Miss  Maturin 
approaching;  but  I  must  be  sure  first  that  it  is  Miss  Maturin." 

"Austin,  you  ought  not  to  joke,  for  Robert's  sake." 

"  I  don't  think  there's  much  joking  left  in  me  to-night,  but 
then  you  will  keep  interrupting  my  sermon.  What  I  really  meant 
was  that  I  wish  to  reserve  my  opinion ;  in  anything  so  grave  as 
this  I  must  certainly  judge  for  myself." 

"  Well,  that  is  reasonable." 

"  I  think  we  are  all  too  interested  to  be  quite  unbiassed  in  our 
judgment.  Mary  and  Belle  will  of  course  follow  Robert  blindly. 
Women  are  always  like  sheep  jumping  through  a  gap  in  a  hedge — 
one  takes  the  first  leap  and  then  the  others  follow.  I  don't  know 
quite  what  Garton  thinks." 

"  I  have  not  the  vestige  of  a  doubt.  Of  course  we  all  condemn 
Miss  Maturin." 

"  Ah,  then  indeed  she  will  go  to  Coventry.  I  think  I  see  a 
flaw  here  and  there  in  your  arguments,  and  Mary  especially  is  not 
charitable ,  but  I  do  not  mean  to  compromise  myself :  six  months 
hence  you  shall  have  my  verdict." 

«  Guilty  or  Not  Guilty,  I  wonder  ?" 

"  Oh,  that  is  impossible  for  me  to  say ;  at  present  it  is  decidedly 
Not  Proven.  There,  I  have  finished  my  sermon.  I  think  you  can 
find  out  the  text  for  yourselves." 

"  The  best  part  about  it  is  its  brevity,"  observed  Robert  drily, 
as  he  rose.  "  Come,  Belle,  I  want  to  say  a  word  to  you  before  I 
go.  Good-night,  Austin." 

The  Vicar  looked  at  the  timepiece. 

"  Why,  it  is  getting  very  late,  I  declare.  Garton,  you  had 
better  be  off  too,  as  you  have  to  be  up  so  early  in  the  morning." 


MISS  MATURIN  IS  SENT  TO  COVENTRY.         73 

"  And,  Robert,  don't  keep  Belle  up,"  said  Mary,  as  the  door 
closed  upon  the  three,  and  she  and  her  husband  were  left  alone. 
Mary,  as  usual,  had  her  work  in  her  hands,  but  the  Vicar  sat  doing 
nothing. 

" Have  you  any  letters  to  write  to-night,  Austin?" 

"  Yes,  several ;  but  I  do  not  feel  as  though  I  could  write  them 
now,  Mary.  I  do  feel  all  this  terribly." 

"  I  am  sure  you  do." 

"  I  did  not  want  Robert  to  know  how  sorry  I  was  for  him. 
Did  you  ever  see  a  man  so  changed  in  a  few  days  1" 

"He  looks  very  haggard,  certainly." 

"  For  the  matter  of  that,  so  does  Belle.  I  am  beginning  to 
think  that  this  engagement  will  do  neither  of  them  any  good. 
Belle's  beauty  is  not  a  bit  what  it  was,  and  she  is  losing  flesh 
visibly." 

"I  think  Robert  tries  her  a  little." 

"  I  am  sure  he  does.  He  is  not  the  man  to  bear  all  this  wait- 
ing patiently.  Upon  my  word  I  can  see  very  little  hope  for  them 
both." 

"Don't  you  think  he  might  ask  for  an  increase  of  salary, 
Austin  V1 

"  No,  I  am  certain  that  would  not  answer.  It  will  not  make 
their  case  better  for  us  all  to  sit  down  and  bemoan  ourselves  in 
sackcloth  and  ashes,  but  I  almost  feel  as  though  it  would  be  com- 
fortable." 

Then  Mary  put  down  her  work  and  came  a  little  closer. 

"  Austin,  I  can  see  how  grieved  you  are." 

"  I  am  horribly  grieved,  Mary.  I  do  not  say  that  I  expected 
otherwise,  but  still  it  is  such  a  cruel  thing  for  him." 

"  Oh,  I  can't  give  him  all  my  pity." 

"  Nay,  there  you  are  wrong.  It  is  so  many  years  since  I  lost 
Aunt  Charlotte's  good  graces  that  I  have  almost  forgotten  my 
special  grievance.  I  was  never  such  a  favourite  as  he  was,  re- 
member." 

"  Perhaps  not." 

"  I  will  not  deny  that  I  have  my  private  disappointment.  Of 
course,  if  Robert  had  had  Bryn  we  should  all  have  been  in  a  better 
position.  Belle  would  have  been  off  our  hands,  and  Garton  also, 
and  there's  no  knowing  what  he  would  have  done  for  the  boys." 

"No,  indeed;  Robert  is  always  so  generous." 

"But  it  is  no  good  thinking  of  that.  To  tell  you  the  truth, 
Mary,  I  am  half  afraid  to  look  into  this  year's  expenses ;  Garten's 
illness  and  then  Laurie's  have  used  up  all  my  surplus  money." 

"  You  ought  not  to  have  paid  Garton's  doctor's  bill." 


74  ROBERT  ORD*S  ATONEMENT. 

"  What  could  I  do  ?  I  could  not  leave  it  on  Robert's  shoulders 
Affairs  seem  so  complicated  just  now.  I  wanted  to  tell  you  this 
evening  that  you  might  have  bought  that  frock  for  Arty,  but  upon 
my  word  I  could  not  reconcile  it  with  my  conscience." 

"  Oh,  Austin,  how  could  you  think  of  such  a  thing  1" 

"  But  I  did.  I  did  so  hate  to  see  you  look  so  disappointed, 
Mary,  and  to  hear  you  begrudging  that  common  stuff  gown  ot 
yours.  I  wonder  who  deserves  to  wear  a  silk  one  more  than  you 
do?" 

"  Silk  for  me  1  No,  thank  you.  I  am  happier  in  my  old  stuff 
one,  though  I  am  not  fit  to  be  a  clergyman's  wife;"  and  Mary 
smiled  playfully  in  his  face. 

"Oh,  but  I  was  not  serious,  you  know." 

"  I  was  half  afraid  you  were.     I  certainly  did  feel  very  angry." 

" Did  you?" 

"  Yes,  of  course  I  did  •  and  Belle  got  quite  white  with  anger." 

"  I  do  not  think  Belle's  anger  was  so  fierce  as  mine,  though ; 
when  I  walked  up  and  down  it  was  because  I  dared  not  trust  my- 
self to  speak.  If  I  had  spoken  I  should  have  terrified  you,  and 
yet  Robert  thinks  I  am  cool." 

"  I  am  afraid  he  does." 

"  Let  him  think  so  ;  it  is  no  good  heaping  fuel  on  a  furnace.  I 
think  my  wrath  would  have  matched  his.  And  then  it  occurred 
to  me  that  we  were  all  condemning  Miss  Maturin  merely  on  his 
evidence." 

"  And  then  you  scolded  me." 

"  You  were  the  sheep  that  was  foremost  in  leaping,  Mary. 
Robert's  gap  was  a  tolerably  wide  one.  My  dear,  I  must  positively 
see  this  young  woman  and  judge  for  myself  before  I  can  accept 
his  opinion." 

"  Oh,  of  course,  Austin.     Well,  perhaps  I  was  a  little  hasty." 

"  We  are  all  prejudiced  against  Miss  Maturin ;  we  must  there- 
fore be  careful  to  form  our  estimate  all  the  more  slowly.  As  the 
Vicar  of  this  parish,  I  shall  not  be  able  to  avoid  coming  into  very 
close  contact  with  so  influential  a  member  of  my  congregation." 

"But,  Austin,  she  may  be  a  Baptist." 

"  I  never  thought  of  that." 

"  Or  a  Unitarian." 

"  Oh,  I  hope  not." 

"  Or  a  Plymouth  sister,  or  something  of  that  sort." 

"Very  well,  Mary,  then  you  will  not  have  quite  so  much 
trouble  with  your  prayers  on  Sunday ;  but  of  course  I  shall  be  very 
strenuous  in  my  efforts  to  bring  her  over  to  the  Church." 

Then  Mrs.  Ord  had  nothing  to  say. 


MISS  MATURIN  IS  SENT  TO  COVENTRY.         75 

"  I  suppose,  if  you  really  become  convinced  that  Robert  is  right, 
we  need  have  nothing  at  all  to  do  with  her?"  she  began  again 
after  a  pause. 

"  Robert  did  not  say  so.  After  all,  Mary,  he  is  more  forbearing 
than  you." 

"No,  but  seriously,  Austin." 

"  Seriously,  then,  we  shall  not  be  able  to  avoid  it,  I  am  afraid ; 
but  at  least  I  can  promise  you  this — that  we  will  do  as  little  as 
we  can."  And  after  that  the  Vicar  betook  himself  to  his  study, 
and  Mary  went  up  to  her  sister. 

It  was  her  motherly  custom  to  see  all  her  sons  tucked  up 
safely  in  their  beds  before  she  retired  to  her  own,  and,  however 
weary  she  might  be,  she  never  omitted  this  duty.  Often  a  restless 
sleeper  stirred  at  the  light  kiss  and  whispered  blessing.  When 
Belle  first  came  to  the  Vicarage  Mrs.  Ord  included  her  in  her 
rounds  as  a  matter  of  course,  but  it  must  be  confessed  that  Belle 
derived  no  special  delectation  from  her  sister's  visits.  She  was 
unsociable  by  nature,  and  at  such  times  she  preferred  the  solace  of 
her  own  thoughts. 

Mary  found  her  sitting  by  the  open  window  with  her  head  on 
her  hand. 

"  What !  up  and  dressed  still,  Belle  ?  Have  you  any  idea  how 
late  it  is?" 

"  Yes ;  I  expect  it  is  very  late." 

"  Ah,  that  is  just  what  makes  you  so  thin.  Do  you  know 
Austin  has  been  making  some  uncomplimentary  remarks  about 
your  looks  to-night  ?  I  wonder  what  he  would  say  now  if  he  saw 
you?" 

"  Austin  is  never  complimentary  to  me,  Mary." 

"  Now,  Belle,  that  is  too  bad." 

"  No,  indeed  he  is  not ;  he  is  always  drawing  comparisons 
between  us.  Of  course  a  man  must  think  well  of  his  own  wife. 
But  sometimes  I  wish  he  would  leave  me  alone  altogether." 

"  You  would  not  say  so  if  you  knew  how  sorry  he  was  for  you 
both  to-night.  I  have  hardly  ever  seen  him  more  grieved  about 
anything." 

"  I  don't  think  he  was  particularly  kind  to  Robert." 

"  You  mean  that  he  did  not  talk  to  him  much.  But  that  was 
because  he  would  not  trust  himself  to  speak.  You  know  Austin 
is  sometimes  afraid  to  say  all  he  thinks." 

"  But,  all  the  same,  he  need  not  hurt  Robert  with  that  half- 
joking  manner  of  his.  I  don't  believe  he  understands  it." 

"  Oh,  Belle,  that  is  only  his  way." 

"  It  is  not  a  pleasant  way,  Mary;  it  makes  him  seem  as  though 


76  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

he  did  not  feel  for  people  in  their  trouble.  Eobert  always  says  it 
shuts  him  up  so  ;  he  has  gone  away  quite  hurt  to-night." 

"Then  it  is  very  foolish  of  Eobert.  Never  mind;  Austin 
means  to  have  a  talk  with  him  to-morrow.  The  fact  is,  Belle,  he 
thinks  we  are  all  a  little  premature  in  our  judgment  about  Miss 
Maturin." 

"  Oh !  if  he  has  talked  you  over,  Mary,  I  have  nothing  more 
to  say." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  talking  me  over,  but  I  am 
not  going  to  get  vexed  with  you,  Belle.  I  can  see  that  you  are 
dreadfully  unhappy."  Then  Belle  turned  her  head  away  without 
speaking. 

"  Robert  has  no  right  to  make  you  so  wretched.  If  he  goes  on 
much  longer  in  this  way,  I  shall  speak  to  him  myself." 

"  Oh,  Mary  !  you  must  not  think  of  such  a  thing." 

"  But  I  shall.  Here  Austin  says  you  are  losing  flesh  visibly. 
Every  one  notices  how  pale  and  thin  you  are  getting." 

"  I  wish  every  one  would  mind  their  own  business." 

"  Oh,  Belle  ! " 

"  I  do,  indeed.  How  can  I  help  his  making  me  wretched  1  I 
cannot  alter  his  nature." 

"  There,  you  have  found  it  out  at  last." 

"  I  don't  see  what  there  was  to  find.  Of  course  he  is  miser- 
able, poor  fellow ;  and  of  course  his  misery  makes  him  impatient. 
Any  one  but  Austin  would  see  what  he  suffers." 

"  I  don't  envy  you  the  first  three  months  that  Miss  Maturin 
is  at  Bryn." 

"  I  don't  envy  myself,  Mary.  But  at  least  I  can  understand 
and  share  his  feelings.  He  said  to-night  that  he  knew  where  to 
come  for  sympathy."  Then  Belle  got  up  and  made  some  little 
demonstration  as  though  she  would  prepare  herself  for  her  couch ; 
on  seeing  which,  Mrs.  Ord  kissed  and  bade  her  good-night.  But 
as  she  tucked  up  Arty,  she  told  herself  that  she  had  not  done 
much  to  comfort  her  sister.  But,  in  truth,  Belle  was  not  one  that 
could  be  easily  comforted. 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

BELLE    STAYS    AWAY   AGAIN    FROM    SERVICE. 

"  And  now  be  patient  with  me  ;  do  not  think 
I'm  speaking  from  a  false  humility. 
The  truth  is,  I  am  grown  so  proud  with  grief, 
And  He  has  said  so  often  through  His  nights 
And  through  His  mornings,  '  Weep  a  little  still. ' 

I  gave  you  love  ? 

I  think  I  did  not  give  you  anything  ; 
I  was  but  yours  only.     .     .     ."  Aurora  Leigh. 

BELLE  had  got  up  from  her  chair,  and  had  made  some  little 
demonstration  of  preparing  herself  for  the  night.  She  had  moved 
across  the  room  and  wound  up  her  watch  in  a  decided  sort  of  way, 
and  her  sister  had  understood  her  and  taken  the  hint ;  but  when 
the  door  had  closed  upon  Mrs.  Ord,  all  Belle's  briskness  of  move- 
ment had  ceased,  and  she  had  dropped  down  again  into  the  seat 
by  the  window,  propping  her  cheek  upon  her  hand,  and  staring 
moodily  across  the  dark  road  to  the  darker  sea-line  beyond.  Mary 
had  complained  to  her  of  the  lateness  of  the  hour,  and  she  had 
accepted  the  fact  without  questioning ;  but,  in  truth,  she  was  so 
utterly  wretched  that  the  lateness  was  of  small  moment  to  her. 
She  was  much  given  at  all  times  to  trim  her  midnight  lamp  in 
solitude,  and  in  consequence  sleep  had  become  rather  a  rare  visitant 
to  her,  beguiling  her  only  by  fits  and  starts.  She  never  complained 
to  any  one  of  her  wakefulness ;  she  bore  it  quietly,  as  she  did 
most  other  ills  that  befell  her.  Lately  the  shadow  of  a  fresh 
trouble  had  oppressed  her,  and  was  making  her  nights  dreary ;  in 
spite  of  her  efforts  she  had  not  been  able  to  shake  it  off,  but  it 
never  occurred  to  her  to  seek  relief  by  imparting  her  fears.  And 
so  her  burden  had  grown  heavier  day  by  day,  and  the  strain  on 
her  harassed  nerves  had  been  aggravated  by  want  of  sleep  and 
mental  distress. 

Nor  was  it  a  mere  shadowy  foreboding  of  evil  that  was  robbing 
her  cheek  of  its  bloom  and  depriving  her  of  flesh.     The  thing, 


78  ROBERT  ORD^S  ATONEMENT. 

whatever  it  might  be,  was  assuming  tangible  shape  and  reality. 
In  the  daytime  she  would  rate  herself  for  her  cowardice,  and  would 
succeed  in  regarding  it  as  purely  imaginary,  as  altogether  baseless 
and  puerile.  But  at  night  she  had  no  such  relief;  she  would 
cower  away  from  it  with  a  real  terror  and  a  real  belief  that  made 
her  nights  dreadful  to  her.  Then  it  almost  seemed  to  her  as 
though  she  must  make  her  sister  her  confidante.  But  when  the 
morning  came  she  shrank  from  the  avowal  of  her  weakness ;  all 
the  more  that  she  saw  that  in  spite  of  her  sister's  solicitude  she 
noticed  nothing. 

But  to-night  her  oppression  was  such  that  she  could  make  no 
pretence  of  sleeping.  Mary  had  been  kind,  and  had  striven  to  say 
a  word  of  comfort,  looking  upon  her  affliction  as  one  that  words 
might  have  some  power  to  alleviate,  and  she  had  repulsed  her  with 
a  decision  that  had  somewhat  of  abruptness  in  it.  But  how  could 
Mary  know  that  she  was  too  sore  for  such  words  *? 

Even  her  interview  with  her  lover  had  brought  her  no  consola- 
tion ;  it  had  been  brief  and  unsatisfactory. 

"  Well,  Belle,"  he  had  said  directly  they  were  left  alone,  and 
putting  his  two  hands  on  her  shoulders,  "I  shall  have  to  come  to 
you  for  sympathy.  I  wonder  what  you  will  say  to  comfort  me  1 " 
And  then  she  had  looked  up  at  him  rather  pitifully,  and  had  made 
no  sort  of  answer. 

"  Things  have  come  to  a  sorry  pass  with  us,"  he  went  on. 
"  It  is  all  very  well  for  Austin  to  joke,  but  I  look  upon  our  game 
as  a  lost  one."  Then  again  that  long  shiver  had  passed  over  her 
frame,  thrilling  her  like  ice,  but  no  words  of  comfort  had  occurred 
to  her. 

"  Austin  did  not  mean  to  be  unsympathetic,"  she  ventured  at 
last. 

"  No,  I  know  he  did  not,  nor  Mary  either,  but  it  is  very  gall- 
ing to  a  man  in  my  position."  And  then  he  had  gone  on  to  say 
a  few  things  decidedly  bitter  about  his  brother,  and  Belle  had  not 
dared  to  contradict  him ;  and  after  that  he  had  spoken  a  sentence 
or  two  as  though  he  had  felt  himself  assured  of  her  sympathy. 

"  I  wish  I  did  know  how  to  comfort  you,  Robert,"  she  said, 
and  her  tone  had  been  very  soft  and  pleasant  to  him ;  "  but  it 
seems  beyond  my  power." 

"  Yes,  it  is  beyond  your  power,  Belle ;  I  don't  think  any  one 
on  earth  can  make  my  position  endurable  to  me  now."  Then  he 
had  taken  down  his  hands  from  her  shoulders,  and  had  bidden  her 
good-night. 

It  was  this  last  speech  of  his  that  had  tormented  her ;  she 
was  revolving  it  now  as  she  looked  out  at  the  sea-bound  horizon  ; 


BELLE  STA  YS  AWAY  AGAIN  FROM  SERVICE.     79 

she  had  borne  a  great  deal  for  his  sake :  the  four  years  of  her 
engagement  had  not  been,  on  the  whole,  happy  years — she  had 
had  her  secret  burdens,  her  sorrows,  and  her  regrets ;  but,  had 
they  been  doubled,  she  could  never  have  brought  herself  to  have 
told  him  that  her  position  was  unendurable,  and  yet  it  was  owing 
to  her  that  such  was  the  case  with  him.  It  was  not  that  he  was 
unkind,  for  even  then  he  had  said  a  lover-like  word  or  two  that 
at  another  time  must  have  given  her  comfort ;  but  he  was  proving 
to  her  as  plainly  as  words  could  prove  it  that  she  was  failing  in 
yielding  him  happiness.  If  it  were  so — if  his  position  were  indeed 
unendurable,  and  the  thraldom  of  this  hopeless  engagement  were 
fretting  him,  might  it  not  be  her  duty,  seeing  that  she  loved  him 
better  than  herself,  to  set  him  at  liberty ;  at  least,  might  she  not 
clearly  make  him  understand  that  she  was  so  willing  % 

True,  he  might  be  angry  with  her,  and  refuse  to  take  her  at 
her  word;  indeed,  she  rather  suspected  that  such  would  be  the 
case.  But  would  it  not  be  as  well  to  brave  his  anger,  so  that  she 
did  her  duty  ?  She  did  not  suppose  that  he  would  misunderstand 
her;  undemonstrative  and  silent  as  she  was,  she  had  given  him 
plain  proofs  that  she  loved  him,  though  even  he  had  no  idea  of  the 
extent  of  her  powers  of  loving. ,  Already  she  yielded  him  loyal 
obedience  in  all  things  that  concerned  herself  and  him ;  for  his  sake 
she  had  renounced  a  project  she  had  secretly  cherished  for  securing 
her  own  independence,  and,  at  his  expressed  wish,  consented  reluc- 
tantly to  be  a  burthen  on  her  brother-in-law. 

Nor  was  this  the  only  instance  in  which  she  had  moulded  her 
will  to  his ;  and  so  Robert  had  no  conception  of  the  courage  and 
strength  which  lay  beneath  her  quiet  manners.  It  was  not  that 
he  intended  to  domineer,  but  he  grew  so  accustomed  to  her  yielding 
that  he  forgot  at  last  to  question  her  opinion :  had  he  been  able 
to  marry  her  during  the  first  months  of  their  engagement  he  would 
have  made  her  a  model  husband,  but  his  was  a  nature  that  grew 
harsh  with  opposition  ;  no  wonder,  as  Mr.  Ord  said,  that  he  tried 
her  a  little. 

But,  after  all,  there  was  nothing  abject  in  Belle's  submission — 
no  placing  the  neck  in  the  dust,  after  the  fashion  of  some  women ; 
it  was  rather  the  yielding  of  a  strong  proud  will  to  a  stronger  and 
a  prouder  one,  and  that  out  of  pure  love.  There  were  times  when 
Belle  could  almost  have  prayed  to  have  loved  Robert  Ord  less,  that 
his  troubles  should  not  have  so  darkened  her  life  to  the  exclusion 
of  her  own,  but  she  never  told  him  so. 

Well,  it  was  no  good  looking  back :  she  would  give  him  this 
one  chance,  and  risk  his  anger,  though  it  was  the  only  thing  on 
earth  she  dreaded  ;  she  would  tell  him,  if  he  would  give  her  the 


80  ROBERT  ORD'S  A  TONEMENT. 

opportunity  for  such  speech,  that  he  had  better  give  up  this  losing 
game  of  his,  that  she  knew  that  they  would  never  be  married — 
that  it  would  be  far  wiser  for  him  to  teach  himself  to  look  upon 
her  as  his  friend ;  and  at  this  point  she  laid  her  head  down  on  the 
window-sill  in  the  darkness,  and  cried  till  her  arms  and  hair  were 
wet  with  her  tears,  till  from  very  weariness  she  could  cry  no  more. 
But  not  for  that  was  her  resolve  shaken. 

One  thing  she  deliberated  upon  long  as  she  dragged  herself  to 
her  bed,  feeling  conscious  at  last  of  her  cramped  aching  limbs — 
should  she  tell  him  of  the  haunting  fear  that  had  lately  beset  her 
and  robbed  her  cup  of  its  small  portion  of  sweetness  ?  She  turned 
this  over  long  in  her  mind,  but  at  last  she  resolved  that  she  would 
not  tell  him.  Unselfish  herself,  she  was  keenly  alive  to  the  gener- 
osity of  Eobert's  real  nature ;  such  telling,  she  thought,  would 
undo  at  once  all  the  purpose  of  her  words,  and  so,  with  the  asceticism 
which  was  in  reality  as  much  a  part  of  hers  as  of  Garton's  nature, 
she  replaced  her  moral  hair-shirt.  It  would  be  discovered  some 
day,  she  knew,  and  then  he  would  thank  her  for  her  reticence. 
Like  many  another  fond  enthusiast,  it  never  struck  her  that  Robert 
might  perhaps  hold  a  different  opinion. 

Her  first  waking  thoughts  were  very  sad  •  she  was  physically 
exhausted,  too,  from  her  lengthened  vigil.  For  a  few  minutes  she 
hesitated  whether  she  might  abstain  from  appearing  at  the  family 
meal,  but  she  had  never  excused  herself  yet  on  plea  of  illness,  dis- 
liking all  fuss  and  softness,  and  she  would  not  spare  herself  now. 
Once  or  twice  her  strength  failed  her  in  the  process  of  dressing, 
but  she  made  head  at  last  against  her  weakness,  and  was  in  her 
place  by  the  time  the  Vicar  had  returned  from  service. 

She  had  a  little  difficulty  in  eluding  Mary's  inquiries  as  to  her 
rest  last  night,  and  was  very  short  with  Arty  when  he  told  her  she 
had  black  spectacles  round  her  eyes  ;  but  after  breakfast  she  went 
out  to  her  district,  and  got  through  her  duties  in  a  mechanical  sort 
of  way,  and  came  home  at  dinner-time  feeling  as  though  her  feet 
were  weighted  with  lead,  and  with  no  voice ;  but  nevertheless  she 
was  down  at  the  school  all  the  afternoon.  She  was  always  very 
zealous  in  performing  her  duties,  and  took  a  great  deal  of  her 
sister's  work  on  her  shoulders ;  but,  in  spite  of  her  patience  and 
gentleness  with  them,  the  poor  people  liked  Mary's  cheerful  face 
best. 

But  all  the  time  she  was  looking  at  the  girls'  long  seams,  or 
setting  them  their  tasks,  she  was  thinking  how  she  could  best  con- 
trive to  see  Robert  alone ;  she  must  stay  away  from  the  evening 
service  again,  she  thought ;  at  such  times  Robert  would  often  be 
busy  gardening.  Mary  sometimes  stayed  away  too,  to  finish  her 


BELLE  STA  YS  A  VVA  Y  AGAIN  FROM  SERVICE.     81 

work  or  mind  Arty ;  she  could  easily  tell  her  sister  that  she  wanted 
a  word  alone  with  him.  Robert  always  managed  these  things  in 
an  off-hand  manner ;  she  had  seen  him  turn  all  the  boys  out  of  the 
room  if  he  had  anything  particular  to  say  to  her;  perhaps  she 
might  not  find  it  difficult  after  all.  Robert  would  probably  be 
busy  gardening,  and  she  could  go  out  and  speak  to  him.  Anyhow, 
she  was  determined  that  she  would  not  let  him  go  till  she  had  so 
spoken  to  him. 

As  they  sat  down  to  tea  she  did  manage  to  say  a  word  to  him, 
but  he  noticed  that  her  voice  trembled. 

"  You  have  been  tiring  yourself  at  the  school  again,"  he  said 
rebukingly ;  and  she  had  hastened  to  assure  him  that  such  was 
not  the  case. 

"  At  any  rate  you  are  right  to  stay  at  home.  I  think  Mary 
and  you  have  quite  enough  to  do  without  attending  all  Austin's 
services."  By  which  it  may  be  seen  that  the  Vicar's  innovations 
were  not  altogether  pleasing  to  his  brother. 

"  I  am  thinking  of  making  Belle  my  assistant  organist  again," 
observed  Austin,  who  had  overheard  the  heretical  speech  •  "  Lam- 
bert is  going  away  on  sick  leave." 

"  I  shall  be  very  glad  to  help  you,  Austin,"  returned  Belle 
pleasantly ;  "I  managed  it  very  well  before." 

"Yes,  but  you  will  not  be  able  to  play  the  truant  for  two 
evenings  then,  remember."  And  then  Belle  knew  that  the  Vicar 
was  aware  of  her  little  shortcomings. 

Mary  was  still  hard  at  work  upon  Arty's  old  suit,  and  she 
looked  up  rather  imploringly  as  Belle  went  to  fetch  her  hat.  Belle 
noticed  the  look  in  a  moment. 

"  I  am  sorry  that  I  cannot  stay  to  help  you  this  evening,  Mary ; 
but  I  am  going  out  with  Robert." 

"With  Robert!  Why,  you  have  been  out  all  day!"  And 
Mrs.  Ord's  tone  was  slightly  aggrieved. 

"Yes,  but  only  in  the  district  and  at  the  school.  I  have  been 
working  with  the  girls  all  the  afternoon." 

"  I  had  ten  times  rather  you  had  helped  me  with  all  this  work. 
I  don't  see  how  I  am  to  finish  it  by  Sunday.  It  is  quite  dreadful 
to  see  how  I  stay  away  from  church  now." 

"  Never  mind ;  Austin  will  not  scold  you :  he  reserves  his 
rebukes  for  me." 

"  I  suppose  he  thinks  that  it  will  never  do  to  encourage  Robert 
in  his  dislike  to  week-day  services." 

"  Do  I  encourage  him,  Mary  V 

"  Of  course  not.  How  you  take  me  up,  Belle  !"  and  Mrs.  Ord 
looked  for  once  decidedly  ruffled.  "  I  think  I  should  have  asked 

6 


82  ROBERT  ORD^S  ATONEMENT. 

you  anyhow  to  have  remained  at  home  to-night ;  but,  if  you  are 
going  out  with  Robert,  of  course  it  does  not  matter."  But  Belle, 
as  she  went  out,  looked  as  though  it  mattered  very  much  indeed. 

She  found  Robert  walking  up  and  down  the  Vicarage  lawn, 
rather  impatient  at  her  delay. 

"  I  thought  you  had  changed  your  mind,  and  were  not  coming," 
he  said,  when  she  had  got  up  to  him. 

"  Oh,  that  was  not  likely." 

"Nothing  would  be  more  likely  with  some  women.  What 
kept  you  ?" 

"Mary;  she  was  in  a  fuss  over  the  surplices,  and  wanted  me 
to  help  her.  I  am  afraid  she  has  a  headache  coining  on ;  nothing 
else  ever  seems  to  put  her  out." 

"  I  don't  think  I  feel  much  in  the  humour  for  a  walk  after  all, 
Belle.  I  was  up  at  five  digging  with  Garton,  and  I  am  as  stiff 
as  possible  this  evening." 

"  If  you  are  tired  we  will  certainly  not  go." 

"  You  are  sure  you  do  not  mind  remaining  in  the  garden  1" 

"  Why  should  I  mind  it,  Robert  V 

Then  she  put  her  hand  on  his  arm  and  walked  slowly  on. 

"Austin  went  with  me  to  Thornborough  this  morning,"  he 
began,  for  Belle  had  relapsed  into  silence.  "  It  was  his  day  at  the 
Cottage  Hospital.  We  had  a  long  talk  together." 

"Well?" 

"He  was  very  kind." 

"  I  am  glad  of  it,  Robert." 

"  He  reserves  all  that  joking  manner  of  his  for  public.  I  don't 
think  we  ever  understood  each  other  so  well  as  we  did  this  morning. 
I  am  sure  I  ought  to  feel  very  much  obliged  to  him  for  his  kindness." 

"  I  told  you  that  he  meant  to  be  kind." 

"Yes,  but  his  manners  mislead  one  so.  Of  course  I  held  my 
own  opinion,  and  of  course  he  twitted  me  with  my  obstinacy ;  but 
I  can  see  what  he  thinks  about  it." 

"  Do  you  mean  about  Miss  Maturin  ?" 

"  Yes  :  he  has  just  as  strong  a  prejudice  against  her  as  any  of 
us,  only  he  does  not  mean  us  to  see  it.  Austin  ought  to  have 
been  a  lawyer,  he  is  so  chary  of  committing  himself." 

"  Please  don't  let  us  talk  about  Miss  Maturin  to-night,  Robert." 

"What!  you  are  getting  tired  of  the  subject  already?  Oh, 
by  the  bye,  you  wanted  to  talk  to  me  about  something,  Belle." 

"Yes,  I  did  want  to  speak  to  you;"  and  then  for  a  moment 
her  voice  literally  failed  her. 

"Well,  let  me  hear  it,"  he  replied  impatiently.  "I  hate 
mysteries.  I  suppose  you  and  Mary  have  been  putting  your  heads 


BELLE  STA  YS  AWAY  AGAIN  FROM  SERVICE.     83 

together  over  all  this  business,  and  have  come  to  some  impossible 
result." 

"Mary  has  nothing  at  all  to  do  with  it." 

"  Well,  that  is  right.  I  would  rather  have  your  own  words 
and  your  own  ideas  than  a  hundred  women's."  And  in  spite  of 
her  soreness  the  little  compliment  soothed  her. 

"I  never  care  somehow  for  Mary  to  talk  to  me  about  our 
difficulties ;  but  I  know  that  both  she  and  Austin  look  upon  our 
engagement  as  pretty  nearly  hopeless." 

"  That  is  our  affair,  Belle." 

"Yes,  it  is  our  affair;  but  it  is  very  hard,  nevertheless,  to 
have  other  people  always  discussing  it.  One  is  never  left  alone  in 
this  world.  They  say  it  is  well  to  belong  to  a  large  family ;  but 
I  think  it  has  its  trials." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know ;  few  people  are  so  unsociable  as  you, 
Belle ; "  and  then  he  smiled  at  her  as  though  her  reticence  were  a 
beauty  in  his  eyes.  There  was  something  specially  soft  in  his  man- 
ner to  her  this  evening ;  no  wonder  she  found  it  difficult  to  go  on. 

"One  gets  to  believe  what  is  constantly  affirmed,"  she  continued 
after  a  pause.  "  Mary  and  Austin  too  are  continually  letting  fall 
some  word  which  shows  what  they  think  about  it ;  and,  Robert, 
you  said  yourself  yesterday  that  the  chances  were  all  against  us." 

"  Of  course  they  are  against  us." 

"Yes,  and  then  you  went  on  to  say  that  your  position  was 
unendurable." 

"  I  do  not  think  I  quite  made  use  of  that  term,  Belle." 

"  Yes,  you  did :  you  said  that  it  was  quite  beyond  my  power 
to  comfort  you ;  and  then  you  added  that  no  one  on  earth  could 
make  your  position  endurable." 

"  What  makes  you  remember  my  words  so  correctly  ?"  he  asked ; 
but  he  had  the  grace  to  look  a  little  ashamed  of  himself. 

"They  were  not  words  that  I  could  well  forget,  Robert;  I 
know  I  tried,  but  they  would  keep  recurring  to  me.  I  was  awake 
all  night  thinking  about  them — and — and  some  other  things." 

"  That  was  very  childish  of  you.  No  wonder  Arty  said  you 
had  black  spectacles  on ;" — a  speech  which  the  Vicar  had  duly 
reported,  as  he  did  most  speeches  of  his  youngest-born — "you 
might  have  known  that  I  was  not  accountable  for  my  words  last 
night." 

"  I  quite  understand  that,  Robert." 

"  Then  I  think  it  was  very  childish  of  you.  What  were  the 
other  things  %  Come,  I  mean  to  hear  them  all." 

Poor  Belle  !     He  was  certainly  making  her  task  a  hard  one. 

"  I  don't  think  you  were  particularly  consolatory  yourself  last 


84  ROBERT  ORD*S  ATONEMENT. 

night :  if  you  are  going  to  reproach  me  in  this  way,  it  is  only  fail 
that  I  should  tell  you  that,"  he  observed,  while  she  was  considering 
how  she  could  best  bring  it  out ;  but  to  this  she  made  no  response. 

"  Come,  Belle,  you  are  making  me  believe  it  is  something  very 
important." 

"  And  so  it  is — very,  very  important,  Robert.  I  think  it  is 
of  the  utmost  consequence  that  you  should  not  waste  your  life  as 
you  are  wasting  it — that  you  should  not  remain  any  longer  in  a 
position  that  you  feel  to  be  unendurable." 

"  Now,  Belle,  I  did  not  think  it  was  in  your  nature  to 
knag " 

"Robert!" 

"  Well,  is  it  not  knagging  to  be  for  ever  repeating  one  word 
over  and  over  again  ?  I  would  sooner  do  my  penance  and  have  it 
well  over — if  you  will  only  let  me  know  what  penance  I  have  to 
perform." 

Then  she  took  her  hand  from  his  arm  and  walked  on  in  silence ; 
but  as  he  was  about  to  replace  it  he  saw  that  she  was  very  pale, 
and  that  her  eyes  were  full  of  tears. 

"  Why,  Belle  !  What  is  it  %  You  are  not  angry  with  me  in 
earnest?"  And  then,  as  he  saw  that  she  scarcely  knew  how  to 
support  herself,  he  made  her  pass  through  the  open  window  into 
the  mother's  room,  which  was  always  deserted  at  this  time,  and 
put  her  in  the  Vicar's  big  arm-chair.  "Belle,"  he  said,  taking 
her  hand  as  he  stood  before  her,  "  I  insist  on  knowing  what  all 
this  is  about!"  And  as  she  brushed  her  tears  away,  "I  see  I 
must  be  careful  of  my  words  in  future ;  but  I  never  knew  you  to 
be  fanciful  before.  I  certainly  do  not  wish  to  rob  you  of  your 
night's  rest  again." 

"  Oh,  Robert !  it  was  not  only  that." 

"  Well,  what  was  it,  then  ?  I  was  always  glad  that  you  were 
one  of  the  quiet  sort,  Belle ;  but  I  am  not  so  sure  just  now  that 
it  is  a  virtue." 

"  I  did  not  mean  to  be  so  foolish." 

"  Oh,  you  need  not  mind  about  your  crying,  if  that  is  what 
you  mean.  I  will  not  be  hard  upon  you  for  that ;  but  I  wish  you 
would  not  try  my  patience." 

"  No,  I  will  not.  Robert,  you  must  forgive  me ;  but  I  am  not 
quite  myself  to-night.  I  want  you  to  understand  that  I  love  you 
well  enough  to  give  you  up,  if  it  be  for  your  happiness." 

Then  he  looked  at  her,  too  much  astonished  to  speak. 

"  Indeed  I  mean  it.  I  have  been  thinking  all  night  over  what 
I  had  to  say  to  you,  and  I  have  made  up  my  mind  that  it  was  my 
duty  to  speak.  Of  course  it  is  very  difficult — of  course  you  will 


BELLE  STA  YS  AWAY  AGAIN  FROM  SERVICE.     85 

misunderstand  me ;  but  still  I  feel  bound  to  tell  you  that,  if  you 
wish  it,  I  will  set  you  free." 

"  But  why  should  you  set  me  free  ?"  And  his  tone  was  very 
loud  and  angry  as  he  asked  her  the  question. 

"  Because,  as  I  said  before,  you  are  wasting  your  life  and  wear- 
ing your  heart  out  with  this  hopeless  engagement.  Every  one  owns 
it  is  hopeless — Mary  and  Austin.  Why,  you  said  yourself  last 
night  that  we  should  never  be  married." 

"  Did  I  say  a  word  about  giving  you  up  ?" 

"  No,  of  course  not ;  but  still  it  is  my  duty  to  give  you  the 
opportunity.  Long  engagements  do  not  matter  to  women.  Some 
would  wait  ten  or  fifteen  years  for  the  man  they  love ;  but  I  think 
it  is  otherwise  with  men.  I  cannot  bear  the  thought  that  I  should 
spoil  your  life,  Eobert — that  all  your  best  years  should  be  spent  in 
this  tedious  waiting.  If  you  were  free  and  unfettered  you  would 
go  away  from  here,  and  perhaps  make  a  fortune  for  yourself." 

"  Have  I  ever  coveted  a  fortune  except  for  your  sake, 
Belle  3" 

"  No ;  but  I  cannot  forget  that  I  have  robbed  you  of  one.  I 
am  just  as  much  to  blame  in  that  as  Miss  Maturin,  though  we  are 
so  bitter  against  her." 

"Pshaw!" 

"Yes,  indeed  I  am.  All  last  night  I  was  accusing  myself  and 
calling  myself  your  curse.  I  do  not  think  it  will  ever  be  in  my 
power  to  make  you  quite  happy,  Robert.  In  spite  of  my  love 
Mary  is  always  telling  me  that  I  fail  in  cheerfulness." 

"  I  wish  you  were  more  like  Mary." 

"  Of  course  I  know  she  is  superior  to  me  in  everything." 

"  Oh,  it  is  not  that.  I  used  to  think  that  she  was  not  to  be 
compared  with  you,  but  I  am  not  so  sure  of  my  opinion  now.  At 
any  rate  I  cannot  fancy  Mary  telling  Austin  what  you  have  told 
me." 

"  Oh,  Robert,  you  must  not  say  that !" 

"  No,  indeed !  Fancy  her  separating  herself  from  Austin  in 
his  trouble,  and  offering  to  set  Mm  free.  Why,  the  thing  would 
be  impossible.  I  do  not  think  it  ever  came  into  her  head  to  imagine 
that  he  could  do  without  her.  I  declare  I  am  beginning  to  envy 
Austin  such  a  wife." 

"  Robert,  I  don't  think  you  ought  to  be  so  angry  with  me." 

"  Well,  perhaps  not.  I  ought  not  to  have  expected  that  you 
would  have  put  up  with  me  so  long.  Mary  has  often  told  me  she 
wonders  at  your  patience.  I  am  very  trying,  I  know ;  but  still  I 
did  not  think  that  you  would  come  and  offer  to  set  me  free  like 
this." 


86  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

"  It  is  because  I  love  you  better  than  myself,"  she  returned  in 
a  choked  voice ;  but  he  hardly  heard  her  in  his  wrath. 

"  And  to  say  it  so  quietly,  too.  But  then  you  had  a  whole 
night  in  which  to  plan  your  speech."  And  then,  as  she  looked  up 
at  him  with  her  face  full  of  reproachful  misery,  he  checked  himself; 
for,  as  we  have  before  said,  Robert  Ord  was  in  spite  of  his  faults 
really  gentle  at  heart. 

"  Why,  Bella,"  he  said,  putting  his  arm  round  her,  "  whatever 
is  the  matter  with  you  to-night  1  You  are  not  a  bit  like  my  own 
Bella."  And  as  he  said  this  he  compelled  her,  as  it  were,  to  support 
herself  against  him,  and  indeed  she  was  in  sore  need  of  such  sup- 
port by  this  time. 

"  I  do  not  know  myself,"  she  returned,  now  speaking  through 
her  tears.  "  I  have  been  trying  all  day  and  all  night  to  force  myself 
to  say  all  this,  but  I  cannot  bear  your  being  so  angry  with  me." 

"  Then  I  will  promise  not  to  be  so  angry  again  ;  but  you  must 
never  repeat  your  offence ; "  and  his  tone  was  a  little  triumphant, 
as  though  the  sense  of  his  power  over  her  were  sweet  to  him.  "  Of 
course  I  shall  never  give  you  up.  I  wonder  what  you  would  have 
done  without  me,  Bella,  if  I  had  taken  you  at  your  word*?" 

"  I  never  thought  of  myself  at  all  in  it.  What  seemed  to  me 
of  most  consequence  was  that  your  life  should  not  be  wasted." 

"  And  so  you  were  willing  to  be  sacrificed.  I  always  said  that 
you  were  too  ready  to  make  yourself  a  martyr.  Some  women  cany 
about  with  them  a  flavour  of  the  stake  and  the  faggots.  I  don't 
think  men  are  quite  so  lamb-like." 

"But,  Robert,  I  thought  you  knew  I  would  do  anything  for 
your  sake." 

"  I  have  had  such  a  notion,  certainly.  But,  all  the  same,  I 
should  dislike  to  see  you  tie  yourself  to  the  stake.  I  am  quite  sure 
you  would  crumble  into  ashes  with  becoming  fortitude,  but  I  would 
never  be  the  consenting  party  to  such  a  sacrifice." 

"  I  can't  think  how  you  can  care  for  such  a  poor  thing  as  I  am, 
Bertie." 

"  Well,  it  is  strange,  certainly ;  but  do  not  think  I  am  going  to 
make  any  lover-like  speeches  to-night.  You  don't  deserve  them. 
I  wonder  if  every  evening  when  I  come  home  oppressed  and  out  of 
spirits  you  will  offer  to  set  me  free?" 

"  I  will  never  offer  it  again."  But  as  she  said  this,  and  pressed 
closer  to  him,  feeling  how  dear  he  was  to  her,  it  suddenly  came 
into  her  mind  that  she  had  not  been  thoroughly  honest  with  him 
— that  at  any  rate  she  had  kept  a  part  back.  Last  night  she  had 
worried  herself  to  death,  doubting  whether  she  should  tell  him  of 
her  trouble  and  had  come  at  last  to  the  conclusion  that  she  was 


BELLE  STA  YS  AWAY  AGAIN  FROM  SERVICE.     87 

weak  and  nervous,  and  that  possibly  there  was  no  foundation  for 
her  fears.  He  would  only  laugh  at  them,  as  she  did  herself  some- 
times ;  but  now,  as  the  thought  recurred  to  her,  she  felt  as  though 
she  were  hardly  honest. 

"  I  shall  never  offer  it  again,"  she  repeated.  "  Your  anger  has 
been  too  dreadful  to  me.  But,  all  the  same,  it  may  come  to  pass 
that  you  may  wish  you  had  accepted  it." 

"  I  shall  never  wish  that,"  he  returned  decidedly.  "  I  would 
rather  wait  ten  years  for  you  than  six  months  for  another  woman." 
And  as  he  said  this,  and  she  felt  the  strength  and  vigour  of  his 
arm,  the  shadow  of  the  nameless  evil  passed  from  her,  and  she  felt 
for  the  time  almost  happy. 


CHAPTER   TX. 

NETTIE   UNDERWOOD 

"Women,  so  amiable  in  themselves,  are  never  so  amiable  as  when  they 
are  useful ;  and  as  for  beauty,  though  men  may  fall  in  love  with  girls  at  play, 
there  is  nothing  to  make  them  stand  to  their  love  like  seeing  them  at  work." 
— ABBETT. 

AT  this  time  there  was  a  young  lady  dwelling  in  the  parish  of 
Kirkby  who  went  by  the  name  of  Nettie  Underwood,  although,  if 
the  truth  be  told,  there  was  a  certain  entry  in  the  baptismal  register 
of  St.  Barnabas,  the  old  parish  church  of  Blackscar,  to  the  effect 
that  one  Eliza  Ann  Underwood  was  duly  christened  on  a  particular 
day  one  November,  about  a  quarter  of  a  century  before  the  date  of 
our  present  story. 

There  is  no  law  to  prevent  people  from  exchanging  a  hideous 
name  for  one  less  lacerating.  But  many  are  slow  to  achieve  such 
successes ;  therefore  when  Eliza  Ann  Underwood,  on  leaving  board- 
ing-school, turned  her  back  upon  the  register  of  St.  Barnabas,  and, 
eschewing  the  bondage  of  fashion,  had  her  cards  printed  as  plain 
Nettie  Underwood,  it  was  thought  by  some  to  be  too  daring  an 
experiment,  and  she  lost  three  female  friends  on  the  spot. 

But  Nettie  Underwood,  being  a  young  person  of  great  courage, 
did  not  waste  much  time  in  mourning  over  one  such  small  defeat. 
The  loss  of  three  bosom  companions  would  certainly  have  harassed 
most  girls,  but  it  did  not  disturb  Nettie's  equanimity  for  a  moment. 
She  was  always  performing  unexpected  actions,  and  shocking  the 
nerves  of  the  female  population  of  Blackscar  and  Kirkby.  She  had 
already  obtained  a  reputation  for  doing  extraordinary  things,  though 
no  one  exactly  knew  what  they  were ;  such  reputations  are  very 
easily  acquired,  and  scarcely  need  much  trouble  to  keep  up.  But 
whether  appreciated  or  not,  the  Nettie  Underwoods  of  society 
furnish  a  sweetness  of  gossip  which  makes  them  invaluable  in  a 
small  place  such  as  Kirkby,  where  every  one  knows  his  or  her 
neighbour's  business  better  than  their  own. 

But  in  spite  of  one  or  two  failings,  a  dreadful  love  of  gossip, 


NETTIE  UNDERWOOD.  89 

and  a  knack  of  doing  odd  things  at  odd  times,  Nettie  was  a  good 
little  girl.  She  thought  a  great  deal  of  herself,  as  most  small 
persons  do,  and  some  people  were  far  too  ready  to  take  her  at  her 
own  estimate.  But  indeed  Dame  Nature  had  endowed  her  with 
not  a  few  of  her  good  gifts,  though  she  had  counterbalanced  them 
with  an  equal  number  of  defects.  Thus,  though  she  had  pink 
cheeks,  a  saucy  little  nez  retrousse,  and  a  pair  of  bright  eyes,  these 
beauties  were  marred  to  a  certain  extent  by  a  wide  mouth,  and  a 
square  solidity  of  figure  which  no  French  dressmaker,  however 
great  an  artiste  she  might  be,  could  ever  fashion  into  any  degree 
of  elegance. 

Nettie  lived  with  her  aunt,  also  Eliza  Ann  Underwood,  spinster, 
in  a  little  low-windowed  house  fronting  the  church,  and  hardly  a 
stone's  throw  from  the  schools  just  round  the  corner.  The  house, 
which  was  very  small  but  pleasant-looking,  adjoined  a  still  smaller 
shop,  where  they  sold  carvings,  hymn-books,  and  other  ecclesiastical 
matters,  together  with  stonemasonry.  The  sexton  kept  this  shop. 
From  the  upper  bow-window,  which  was  Nettie's  drawing-room, 
the  view  was  over  the  lich-gate  and  the  churchyard.  No  wonder, 
as  the  old  lady  was  much  given  to  remark,  they  were  always  re- 
minded of  their  end. 

Miss  Underwood  the  elder  was  rather  a  masculine-looking  lady. 
She  wore  a  brown  front,  had  a  moustache,  and  more  than  an  indi- 
cation of  beard,  and  talked  in  a  loud  deep  voice.  She  was  the 
sort  of  woman  who  would  grasp  one's  hand  until  one  was  obliged 
to  cry  out  with  pain,  who  was  very  loud  and  decided  at  all  mater- 
nity and  clothing  meetings,  and  learned  in  respect  of  school  tea- 
drinkings — a  big  hearty  woman,  who  called  very  young  men  by 
their  Christian  names,  and  patted  them  on  the  shoulder,  and  whom 
strangers  feared  to  contradict,  but  who  was  perfectly  lamb-like  and 
docile  to  her  own  niece. 

People  wondered  how  Aunt  Eliza  could  be  domineered  over  by 
a  chit  like  Nettie,  but  presently  the  truth  leaked  out.  The  little 
bow-windowed  house  in  reality  belonged  to  Miss  Underwood  the 
younger,  and  not  only  that  but  a  good  substantial  six  hundred  a 
year  besides,  received  in  half-yearly  dividends.  Miss  Underwood 
was  only  a  pensioner  on  her  niece's  bounty,  and  wore  handsome 
silk  dresses  on  sufferance.  Nettie  could  do  odd  things  with  im- 
punity now,  and  not  one  of  her  three-and-twenty  intimate  friends 
would  have  deserted  her.  All  the  scandal  of  Kirkby  and  Blackscar 
was  talked  round  Nettie's  cosy  little  tea-table,  which  was  the 
rallying-place  for  all  the  spinsters  of  the  neighbourhood. 

Nettie  was  not  without  her  ambition.  She  would  have  agreed 
with  Caesar  that  it  was  better  "  to  be  first  in  a  village  than  second 


00  ROBER  T  ORD  'S  A  TONEMENT. 

in  Home;"  and  as  Bryn  was  without  its  representative,  she  waa 
in  some  degree  the  leading  lady  in  the  parish.  Mrs.  Blake,  the 
widow  of  Colonel  Blake,  was  par  excellence  the  lady  of  the  place — 
the  Vicar's  wife  excluded.  But  she  was  of  a  retiring  nature,  and 
disposed  to  plead  bad  health  and  many  troubles  as  excuses  for  so 
retiring.  Then  there  was  Miss  Brookes,  who  was  first  cousin  to  a 
baronet,  and  who  led  the  van  of  all  the  spinsterhood  of  Kirkby. 
She  was  an  irascible  sort  of  person,  with  a  high  Roman  nose,  and 
her  irascibility  was  such  that  it  was  not  always  easy  for  Nettie  to 
rout  her  on  every  occasion.  It  is  very  nice  certainly  to  be  first 
cousin  to  a  baronet,  and  there  is  something  to  be  said  in  favour  of 
a  Roman  nose ;  but  Nettie's  energy  and  good  nature  were  better 
for  everyday  use,  even  though  her  name  was  plebeian  and  her  nez 
retrousse. 

The  Vicar  was  often  heard  to  declare,  with  much  inward  groan- 
ings  of  spirit,  that  the  female,  or  rather  the  unmarried  portion  of 
his  congregation  were  wont  to  give  him  most  trouble.  On  the 
last  harvest  festival  he  had  been  much  exercised  in  spirit.  The 
Misses  Travers  had  been  thorns  in  his  side,  and  thorns  of  forty 
years'  growth  are  apt  to  be  prickly.  In  his  masculine  ignorance 
he  had  chosen  the  most  skilful  hands  for  the  nicest  work,  and 
what  aspiring  spinster  will  bear  that  ?  Miss  Brookes'  feebleness 
and  irascibility  had  caused  her  to  be  put  aside  altogether,  and  Mrs. 
Blake's  good  works  had  been  wholly  vicarious,  but  nevertheless 
the  Vicar  had  had  much  soreness  mixed  up  with  his  harvest 
thanksgiving,  and  even  Mrs.  Blake's  prickly  pears  and  hothouse 
grapes  had  given  him  no  pleasure. 

But  whomsoever  he  blamed,  he  certainly  exonerated  Nettie 
Underwood ;  in  spite  of  her  follies  and  affectations  the  little  girl 
was  somewhat  of  a  favourite  with  our  Vicar.  If  he  had  had  the 
management,  the  prettiest  pieces  of  work  should  have  fallen  to  her 
share ;  but  Garton  and  Belle  were  not  always  so  gracious.  He 
always  bore  most  good-humouredly  with  her  chattering,  though, 
when  he  had  had  enough  of  it,  he  would  silence  her  with  a  word. 
Through  his  instrumentality  she  had  become  almost  domesticated 
in  the  Vicarage,  where  she  was  perpetually  "  buzzing  in  and  out," 
as  Mary  called  it. 

When  Nettie  had  nothing  better  to  do,  she  would  drop  in  for 
a  moment  and  stop  for  hours.  Mary,  who  did  not  altogether 
share  her  husband's  partiality,  and  who  secretly  felt  these  morning 
visits  unnecessary  inflictions  on  her  time  and  patience,  was  wont 
to  remonstrate  gently  with  her  better  half. 

"  Austin,  I  wish  you  would  not  encourage  Nettie  in  such  idle- 
ness," she  would  say  when  her  nerves  had  been  severely  tried  by  a 


NETTIE  UNDERWOOD.  91 

whole  morning  of  dawdling  and  gossip.  "  She  used  to  be  rather 
nice,  but  since  you  have  taken  so  much  notice  of  her  she  is  getting 
perfectly  spoiled." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know,"  the  Vicar  would  answer  slowly.  "After 
all,  Mary,  Nettie  is  a  good  little  girl." 

"  So  she  may  be,  but  that  is  no  reason  why  the  Vicarage  should 
be  a  refuge  for  all  the  good  little  girls  of  the  parish ;  we  might  as 
well  have  Lydia  Beckworth,  or  Miss  Brand,  or  Kitty  Merton  con- 
tinually running  in  and  out,  as  far  as  that  goes ;  they  are  all  good 
little  girls  enough,  and  Lydia  particularly  would  be  of  some  use 
to  me." 

"  There  is  no  reason  why  you  should  not  have  Miss  Beckworth 
if  you  wish  it,  my  dear ;"  but  the  Vicar  made  a  wry  face,  for  Lydia 
Beckworth  was  one  of  his  special  thorns.  "  I  certainly  have  no 
wish  to  dictate  on  the  choice  of  your  friends." 

"That  means  that  you  do  not  admire  poor  Lydia.  Well, 
neither  do  I,  but  I  have  always  found  her  very  good-natured ;  she 
would  not  see  me,  for  instance,  with  all  this  pile  of  mending  beside 
me  and  never  offer  to  do  a  stitch,  as  Nettie  has  been  doing  all  this 
morning." 

"  Perhaps  she  had  forgotten  her  thimble,"  suggested  the  Vicar 
charitably;  he  was  well  used  to  these  thrusts  at  his  favourite. 
"  Of  course  that  is  always  her  excuse,  but  it  is  my  private  opinion 
that  she  could  not  darn  a  sock  if  she  tried."  Then  the  Vicar 
smiled  as  he  took  his  paper  and  went  out  on  the  lawn.  He  was 
well  aware  of  Nettie's  misdemeanours  and  little  failings ;  he  used 
to  store  them  up  in  his  memory  and  tell  her  of  them  in  his  own 
way.  Nettie  would  tingle  down  to  her  fingers'  ends  at  some  well- 
merited  rebuke,  uttered  half  in  pleasantry;  at  such  times  her 
feelings  for  the  Vicar  were  not  unmixed  with  awe,  but  in  general 
they  were  the  best  of  friends. 

Nettie's  visits  had  been  more  than  usually  trying  to  Mrs.  Ord 
of  late.  She  was  in  constant  dread  that  Nettie  would  question 
her  about  the  new  owner  of  Bryu.  "  If  she  gets  hold  of  all  this 
business  about  Miss  Maturin  she  may  make  it  terribly  unpleasant 
for  us  all,"  she  said  once  to  her  husband. 

"  Don't  let  her  get  hold  of  it,"  was  his  only  answer. 

"  Oh,  but,  Austin,  we  shall  not  be  able  to  help  it ;  you  don't 
half  know  how  curious  Nettie  is ;  she  will  ask  questions  and  worm 
everything  out.  It  is  all  very  well  for  you  to  keep  her  at  a  dis- 
tance, she  is  in  wholesome  dread  of  you  as  her  spiritual  pastor  and 
master,  but  it  will  not  be  quite  so  easy  for  us." 

"  Very  well,  then,  I  will  give  Garton  a  hint  to  keep  his  tongue 
quiet." 


92  ROBERT  OR&S  ATONEMENT. 

"  And  then  she  will  come  to  me." 

"  I  hope  you  will  refuse  to  answer  her  questions,  Mary.  Nettie 
is  a  good  little  girl,  but  of  course  she  has  her  weak  points,  and 
love  of  gossip  is  one  of  them ;  it  does  not  matter  to  me  personally 
how  much  is  known  or  not  known,  but  I  think  we  owe  it  to  Robert 
to  be  cautious." 

"  Yes,  and  Robert  is  always  so  hard  upon  Nettie." 

"That  is  because  she  is  such  a  chatterbox.  Well,  we  must 
all  do  the  best  we  can ;  but  of  course  the  truth  will  leak  out  by 
degrees.  People  will  soon  find  out  that  we  have  no  friendly  rela- 
tions with  Bryn." 

"  We  are  certainly  in  a  most  painful  position,"  sighed  Mary, 
who  had  felt  herself  much  oppressed  during  the  last  few  days  at 
the  prospect  of  her  new  neighbour ;  "it  is  doubly  trying  for  us, 
because  the  clergyman's  family  is  always  expected  to  show  kindness 
to  strangers." 

"  The  clergyman — but  not  his  family,  my  dear,  if  the  stranger 
prove  a  doubtful  one ;  and  then  for  every  cup  of  cold  water  there 
will  be  Robert's  wrath  to  face.  Yes,  we  are  not  in  an  enviable 
position  ;  the  difficulty  is  to  decide  between  such  conflicting  duties, 
and  to  be  sure  we  are  judging  and  not  misjudging — if  one  were 
not  so  prejudiced  to  begin  with.  Heigho  !  it  is  a  contradictory 
sort  of  world."  And  then  Belle  entered  the  room,  and  the  con- 
versation dropped. 

Mary's  prediction  about  Nettie's  curiosity  and  love  of  gossip 
was  soon  to  be  verified.  The  very  next  morning,  as  the  Vicar  and 
his  brother  were  doing  some  hard  digging  among  the  strawberry 
beds,  they  heard  the  well-known  click  of  the  lock  proceeding  from 
the  green  door  in  the  wall. 

"Here's  Nettie  Underwood  again,"  exclaimed  Garton,  as  he 
rested  his  foot  on  the  spade  a  moment.  "  I  declare  that  girl  lives 
here ;  she  bores  Mary  terribly." 

"  Mary  cannot  understand  why  idle  people  are  suffered  to  live 
at  all,"  observed  the  Vicar,  with  grim  humour,  as  Nettie  came  up 
to  them  rustling  in  her  crisp  muslins  and  looking  wonderfully  fresh 
and  bright;  it  was  Garton's  standing  joke  that  Nettie  always 
crackled  as  she  walked.  She  was  fond  of  starched  cambrics  and 
muslins,  and  was  very  great  in  ruffles  and  frills.  In  this  she 
differed  from  Belle,  who  loved  all  soft  and  clinging  materials. 
Nettie  decked  her  little  person  with  bright -coloured  ribbons,  a 
bow  here  and  a  bow  there ;  she  wore  toy  aprons,  and  little  high- 
heeled  shoes  that  creaked  with  newness.  Garton  in  his  satire 
sometimes  called  her  the  "Dresden  Shepherdess,"  though  he 
generally  added,  under  his  breath,  that  she  was  rather  too 


NETTIE  UNDERWOOD.  93 

Dutch -built    for    Arcadia    and    would    require    a    substantial 
crook. 

"  Mrs.  Ord  is  always  finding  fault  with  my  idleness,"  returned 
Nettie,  pouting,  as  the  Vicar  threw  aside  another  shovelful  of 
earth.  "  I  don't  think  it  is  any  merit  for  people  who  like  work 
to  be  industrious.  I  am  sure  you  are  handling  that  spade  with  as 
much  delight  as  I  should  a  croquet-mallet." 

"  Perhaps  so,  Miss  Nettie ;  but  I  do  not  think  Mary  is  quite 
so  fond  of  mending  as  I  am  of  digging." 

"  Don't  you  think  she  is,  Mr.  Ord  ?"  very  incredulously. 

"  Well,  I  don't  know ;  you  ought  to  be  a  better  judge  than 
I  am.  I  observe  she  frowns  dreadfully  when  she  sews  on 
buttons." 

"Why  are  buttons  always  coming  off,  I  wonder?"  asked 
Nettie  innocently. 

"  To  give  occupation  to  idle  young  ladies,  I  suppose.  By  the 
bye,  Miss  Nettie,  I  hope  you  have  your  thimble  with  you  this 
morning." 

"  I — I  have  left  it  at  home,"  returned  Nettie,  much  discom- 
posed at  this  unexpected  attack. 

"  Left  it  at  home  !  Dear  me'  !  Thimbles  are  not  very  heavy 
to  carry,  are  they  ?  and  Mary  wants  you  to  help  her  this  morning. 
Never  mind,  I  daresay  Belle's  will  fit  you." 

"I  don't  think  I  shall  have  time  to  sit  with  Mrs.  Ord  this 
morning.  Aunt  Eliza  wants  me."  And,  as  Nettie  uttered  this  fib, 
she  glanced  uneasily  at  Mary's  work-basket  in  the  distance. 

"  Oh,  indeed ;  then  I  suppose  your  visit  is  to  Garton  and  me  1 
Gar,  you  uncivil  fellow,  why  don't  you  say  something  entertaining 
to  our  visitor?" 

"  Of  course  I  shall  go  in  to  Mrs.  Ord  directly ;  I  am  going 
now."  And  Nettie  turned  very  red  as  she  detected  the  slight 
vein  of  irony  in  the  Vicar's  speech.  "  I  only  came  up  for  a 
moment  to  see  if  she  and  you  had  heard  the  news ;  but  as  you  are 
so  busy" — and  so  disagreeable,  she  was  going  to  add — "  I  will  not 
interrupt  you."  And  so  saying,  she  rustled  off,  rather  piqued  by 
the  coolness  of  her  reception. 

"  So  ho,  my  little  lady !  that  is  why  you  have  come ;  and 
Mary  is  right,  as  usual,"  muttered  the  Vicar ;  and  his  lip  curled 
with  an  amused  smile  as  he  fell  to  his  work  with  an  energy  that 
surprised  his  brother. 

"  There,  I  have  finished  my  bit  of  ground,  Garton,"  he  said, 
looking  admiringly  at  the  result  of  his  labours ;  "  and  my  arms 
are  pretty  stiff  by  this  time,  I  can  tell  you.  Don't  forget  we  have 
a  funeral  at  a  quarter  to  twelve,  and  there  is  no  one  to  toll  the 


94  ROBERT  ORD\S  ATONEMENT. 

bell.  Now  I  must  go  in ;  for  Nettie  is  up  to  mischief,  and  I  must 
settle  her,  and  then  I  have  some  letters  to  write." 

Nettie's  tongue  was  in  full  swing  as  he  approached  the  window, 
and  Mary's  face  looked  sorely  perplexed.  She  seemed  quite 
relieved  at  the  sight  of  her  husband. 

"  Austin,  do  come  here  a  moment,"  for  the  Vicar  was  feigning 
to  pass  the  window;  "is  it  not  strange,  Nettie  has  heard  all 
about  BrynT' 

"Well,  I  don't  see  anything  strange  about  that,  Mary.  I 
suppose  Hannah  Farebrothers  will  tell  everybody  that  she  is 
expecting  a  new  mistress.  She  was  brimful  of  it  to  me  ten  days 
ago,  and  so  was  Peter.  I  think  they  were  rather  disappointed  at 
my  want  of  interest." 

"  Do  you  mean  that  you  were  not  really  interested,  Mr.  Ord  ?" 
exclaimed  Nettie.  She  had  forgotten  her  pique  already  in  her 
eagerness.  "  Why,  it  seems  such  a  wonderful  event  to  us  all  at 
Kirkby." 

"  Little  things  please  little  minds,  Miss  Nettie." 

"  Yes,  but  this  is  not  a  little  thing ;  the  owner  of  Bryn  will 
take  a  leading  influence  in  the  parish." 

"Mary  suggested  that  she  might  be  a  Plymouth  Sister," 
observed  the  Vicar  slyly. 

"  A  Plymouth  Sister  ? "  returned  Nettie,  opening  her  eyes 
rather  widely.  "  Oh,  that  must  have  been  Mrs.  Ord's  nonsense. 
Of  course  she  must  be  a  Church  woman." 

"I  don't  see  any  'of  course/  Miss  Nettie." 

"  But  the  Plymouth  Sisters  have  everything  in  common,  have 
they  not — wear  each  other's  gowns,  and  say  their  prayers  in  white- 
washed rooms  ?  No,  I  don't  think  the  owner  of  Bryn  is  likely  to 
be  that." 

"  You  see  that  was  only  a  theory  of  Mary's.  Mary  is  rather 
clever  at  such  things.  You  have  a  theory  yourself  about  work, 
have  you  not?" 

"  Hannah  Farebrothers  told  me,"  interposed  Nettie  hurriedly, 
"  that  the  young  lady  had  come  quite  unexpectedly  into  this  fortune. 
The  story  was  quite  a  romantic  one.  She  had  been  a  governess 
and  then  a  companion,  and  all  at  once  she  woke  up  one  morning 
and  found  herself  an  heiress." 

"  That  is  very  romantic  indeed.  I  never  knew  that  you  were 
such  friends  with  Mrs.  Farebrothers." 

"  One  of  our  servants  knows  her — and — and  Harriet  is  a  great 
talker —  And  Nettie  broke  off  at  this  point,  rather  con- 

fused. 

"  Most  servants  are  talkers,"  returned  the  Vicar  quietly ;   "I 


NETTIE  UNDERWOOD.  95 

suppose  she  found  a  good  listener.  Ah,  well !  Hannah  Fare- 
brothers  is  a  sad  gossip,  as  Miss  Maturin  will  find  to  her  cost." 

"  Isn't  Miss  Maturin  a  strange  name  1 — Rotha  Maturin — it 
sounds  nice  somehow.  I  suppose  you  will  leave  your  card  within 
the  week,  Mrs.  Ord?" 

"  1 1  I  don't  know.  I  have  not  made  up  my  mind,"  stam- 
mered Mary ;  but  her  husband  came  to  her  assistance. 

"  What  do  you  mean  to  do,  Miss  Nettie  ?  That  is  more  to  the 
purpose." 

"Of  course  I  shall  wait  till  the  Vicar's  wife  sets  us  the 
example,"  returned  Nettie  sententiously.  "Aunt  Eliza  says  the 
clergyman's  family  always  call  first." 

"  Mary,  did  you  hear  that  ?  I  hope  you  will  make  a  memo- 
randum of  Aunt  Eliza's  advice.  Miss  Underwood  ought  to  under- 
stand the  proper  etiquette  in  such  cases.  The  clergyman's  family 
always  call  first." 

"Did  you  not  know  that  before1?"  asked  Nettie,  very  much 
puzzled. 

"  My  dear  Miss  Nettie,  you  cannot  expect  us  to  be  all  Aunt 
Elizas.  What  can  a  poor  country  parson  know  about  fashion  and 
etiquette  ?  I  suppose  Mary  ought  to  send  a  round-robin  through 
the  parish,  stating  the  exact  day  on  which  she  leaves  her  card.  If 
so,  I  had  better  have  a  form  printed  at  once." 

"  Mr.  Ord,  I  do  believe  you  are  laughing  at  me." 

"  Laughing  1  Not  at  all !  It  is  quite  pleasant  to  hear  a  little 
gossip,  for  a  change.  One  does  not  often  have  the  opportunity  of 
hearing  a  good  racy  servant's  tale.  Mary  has  a  prejudice  against 
them — that  is  another  of  her  theories.  Have  you  tried  on  Belle's 
thimble  yet,  Miss  Nettie  ?" 

"I  see  clearly  that  you  are  trying  to  tease  me,"  said  Nettie, 
looking  very  much  injured.  "  I  don't  see  why  I  am  to  be  scolded 
and  laughed  at  because  I  choose  to  be  idle,  and  because  I  have 
brought  you  a  piece  of  news,  and  I  did  so  want  to  know  if  it  were 
true,"  she  continued  piteously. 

"Which?  the  idleness  or  the  news?" 

"Oh,  Mr.  Ord,  it  is  no  good  trying  to  get  anything  out  of 
you. " 

"Try  Mary,  then." 

"  No ;  she  will  not  answer  me  either.  I  only  wanted  to  know 
if  it  were  true  that  Miss  Maturin  had  been  a  companion,  and 
whether  you  meant  to  forget  bygones,  and  call  upon  her  as  you 
would  on  any  ordinary  newcomer ;  because,  of  course,  it  was  not 
her  fault,  poor  thing  !  as  Mrs.  Farebrothers  says —  And  here 

Nettie  stopped,  confused  under  the  Vicar's  eye. 


90  ROBERT  ORD^S  ATONEMENT. 

"What  did  Hannah  Farebrothers  say  was  not  her  fault?"  he 
demanded  quickly. 

"  That  the  property  came  to  her,  and  not  to  Mr.  Robert ;  and 
she  was  hoping  that  he  would  not  bear  malice,  and — and — 

"  Really,  Mrs.  Farebrothers  seems  a  very  interfering  woman," 
said  the  Vicar,  now  really  displeased.  "  I  shall  take  care  to  inform 
Miss  Maturin  what  sort  of  person  she  has  in  her  service.  She  was 
not  so  presuming  in  my  aunt's  time,  but  I  suppose  she  has  been 
too  long  her  own  mistress.  Well,  as  Hannah  Farebrothers'  tales 
never  had  any  interest  for  me,  I  may  as  well  betake  myself  to  my 
letters ;  it  is  only  idle  people  who  can  afford  to  gossip." 

Then  Nettie  got  up  and  shook  out  her  ruffles,  looking  very 
much  as  though  she  had  got  the  worst  of  it,  and  said  some  mean- 
ingless little  word  or  two  to  Mary  about  Aunt  Eliza  expecting  her. 

"What !  are  you  going  too?"  said  the  Vicar,  holding  out  his 
hand  with  a  relenting  smile.  "  Well,  good-bye ;  give  my  kind 
regards  to  Miss  Underwood,  and  tell  her  I  shall  hope  to  meet  her 
this  afternoon  at  the  district  meeting.  We  are  always  very  glad 
to  see  you  at  the  Vicarage,  Miss  Nettie ;  but  next  time  you  come 
I  hope  you  will  not  forget  your  thimble." 


CHAPTER  X. 

ROTHA. 

' '  I  will  not  shut  me  from  my  kind, 
And,  lest  I  stiffen  into  stone, 
I  will  not  eat  my  heart  alone, 
Nor  feed  with  sighs  a  passing  wind  : 

"  ill  rather  take  what  fruit  may  be 
Of  sorrow  under  human  skies : 
'Tis  held  that  sorrow  makes  us  wise, 
Whatever  wisdom  sleep  with  thee." 

In  Memoriam. 

ROTHA  MATURIN  spent  some  three  weeks  under  the  lawyer's 
hospitable  roof,  and  both  she  and  her  kind  entertainers  were 
unfeignedly  sorry  when  the  visit  came  to  an  end. 

Mr.  Tracy  had  become  sincerely  attached  to  his  young  protegee ; 
his  good  opinion  of  her  had  increased  rather  than  otherwise,  and  he 
never  ceased  to  lament  Robert  Ord's  unfortunate  prejudice  against 
her.  His  hearty  sympathy  did  much  to  re-establish  Rotha  in  her 
own  self-esteem.  She  began  to  look  upon  her  misfortune  from  a 
less  morbid  point  of  view;  something  of  the  old  courage  and  spirit 
returned  to  her,  and  though  she  was  still  painfully  subdued,  and 
the  languor  of  an  unnatural  oppression  was  still  heavy  on  her,  there 
was  a  quiet  vigour  and  self-reliance  discernible  now  in  her  actions 
which  strangers  were  not  slow  to  appreciate. 

On  the  whole  those  weeks  had  done  much  for  her ;  the  very 
atmosphere  of  the  house  in  Manchester  Square  was  restful  and 
pleasant  to  the  sorely  tried  girl.  Mr.  Tracy's  quaint  old-fashioned 
politeness — a  little  out  of  date  perhaps,  but  perfectly  kind-hearted 
—the  good-natured  chatter  of  his  homely  wife,  and  the  prim  ways 
of  his  two  daughters  with  their  old-maidish  notions  of  the  fitness 
of  things,  and  their  kind  womanly  hearts  at  the  bottom,  the  end- 
less gossips  over  trifles  and  shreds  of  events,  the  little  tea-parties 
with  the  never-failing  rubber  of  whist  to  follow,  all  the  ins  and 
outs  of  a  quiet  old-fashioned  household,  interested  Rotha  Maturin, 
and  soothed  her  at  the  same  time. 

7 


98  ROBERT  OR&S  ATONEMENT. 

Sore  from  her  lifelong  experience  of  a  cold  and  unsympathetic 
world,  and  yearning,  as  only  a  woman  can  yearn,  for  the  pure  sweet 
atmosphere  of  home,  for  sympathy,  for  contact  with  congenial 
natures,  for  the  bare  crust  of  mere  human  kindness,  no  wonder  if 
Mrs.  Tracy's  motherliness  and  the  harmless  garrulity  of  her  gentle 
fussy  daughters  were  pleasant  to  the  lonely  girl.  In  a  few  days 
she  had  roused  out  of  the  dangerous  apathy  that  had  been  creeping 
over  her  ever  since  that  unfortunate  interview  in  Eglistone  Abbey ; 
in  very  gratitude  she  strove  to  interest  herself  in  their  pursuits,  in 
Mrs.  Tracy's  silk  patchwork,  and  Miss  Harriet's  missionary  basket, 
prolific  of  woollen  jugs  and  gaudy  striped  cuffs,  and  even  in  Miss 
Louisa's  innocent  penchant  for  the  consumptive  young  curate  who 
stammered.  She  listened  patiently  while  Miss  Louisa,  with  many 
faded  blushes,  expounded  a  receipt  for  black-currant  jelly  which 
would  cure  any  incipient  pulmonary  complaint.  She  won  golden 
opinions  from  the  placid  women  ;  her  patchwork  was  a  marvel  of 
neatness,  her  silk  stars  and  diamonds  miracles  of  needlework,  and 
her  woollen  jugs  the  tastiest  in  the  basket ;  and  though  she  did 
not  actually  assist  in  the  concoction  of  the  black-currant  jelly,  she 
was  careful  to  taste  it,  and  won  Miss  Louisa's  heart  for  ever  by  her 
judicious  praises  of  the  useful  introduction  of  cayenne  pepper,  which 
was  secretly  to  work  such  results.  And  in  all  this  there  was  no 
unnecessary  and  weak  pandering  to  the  fancies  and  whims  of 
strangers  ;  it  was  only  the  readiness  of  a  simple  affectionate  nature 
to  adapt  itself  to  the  pleasure  of  others.  It  was  not  that  Rotha 
Maturin  cared  to  knit  woollen  jugs  or  snip  old  pieces  of  brocade 
into  grotesque  shapes ;  it  was  simply  that  she  wished  to  please  the 
kind  Samaritans  who  had  taken  her  under  their  roof.  She  was  glad 
that  they  considered  her  such  a  capital  partner  at  whist,  and  though 
she  secretly  disliked  the  game,  she  was  never  too  busy  or  too  tired 
to  take  a  hand ;  and  then  she  was  so  quick  to  replenish  the  silver 
snuff-box,  whose  contents  travelled  so  endlessly  down  Mr.  Tracy's 
nankeen  waistcoat.  Rotha  used  to  marvel  at  first  at  the  brown 
stream  that  effected  lodgments  in  every  crease  and  fold  ;  by  and 
by  she  got  used  to  it — as  she  did  to  Mrs.  Tracy's  frilled  caps,  and 
to  Miss  Harriet's  false  front  and  velvet  band ;  it  was  a  little  odd, 
but  then  they  were  old-fashioned  people. 

Yes,  those  weeks  had  done  much  for  Rotha  Maturin ;  it  was  a 
new  thing  for  the  poor  pupil -teacher  and  the  still  more  lonely 
companion  to  be  treated  as  though  she  were  a  person  of  some  con- 
sideration ;  in  her  humility  she  had  forgotten  the  prestige  which 
the  world  attaches  to  an  heiress :  when  her  opinions  were  listened 
to  and  treated  with  deference  she  felt  abashed  and  almost  ashamed : 
she  could  not  understand  it  at  all. 


ROTH  A.  99 

Rotha  shed  tears  when  she  parted  from  her  kind  friends  and 
took  her  place  beside  Mrs.  Carruthers  in  the  railway  carriage.  To 
her  this  was  a  dark  day's  journey.  As  she  leant  back  upon  the 
cushions  and  closed  her  eyes  a  feeling  almost  amounting  to  agony 
took  possession  of  her  as  she  thought  how  the  fierce  speed  was 
already  lessening  the  distance  between  her  and  that  hated  home ; 
she  felt  almost  like  a  criminal  whose  reprieve  was  drawing  to  an 
end,  and  who  had  not  yet  attained  to  the  sullen  indifference  which 
is  to  blunt  his  fear.  What  a  nightmare  of  oppression  was  on  her 
— a  blank  of  suspense  and  unreality  !  She  could  have  envied  Mrs. 
Carruthers  looking  out  on  the  prospect  with  such  thorough  appre- 
ciation of  its  beauties ;  the  green  fields  and  flying  hedges  and  rolls 
of  brown  uplands  were  nothing  to  her  now;  sometimes  they  passed 
sweeps  of  pasture-land  scarlet  with  poppies,  and  Meg  would  wonder 
and  exclaim.  The  whole  country  was  gay  with  these  flaming 
weeds ;  they  blazed  on  hill-tops,  or  dipped  into  knolls  and  valleys; 
now  they  stood  flaunting  by  the  roadside  like  beggars  in  gay- 
coloured  rags,  and  now  they  hung  out  from  the  stony  rocks  in 
scores  and  hundreds,  like  tattered  banners  streaming  with  blood ; 
now  and  then  there  was  a  glory  and  a  waste  of  colour  when  the 
yellow  sunshine  flooded  some  distant  height.  Meg  held  her  breath 
and  checked  herself  when  she  saw  Rotha's  tired  face ;  she  was 
almost  vexed  with  herself  that  the  fresh  air  and  beautiful  scenery 
gave  her  such  pleasure.  Rotha  strove  to  rouse  herself  into  some- 
thing like  interest  when  she  saw  this.  But,  in  spite  of  her  own 
and  Meg's  efforts,  it  was  a  long  weary  journey,  and  it  was  almost 
a  relief  when  they  reached  Blackscar  at  last. 

Mr.  Tracy  had  made  every  possible  arrangement  for  his  young 
friend's  comfort ;  and  the  old  factotum  and  house-servant,  Peter, 
had  orders  to  meet  his  new  mistress  at  the  station  and  escort  her 
to  her  future  home.  Mrs.  Ord's  carriage  and  horses  had  followed 
her  to  London,  and  had  been  sold  after  her  death ;  for  Rotha  was 
determined  that  no  idle  pomp  and  ceremony  should  be  hers.  She 
and  Mr.  Tracy  had  already  regulated  the  extent  of  the  modest 
household.  The  old  servants,  Hannah  and  Peter  Farebrothers, 
were  to  be  kept  on,  and  a  couple  of  young  maids  under  them — so 
much  was  absolutely  necessary.  But  when  Mr.  Tracy  proposed  a 
phaeton  or  pony-carriage,  he  was  almost  surprised  at  the  haste  and 
decision  with  which  his  proposal  was  negatived.  It  was  in  vain 
that  he  assured  her  over  and  over  again  that  such  a  convenience 
was  thought  nothing  in  the  country ;  that  it  was  indispensable, 
respectable,  and  only  becoming  her  station.  Miss  Maturin  shook 
her  head ;  she  would  never  ride  or  drive  when  she  could  walk.  She 
could  not  help  it  if  people  looked  down  on  her  and  called  her 


100  ROBERT  OR&S  ATONEMENT. 

stingy.  She  must  learn  to  live  without  her  neighbours'  good 
opinion,  she  supposed.  And  her  lips  trembled  and  set  themselves 
as  she  said  this. 

"  But,  my  dear,  how  will  you  manage  to  spend  your  money  1" 
Mr.  Tracy  had  persisted,  "with  no  house-rent,  and  handsome 
annuities  secured  to  the  servants  1  Recollect,  you  owe  it  to  your 
benefactress  to  make  a  good  use  of  the  wealth  left  you.  I  would 
rather  see  you  squander  it  than  hoard  it  up  like  this." 

"  Indeed  I  do  not  intend  to  hoard  it  up  in  the  way  you  mean, 
dear  Mr.  Tracy,"  she  answered,  smiling  a  little,  but  very  sadly. 
"  I  am  going  to  live  well  and  comfortably,  and  to  want  for  no- 
thing ;  but  you  must  not  ask  me  to  spend  one  farthing  that  is  not 
absolutely  necessary." 

"But  why,  my  dear?"  asked  the  old  lawyer,  now  thoroughly 
bewildered  by  what  he  chose  to  consider  an  obstinate  whim,  and 
yet  somewhat  shaken  by  her  seriousness. 

"  Because  I  am  keeping  it  all  for  him.  3STo,  my  dear  old  friend, 
you  must  not  be  angry  with  me.  Of  course  I  know  how  I  am 
fettered  by  that  unjust  will.  I  ought  to  know  something  about 
wills  now.  I  have  made  my  own.  I  may  never  have  the  oppor- 
tunity— of  course  I  never  shall — of  giving  it  to  him  in  my  life- 
time. But  I  am  not  very  strong.  Young  people  die  sometimes. 
He  may  have  it  all  sooner  than  he  thinks.  Oh,  Mr.  Tracy,  how  1 
wish  he  might !  how  I  wish  he  might ! " 

"  And  a  very  wicked  wish,  my  dear.  As  though  your  Maker 
did  not  know  what  was  best  for  you  and  him  too.  That  comes  of 
having  a  lot  of  morbid  fancies  in  your  head,  and  not  listening  to 
the  opinions 'of  those  who  are  older  and  wiser  than  yourself.  It 
was  bad  enough  your  making  that  will ;  and  very  weak  of  me  to 
give  in  to  such  folly  when  there  was  plenty  of  time.  Only,  of 
course,  there  was  nothing  to  say  against  it ;  but  when  it  comes  to 
your  wishing  yourself  dead  because  an  ill-tempered  young  man 
chooses  to  think  a  lot  of  lies  against  you — there — there,  we  won't 
talk  any  more  about  it."  And  Mr.  Tracy  pushed  away  his  snuff- 
box and  rubbed  his  head  irritably. 

Rotha  gave  one  of  her  soft  little  laughs  as  she  saw  him. 

"And  I  need  not  have  the  carriage  1" 

"  Of  course  not.     If  you  choose  to  be  miserly." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  mind  being  called  that  at  all.  Other  people 
may  think  me  stingy.  I  suppose  Mrs.  Farebrothers  will.  I  can- 
not tell  everybody  that  I  am  keeping  it  for  him.  But  the  thought 
that  I  am — that  I  am  only  a  steward  of  her  money  for  him  will 
keep  me  brave  and  patient.  I  know  it  will,  Mr.  Tracy.  And  in 
God's  good  time  all  this  miserable  mistake  will  be  rectified." 


ROTHA.  101 

"  There ;  go  along  with  you,"  finished  Mr.  Tracy  testily.  "  I 
am  glad  you  are  no  daughter  of  mine."  And  the  lawyer  helped 
himself  to  a  liberal  pinch  of  his  favourite  mixture.  "  And  that 
fool  of  a  fellow  can't  see  what  a  woman  he  is  persecuting ! "  he 
muttered,  as  Rotha  walked  away.  "And  she  has  made  me 
promise  to  keep  her  counsel,  too.  A  steward  of  his  money, 
indeed !  A  conceited  young  stone-flint.  My  daughter  ?  No  ! 
no !  She  is  far  too  near  the  angels.  Now  I  have  it  why  she 
wears  those  black  stuff  gowns,  and  would  not  look  at  the  silk  one 
my  wife  chose  for  her.  If  there  is  one  thing  I  hate  it  is  senti- 
mental rubbish."  And  here  Mr.  Tracy  shut  up  his  snuff-box  with 
a  click  that  woke  up  his  wife  from  her  afternoon  nap. 

Rotha  had  one  or  two  more  conversations  with  her  guardian, 
as  she  persisted  in  calling  him — she  was  very  ignorant  on  the 
subject  of  executors  and  trustees — but  they  always  ended  in  this 
manner.  She  got  plenty  of  scolding  and  grumbling,  but  not  a  few 
valuable  hints.  Among  other  things  he  advised  her  to  make  the 
vicar  her  confidant  in  all  matters  relating  to  parish  matters  and 
charities. 

"  He  is  a  good  sensible  man,  and  not  much  stuck-up,  though 
he  is  an  Ord,  and  you  may  rely  safely  on  his  judgment.  They 
say  he  is  a  rare  one  for  making  the  women  work,  though.  What's 
that  you  are  saying  1  Not  come  to  Bryn  *{  Why,  of  course  he'll 
come  to  Bryn.  What's  the  use  of  a  parson  if  he  can't  shirk  his 
feelings  when  they  interfere  with  his  duty  1 " 

"But  if  his  brother  poison  his  mind  against  me?"  put  in 
Rotha  timidly. 

"  Why,  he'll  come  all  the  same.  Isn't  it  a  parson's  duty  to 
look  after  his  flock  1  What's  the  good  of  wearing  a  long  coat,  and 
being  down  on  his  knees  half  the  day,  as  they  say  he  is,  with  his 
open  church  and  his  daily  services,  and  all  that  nonsense,  if  he 
does  not  know  his  duty  better  than  that  ?  If  he  doesn't  come  he 
ought;  and  I  hope  you'll  send  for  him.  I  suppose  you  have 
got  a  soul  to  be  saved  as  well  as  the  rest  of  the  women ;  though 
such  as  yours  must  be  safe,  I  should  think.  Poison  his  mind  ! 
Nonsense  !  Isn't  this  a  free  country  1  Why,  we  should  be 
ashamed  to  convict  a  criminal  on  circumstantial  evidence,  not  to 
speak  of  an  unoffending  young  woman."  And  Mr.  Tracy  frowned 
angrily  as  he  dismissed  the  subject  with  a  wrathful  wave  of  the 
hand. 

"  And  you  think  I  must  not  ask  Mrs.  Farebrothers  to  do  all 
the  cooking  1 "  asked  Rotha,  returning  to  the  principal  subject  of 
her  thoughts. 

"  Why,  Hannah  is  not  so  young  as  she  was,  nor  Peter  either. 


102  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

They've  had  a  hard  life  of  it.  One  cannot  ask  old  servants  to 
slave  at  their  age.  Better  have  the  two  young  women  and  finish 
with  it.  It  will  make  your  mind  easier,  and  do  better  in  the 
long-run." 

"  But  two  people  don't  want  four  servants,  Mr.  Tracy. '; 

"Two  people  want  twenty  sometimes.  It  is  no  use  asking 
my  advice  and  then  flying  in  the  face  of  it.  But  young  people 
will  have  their  own  opinions." 

"  And  you  really  think  I  must  not  ask  Mrs.  Farebrothers  to 
do  more  1 " 

"  That  depends  on  the  toughness  of  your  conscience,"  replied 
the  lawyer  grimly.  And  Rotha,  seeing  the  contest  would  be  a 
stubborn  one,  and  rather  mistrusting  her  own  inexperience,  gave 
in  somewhat  hastily  to  her  friend's  judgment ;  and  so  one  point 
was  gained. 

It  was  Mr.  Tracy's  thought  that  Peter  should  be  at  the 
station.  If  Rotha  could  have  had  her  wish,  she  would  have 
slipped  into  her  new  home  after  dark,  like  a  thief;  but  Mr.  Tracy 
had  determined  otherwise.  And  as  the  train  steamed  into  the 
station  there  was  the  gray-haired  old  servant  peering  anxiously  at 
every  well-dressed  lady  who  alighted,  in  the  hope  of  recognising 
his  unknown  mistress.  His  countenance  fell  a  little  when  Rotha 
quietly  accosted  him;  the  two  dowdily-dressed  women  standing 
by  their  boxes  had  not  once  attracted  Peter's  notice,  whose  ideas 
of  mistresses  were  chiefly  founded  on  Mrs.  Ord's  satins  and  sables. 
The  tall  thin  girl  in  black  might  have  passed  for  her  own  maid, 
only  a  lady's-maid  would  have  been  smarter.  The  quiet  tone  of 
authority,  however,  left  him  no  room  for  doubt. 

"  Peter,  will  you  help  Mrs.  Carruthers  to  count  the  boxes  ? 
She  is  at  the  luggage-van.  I  suppose  you  have  a  cab  for  us  out- 
side? Thank  you.  I  will  wait  here  till  you  have  seen  to  the 
luggage."  And,  as  the  bewildered  servant  obeyed  his  orders,  she 
leant  wearily  against  a  truck  till  Mrs.  Carruthers  summoned  her. 

Blackscar  and  Kirkby  were  looking  their  best  that  evening. 
Such  season  as  appertained  even  to  Blackscar  was  rapidly  filling 
the  scanty  measure  of  lodging-houses  and  hotels.  The  old-fashioned 
shops  were  dressed  more  gaily  than  usual,  the  jewellers  especially. 
The  carvers  of  jet  might  have  hanged  themselves  by  hundreds  on 
the  long  pendants  and  chains  of  curious  workmanship  that  de- 
corated their  shop-fronts.  The  endless  festoons  filled  the  lookers- 
on  with  incipient  feelings  of  strangulation.  Nobs  and  blocks  of 
funereal-looking  jet  resolved  themselves  everywhere  into  earrings 
and  other  instruments  of  torture.  To  judge  from  their  mul- 
tiplicity, every  female  in  Blackscar  might  have  been  condemned 


ROT  HA.  103 

by  some  fury  of  fashion  to  carry  black  weights  protruding  from 
the  lobes  of  their  ears  in  the  shape  of  rings,  startling-looking 
butterflies  and  daisies,  pinnacles  and  oblongs,  cruciform  mon- 
strosities, and  other  relics  of  barbarism. 

The  haberdashers  were  not  nearly  so  prolific  of  goods  :  a  meagre 
supply  of  blue  draperies  festooned  the  windows  of  the  principal 
depot  of  fashion,  to  be  relieved  on  the  morrow  by  a  still  more 
scanty  supply  of  green ;  every  day  of  the  week  had  its  appropriate 
colour,  its  faint  pinks,  and  its  dingy  browns.  The  shell-shops 
looked  brighter,  and  drove  a  brisk  trade  with  the  young  members 
of  the  community ;  but  then  Blackscar  was  a  little  out  of  date. 

Still,  it  was  looking  its  best  this  evening.  There  was  plenty 
of  sunshine.  Some  church-bells  were  pealing.  The  air  was  blow- 
ing freshly  from  the  sea.  An  itinerant  band  of  music  had  struck 
up.  Knots  of  gaily-dressed  people  lingered  on  the  sea-wall  or  at 
breezy  corners.  Now  and  then,  down  some  side  street,  Rotha 
could  catch  a  glimpse  of  yellow  sands — of  a  sea  intensely  blue ; 
now  and  then  there  was  a  sudden  sense  of  salt  freshness,  faint  sea- 
weedy  smells,  a  slow  ripple,  and  a  pause,  and  then  the  low  musical 
rush  of  a  breaking  wave — some  restless  pulse  of  Rotha's  heart  beat 
more  quickly  when  she  heard  that.  Down  past  the  Grammar 
School  and  the  rows  of  low  bow -windowed  houses ;  past  the 
church,  with  its  lich-gate,  with  the  Leatham  Hills,  and  the  flicker- 
ing fires  smoking  luridly  in  the  distance ;  behind  it,  down  past  the 
schoolhouse  and  the  sexton's ;  and  there  were  the  grass  hillocks 
and  the  long  sandy  sweep,  the  whole  grand  curve  of  the  bay,  with 
Welburn  lying  westward. 

Rotha  uttered  a  little  cry  of  pleasure  at  that  sight.  How  still 
and  calm  it  all  looked !  What  blue  distances,  what  masses  of 
black  uncovered  rocks  ;  how  lurid  those  tongues  of  murky  flame 
looked  from  those  distant  furnaces,  and  how  softly  the  purple  line 
of  hills  cut  against  the  sunset  sky.  They  had  passed  a  lew  white- 
washed cottages  and  a  gray-looking  house  or  two.  By  and  by 
they  came  to  a  bridge  over  a  disused  little  railroad,  and  nearly 
opposite,  another  gray  house,  a  little  larger  and  more  substantial 
than  the  others ;  beyond  this  were  some  stubble-fields,  a  suspicion 
of  distant  factories,  a  tract  of  barren  land,  intersecting  railroads, 
sandy  hillocks  in  profusion,  with  a  range  of  rabbit-warrens  below. 

Rotha  knew  this  was  Bryn  almost  before  they  stopped.  As 
she  walked  across  the  strip  of  green  lawn  she  was  almost  relieved 
at  the  want  of  pretentiousness  about  the  whole  place. 

Bryn  was  an  old-fashioned  two-storied  house,  built  of  greystone, 
which  gave  it  a  weather-beaten  aspect.  Just  now  its  many  cracks 
and  stains  were  hidden  under  a  wealth  of  greenery  and  climbing 


104  ROBERT  ORWS  ATONEMENT. 

roses,  which  festooned  the  bay-windows  and  crept  in  luxuriant 
confusion  over  the  stone  porch  ;  long  trails  of  Virginia  creeper 
covered  up  the  gray  baldness  and  made  old  age  beautiful. 

The  front  door  stood  open.  Rotha  had  just  time  to  catch  a 
glimpse  of  a  long  dusky  hall,  with  a  wide  shallow  staircase,  and 
glass  doors  opening  on  to  a  pleasant  lawn,  before  a  woman  with  a 
shrewd  sensible  face  came  from  behind  some  swing  doors  with 
two  comely-looking  country  lasses  behind  her. 

"  Now  Prudence,  now  Emma,  here's  the  new  mistress.  Come, 
look  alive,  girls  !  Where's  your  manners  ?  I  am  sure,  Miss 
Maturin,  we  all  bid  you  welcome  kindly  to  your  new  home,"  con- 
tinued Mrs.  Farebrothers,  as  she  dropped  one  hurried  curtsey  after 
another,  in  dire  perplexity  as  to  which  the  new  mistress  really  was. 
She  was  fixing  on  Mrs.  Carruthers  in  her  mind  when  Miss  Maturin 
quietly  stepped  forward. 

"  This  is  my  friend  Mrs.  Carnithers,  Hannah,  who  is  to  come 
and  live  with  me.  I  am  Miss  Maturin.  I  am  sure  you  mean  to 
welcome  us  very  kindly.  I  have  heard  so  much  of  you  and  of 
Peter,"  continued  the  young  girl,  holding  out  her  hand  to  each ; 
"you  have  been  such  faithful  servants  and  friends  to  my  bene- 
factress— I  have  heard  her  so  often  talk  of  you  both — that  I  feel 
as  though  I  know  you  already."  And  then,  as  Hannah  held  her 
apron  to  her  eyes,  she  turned  round  with  a  kind  word  and  a  smile 
to  the  two  shy  damsels  behind. 

"I'll  never  think  that  silks  and  satins  make  a  lady  again," 
said  Peter,  when  he  sat  down  beside  the  hearth  that  evening,  when 
all  the  bustle  of  the  arrival  was  over.  "  I  was  thinking  to  myself 
at  the  station  how  that  young-looking  creature  in  the  black  stuff 
gown  can't  be  our  Miss  Maturin — why,  our  Betsy  was  a  sight 
smarter  than  her  ! — when  she  up  and  spoke  to  me.  '  Peter,'  says 
she,  quite  clip-like,  and  like  a  Londoner, — '  Peter,'  says  she,  'just 
look  after  them  boxes  while  I  stay  here.'  Why,  you  might  have 
knocked  me  all  of  a  heap  all  the  time  the  porter  was  loading  his 
truck.  I  kept  saying,  *  That  young  woman  in  the  black  gown  our 
Miss  Maturin  1 '  over  and  over  again,  like  a  blockhead  as  I  was ; 
but  law  !  when  she  put  those  long  fingers  of  hers  in  my  hand,  with 
never  a  ring  on  them — did  you  mind  that  Hannah  ? — and  spoke  so 
prettily,  not  a  bit  pert  or  proud  for  all  her  grand  fortune,  I  just 
said  to  myself,  '  That  there  young  woman  is  the  right  sort  after 
all.'" 

"Yes,  she  is  the  right  sort,"  returned  Mrs.  Farebrothers, 
thoughtfully  regarding  a  tin  she  was  polishing,  and  which  was 
already  bright  enough  to  reflect  her  hard-featured  Scotch  face. 
"  I  am  not  for  denying  that,  Peter ;  but  all  this  evening  I  can't 


ROTH  A.  105 

get  it  out  of  my  mind  that  the  poor  lassie  has  a  sore  heart  of  it. 
Her  eyes  have  too  sorrowful  a  look  in  them  to  be  quite  natural  to 
such  a  young  creature.  It  made  me  dour  to  look  at  her." 

"  The  other  one  is  a  widow,  I've  heard  say,"  suggested  Peter. 

"  A  widow  or  not,  she's  no  beauty  to  look  at,"  returned  Mrs. 
Farebrothers,  with  whom  Meg's  homely  face  and  ways  had  found 
no  favour.  "  If  Miss  Maturin  wanted  a  dragon  to  keep  her,  she 
needn't  have  gone  farther  and  fared  worse.  She  is  a  Welshwoman 
by  her  looks,  if  ever  I  have  seen  one.  Well,  as  I  was  saying, 
Peter,  I  am  sure  there  is  something  lying  heavy  on  that  young 
creature.  When  I  had  given  her  the  keys,  and  said  something 
suitable  of  course,  I  was  for  showing  them  the  house  directly. 
She  wanted  to  put  it  off  a  bit ;  but  Mrs.  Carruthers  said,  very- 
sensible,  '  Better  get  it  over ;  you  will  feel  more  settled  like,'  says 
she.  And  so  after  that  she  made  no  more  ado.  Well,  the  rooms 
are  good  rooms  and  handsome  ones.  But  law  !  what  was  the  use 
of  Prue  and  me  beeswaxing  and  polishing  and  fretting  ourselves 
for  the  last  three  weeks  *?  She  only  just  looked  round  them  in  a 
tired  sort  of  way,  as  much  as  to  say,  '  I've  seen  you  all  before ; 
and  I  don't  want  to  look  at  you  again.'  The  Welshwoman  kept 
nudging  her :  '  What  a  pretty  'room,  Rotha,'  she  kept  saying. 
'What  nice  feather-beds,  Mrs.  Farebrothers.  Look  here,  my 
dear,  what  a  view  from  your  dressing-room  window.'  But,  bless 
you,  she  wouldn't  take  the  hint.  But  when  I  threw  open  the 
missis'  wardrobe,  and  showed  her  that  pile  of  yellow  lace,  and  the 
plate  and  jewel  case,  '  Don't  show  me  all  that,  Hannah,'  she  says 
very  quick  and  sharp,  and  with  a  kind  of  shudder,  *  I  don't  like 
to  see  it.  So  this  is  where  she  slept,  poor  thing;'  and  she  went 
up  to  the  bed  and  patted  the  pillow  in  such  a  pitiful  way.  '  I 
think  she  would  have  liked  to  have  laid  her  poor  head  again  there, 
Meg,'  she  said  so  soft  and  sad.  Well,  I  didn't  like  to  hear  her 
go  on  like  that ;  so  I  said  without  thinking,  *  Yes,  this  was  her 
favourite  room,  poor  lady.  That  one  next  to  it  was  Mr.  Robert's. 
Yes,  she  was  that  fond  of  him  that  she  could  not  bear  him  to  be 
far  from  her.'  Bless  your  heart,  I  could  have  bitten  my  tongue 
out  before  I'd  have  made  such  a  speech.  She  seems  to  be  a  poor 
sickly-looking  body  at  the  best.  But  she  just  went  that  sort  of 
colour  like  waxwork.  'So  that  was  his  room?'  she  said,  with 
such  a  sigh.  '  See,  it  was  just  within  her  own ;  she  always  treated 
him  as  though  he  were  her  own  son.  You  are  very  right,  Hannah, 
to  have  left  it  just  as  it  was,'  she  went  on.  '  It  must  never  be 
touched — never.  Some  day,  when  he  comes  to  see  it,  or  to  hear 
of  it,  it  will  please  him  to  think  we  have  left  his  old  room  just  as 
it  was.'  And  as  she  closed  the  door  gently  I  could  see  her  eyes 


1 06  ROBER  T  ORD  'S  A  TONEMENT. 

were  full  of  tears.  Was  it  not  odd,  Peter,  and  they  such  strangers 
to  each  other?" 

"  Odd  1  Not  a  bit.  We  shall  see  stranger  things  than  that 
before  we've  done,  missis.  What's  more  natural  than  that  a  young 
woman,  kindhearted,  with  not  a  bit  of  pride  about  her,  should  take 
on  and  pity  the  poor  fellow  1  Of  course  it  would  be  against  nature 
not  to  be  pleased  with  her  fine  fortune.  But,  all  the  same,  she 
won't  forget  them  that's  lost  it."  And  Peter  administered  a  brisk 
kick  to  the  coals  with  an  energy  that  made  his  wife  jump. 

"  Miss  Nettie  says  that  there  is  some  ill-blood  in  Mr.  Robert's 
mind  about  her.  She  couldn't  get  a  word  out  of  the  parson  nor 
his  wife  neither.  I  don't  think  they  ought  to  make  things  difficult 
for  her  because  the  old  missis  chose  to  leave  her  her  money.  Every 
one  knows  how  badly  Mr.  Robert  behaved  ;  '  but  the  stubborn  neck 
shall  have  a  fall,'  as  Solomon  says." 

But  how  much  farther  Hannah  would  have  got  in  her  quotation 
was  not  evident,  as  at  that  moment  the  upstairs  bell  rung. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

BRYN. 

"  I  know  that  this  was  Life, — the  track 
Whereon  with  equal  feet  we  fared  ; 
And  then,  as  now,  the  day  prepared 
The  daily  burden  for  the  back. " 

In  Mevnori&iTi. 
"  All  day  within  the  dreamy  house, 

The  doors  upon  their  hinges  creak'd  ; 
The  blue  fly  sung  in  the  pane  ;  the  mouse 

Behind  the  mouldering  wainscot  shriek' d, 
Or  from  the  crevice  peer'd  about. 
Old  faces  glimmer'd'  thro'  the  doors, 
Old  footsteps  trod  the  upper  floors, 
Old  voices  called  her  from  without. 
She  only  said,  '  My  life  is  dreary, 

He  cometh  not,'  she  said  ; 
She  said,  '  I  am  aweary,  aweary, 
I  would  that  I  were  dead ! '  "  TENNYSON. 

MRS.  FAREBROTHERS'  homely  account  had  not  been  exaggerated. 
Meg  had  been  deeply  pained  for  the  good  woman's  disappointment 
when  she  saw  the  weary  indifference  with  which  Rotha  viewed  her 
new  possessions ;  her  simple  praises  and  hints  had  all  been  thrown 
away.  Rotha  could  see  nothing  but  the  shadowy  Nemesis  of  her 
fate  lurking  in  the  corners  of  the  rooms.  The  jingling  of  the 
household  keys  filled  her  with  a  sharp  pain  and  dread.  While 
Hannah  opened  the  presses  of  sweet-smelling  linen,  or  pointed  out 
the  three-cornered  cupboard,  where  the  best  purple  and  gold  china 
was  kept,  or  showed  her  stores  of  delicate  preserves,  Rotha's 
thoughts  were  far  away  in  the  darkened  inn-chamber.  Again  she 
was  wiping  the  death-sweat  from  the  wrinkled  brow.  She  could 
feel  the  touch  of  the  clammy  fingers  clutching  hers  so  desperately, 
yet  powerless  to  keep  their  hold.  She  could  see  the  livid  lips 
parting  slowly  as  the  words  dropped  from  them  one  by  one, 
"  Robert,  remember  it  is  all  for  Robert."  Good  heavens  !  Who 
was  she  that  she  should  be  enriched  with  another  man's  goods  1 


108  ROBERT  ORD^S  ATONEMENT. 

Mechanically  she  followed  the  other  two  from  room  to  room. 
It  might  have  been  that  she  was  dazed  from  her  long  journey  ;  it 
was  strange  how  dream-like  and  misty  were  her  first  impressions 
of  her  new  home ;  but  in  a  vague  unreal  way  she  saw  it  all. 

She  noticed  that  the  passages  were  dark  and  narrow,  and  fulJ 
of  curious  sweet  smells ;  she  found  out  afterwards  from  the  great 
jars  of  dried  rose-leaves  that  flanked  every  doorway  and  blocked 
up  the  staircase.  And  she  remembered  how  the  oaken  carving  of 
the  balustrades  attracted  her  notice,  and  how  broad,  and  low,  and 
slippery  the  staircase  was.  In  a  dim  sort  of  way  she  recalled  too 
that  the  dining-room  was  low  and  dark,  and  had  heavy  brown 
wainscoting ;  that  there  were  marble  pillars  in  the  long  drawing- 
room,  and  a  great  Chinese  cabinet;  and  that  there  was  a  close 
damp  odour  about  the  room,  as  though  it  had  never  been  used. 
By  and  by  they  had  come  to  a  little  room  full  of  evening  sunshine, 
with  glass  doors  opening  on  the  lawn,  with  a  low  couch,  and  book- 
cases, and  a  tea-table  spread  with  all  manner  of  good  things. 
And  Meg  had  said,  "  How  bright  and  pleasant !  This  must  be 
your  room,  Eotha."  There  were  tall  white  lilies  peeping  in  at  the 
window,  and  there  was  a  great  spray  of  red  roses  overhead.  The 
church-bells  were  still  ringing  out.  Rotha  stood  looking  at  the 
smooth  green  lawn,  with  some  carrier-pigeons  strutting  across  it. 
"  Now,  we  will  go  upstairs,  and  Miss  Maturin  can  rest  and  refresh 
herself,"  she  heard  Hannah  say,  and  she  had  turned  herself  round 
to  follow  them. 

They  had  gone  into  Mrs.  Carruthers'  room  first,  a  trifle  faded 
and  old-fashioned,  but  very  comfortable,  quite  a  nest  of  luxury  to 
Meg.  The  humble  creature  could  have  sat  down  and  cried  with 
gratitude  at  the  pleasant  lines  at  last  vouchsafed  to  her.  But  the 
strange  fixed  look  on  Rotha's  face  forbade  all  such  demonstration. 
Rotha  was  glad  that  her  friend  should  be  made  happier  by  all  this 
comfort.  She  was  glad,  too,  with  a  sort  of  relief,  that  her  own 
room  looked  seaward,  and  was  full  of  soft  green  colour.  She  felt 
unconsciously  that  even  such  trifles  might  influence  her  moods 
more  healthfully,  but  nothing  had  really  roused  her  till  Hannah 
had  opened  her  late  mistress'  wardrobe  to  show  the  hidden  treasures 
— in  the  shape  of  jewels  and  lace,  and  then  there  had  been  a  sharp 
sound  in  Rotha's  voice,  never  heard  before,  as  though  the  action 
displeased  her,  and  after  that  they  had  shown  her  his  room. 

Meg  was  very  sorry  when  she  saw  Rotha's  face  at  that  moment. 
She  understood  in  a  moment  the  quick  revulsion,  the  heart-sickness, 
the  sudden  failure  of  courage :  when  Mrs.  Farebrothers  had  left 
them  at  last  and  gone  down,  she  sought  Rotha  in  her  own  apart 
ment  and  found  it  empty.  She  had  gone  at  once  with  unerring 


BRYN.  109 

instinct  into  Mrs.  Ord's  chamber.  She  knew  she  should  find  her 
there.  Rotha  turned  round  when  she  saw  her  and  held  out  her 
hand,  and  the  two  women  passed  over  the  threshold  of  Robert 
Ord's  chamber  and  into  the  chamber  beyond  with  bated  breath,  as 
though  they  were  in  the  presence  of  the  dead. 

It  was  only  an  ordinary  room,  fitted  up  for  a  young  man's 
accommodation,  with  a  door  leading  into  his  aunt's  dressing-room. 
Most  of  the  rooms  opened  one  into  another.  When  he  had  been  a 
boy  this  door  had  been  kept  open  that  she  might  pass  in  and  out 
to  him  more  freely.  But  of  late  years  this  mode  of  entrance  had 
been  closed  up.  Rotha  noted  all  those  particulars.  The  other 
boys  had  slept  across  the  passages,  anywhere ;  but  this  one,  the 
favourite,  had  always  kept  his  boyish  room,  where  she  had  first 
placed  him  when  he  was  a  delicate  child,  that  she  might  minister 
to  him  more  entirely.  Rotha  remembered  she  had  heard  all  this 
from  Mrs.  Ord's  maid. 

There  was  a  little  inner  sanctum,  which  had  evidently  been  a 
playroom  once,  and  had  been  furbished  up  in  late  years  into  a  kind 
of  rough  study.  Every  article  of  furniture,  every  picture  on  the 
wall,  belonged  to  the  boy  or  the  man.  There  was  the  bow  and 
arrows  side  by  side  with  the  case'  of  pistols  and  the  formidable 
gun.  A  fully-rigged  boat  under  a  glass  shade  shared  the  top  of 
the  bookcase  in  company  with  a  rusty  toy  sword  and  a  couple  of 
foils,  besides  boxing-gloves  and  a  life-preserver.  The  very  books 
in  the  well-stored  bookcase  told  the  same  progressive  tale.  For, 
while  the  top  shelf  boasted  of  such  volumes  as  Robinson  Crusoe, 
the  Arabian  Nights,  and  the  Last  of  the  Mohicans,  with  a 
sprinkling  of  battered  old  school-books,  the  lower  shelves  held 
handsomely-bound  volumes  of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  Ruskin,  Carlyle, 
and  other  standard  authors.  Rotha  wondered  a  little  that  their 
owner  had  left  them  to  such  useless  repose ;  but  when  she  had 
opened  one  or  two  her  wonder  subsided.  In  every  one  there  was 
the  same  clear  bold  handwriting — "  Robert  Baldwin  Ord,  from  his 
loving  Aunt  Charlotte."  Somehow  that  little  token  of  Robert's 
pride  and  resentment  seemed  to  send  a  chill  through  her  heart. 

She  dropped  the  books  with  a  sigh  and  turned  to  the  pictures. 
Over  the  mantelpiece  was  a  wretched  daub,  representing  a  curly- 
headed  child  in  a  velvet  frock  tearing  some  red  poppies  and  a  few 
cabbage  roses  to  pieces.  Rotha  puzzled  a  little  over  the  unnatur- 
ally red  cheeks  and  staring  blue  eyes  till  she  saw  R.  0.  in  the 
corner.  Some  itinerant  artist  had  painted  the  picture,  but  it  had 
been  thought  a  striking  likeness  at  the  time,  and  judged  worthy 
of  the  massive  gold  frame.  On  the  other  side  there  were  crude 
water-colour  sketches  done  by  some  boyish  hand — a  mastiff's 


110  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

head  in  crayons,  with  "Keeper"  written  in  faded  ink  under  it. 
The  others  were  prints  of  a  sporting  character. 

Slowly  and  softly,  as  one  manipulates  the  relics  of  the  dead, 
Rotha  looked  and  lingered,  and  touched  softly  the  several  objects 
that  attracted  her  notice:  the  ebony  inkstand  with  the  faded 
violet  ink  at  the  bottom,  the  well -used  blotting -case,  and  the 
carved  book-rest ;  there  was  the  empty  bird-cage  which  had  suc- 
cessively held  a  sickly  generation  of  linnets,  sparrows,  and  finches ; 
a  mouse-trap  and  a  box  fitted  up  for  dormice  still  littered  the 
window-seat ;  a  number  of  the  Quarterly  lay  on  the  cushion  of  a 
great  easy-chair  as  though  just  flung  down.  "  None  of  us  were 
allowed  to  touch  a  thing  in  the  young  master's  room,"  Mrs.  Fare- 
brothers  had  said  as  she  dusted  down  the  table  with  her  apron, 
and  Rotha  stood  and  marvelled  at  the  strange  inconsistency  of  a 
love  that  could  retain  every  relic  of  his  boyhood,  and  yet  had  never 
once  flinched  from  its  stern  purpose  till  it  was  too  late. 

After  a  while  Meg  had  drawn  her  gently  away,  and  it  was  an 
evidence  of  the  strong  but  silent  sympathy  that  existed  between 
these  two  that,  although  no  word  had  been  spoken,  Rotha  was 
conscious  that  she  was  understood,  and  was  grateful  for  Meg's 
forbearance. 

She  made  no  opposition,  therefore,  when  Mrs.  Carruthers  pro- 
posed that  they  should  go  downstairs.  She  went  back  to  the 
sunset  and  the  lilies.  The  pigeons  fluttered  up  to  her  as  she  took 
the  low  seat  by  the  window  and  tried  to  do  justice  to  the  various 
dainties  that  were  pressed  on  her  notice,  but  it  was  a  miserable 
pretence  and  failure. 

What  a  quiet  meal  it  was  !  neither  spoke  much,  but  now  and 
then  Rotha  dropped  some  restless  word  or  two.  The  red  evening 
light  fell  full  on  Meg's  rugged  face  and  figure;  the  large  light 
eyes  looked  solemn  and  plaintive  beyond  their  wont ;  to  the  elder 
woman  it  seemed  as  though  the  quiet  breadths  of  sky  were  meet 
emblems  of  the  long  interval  of  rest  that  stretched  before  her. 
Active  suffering  had  subsided  into  passive  with  Meg;  the  long 
habits  of  submission  and  a  certain  sturdy  endurance  went  far  to 
reconcile  her  to  the  inevitable.  It  was  not  that  she  ever  forgot 
the  fact  that  there  was  any  actual  negation  of  pain,  but  it  was  as 
though  she  were  some  wrecked  vessel  that  had  been  towed  safely 
into  still  waters  where  the  cruel  storms  would  cease  to  buffet  her 
maimed  sides,  and  where  there  was  no  fear  that  she  should  be 
torn  roughly  from  her  anchorage,  where,  for  a  little  while  at  least, 
she  might  be  left  to  float  idly  and  at  peace. 

Meg  could  have  chanted  the  "Nunc  Dimittis"  as  she  sat  there. 
Afterwards,  as  she  unpacked  Rotha's  things  and  put  away  her 


BRYN.  HI 

own  poor  little  store  of  clothes  and  books,  she  broke  into  fragments 
of  it ;  Prue  could  hear  the  grave  deep  voice  chanting  brief  snatches 
as  she  put  away  the  things  in  the  sweet-smelling  drawers  :  all  sorts 
of  lavender  bags  and  sprigs  of  rosemary  were  strewn  there.  "  The 
green  pastures  and  the  still  waters  " — she  was  thankful  for  them 
all.  Here  she  thought  she  would  dwell  safely,  doing  daily  duty 
and  praying  loving  prayers  for  her  stray  sheep — her  poor  prodigal : 
she  always  thought  of  Jack  as  she  read  the  story  of  the  Prodigal 
Son ;  he  was  afar  off  even  now  feeding  on  the  husks ;  not  till  he 
was  a-hungered,  till  the  measure  of  his  degradation  was  filled  up, 
and  want  and  misery  impelled  that  feeble  repentance,  should  she 
ever  see  him  again.  But  she  always  knew  that  she  would  see  him. 

She  had  never  spoken  to  any  one  of  this  belief  of  hers  till  that 
strange  conversation  she  had  had  with  Rotha  in  Chatham  Place, 
but  such  was  her  natural  reticence  that  not  even  to  her  did  she 
again  refer  to  it ;  she  shrank  from  averring  it  in  open  words  even 
to  herself.  It  was  an  article  of  her  woman's  creed,  tacitly  acknow- 
ledged and  religiously  held.  She  guarded  that  simple  faith  of  hers 
as  jealously  as  though  she  feared  it  would  not  bear  the  test  of 
human  experience.  Credo — I  believe :  how  many  a  woman,  dis- 
daining the  hard  clear  light  of  reason,  holds  to  some  such  shred 
of  self-made  evidence,  clinging  to  it  with  instinctive  trust,  seeing 
God's  image  in  the  bleared  and  miserable  wreck  of  manhood  she 
calls  husband :  mothers  hoping  against  hope,  and  leaning  all  their 
purer  faith  on  some  spendthrift  of  a  man — sisters  weeping  angel 
tears  over  some  fallen  brother,  shuddering  away  from  the  sin,  yet 
loving  the  sinner. 

Meg  never  questioned  how  this  thing  could  be — never  asked 
herself  what  should  bring  her  guilty  husband  to  her  side  again ; 
she  only  knew  that  one  day  he  would  come :  that  thought  was 
always  uppermost;  in  her  waking  and  her  sleeping  dreams  she 
always  saw  him  coming,  sometimes  by  land,  sometimes  by  sea,  but 
always  the  same,  always  ragged,  weather-beaten — a  wreck  of  him- 
self. Latterly  these  dreams  had  become  more  frequent ;  she  knew 
now  when  she  closed  her  eyes  that  she  would  be  sure  to  see  him  : 
he  was  always  in  beggar's  guise,  sometimes  so  changed  that  even 
her  loving  eyes  could  not  recognise  him.  Now  and  then  he  would 
draw  near  and  hold  out  his  arms  to  her,  and  then  some  unseen 
power  would  keep  her  rooted  to  the  place,  and  he  would  go  away 
covering  up  his  face  with  his  hands.  Once,  when  the  vision  had 
been  terribly  real,  the  thought  had  come  to  her  to  follow  him. 
Meg  never  thought  of  that  dream  without  a  shudder :  she  had 
followed  him  down  long  endless  roads,  each  one  longer  and  darker 
than  the  last ;  sometimes  she  had  nearly  overtaken  him,  when  a 


1 12  ROBERT  ORD'S  A  TONEMENT. 

sudden  turning  hid  him  from  her  sight.  She  tried  to  cry  out  to 
him,  to  utter  his  name,  but  her  tongue  was  powerless,  her  step 
grew  heavier  and  more  lagging — she  would  lose  him  altogether 
now,  but  presently  she  found  out  that  she  had  a  child  in  her  arms, 
and  that  this  was  impeding  her  progress.  With  the  subtle  reason- 
ing of  a  dream  she  thought  that  if  she  could  only  lay  the  child 
down  by  the  roadside  he  must  really  turn  round ;  but  when  she 
tried  to  free  herself  it  only  clung  the  closer ;  she  could  feel  the 
little  cold  hands  creeping  over  her  breast  and  round  her  neck. 
Those  baby  hands  held  her  fast  with  their  mysterious  hold,  and 
then  all  at  once  she  knew  he  was  behind  her  with  his  face  still 
covered  up  in  his  mantle,  and,  with  the  child  on  her  bosom,  she 
was  trying  to  draw  it  away.  The  cloak  felt  to  her  like  black 
velvet,  and  then  it  hardened  in  her  touch  and  broke  into  splinters 
as  though  it  were  wood ;  but  still  she  tore  and  grappled  with  it, 
when  all  at  once  it  rent  asunder  and  there  was  the  grinning  face 
of  a  skeleton  behind  it. 

Meg  had  woke  from  that  dream  with  a  loud  cry,  but  she 
never  told  any  one  of  her  terror.  For  a  few  days  she  went  about 
almost  silently,  and  something  of  strained  pallor  in  her  looks ;  her 
faith  had  received  a  shock.  What  if  he  were  already  dead  and 
this  was  her  warning !  But  after  a  time  her  strong  good  sense 
returned  to  her,  and  though  she  still  trembled  at  times  with  the 
remembrance  of  the  ghastly  vision,  she  soon  grew  to  believe  that 
it  was  only  an  exaggeration  of  her  excited  fancy,  and  to  strengthen 
herself  still  more  in  the  thought  that  she  should  see  him  again. 

It  was  strange  how  this  expectation  deepened ;  day  by  day  it 
harassed  her  daily  walks ;  she  would  start  and  change  colour  if  a 
beggar  suddenly  accosted  her ;  often  she  would  turn  round  to  look 
at  some  maudlin  shrinking  wretch  that  would  follow  them  whining 
for  alms.  Rotha  would  hurry  on  or  speak  sharply;  but  Meg 
always  dropped  a  furtive  coin,  with  a  "  God  bless  you,"  into  the 
shaking  hand.  Once,  when  a  gipsy  beggar  with  bold  eyes  stopped 
their  path  with  an  impudent  request  for  money,  and  Rotha  would 
have  dragged  her  on  quickly  in  the  dusk,  she  had  gone  a  little  way 
and  then  had  made  an  excuse  and  left  her.  When  she  found  him 
again  there  was  a  thin  haggard-looking  woman  sitting  beside  him 
on  the  roadside  with  a  baby  at  her  breast.  The  fellow  eyed  Meg 
in  sullen  surprise  when  he  saw  her  come  back  and  drop  a  silver 
piece  in  his  hand.  Meg  asked  to  look  at  the  child,  and  drew  the 
ragged  shawl  aside  with  her  own  hand ;  the  man  was  brutal  and 
sodden  with  gin,  but  the  woman  was  a  sickly -looking  patient 
creature. 

"The  parish  has  buried  four,"  she  said  in  a  subdued  voice 


BRYN.  113 

that  had  the  pathos  of  hunger  and  ill-usage  in  it,  "  and  I  reckon 
they'll  have  this  one  too."  Meg  burst  into  tears  as  she  put  back 
the  fluttering  rag  over  the  baby's  pinched  face.  There  was  an 
ugly-looking  wound  in  its  foot  which  the  mother  had  tried  to  bind 
up  with  a  strip  of  coarse  stuff.  "  The  master  was  in  one  of  his 
tantrums  last  night,"  she  whispered,  as  Meg  knelt  down  to  inspect 
it.  "  I  had  the  child  in  my  arms  and  couldn't  ward  his  blow  off." 
Then  the  man  got  up  and  slunk  off  in  search  of  fresh  alms. 

Meg  tore  up  her  own  handkerchief  and  bound  up  the  child's 
foot  with  tender  skill,  and  then  put  some  silver  hurriedly  into  the 
woman's  hand.  "  You  mustn't  let  him  hurt  it  again,"  she  said ; 
"  when  it's  dead  you'll  be  so  sorry — so  very  sorry."  And  as  the 
woman  rocked  herself,  crying,  but  very  softly,  lest  he  should  hear 
her,  Meg  bade  "  God  bless  her,  God  bless  her ! "  and  went 
hurriedly  away. 

Rotha  saw  the  tear-stains  on  her  cheeks  when  she  came  up ; 
she  was  waiting  at  the  gate  for  her — not  over -pleased  at  her 
defection.  "  I  don't  think  it  well  to  encourage  beggars,"  she  said, 
somewhat  sternly,  in  answer  to  Meg's  excuse;  "and  that  man 
was  such  a  repulsive  villainous -looking  fellow,  and  quite  drunk 
besides." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  Mrs.  Carruthers  had  answered.  "But  oh, 
Rotha  !" — and  Meg  hung  her  head — "  he  was  so  like  Jack."  And 
then  Rotha  had  put  her  arms  round  her  and  kissed  her. 

Meg  was  thinking  about  Jack  now,  as  she  arranged  Rotha's 
things.  There  was  a  great  china  bowl  full  of  carnations  standing 
on  a  little  round  table  beside  her — dusky-red  carnations  and  frag- 
rant clove  pinks.  Meg  never  could  bear  the  smell  of  those  flowers 
now  :  they  brought  back  so  vividly  those  days  in  Chatham  Place 
when  Jack  was  courting  her ;  when  she  stood  of  an  evening  look- 
ing at  the  dark  railway  arch  till  he  came  striding  through  the  posts 
and  down  past  the  triangular  green,  with  the  drowsy  sheep  huddled 
together.  He  used  to  bring  her  bunches  of  roses  and  carnations — 
nay,  often  she  would  put  a  few  of  them  in  her  dress,  in  the  vain 
hope  that  their  rich  crimson  might  become  her.  Jack  always  said 
they  did,  but  that  was  one  of  his  lies.  Meg's  simple  chants  died 
away  on  her  lips  now,  and  she  made  haste  to  finish  her  business. 
She  was  glad  when  Prue  came  in  and  carried  them  away.  When 
all  was  done  she  went  downstairs  and  played  softly  to  herself  in 
the  twilight.  Rotha  was  out  or  about  somewhere,  and  Meg  knew 
better  than  to  follow  her.  As  the  grand  old  hymn- tunes  floated 
through  the  empty  room,  the  bitter-sweet  memories  faded. 
"Angels  ever  bright  and  fair;"  "Let  the  bright  Seraphim." 
Meg's  courage  grew  steadfast  and  strong  now,  "  Up  above  the 


1 14  ROBERT  ORD'S  A  TONEMENT. 

thoughts  that  know  not  anguish."  Meg  could  almost  see  the 
radiance  on  her  parents'  dead  faces  as  she  wove  in  the  rhythm 
with  the  notes,  and  sang  them  softly  in  the  darkness  :— 

"  Up  above  the  thoughts  that  know  not  anguish, 

Tender  care  ;  sweet  love  for  us  below, 
Noble  pity  free  from  anxious  terror, 
Larger  love  without  a  touch  of  woe." 

Rotha  could  hear  her  singing  as  she  came  through  the  long 
garden.  Meg's  voice,  so  noble  in  its  earnestness,  always  sent 
thrills  through  her ;  she  could  have  envied  her  the  power  of  such 
utterance,  it  would  have  healed  half  her  restlessness  to  have  sat 
down  and  sung  like  that. 

Rotha  had  been  terribly  restless  when  Meg  had  left  her  to 
unpack.  She  had  grown  weary  of  the  sunset  and  lilies,  and  had 
wandered  aimlessly  to  and  fro.  Prue  and  Emma  had  come  upon 
her  gliding  through  the  rooms  with  her  black  dress  and  pale  face ; 
to  escape  their  notice  she  had  betaken  herself  to  the  garden. 

It  was  a  pretty  sunny  garden,  and  well  kept,  and  for  a  little 
while  Rotha  found  it  pleasant ;  but  after  a  time  even  this  seemed 
too  confined,  there  was  a  restless  oppression  on  her.  By  and  by 
she  would  grow  used  to  her  position.  She  thought  now  she  would 
go  down  by  the  seashore  a  little,  and  let  the  soft  breezes  blow 
away  her  pain.  There  was  a  green  door  opening  into  the  lane ;  as 
she  came  out  she  could  see  other  green  doors  a  little  lower  down, 
and  it  came  across  her  that  one  of  those  must  belong  to  the 
Vicarage. 

The  only  way  to  the  sands  was  over  the  little  bridge  that  was 
directly  opposite  Bryn.  Rotha  was  afraid  Meg  might  see  her  as 
she  hurried  across,  and,  in  order  to  avoid  her  notice  and  because 
she  would  be  perfectly  alone,  she  directed  her  steps  to  the  ridge  of 
low  grassy  hillocks  that  formed  the  warren.  Here  she  found 
herself  in  complete  solitude ;  as  far  as  she  could  see  were  green 
undulations,  or  hills  and  valleys  of  soft  yellow  sand,  spread  in  a 
connecting  chain;  a  railway  ran  through  the  lower  side  of  the 
warren.  The  ground  was  rugged  and  weedy  there,  but  from  the 
sandhills  themselves  the  views  were  enchanting.  Long  reaches  of 
sand  everywhere,  Welburn  running  out  to  sea  like  a  long  narrow 
fork,  and  then  the  grand  blue  sweep  of  Blackscar  Bay. 

The  tide  was  coming  in ;  there  was  a  delicious  cool  lapping  of 
waves.  As  they  covered  the  rocks  the  line  of  foam  circled  and 
broke  with  an  endless  slow  surging.  The  sunset  was  over  now, 
the  sands  looked  gray  and  silent,  all  sorts  of  silvery  pale  lights 
stirred  across  the  purple  shadow  of  the  water,  one  or  two  stars 
trembled  out  of  a  long  cloud,  the  air  was  buoyant  with  salt  spray, 


BRYN.  115 

Lights  sprang  out  one  by  one  from  the  distant  town ;  the  great 
building  on  the  sand,  which  Eotha  found  out  afterwards  was  the 
Convalescent  Hospital,  grew  brilliant  in  a  moment;  they  were 
lighting  the  lamps  on  the  sea-wall  too.  All  sorts  of  creeping 
shadows  came  over  the  barren  sands.  The  air  was  chilly  now. 
Kotha  shivered  and  stood  up,  and  then  gave  a  weary  little  sigh  as 
she  went  stumbling  up  and  down  in  the  warren,  now  climbing 
up  some  yielding  sand -wall,  and  now  sinking  ankle -deep  in  a 
treacherous  bank.  She  was  fairly  tired  when  she  had  reached 
the  little  bridge,  but  her  restlessness  had  worked  itself  off  a 
little. 

She  stopped  for  a  moment  at  the  gate,  and  then  the  fancy 
seized  her  that  she  would  stroll  round  and  look  at  the  church ;  she 
could  see  it  was  lighted  up  still.  She  felt  very  forlorn  wandering 
round  her  new  home ;  but  anything  was  better  than  those  twilight 
rooms,  she  thought.  She  was  glad  to  feel  that  she  was  getting  so 
tired :  no  worn-out  child  would  sleep  sounder  than  she  would  now. 
The  choir  had  been  practising  in  the  church.  As  she  went  in.  at 
the  lich-gate  two  or  three  village  lads  came  out ;  one  had  his  sur- 
plice on  his  arm,  and,  as  she  stood  aside  to  let  them  pass,  a  tall 
man  came  striding  out  from  ih&  porch.  He  had  a  loose  wide- 
awake, very  broad  in  the  brim ;  even  in  the  dark  Eotha  noticed 
the  brown  irregular  face  and  the  gleaming  teeth.  The  boy  with 
the  surplice  on  his  arm  seemed  waiting  for  him,  for  they  went  on 
together.  Both  looked  hard  at  her  as  they  went  by. 

The  organist  was  still  playing ;  all  the  lights  had  been  extin- 
guished but  one;  there  was  a  sweet  perfume  of  lilies  as  Rotha 
timidly  pushed  open  the  swing  doors.  One  or  two  gentlemen  were 
in  the  organ-loft.  Rotha  could  hear  their  voices  speaking  in  a 
subdued  way  as  she  crept  behind  a  pillar.  What  a  strange  new 
experience  it  seemed  to  her ! — almost  like  a  dream :  the  empty 
church,  the  roll  and  swell  of  the  organ,  now  pealing  through  the 
aisles  and  now  dying  away,  the  dim  light,  the  sweet  scent,  the 
blurred  outline  of  painted  windows,  the  shadows  lurking  among 
the  slender  arches.  The  void  and  ache  of  her  own  heart  suddenly 
stilled  into  peace.  Rotha  never  knew  how  it  was  that  she  was 
kneeling  there  with  the  tears  streaming  through  her  fingers ;  she 
knew  of  no  conscious  prayer  that  rose  to  her  lips ;  but  something 
of  the  hard  bitter  strain  was  lifted  off  her,  the  misery  and  un- 
reality seemed  lightened. 

When  the  organ  ceased  she  looked  up  for  the  first  time,  and 
then  rose  hurriedly  to  her  feet.  They  were  coming  down  the  aisle 
now.  Rotha  crept  still  further  into  the  shade  of  her  pillar,  but 
they  were  talking  still  in  under  tones  and  did  not  see  her.  One 


116  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

was  a  large  man,  with  curly  hair  and  wide  open  gray  eyes,  and  the 
other — Rotha  trembled  strangely  as  he  passed — the  other  was 
Robert  Ord. 

The  organist  had  come  out  now,  humming  to  himself;  in 
another  moment  the  last  light  would  be  extinguished.  She  could 
hear  them  talking  in  the  porch  still ;  her  courage  was  fast  failing 
her,  but  there  was  no  help  for  it.  Both  looked  round  in  surprise 
as  she  came  towards  them.  The  elder  gentleman,  whom  she  knew 
to  be  the  clergyman,  held  open  the  door  and  looked  kindly  at  her 
as  she  passed.  It  might  have  been  impulse  or  mere  desperation, 
but  at  that  moment  she  moved  her  eyes  and  looked  full  at  Robert 
Ord  with  a  grave  slow  inclination  of  the  head;  she  never  saw 
whether  he  returned  the  salutation  or  not.  Her  heart  was 
throbbing  almost  to  suffocation  as  she  descended  the  steps.  As 
she  passed  out  of  the  churchyard  she  knew  they  were  following 
her ;  she  had  an  odd  sort  of  feeling,  as  she  turned  in  at  her  own 
gateway,  that  they  were  still  watching  her  through  the  darkness. 
The  lights  were  shining  at  the  Vicarage  as  she  passed.  Through 
the  open  windows  she  could  hear  boys'  voices ;  a  deeper  voice  kept 
chiming  in  with  a  laugh.  A  woman's  shadow  moved  to  and  fro 
across  an  upper  window.  Two  dusky  figures  turned  in  at  the  gate. 
Rotha  looked  up  at  the  starlit  sky ;  as  she  went  down  the  gravel- 
path  she  could  hear  Meg  singing  as  she  walked  up  and  down  trying 
to  calm  herself. 

When  she  went  in  the  lamp  had  been  lighted,  a  couch  stood 
invitingly  near,  the  curtains  were  undrawn,  and  the  crisp  evening 
air  stole  through  the  open  window.  Meg  gave  a  welcoming  smile 
as  she  closed  the  piano. 

"Where  have  you  been,  Rotha  1  Why,  my  poor  child,  how 
white  and  weary  you  look  ! "  she  said  as  she  came  forward. 

"  White  and  weary,  indeed  !  "  Rotha  gave  one  of  her  wistful 
smiles  as  she  looked  up  in  Meg's  face.  "  Sit  down  by  me,  Meg. 
How  bright  and  homelike  it  all  looks.  I  have  been  very  weak 
and  wicked,  while  you  have  been  singing  like  an  angel ;  but  it  did 
me  good — that  and  the  music  in  church." 

"In  church,  Rotha?" 

"Yes,  I  have  been  in  church,  and  on  the  shore,  and  every- 
where ;  but  I  think  I  liked  the  music  best.  As  I  came  out  in  the 
porch  I  saw  him,  and  he  saw  me.  What  a  handsome  man  he  is, 
Meg  !  if  only  he  were  not  so  ungentle." 

"  Whom  do  you  mean  1 "  asked  Meg  anxiously,  for  there  was  a 
strange  shining  in  Rotha's  eyes. 

"  Who  1  why,  Robert  Ord,  to  be  sure — my  Nemesis,  as  I  call 
him.  I  think  I  have  seen  them  all  now,  only  no  one  knew  me 


BRYN.  117 

but  he.  Meg,  wasn't  it  strange,  almost  beautiful,  after  what  has 
passed,  that  we  should  meet  first  there1?" 

"Do  you  mean  that  you  met  in  the  church,  dear?" 

"  Yes,  and  then  in  the  porch.  I  turned  round  and  looked  at 
him.  I  felt  I  had  a  right  to  be  acknowledged  there.  I  suppose 
you  will  chide  me  for  being  fanciful,  but  somehow  I  took  it  as  a 
good  omen.  It  seems  to  me  as  though  it  must  come  right  now." 

"  I  quite  understand  you,  dear." 

" Do  you,  Meg?" 

"  Yes,  fully  and  entirely."  And  then  Rotha,  with  the  same 
strange  shining  in  her  eyes,  had  bidden  her  good-night  and  gone 
up  to  bed. 

"  Who  was  that  young  lady  in  black  who  gave  you  so  marked 
a  recognition?"  asked  the  Vicar  curiously,  when  he  had  locked  the 
door  and  overtaken  his  brother  in  the  churchyard. 

"Oh,  you  noticed  that,  Austin,  did  you?" 

"  Yes ;  I  was  holding  open  the  door  for  her.  I  thought  she 
seemed  nervous ;  she  passed  me  so  hurriedly.  Why,  Robert ! " 
suddenly  struck  by  something  peculiar  in  his  brother's  tone,  "  you 
don't  mean  to  say  that  that  was " 

"  Our  neighbour  at  Bryn  ?  Indeed  I  do,  Austin.  There  she 
is  before  us — just  turning  round  by  the  schoolhouse.  You  can 
see  her  like  a  black  shadow  in  the  distance." 

"  Good  heavens  !  and  that  was  Miss  Maturin  ? "  ejaculated  the 
Vicar ;  but  his  brother  remained  silent. 

"To  think  of  her  coming  to  church  the  first  evening,"  he 
began  again,  after  a  long  pause,  during  which  they  had  been  walk- 
ing on  briskly.  "  Why,  she  could  only  have  arrived  at  Kirkby 
this  afternoon." 

"I  don't  know  where  you  got  your  information,  Austin," 
observed  the  other  drily. 

"  Why,  I  should  certainly  have  heard  it  from  Peter  Fare- 
brothers  if  she  had  come  yesterday.  I  met  him  down  in  Blackscar 
last  evening,  but  he  never  said  one  word  about  Miss  Maturin  being 
expected." 

"Peter  is  not  quite  such  a  talker  as  his  wife,  I  suppose. 
Well,  Austin,  what  do  you  think  of  her  now  you  have  seen  her  ? 
She  is  no  beauty,  eh  ?" 

"  I  could  not  possibly  tell  in  such  a  moment.  She  appeared 
to  be  in  great  trouble,  and  had  evidently  been  crying.  As  far  as 
I  could  see  in  the  dim  light  she  looked  very  young.  I  was  so 
surprised  when  she  turned  round  and  bowed  to  you  in  that 
marked  manner." 

"  Wasn't  it  cool  and  self-possessed  ?     That  is  just  what  I  so 


118  ROBERT  ORD'S  A  TONEMENT. 

dislike  in  those  sort  of  women.  They  have  such  an  astonishing 
amount  of  assurance."  And  Robert,  who  was  in  no  very  good 
mood,  thought  of  that  walk  from  Eglistone  Abbey  when  Rotha 
had  quietly  declared  her  intention  of  not  shunning  him. 

"  Yes ;  and  it  was  so  strange,  too,  her  coming  to  church  the 
first  evening  of  her  arrival,"  returned  the  Vicar,  who  had  been 
much  struck  by  this  coincidence.  "  Are  you  coming  in  again  to 
us  this  evening,  Robert?" 

"Well,  I  don't  know.  I  have  not  said  good-night  to  Belle. 
Perhaps  I  will  come  in  for  a  moment." 

The  Vicar  paused  with  his  hand  on  the  gate. 

"  Better  not  say  a  word  about  it  to-night.  Mary  has  had  a 
worrying  day,  and  Belle  does  not  seem  very  well.  It  will  not 
make  them  sleep  sounder  to  tell  them  we've  seen  Miss  Maturin." 

"  That  is  as  you  think  best,"  returned  Robert,  rather  shortly. 
He  had  no  particular  wish  for  any  gossip  with  Mary,  but  it  did 
strike  him  as  rather  hard  that  he  should  not  say  a  word  or  two 
about  it  to  Belle.  It  did  not  mend  matters  that  Belle  had  a  sick 
headache,  and  could  not  come  to  the  supper-table.  He  bade  them  all 
a  gloomy  good-night  on  hearing  that,  and  went  back  to  his  desolate 
house.  It  looked  very  desolate  to-night.  As  he  turned  in  at  the 
gate  he  looked  across  at  Bryn.  There  were  lights  moving  in  the 
upper  windows ;  there  was  quite  a  stream  of  radiance  on  the  little 
bridge.  "So  it  has  come  at  last ! "  he  muttered.  " I  wish  I 
could  have  spoken  to  Belle  to-night.  How  oddly  the  girl  looked 
at  me,  and  how  pale  she  was  !  Austin  was  right.  She  looked 
younger  than  usual,  or  else  it  was  the  gaslight.  Well,  all  I  hope 
is  that  I  am  not  beginning  to  hate  her." 

What  made  Robert  Ord  pause  in  his  prayers  that  night — "  for- 
give us  our  trespasses  ? "  Long  after  the  lights  were  out  at  Bryn 
and  the  Vicarage  people  asleep  Robert  Ord  tossed  wearily  on  his 
bed  with  the  broken  clause  weaving  in  and  out  of  his  thoughts : 
"forgive  us  our  trespasses." 


CHAPTER   XII. 
NETTIE'S  CONSPIRACY. 

11  There  was  a  little  stubborn  dame 
Whom  no  authority  could  tame, 
Restive  by  long  indulgence  grown, 
No  will  she  minded  but  her  own. " 

WILKIE 

"  ARE  you  going  to  church  this  evening,  Rotha  1 " 

"Yes,  Meg." 

"  Very  well ;  I  will  accompany  you."  And  without  any 
further  word  Mrs.  Carruthers  'quickly  arrayed  herself  in.  her 
bonnet  and  shawl  and  followed  Rotha  through  the  green  door  in 
the  lane. 

The  day  had  been  a  strange  one  to  both  the  women.  It  was 
the  first  day  in  their  new  life  together.  Rotha  had  come  down  to 
breakfast  that  morning,  looking  indeed  grave  and  preoccupied,  but 
with  a  certain  quiet  determination  which  had  grown  out  of  her 
last  night's  struggles.  Meg,  who  was  watching  her,  was  secretly 
relieved  to  see  her  take  the  head  of  the  table,  instead  of  relinquish- 
ing it  to  her,  as  she  had  once  threatened  to  do.  After  breakfast 
she  had  had  a  long  housewifely  conversation  with  Hannah  Fare- 
brothers,  and  had  then  asked  Mrs.  Carruthers  to  go  over  the  house 
again  with  her.  As  they  went  from  one  room  to  another  Rotha 
quietly  pointed  out  one  or  two  improvements  that  might  be  effected 
in  the  arrangements,  and  asked  her  opinion.  Meg  noticed  she 
avoided  the  passage  that  led  to  Mrs.  Ord's  room  till  the  last,  when 
she  had  led  the  way  to  it  hurriedly,  saying  that  Mr.  Tracy  had 
wished  her  to  go  over  the  inventory  of  the  plate  and  linen,  and 
that  she  supposed  that  an  unpleasant  business  had  better  be  got 
over  at  once. 

The  stores  of  shining  things,  the  hordes  of  velvet  and  satin 
and  delicate  old  cobweb  lace,  were  like  revelations  out  of  another 
world  to  simple  Meg,  who  had  never  seen  anything  finer  than  her 
mother's  collar  of  real  Valenciennes.  The  fairy  godmother  in 


120  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

Cinderella  might  have  conjured  up  those  dainty  little  heaps  of 
Mechlin  and  point  lace.  There  was  a  warm  subtle  fragrance  of 
attar  of  roses  hidden  among  those  heaps.  Rotha's  slender  fingers 
counted,  adjusted,  and  readjusted  all  in  perfect  order.  "Yes, 
that  is  very  beautiful,  I  suppose ;  but  I  am  no  judge.  There  are 
the  collarettes,  Hannah ;  put  them  back  carefully  into  the  collar- 
box.  I  have  finished  the  list  now."  And  the  young  girl  put 
back  her  hair  wearily  from  her  brow  as  though  she  had  finished 
some  troublesome  business.  Meg  could  hardly  credit  such  sublime 
indifference. 

They  had  spent  the  afternoon  on  the  shore  together,  and  after 
tea  the  bells  had  rung  out,  and  Rotha  had  announced  her  intention 
of  going  to  the  service.  Meg  would  not  have  gainsaid  her  for  the 
world ;  but  she  felt  terribly  anxious.  "  What  a  brave  spirit  she 
must  have  ! "  she  thought,  as  she  moved  down  the  pew  to  be 
nearer  to  her.  Rotha  looked  across  at  her  with  an  odd  little 
smile,  as  though  she  read  her  thought.  Most  of  the  small  con- 
gregation were  already  in  the  church.  The  churchwarden,  a 
white-headed  old  man  with  square  shoulders,  lumbered  across  the 
aisle  and  offered  her  a  hymn-book.  The  tall  young  man  with  the 
brown  puckered  face  went  swinging  across  the  chancel  with  stray 
surplices  on  his  arm ;  and  the  boy  who  had  waited  for  him  the 
previous  evening  came  out  of  the  vestry-door  and  looked  hard  at 
Rotha  as  he  passed.  Just  before  service  commenced  two  ladies 
came  in  and  took  their  places  near  her. 

Rotha  looked  at  them  a  little  curiously ;  they  were  evidently 
sisters,  and  very  quietly  dressed.  The  elder  lady  was  rather 
matronly,  and  had  a  sweet  motherly  face;  and  the  younger  one 
was  very  beautiful,  but  just  a  little  worn  and  faded-looking.  Rotha 
found  herself  watching  them  from  time  to  time  with  unwonted 
interest ;  directly  they  had  entered  the  clergyman  took  his  place 
in  the  reading-desk.  Rotha  recognised  him  at  once  as  the  same 
who  had  held  open  the  door  for  her  last  night.  He  read  the  ser- 
vice in  a  clear  sonorous  voice.  Now  and  then  there  were  odd 
breaks  in  it  as  of  caught  breaths,  which  gave  it  a  momentary 
hesitation.  Rotha  noticed  this  peculiarity  in  a  moment;  to  her 
there  was  something  persuasive,  almost  pathetic  in  those  low 
tender  breaks.  Afterwards,  when  he  preached,  she  understood  the 
suppressed  power  and  tenderness  of  the  man.  Austin  Ord  often 
hesitated  in  his  delivery;  his  language  was  simple  and  often 
homely ;  but  now  and  then  the  force  and  evidence  of  the  truth 
within  him  found  outlet  in  a  flood  and  torrent  of  words. 
Then  he  was  eloquent ;  then  his  power  made  itself  felt ;  then  he 
stirred  men's  hearts,  appealing  to  each  separate  individuality, 


NETTIE'S  CONSPIRACY.  121 

winning  them  less  by  the  power  of  argument  than  by  the  gentle 
ness  of  love. 

"  Our  parson  always  seems  to  be  preaching  to  himself,"  was 
the  observation  of  a  poor  parishioner  once ;  and  the  homely  speech 
goes  far  to  explain  the  general  tenor  of  the  Vicar's  sermons. 
They  were  more  persuasive  than  aggressive.  The  thunders  of  the 
law  were  seldom  touched  upon  except  in  some  case  of  notorious 
backsliding,  and  then  the  Vicar  would  be  simply  terrible.  Austin 
seldom  alluded  to  the  pit  of  perdition ;  the  brimstone  and  fire  of 
the  Dissenters  were  an  offence  to  him.  He  rarely  informed  his 
flock  that  they  were  miserable  sinners  except  when  he  read  the 
Confession ;  he  left  every  one  to  apply  to  himself  "  the  worm,  and 
no  man  "  of  the  Psalmist.  Instead  of  that  he  was  always  telling 
his  people  that  he  loved  and  pitied  them ;  he  spoke  to  them  as 
though  he  knew  so  well  that  they  must  be  oppressed  with  their 
own  knowledge  of  their  sin,  as  though  he  must  help  them  to  bear 
the  sorrow  of  their  own  pitiable  failures,  as  though  the  one  thing 
to  be  dreaded  was  their  lack  of  courage.  "  Never  lose  heart,"  he 
would  say  Sunday  after  Sunday.  "  A  scrupulous  sadness  cannot 
help  any  one ;  we  may  be  very  sorry  for  what  is  past  and  yet  not 
lose  our  manhood  over  it.  We  have  all  been  spendthrifts,  have  all 
wasted  our  substance;  let  us  at  least  gather  up  the  fragments 
that  remain." 

Rotha  liked  his  voice,  it  gave  her  a  comforting  assurance  of 
pleasant  vigour  and  strength.  The  tall  young  man,  whom  Rotha 
fully  recognised  as  another  Ord,  read  the  Lessons ;  she  was  sure  in 
her  own  mind  that  he  was  the  youngest  brother,  Garton ;  but,  all 
the  same,  he  puzzled  her.  She  could  not  make  him  out  at  all. 
She  thought  of  the  gleaming  teeth  last  night  and  the  laughter 
through  the  Vicarage  windows  ;  she  could  not  reconcile  last  night's 
merriment  with  the  stern  ascetic  face  and  dark  closely -cropped 
hair.  As  he  went  swinging  backwards  and  forwards  through  the 
chancel  with  his  head  thrown  well  back,  and  his  grand-looking 
shoulders  squaring  themselves,  he  reminded  her  of  some  young 
Knight-Templar  or  monkish  soldier  of  the  cross.  There  was  a 
martial  stride  with  him ;  as  he  sang  he  kept  up  a  singular  swaying 
of  the  body — an  impetuous  yet  restrained  movement ;  a  swarthy 
colour  overspread  his  face.  By  and  by,  as  she  came  out,  he 
passed  her,  crunching  the  gravel  with  firm  footsteps,  a  boy  hang- 
ing on  either  arm,  and  a  whole  troop  at  his  rear.  Mrs.  Carruthers 
asked,  "Who  was  that  strange  young  man  in  the  ugly  wideawake?" 
but  Rotha  was  thinking  of  the  Vicar's  voice  and  of  Belle  Clinton's 
beautiful  face,  and  so  she  got  no  answer. 

Those  evening  services  were  the  only  breaks  in  Rotha's  solitary 


122  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

days.  One,  two,  and  then  three  weeks  had  passed  over,  but  still 
no  friendly  footstep  invaded  the  privacy  of  Bryn — no  greeting  came 
to  the  ears  of  the  two  recluses. 

For  a  little  while  Eotha  hoped  against  hope ;  she  thought  the 
Vicar  must  call ;  but  as  the  days  passed  on  and  he  made  no  sign, 
she  quietly  abandoned  all  such  hopes  and  began  to  look  her  position 
in  the  face,  and  for  fear  her  courage  should  fail  before  the  blank 
prospect  of  her  monotonous  life,  she  set  herself  daily  tasks,  she 
took  up  a  slow  grinding  of  regular  employment  and  duties  which 
were  to  fill  up  every  hour  of  the  day.  An  idle  moment  was  an 
abomination  to  her — she  fought  her  restlessness  stoutly.  Meg  was 
almost  stunned  by  her  prodigious  energy. 

When  her  light  household  duties  were  discharged,  she  devoted 
herself  to  a  severe  course  of  self-improvement.  She  studied  music 
under  Meg's  tuition ;  she  even  began  German.  One  day  she  sent 
in  from  Blackscar  a  bale  of  flannel  and  some  remnants  of  coarse 
woollen  stuff,  and,  with  Mrs.  Carruthers'  help,  began  to  cut  it  into 
an  infinite  number  of  garments.  She  made  Prue  and  Emma  help ; 
her  basket  of  ready-made  linen  would  have  done  credit  to  Dorcas  ; 
to  see  her  stitching  in  the  midst  of  her  maids  would  have  astonished 
the  most  industrious  matron.  While  she  worked  she  made  Meg 
read  to  her.  Rigid  in  her  self-discipline,  she  was  inflexible  and 
hard  in  her  choice  of  books.  She  and  Meg  did  a  vast  amount  of 
politics  and  theology.  Carlyle  and  Ruskin  were  their  lightest 
specimens  of  literature. 

During  their  hours  of  recreation  they  worked  in  the  garden  or 
went  down  to  the  shore  j  now  and  then  they  did  an  afternoon's 
shopping  in  Blackscar.  As  they  passed  down  Kirkby  village 
Rotha  used  to  look  longingly  into  the  open  cottage-doors :  she 
would  have  given  anything  to  enter.  She  was  craving  for  parish 
work,  for  intercourse  with  her  fellow-creatures,  for  something  that 
would  take  her  out  of  herself.  Such  a  monotonous  existence 
might  do  for  Meg.  Mrs.  Carruthers  never  wished  for  society,  or 
found  their  days  dull ;  she  had  her  piano  and  her  books,  and  her 
daily  thoughts  for  Rotha's  comfort ;  but  even  she  would  have  liked 
to  have  ministered  to  their  poorer  neighbours.  As  they  passed 
the  schoolhouse  she  would  stop  and  listen  to  the  children's  singing 
till  Rotha  would  pull  her  impatiently  on. 

Rotha  never  dared  to  enter  one  of  the  cottages ;  she  used  to 
look  wistfully  at  the  women  as  they  stood  in  the  doorway  with 
children  clinging  to  their  skirts.  One  evening  during  a  severe 
thunderstorm  she  had  begged  for  a  moment's  shelter  in  a  cottage, 
and  the  request  had  been  most  civilly  granted. 

Rotha  sat  by  the  fire  and  played  with  the  baby,  and  told  the 


NETTIE'S  CONSPIRACY.  123 

elder  children  a  story.  The  mother,  who  seemed  a  decent  kind- 
hearted  creature,  spoke  very  respectfully  to  Miss  Maturin  and 
looked  pityingly  at  her  black  dress. 

"You  are  the  lady  from  Bryn,  are  you  not  ?"  she  asked  when 
the  story  had  come  to  an  end. 

Rotha  nodded,  and  at  that  moment  the  door  was  briskly 
unlatched,  and  a  lady  in  a  gray  cloak  appeared  on  the  threshold. 
Botha  turned  crimson,  for  she  knew  it  was  Mrs.  Ord. 

"Good  evening,  Nancy;  and  how  are  the  children?"  she 
began,  in  a  cheerful  voice,  and  then  as  she  came  forward  she 
caught  sight  of  Rotha,  and  stood  transfixed.  "I  have  only 
brought  the  ticket  for  little  Johnnie,"  she  continued,  quickly 
recovering  herself.  "  Oh  !  there  you  are,  Johnnie.  No,  my  boy, 
no,  I  can't  sit  down ;  I  am  going  on  to  the  church  now."  And 
before  Nancy  could  interpose  a  word  she  had  closed  the  latch  and 
was  gone. 

"  Goodness  sake's  alive  !  and  to  think  of  her  coming  and  going 
in  such  a  moment  as  that,"  cried  Nancy,  looking  downright  vexed. 
"  It  is  always  Miss  Belle  that  is  in  such  a  hurry,  but  never  the 
Vicar's  lady.  Ah,  they're  pleasant  folk  at  the  Vicarage,  and  no 
mistake.  Do  you  often  go  there,' Miss  Maturin?"  She  knew  her 
name  even. 

"No,  I  have  never  been  there,"  returned  Rotha  simply,  but 
the  instant  she  said  it  she  felt  she  had  lost  ground.  The  woman 
was  too  civil  to  pursue  her  inquiry,  but  she  was  evidently 
taken  aback.  To  have  been  at  Kirkby  three  weeks  and  not  to 
have  called  at  the  Vicarage  was  a  thing  that  perplexed  honest 
Nancy.  Rotha  saw  the  doubt  and  dim  suspicion  in  the  woman's 
face ;  she  attempted  to  carry  on  the  conversation,  but  she  was 
evidently  distrustful  of  her  visitor.  Rotha  took  advantage  of  a 
neighbour's  entrance  to  put  an  end  to  the  awkwardness.  As  she 
bade  good-bye  to  the  children,  one  little  lad  detained  her  to  ask  a 
question  about  the  story.  Rotha  was  just  outside  the  door,  speak- 
ing to  the  boy,  when  she  unfortunately  caught  a  sentence  or  two 
not  intended  for  her  ear. 

"  And  what  do  you  think,  Mrs.  Price,  the  Vicar's  lady  never 
gave  so  much  as  a  'good  evening.'  'I  have  just  brought  the 
ticket  for  Johnnie,'  she  says,  and  '  Nancy,  I  can't  sit  down,'  and 
then  she  shut  the  door  quite  quick  and  sharp,  and  then  I  put  that 
there  question.  Wasn't  it  strange  now?" 

"Why,  neighbour,  I  don't  know,"  replied  the  other  voice, 
evidently  belonging  to  Mrs.  Price.  "Folks  will  talk:  there's 
Master  Farebrothers  always  hinting  there's  ill  blood  between  the 
Vicarage  and  the  big  house.  Maybe  there  is,  and  maybe  there 


124  ROBERT  OKD'S  ATONEMENT. 

isn't,  but  all  that  I  say  is  that  such  as  her  can't  be  no  good  if 
the  Vicar's  lady  won't  so  much  as  move  to  her." 

"  Move  to  her,  indeed ;  why "  But  here  Kotha  heard  no 

more,  for  she  dropped  the  boy's  hand  hurriedly  and  moved  away. 
This  was  what  they  were  doing  for  her — making  her  the  talk  of 
the  village.  Rotha  did  not  know  much  about  being  sent  to 
Coventry,  but  it  did  strike  her  that  she  was  to  be  pointed  at  and 
set  apart  as  though  she  had  some  plague-spot  on  her.  She  might 
remain  within  her  own  walls  or  walk  through  the  village ;  it  was 
all  the  same  since  Kirkby,  in  the  person  of  its  lawful  representative, 
had  virtually  excommunicated  her. 

Despite  of  her  efforts  to  bear  up  bravely,  her  hopes  were 
waning  fast.  As  she  left  the  cottage  a  feeling  akin  to  despair 
seized  her.  Of  what  avail  were  her  endurance  and  her  patience 
since  only  four  walls  were  to  be  the  witnesses  of  her  daily  struggles  1 
How  was  she  to  grapple  with  her  enemies  or  live  down  this  blot  on 
her  good  name  since  they  refused  to  meet  her  in  fair  fight  ?  She 
would  have  preferred  the  stormiest  encounter  and  the  sternest  of 
rebukes  to  this  cold  barrier  of  distance  and  silence.  They  were 
doing  her  no  harm  :  they  were  only  letting  her  alone — simply 
ignoring  her;  but  no  course  that  they  could  have  pursued,  no 
openly -betrayed  displeasure,  no  cutting  mark  of  contempt  or 
dislike,  could  have  wounded  her  half  so  much.  As  she  went  home 
in  the  dusk  through  the  wet  sandy  roads  a  heart-breaking  sense  of 
failure  and  utter  hopelessness  possessed  her.  Meg  was  singing  a 
Latin  chant  as  she  entered — "  In  Te  Domini  Speravi."  The  stars 
were  shining  out,  there  was  a  gleam  of  yellow  lamplight.  Rotha 
sat  down  on  the  wet  doorstep,  under  a  clump  of  white  lilies,  and 
covered  her  face  with  her  hands  and  cried  like  a  child. 

Meanwhile  the  Vicar's  conscience  was  ill  at  ease  ;  he  was  in 
the  position  of  a  man  whose  practice  was  at  variance  with  his 
teaching,  an  element  of  discord  was  disturbing  his  daily  peace, 
conflicting  duties  harassed  him ;  as  he  had  once  exclaimed,  in  his 
dry  way,  "  His  soul  was  weary  of  his  life  because  of  this  daughter 
of  Heth ;"  but  not  even  in  his  soul-weariness  could  he  refrain  from 
avowing  himself  a  coward. 

It  was  all  very  well  for  him  to  scoff*  at  procrastination ;  how 
often  had  he  told  his  people  that  it  was  a  weakness  beneath  a 
reasonable  man  1  "  Never  put  off  till  to-morrow  what  ought  to 
be  done  to-day"  had  been  his  favourite  maxim.  "Delay  only 
complicates  matters  and  doubles  a  difficulty."  "Now"  is  the 
wise  man's  axiom,  and  "presently"  the  fool's  motto — all  very 
good  words  doubtless.  '  And  now  he  was  himself  deferring  a  plain 
duty  day  by  day,  putting  it  awav  from  him,  striving  to  forget  it 


NETTIE'S  CONSPIRACY.        .  125 

with  the  by  and  by  of  the  most  arrant  coward.  No  wonder  the 
Vicar's  conscience  was  ill  at  ease,  and  that  his  cup  had  lost  much 
of  its  sweetness.  And  now  his  words  had  come  true,  for  he  was 
doubling  his  own  difficulty.  The  longer  he  delayed,  the  more  he 
disliked  the  whole  business.  A  peacemaker  by  nature  and  pro- 
fession, he  was  loath  to  stir  up  strife  and  ill-feeling  with  any  man 
or  woman,  and  in  his  secret  heart  he  believed  that  such  must  be 
the  issue  of  any  visit  on  his  part.  In  his  large-hearted  tolerance 
he  had  refused  to  give  entire  credence  to  his  brother's  suspicions. 
He  had  declined  to  criminate  or  to  let  others  criminate  without 
satisfying  proof.  He  had  rebuked  Robert  for  his  rancour.  He 
had  not  refrained  from  accusing  Mary  of  a  want  of  chanty.  But 
all  the  time  he  was  aware  that  Robert's  words  were  prejudicing 
him  against  Miss  Maturin.  He  had  gone  over  them  day  after  day 
and  night  after  night  till  not  a  shadow  of  doubt  remained  in  his 
own  mind.  Yes,  the  temptation  was  so  evident.  There  was  such 
facility  and  scope  for  any  feminine  manoeuvres.  Putting  himself 
in  her  place,  and  looking  from  her  point  of  view,  he  could  even 
believe  it  hard  for  her  to  do  otherwise.  All  people  were  not 
gifted  with  the  same  delicate  perception  of  honour,  the  same 
stainless  integrity.  It  was  an  error  and  weakness  of  youth,  not 
the  deep  scheming  of  age.  And  yet  youth  could  scheme  too.  She 
was  poor  and  covetous,  and  covetousness  was  a  deadly  sin.  But 
all  the  more  he  considered  it  his  duty  not  to  be  hard  on  her.  She 
had  looked  longingly  on  what  was  not  her  own,  and  had  sought 
after  it,  and  worked  for  it.  Hundreds  had  done  the  same,  and  no 
one  thought  worse  of  them.  But  all  the  more  he  felt  as  though 
he  must  keep  his  womankind  from  such  an  one. 

After  all  the  Vicar  was  not  free  from  the  Ord  feeling,  only  there 
was  this  difference  in  the  brothers,  that  while  Robert  hugged  and 
cherished  his  pride,  Austin  wrestled  against  it  as  a  fierce  enemy, 
and  mourned  over  it  as  a  heavy  sin.  No  one  knew  better  than  he 
how  often  it  had  got  the  better  of  him  and  warped  his  judgment ; 
how  many  of  his  failures,  known  only  to  him  and  his  God,  were 
attributable  to  this  hereditary  failing.  Conscious  of  his  own  short- 
comings, he  could  bear  with  the  faults  and  follies  of  others.  He 
knew  why  his  heart  was  so  unnaturally  hardened  against  this  girl, 
why  he  could  not  hold  her  blameless.  He  was  resenting  his  family 
wrongs,  his  injuries  in  his  brother's  person,  the  Ord  poverty  so 
grimly  mated  with  the  Ord  pride.  Do  what  he  would,  he  knew 
he  had  not  really  brought  himself  to  forgive  her.  The  mere  men- 
tion of  her  name  was  abhorrent  to  him.  How  was  he  to  go  to  her 
on  his  pastoral  errand,  to  calmly  sift  evidence,  and  discriminate 
and  judge ;  to  reprove  temperately  and  gravely  if  needs  be,  as  he 


126  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

had  reproved  greater  sinners  than  she  was  ever  likely  to  bel 
Would  he  not  be  rather  tempted  by  his  very  sternness  to  break  the 
bruised  reed,  and  to  repel  rather  than  to  allure  her  ? 

Our  Vicar  was  perplexing  himself  sadly  over  these  difficulties 
during  these  weeks  that  he  held  himself  aloof  from  his  new 
parishioner.  But  while  he  was  summoning  up  his  courage  for 
a  final  effort,  the  Gordian  knot  was  cut  for  him  in  a  most  unex- 
pected way.  Nettie  Underwood,  no  uninterested  observer  of  the 
Vicarage  movements,  had  determined  to  give  her  parish  priest  a 
lesson. 

During  the  first  two  or  three  weeks  after  Miss  Maturin's  arrival 
Nettie  had  kept  herself  tolerably  quiet,  only  dropping  out  hints 
now  and  then  as  to  whether  cards  had  been  left  at  Bryn,  hints 
which  had  always  been  coolly  quenched  by  the  Vicar.  But  when 
a  month  had  passed  over,  and  the  Vicarage  party  made  no  mention 
of  their  wealthy  neighbour,  Nettie's  curiosity  and  indignation 
exceeded  all  bounds.  She  accused  the  Vicar  and  Mary  too  of 
want  of  charity.  A  very  tolerant  little  person  herself,  she  began 
to  take  up  cudgels  openly  in  Miss  Maturin's  defence,  and  announced 
her  intention  very  speedily  of  befriending  the  stranger  who  had 
come  into  their  coast. 

Perhaps  this  was  the  more  provoking  in  Nettie,  as  this  line  of 
conduct  was  dictated  solely  by  curiosity  and  a  sheer  love  of  opposi- 
tion. Nettie  was  not  personally  prepossessed  with  Miss  Maturin. 
She  had  seen  her  at  church  once  or  twice,  and  had  spoken  of  her 
contemptuously  as  a  poor  sickly-looking  body,  and  had  been  much 
offended  at  her  dowdiness.  Had  she  been  any  one  but  the  owner 
of  Bryn,  she  would  have  held  her  up  pitilessly  to  the  sarcasm  of 
her  three -and -twenty  bosom  friends.  But  the  mystery  that 
enshrouded  Bryn,  the  strange  recluse  lives  of  the  two  women,  the 
silence  of  the  Vicarage  concerning  them,  and  the  whispers  which 
daily  became  bolder  and  more  exaggerated  in  the  village,  fired 
Nettie's  giddy  little  head,  and  filled  it  with  all  sorts  of  impractic- 
able schemes  and  fancies. 

Nettie  was  of  course  aware  that  Robert  Ord  had  been  disin- 
herited by  his  aunt.  Kirkby  and  even  Blackscar  were  generally 
cognisant  of  the  main  facts  of  the  quarrel  which  had  ended  so 
disastrously  for  the  three  brothers.  Already  there  had  been  many 
shrewd  surmises  in  the  village,  that  Miss  Maturin  would  be  looked 
upon  pretty  coldly  by  the  Ords.  They  had  but  slightly  guessed 
the  truth,  however.  Such  a  suspicion  as  was  darkening  Robert 
Ord's  mind  was  never  likely  to  come  to  their  knowledge.  Nothing 
was  more  probable  than  that  a  coolness  should  at  first  ensue 
between  Bryn  and  the  Vicarage.  And  however  much  such  a  state 


NETTIE'S  CONSPIRACY.  127 

of  things  was  to  be  deplored  in  the  parish,  it  was  only  human 
nature  all  over.  People  were  talking  the  matter  over  pretty  freely 
by  this  time.  There  were  speculations  afloat  about  how  long  the 
Vicar  was  likely  to  hold  aloof  from  his  new  parishioner.  "  It  was 
a  pity  for  him  to  fight  his  brother's  battles,"  they  said.  "  Every 
one  knew  how  Robert  had  brought  the  trouble  on  himself  by  his 
unyielding  spirit.  They  would  wait  a  little  longer  to  see  if  the 
Vicar  and  his  wife  meant  to  do  their  duty ;  if  not,  it  was  certainly 
fitting  that  others  should  set  them  an  example  of  Christian  charity." 

Robert  Ord  had  little  idea  how  his  daily  movements  were  being 
canvassed  and  censured.  It  must  be  confessed  that,  in  spite  of  his 
handsome  face  and  prepossessing  manners,  he  was  scarcely  such  a 
favourite  with  his  contemporaries  as  his  brothers.  The  lordly  airs 
and  proud  bearing  that  might  have  become  the  owner  of  Bryn 
were  sadly  out  of  character  in  the  managing  clerk  who  lived  in  a 
shabby  house  on  two  hundred  a  year.  People  called  him  exclusive 
and  unsocial ;  and  Belle  was  scarcely  more  of  a  general  favourite. 
Amongst  his  bitterest  detractors  was  Nettie  Underwood,  who  had 
taken  an  honest  dislike  to  him  from  his  having  ridiculed  certain 
of  her  airs  and  graces.  Nettie,  who  accepted  no  reproofs  except 
from  the  Vicar,  was  at  no  pains  to  hide  her  antagonism,  and  a  most 
amusing  feud  was  carried  on  between  them. 

When  Nettie  prepared  to  enter  the  lists  in  Miss  Maturin's 
defence,  she  chose  to  believe  the  whole  blame  of  the  coolness  lay 
at  Robert  Ord's  door.  The  Vicar  was  influenced  by  his  brother ; 
neither  he  nor  Mrs.  Ord  cared  to  anger  him  by  taking  notice  of 
their  neighbour.  What  if  she,  Nettie  Underwood,  should  put  an 
end  to  this  unhappy  state  of  things,  and  by  a  bold  move  contrive 
such  a  meeting  for  all  parties  as  should  restore  matters  to  a  better 
footing  ? 

True,  it  was  rather  a  risk.  Nettie  was  not  quite  sure  that 
such  a  course  would  be  successful.  The  Vicar  might  not  approve 
of  such  scheming,  or  Mrs.  Ord  might  be  annoyed.  Nettie  thought 
and  thought  over  the  matter  till  her  small  head  ached,  and  she 
was  in  quite  a  fever  of  excitement  before  she  could  bring  her  tactics 
to  perfection,  and  make  up  her  rnind  that  the  game  was  worth 
playing. 

Nettie  Underwood  was  by  nature  a  schemer ;  to  plan  and  to 
manoeuvre  were  the  pleasantest  excitements  of  her  daily  life.  Every 
one  knew  what  odd  out-of-the-way  things  Nettie  was  always  doing. 
She  had  curious  systems,  even  in  her  charities.  Her  almsgiving 
was  always  conveyed  anonymously.  People  never  knew  their 
benefactress  till  weeks  afterwards,  when  Nettie's  mysterious  hints 
betrayed  her.  Aunt  Eliza  was  her  pet  fiction.  She  caused  it  to 


128  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

be  popularly  supposed  that  she  could  do  nothing  without  her  aunt's 
permission.  Applicants  to  Miss  Underwood  the  younger  were 
always  referred  to  Miss  Underwood  the  elder.  That  worthy  lady 
was  often  perplexed  by  the  constant  appeals  made  to  her  in  public. 
"  I  know  nothing  about  it ;  you  must  go  to  my  niece,"  she  would 
say  helplessly.  Nettie's  harum-scarum  ways  were  a  sore  grief  and 
worry  to  poor  Aunt  Eliza. 

As  in  duty  bound,  Nettie  confided  to  her  aunt  her  little  plan 
for  breaking  the  ice  between  Bryn  and  the  Vicarage.  And  as  the 
more  she  thought  about  it  the  more  feasible  the  whole  scheme 
appeared,  she  grew  quite  eloquent  over  her  subject ;  and  though 
Miss  Underwood  shook  her  head  very  doubtfully,  she  was  soon 
coaxed  and  talked  into  a  state  of  negative  quiescence.  "  You  leave 
it  all  to  me,  auntie.  I  tell  you  I've  arranged  everything.  We 
will  have  Miss  Maturiu  and  her  dragon,  Mrs.  Carruthers,  to  tea, 
and  ask  the  Vicarage  party  to  meet  them,  Mr.  Robert  and  all." 
And  Nettie  clapped  her  hands  in  mischievous  delight  at  the  thought 
of  her  daring  scheme. 

"  Shall  you  tell  the  Vicar,  my  dear,  that  Miss  Maturin  is 
coming1?"  asked  Miss  Underwood  anxiously. 

"  Gracious,  aunt !"  returned  the  girl,  opening  her  eyes.  "How 
can  you  ask  such  an  absurd  question  1  Why,  there  would  be  no 
good  in  asking  them  at  all  in  that  case.  No,  no ;  you  leave  it  to 
me.  I  will  go  down  to  Bryn  to-morrow  and  make  a  ceremonious 
call,  and  when  I  am  quite  sure  of  Miss  Maturin  I  will  go  over  to 
the  Vicarage." 

"  But  suppose  the  Vicar  should  be  displeased  at  your  officious- 
ness,  Nettie?"  remonstrated  Miss  Underwood.  "Remember  you 
are  only  a  young  person,  my  dear.  You  see,  we  don't  know  the 
rights  of  the  case.  Mr.  Ord  may  have  some  very  good  reason  for 
not  hurrying  on  an  intimacy.  If,  as  you  say,  the  ice  must  be 
broken  by  a  third  party,  wouldn't  it  be  better  for  Mrs.  Blake  or 
Miss  Brookes,  as  the  leading  ladies  in  this  parish,  to  undertake  the 
business  1  I  hear  Mrs.  Blake  is  most  anxious  to  call  at  Bryn." 

"  The  Underwoods  are  every  bit  as  good  as  the  Blakes,  Aunt 
Eliza,"  said  Nettie,  tossing  her  head,  "  though  she  is  the  widow 
of  the  colonel,  and  goodness  knows  what  besides.  And  as  for 
Miss  Brookes  and  her  Roman  nose,  and  her  broad  hemstitched 
handkerchiefs  with  cotton  lace  on  them,  I  have  no  patience  with 
her  and  her  airs  ;  and  all  because  she's  first  cousin  to  a  baronet, 
who  beat  his  wife  and  died  from  drinking.  I  haven't  a  Roman 
nose,  thank  heaven  !  nor  had  a  gouty  old  colonel  for  a  husband ; 
but  if  I  don't  hold  my  own  against  two  such  women,  my  name's 
not  Nettie  Underwood.  And  as  for  your  trying  to  dissuade  me 


NETTIE'S  CONSPIRACY.  129 

from  a  clear  Christian  duty,  and  one  for  which  the  Vicar  will 
thank  me — why,"  finished  Nettie,  losing  breath  and  connectedness 
together — "why,  I  didn't  think  it  of  you." 

"  Well,  well,  my  dear,  don't  go  and  put  yourself  out." 

"  But  I  am  putting  myself  out,  and  one  ought  to  put  oneself 
out  to  do  one's  duty.  You  are  like  the  Levite,  aunt,  *  who  passed 
by  on  the  other  side.'  I  hope  I've  not  read  my  Bible  for  nothing, 
Aunt  Eliza — and  such  a  beautiful  copy  of  it  too  as  you  have  given 
me !  And  when  I  see  the  clergyman  of  a  parish  neglecting  his 
duty,  and  making  his  family  neglect  it  too,  and  when  I  see  an 
innocent  girl  slighted  and  put  upon  just  because  an  ill-tempered 
old  lady  chooses  to  leave  her  her  money,  I  think  it's  time  for  the 
members  of  that  parish  to  testify  their  displeasure ;  and  I  won't 
sleep  another  night  upon  it.  I  will  just  go  over  this  instant  to 
Bryn."  And  Nettie  rose  decidedly,  having  reasoned  herself  into  a 
belief  that  her  scheme  had  not  a  single  flaw  in  it. 

The  visitors'  bell  at  Bryn  had  grown  quite  rusty  with  disuse. 
As  its  hollow  clang  sounded  through  the  house  Rotha  and  Mrs. 
Carruthers  started.  Rotha  was  the  first  to  recover  herself.  "  I 
suppose  it  is  the  Vicar  come  at  last,"  she  said,  with  a  little  colour 
and  dignity.  But  her  hands  trembled  as  she  shook  the  threads 
from  her  dress.  Both  were  therefore  disappointed  when  the  door 
opened,  and  a  little  lady,  with  bright  eyes  and  colour,  and  dressed 
in  fresh  crisp  muslins  entered  the  room. 

"  I  see  you  don't  know  who  I  am,"  said  Nettie  winningly,  as 
she  held  out  her  hand  with  the  utmost  frankness.  "  I  am  Nettie 
Underwood,  who  lives  in  the  little  corner  house,  next  door  to  the 
sexton's,  and  opposite  the  lich-gate.  Aunt  Eliza  would  have  come 
with  me,  but  she  is  cutting  out  for  the  clothing  club ;  and  as  we 
are  neighbours,  and  that  sort  of  thing,  I  thought  I  might  just  come 
over  without  ceremony." 

Nettie  had  introduced  herself  with  perfect  ease,  and  with  a 
fluency  that  rather  astonished  Rotha.  It  was  something  pleasant, 
after  their  long  seclusion,  to  have  this  bright  chatty  little  creature 
owning  herself  for  their  neighbour  and  making  friendly  overtures. 
Rotha  a  little  relaxed  from  her  gravity  as  she  strove  to  answer 
Nettie's  numerous  questions  ;  during  the  next  half-hour  she  felt  as 
though  she  were  being  put  through  her  catechism,  only  the  answers 
were  far  more  difficult.  "What  is  your  name,  N.  or  M.  1"  Rotha 
found  herself  dreamily  answering  "  that  it  was  a  fine  day ;  that 
she  liked  Kirkby  ;  that  the  rabbit-warren  was  delightful,  and  Bryn 
a  most  pleasant  house ;  that  no  one  had  called  upon  her,  and  that 
she  was  not  disappointed,  having  never  expected  otherwise ;  that 
the  sermon  on  Sunday  was  a  very  good  one ;  and  that,  above  all 

9 


130  ROBERT  ORirS  ATONEMENT. 

things,  she  admired  the  Vicar's  preaching.  And  at  this  part  of  the 
conversation  she  turned  round  and  began  hurriedly  to  question 
Nettie  as  to  whether  there  were  much  distress  in  the  parish. 
Nettie  tried  to  bring  the  conversation  back  to  the  Vicar's  family, 
but  Miss  Maturin  became  suddenly  reserved ;  her  artful  question- 
ing was  of  no  avail.  Rotha  listened,  but  seemed  absent  and 
preoccupied.  She  had  resumed  her  work,  too,  most  industriously. 
Nettie  fancied  that  she  was  much  interested  in  the  few  details 
that  she  dropped  for  her  benefit  concerning  them,  but  she  made 
no  observation,  and  seemed  rather  relieved  than  otherwise  when 
Nettie  turned  the  subject  by  abruptly  introducing  the  object  of 
her  visit.  "  Aunt  Eliza  and  she  had  set  their  hearts  on  making 
her  acquaintance.  Yorkshire  people  were  never  ceremonious. 
And  would  she  and  Mrs.  Carruthers  just  come  over  to-morrow, 
in  a  quiet  homely  way  ? — they  were  only  plain  folk,"  and  so  on. 

Miss  Maturin  coloured  and  hesitated ;  she  would  have  given 
worlds  to  refuse  the  invitation.  On  the  whole,  she  was  rather 
disposed  to  like  Nettie  Underwood  :  she  thought  her  a  most  win- 
ning little  person — she  was  so'  original  and  piquante,  and  then  her 
good-natured  frankness  was  so  taking.  She  was  quite  prepared 
therefore  to  reciprocate  her  advances  in  a  general  way,  but  Rotha 
was  rather  shy  and  reserved ;  even  taking  tea  with  Nettie  and  her 
aunt  seemed  a  formidable  thing  after  the  quiet  life  they  had  been 
leading. 

"  Supposing  other  guests — the  Vicarage  people,  perhaps — may 
be  there  ?"  She  hinted  as  much  as  she  stammered  out  a  civil  refusal. 

"  Oh,  of  course,  quite  by  ourselves :  Aunt  Eliza  cannot  bear 
parties,"  was  Nettie's  evasive  answer.  By  and  by,  when  she  had 
gained  her  point,  and  had  left  Rotha  much  fluttered  at  the  prospect 
of  this  sudden  gaiety,  she  felt  rather  ashamed  of  her  little  fiction. 

"  I  shall  have  to  tell  her  it  was  an  after-thought,"  said  wicked 
Nettie  to  herself  as  she  knocked  at  the  door  of  the  Vicarage. 
"  'In  for  a  penny,  in  for  a  pound/  I  hope  fibs  are  not  very  sinful. 
We  are  told  that  we  mustn't  do  evil  that  good  may  come.  One 
can't  do  everything  that  is  in  Aunt  Eliza's  Bible.  I  suppose  it  is 
a  fib  not  to  call  myself  Eliza  Ann.  I  wish  there  were  some  punish- 
ment invented  for  every  person  who  gave  an  ugly  name  to  a  child. 
Eliza  Ann,  indeed  !"  And  then  Nettie  dressed  her  face  in  smiles 
as  she  walked  into  Mrs.  Ord's  presence. 

Nettie  did  not  find  the  second  part  of  her  business  so  difficult 
as  the  first.  Nettie  Underwood's  little  tea-parties  were  no  novelty 
to  the  Vicarage  folks ;  many  pleasant  evenings  had  been  spent  in 
the  little  house  next  door  to  the  sexton's,  and  in  truth  Auiit  Eliza 
was  somewhat  of  a  favourite  at  the  Vicarage. 


NETTIE'S  CONSPIRACY.  131 

"  Yes,  they  would  come,"  Mrs.  Ord  answered  graciously. 
"  She  could  answer  for  Austin  and  Garton,  and  even  Belle  made 
no  objection ;  and,  if  Belle  came,  of  course  Robert  would  accom- 
pany her ;  yes,  to-morrow  would  suit  them  very  well,  as  the  boys 
were  all  going  to  a  friend's  to  spend  the  evening." 

Nettie  did  not  stay  long  when  she  had  got  her  answer :  she 
was  afraid  the  Vicar  might  come  in  and  gainsay  his  wife's  words. 
To  tell  the  truth,  she  was  a  little  nervous.  She  had  played  her 
cards  well,  the  cause  was  a  good  one — she  was  more  than  ever 
convinced  of  that ;  she  was  rather  inclined  to  look  upon  herself  in 
the  light  of  a  heroine ;  there  was  a  pleasant  spice  of  novelty  and 
excitement  about  the  whole  affair.  But  still  the  idea  of  the  Vicar 
coming  in  just  now  made  her  a  little  nervous. 

Her  spirits  rose  perceptibly  when  she  found  herself  in  her  own 
little  drawing-room. 

"Well,  my  dear?"  inquired  Aunt  Eliza,  rather  anxiously. 

"  Well,  aunt,  they  are  all  coming  to-morrow,  and  so  we  must 
make  the  best  of  it.  It  is  a  pity  you  did  not  come  with  me  to 
Miss  Maturin's,  for  I  am  sure  you  would  have  been  charmed :  she 
is  just  one  of  your  and  Mrs.  Blake's  sort — goody-good,  and  that 
sort  of  thing,  you  know.  She  and  the  dragon — what  a  hideous 
woman  that  Mrs.  Carruthers  is !  and  Miss  Maturin's  no  beauty — 
were  cobbling  a  lot  of  old  serge  and  flannel ;  there  was  a  clothes- 
basketful,  and  they  had  Macaulay's  Essays  open  on  the  table — isn't 
she  an  estimable  young  woman,  aunt  1 — and  they  both  looked  as 
dowdy  and  dreary  as  a  couple  of  Quakeresses.  I  had  to  talk  hard 
to  keep  my  spirits  up  all  the  time." 

"  And  she's  no  beauty,  you  say  ?"  inquired  Miss  Underwood, 
who,  in  spite  of  her  beard  and  her  loud  manly  voice,  had  a  great 
fondness  for  good  looks. 

"  A  beauty  1  Good  gracious,  no,  aunt !  She  has  smooth  hair 
and  a  nice  figure  and  white  hands,  I  believe,  and  people  would  call 
her  ladylike ;  but  she  has  the  palest  face  I  ever  saw — quite  sickly- 
looking,  and  any  one  could  see  she  has  been  a  companion.  There's 
no  style  about  her,  and  she  was  so  quiet  and  inanimate."  And 
here  Nettie  groaned,  and  threw  herself  down  on  the  sofa  with  a 
querulous  petition  to  Aunt  Eliza  to  go  and  see  after  the  tea. 


CHAPTER   XIII. 

NETTIE'S  TEA-PARTY, 

•'  Thy  heart  can  feel,  but  will  not  move  ; 
Thy  soul,  though  soft,  will  never  shake." 

LORD  BYRON 

THAT  night  Nettie  slept  the  sleep  of  the  just,  and  woke  in  a  bustle. 

Straws  will  show  which  way  the  wind  is.  Long  before  break- 
fast was  over  in  the  small  corner  house  by  the  sexton's,  the  entire 
household,  consisting  of  Aunt  Eliza,  two  feminine  domestics,  and  a 
very  fat  spaniel  who  went  by  the  name  of  Lumber,  were  made 
fully  aware  that  the  young  mistress  was  not  perfectly  easy  in  her 
mind,  and  that  something  rather  out  of  the  common  was  to  happen 
to  them  this  evening.  Nettie — who  would  not  have  owned  for 
worlds  that  she  was  nervous,  but  who  felt  nevertheless  like  some 
miniature  Guy  Fawkes,  who  had  entered  into  a  conspiracy  to  blow 
up  somebody,  which  would  end  probably  in  her  being  blown  up 
herself — Nettie  was  in  a  fuss  and  bustle  from  morning  to  night. 

Rather  an  indolent  housekeeper,  and  in  fact  ruling  vicariously, 
Aunt  Eliza  being  both  head  and  hands,  Nettie  on  this  occasion 
floundered  helplessly  in  buttery  and  china  cupboard,  whisking 
things  into  their  wrong  receptacles,  and  rustling  in  her  voluminous 
skirts  into  all  sorts  of  improbable  places.  She  nearly  drove  Sarah, 
a  stout  Lancashire  wench,  frantic  by  standing  over  her  to  watch 
the  compounding  of  certain  sponge-cakes  and  fancy  biscuits  ordered 
for  her  guests'  delectation.  She  got  a  pestle  and  mortar  and  set 
to  work  herself,  rolling  up  her  sleeves  above  her  white  elbows  and 
enveloping  herself  in  a  floury  apron.  Sarah  would  have  gladly 
dispensed  with  her  help ;  she  beat  up  the  eggs  into  a  thin  froth, 
her  pounded  sugar  was  lumpy,  she  could  not  keep  her  hands  off  a 
certain  stewpan  where  peaches  were  simmering ;  when  extra  heat 
was  required  she  would  keep  opening  the  oven-doors  in  her  interest 
to  look  after  the  spiced  bread.  Half  an  hour  after  that  she  was 
harassing  Aunt  Eliza  and  Catherine  in  the  china  cupboard.  She 
broke  one  of  her  favourite  violet-and-gold  cups ;  that  calmed  her 


NETTIE'S  TEA-PARTY.  133 

for  a  little  while,  and  then  she  went  off  to  her  flower-vases,  but 
even  these  did  not  satisfy  her.  A  little  basket  of  bright-coloured 
leaves  that  she  had  arranged  for  the  centre  of  the  table  turned  out 
a  failure.  Fussy  work  is  seldom  successful  work,  as  Nettie  was 
finding  to  her  cost. 

As  for  Aunt  Eliza,  she  could  hardly  call  her  soul  her  own. 
Nettie's  tea-parties  were  always  trials  of  patience  to  that  much- 
enduring  woman.  Her  niece's  orders  were  so  apt  to  be  contradict- 
ory. But  to-day  her  powers  of  endurance  were  severely  tested : 
she  had  to  loop  and  unloop  the  curtains  a  dozen  times  for  Nettie's 
inspection ;  her  arrangement  of  chairs  and  table  was  declared  too 
stiff  and  then  too  negligent ;  the  card-basket  was  first  to  be  pro- 
duced and  then  hidden  in  obscurity ;  books  and  engravings  were 
declared  stereotype  and  formal,  and  peremptorily  interdicted,  and 
yet  the  drawing-room  table  was  finally  strewn  with  them.  Aunt 
Eliza  sat  down  on  the  sofa  and  fanned  herself  with  the  feather- 
broom  and  duster  by  turns  while  her  niece  talked  and  argued  the 
matter. 

Long  before  the  proper  time  arrived  Nettie  coaxed  her  aunt 
to  go  up  and  dress.  Miss  Underwood,  in  her  innocence,  was  for 
putting  on  a  certain  well-preserved  black  silk  which  she  called  her 
second  best  company  dress,  and  was  judged  good  enough  for  all 
home  occasions.  To  her  sore  perplexity  Nettie  turned  up  her  nose 
at  this  respectable  garment,  and  insisted  on  a  violet  chene,  which 
she  had  lately  and  mysteriously  presented  to  her  aunt  wrapped  in 
a  soft  white  lace  shawl.  Now,  to  poor  Aunt  Eliza's  manifest 
discomfiture,  both  shawl  and  dress  were  to  be  worn. 

"  But,  my  dear,  my  best  silk  dress  for  visiting,  and  just  because 
the  Vicar  and  his  wife  and  this  young  lady  are  coming  !  Suppos- 
ing I  get  it  spotted  at  tea-time  ?  Catherine  is  so  careless,  and " 

"Now,  Aunt  Eliza,"  said  positive  Nettie,  "what  is  the  good 
of  your  talking  as  though  you  had  only  one  gown  in  the  world  ? 
When  it  is  shabby  you  shall  have  another — that's  all.  And  mind 
you  pin  your  collar  straight,  and  don't  rumple  your  cap-strings. 
You  know  you  can  make  yourself  look  nice  if  you  like."  And 
Nettie,  who  in  her  secret  heart  believed  that  Aunt  Eliza  was  a  very 
handsome  woman  in  spite  of  her  brown  front,  patted  her  aunt 
coaxingly  with  her  little  fat  hands,  and  finally  turned  her  out  of 
the  room. 

When  Miss  Underwood  returned  in  her  robes  of  majesty,  with 
her  best  and  glossiest  front,  and  with  a  certain  pleasant  conscious- 
ness of  a  French  silk  which  stood  alone  with  richness,  she  was  a 
little  disappointed  to  find  her  niece  had  donned  a  simple  everyday 
dress.  Nettie  sometimes  affected  simplicity  and  childishness. 


134  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

Perhaps  she  knew  the  blue  ribbons  matched  her  eyes,  and  that  the 
white  dress  set  off  those  pink  cheeks  of  hers.  She  was  in  quite  a 
flutter  of  spirits  by  this  time. 

"  Now,  Aunt  Eliza,"  she  began,  as  she  flitted  round  her  relation, 
settling  her  brooch  and  putting  in  all  the  crooked  pin-points — 
Aunt  Eliza's  pins  were  always  crooked — "  I  will  tell  you  what  I 
have  been  thinking  about.  Mrs.  Ord  and  Belle  are  sure  to  come 
first ;  they  always  do.  Now,  I  don't  want  to  spoil  the  fun  by  going 
out  to  receive  Miss  Maturin,  and  to  send  a  servant  after  her  will  be 
so  formal.  So,  Aunt  Eliza,  when  you  hear  the  bell,  you  must  just 
go  to  the  top  of  the  stairs,  and  so  break  the  ice  a  little." 

"Wouldn't  Catherine  do  better,  my  dear?"  ventured  Miss 
Underwood,  who  felt  instinctively  that  she  and  her  dress  ought  to 
be  in  the  sofa-corner,  for  even  Aunt  Eliza  could  be  dignified  some- 
times. 

"  Now,  aunt,  how  can  you  be  so  silly,"  returned  Netty 
crossly,  "  when  I  have  just  said  a  servant  would  be  so  formal  1  I 
thought  this  was  going  to  be  your  evening.  I'm  sure  I  said  as 
much  to  Miss  Maturin.  I  laid  a  stress  on  your  wanting  to  make 
acquaintance  with  her,  I  know ;  and  now,  when  I've  contrived  a 
little  pleasure  for  you,  and  you  looking  so  beautiful,  too,  in  your 
new  dress,"  continued  artful  Nettie,  "  you  are  going  to  be  disagree- 
able and  spoil  it  all." 

Aunt  Eliza  was  a  big  woman,  but  she  was  not  proof  against 
such  flattery.  She  gave  Nettie  one  of  her  loud  kisses  as  she  sat 
fondling  Lumber  rather  sulkily,  and  promised  to  do  her  best  by 
their  visitor. 

Nettie  was  right  in  one  of  her  surmises.  Mrs.  Ord  and  Belle 
did  arrive  first ;  Mary  came  in,  looking  very  bright  and  cheerful, 
with  her  work  in  her  hand,  but  Belle  looked  unusually  ill.  Both 
established  themselves  very  cosily  at  Miss  Underwood's  work-table. 
Mary  made  a  laughing  apology  about  the  size  and  quantity  of  her  work. 

"  Fancy  work  only  makes  me  restless,"  she  said,  in  answer  to 
a  satirical  observation  of  Nettie's.  "  I  always  think  it  waste  of 
time,  only  fit  for  fine  ladies  or  for  the  Nettie  Underwoods  of 
society,"  she  finished  slyly.  "  Belle  does  a  little  sometimes ;  she 
likes  all  the  ornamental  parts — the  braiding,  etc.  I  sometimes 
make  believe  that  darning  is  my  fancy  work :  I  have  to  do  such 
quantities  of  it." 

"Why  did  you  not  bring  your  darning  to-night,  Mrs.  Ord?" 
said  Nettie,  who  was  not  more  than  half  pleased  at  such  specimens 
of  industry  in  her  own  drawing-room.  And  then  the  Vicar  came 
in  and  began  to  play  with  his  wife's  reels  of  cotton  as  he  talked 
to  Nettie. 


NETTIE'S  TEA-PARTY.  135 

"  Garton  will  be  here  directly,"  he  observed  presently ;  "  he  is 
only  waiting  for  Robert." 

"Mr.  Robert  is  coming,  then  !"  exclaimed  Nettie  -joyfully,  who 
had  been  rather  uncertain  till  this  moment  whether  her  adversary 
had  decided  to  lower  his  weapons  on  this  occasion. 

"  Oh  yes !  he  is  coming,"  returned  the  Vicar,  as  he  glanced 
with  an  amused  smile  at  Belle.  And  Nettie,  who  was  rather 
quick  at  such  things,  took  it  into  her  wise  little  head  that  there 
had  been  some  words  on  the  subject ;  and  she  was  sure  of  it  when 
Robert  entered  a  few  minutes  afterwards  with  his  brother. 

Robert  was  in  one  of  his  difficult  moods ;  he  had  been  very 
wrathful  when  he  had  heard  of  Nettie's  tea-party,  and  with  Belle 
for  accepting  the  invitation.  He  did  not  like  Nettie  Underwood, 
as  she  well  knew;  he  thought  her  a  forward  presuming  little 
person ;  but,  when  Belle  was  for  staying  at  home  and  letting  Mary 
go  without  her,  he  was  just  as  displeased.  Why  should  she  be 
moping  at  home  alone  ?  People  were  always  accusing  her  of  reserve 
and  exclusiveness.  He  wished  her  to  mix  more  with  other  girls, 
and  rub  off  some  of  her  shyness.  Go  !  Of  course  he  would  go. 
Wasn't  it  his  privilege  to  escort  her  everywhere?  Poor  Belle 
could  not  tell  him  that  such  unwilling  gallantry  was  valueless  in 
her  eyes ;  but  she  made  up  her  mind  that  her  evening  would  be 
spoilt,  and  spoilt  it  was. 

Robert  knew  he  had  been  disagreeable  and  contrary,  and  when 
he  entered  the  little  drawing-room  he  was  in  that  stage  of  penitence 
which  is  rather  aggressively  sulky.  He  thought  Belle  must  know 
he  felt  sorry ;  but  as  there  was  no  evidence  of  such  sorrow  in  his 
face,  Belle  did  not  know  it,  and  felt  that  he  grudged  her  her  little 
pleasures.  She  had  been  rather  inclined  to  think  the  tea-party 
would  be  rather  amusing,  but  if  Robert  were  going  to  be  stiff  and 
silent  he  would  spoil  every  one's  pleasure.  Poor  Belle  !  she  need 
not  have  troubled  herself,  for  it  was  not  ordained  that  Robert 
should  be  the  wet  blanket  of  the  evening.  Nettie  changed  colour 
when  the  ominous  bell  was  heard.  She  talked  fast  and  nervously 
to  Garton  when  Aunt  Eliza  rose  to  leave  the  room.  After  all, 
Aunt  Eliza's  task  was  the  easier. 

Miss  Underwood  was  accustomed  to  look  at  everything  from 
her  niece's  point  of  view.  She  remembered  Nettie's  disparaging 
words  regarding  their  visitor,  and  was  therefore  agreeably  dis- 
appointed and  not  a  little  surprised  at  the  favourable  impression 
made  on  her  own  mind  by  the  young  stranger. 

Miss  Maturin  turned  round  with  a  winning  smile  as  the  elder 
lady  advanced ;  her  little  overtures  of  help  were  acknowledged  by 
the  young  girl  in  a  very  sweet  low  voice.  Miss  Underwood  stood 


136  ROBERT  ORD^S  ATONEMENT. 

by  admiringly  as  Rotha  smoothed  the  coil  of  dark  brown  hair, 
which  showed  the  small  head  to  such  advantage ;  she  thought  the 
clinging  black  dress  set  off  the  tall  slender  figure  to  perfection,  and 
could  not  understand  Nettie's  accusation  of  dowdiness.  They  were 
quite  friendly  by  the  time  they  came  downstairs,  Miss  Underwood's 
voice  travelling  before  them  as  usual. 

"You  never  told  us  you  had  a  visitor,  Nettie,"  said  Mary, 
putting  down  her  work  with  an  air  of  mild  surprise.  The  Vicar 
stopped  in  the  midst  of  a  ludicrous  anecdote  that  he  was  narrating, 
and  shot  a  sharp  suspicious  glance  at  the  door. 

"No,  I — I —  It  was  an  after-thought,  she  was  going  to 

add,  but  she  was  spared  the  additional  fib  by  the  entrance  of  Miss 
Maturin.  There  had  been  quite  a  buzz  of  voices  round  Mary's 
little  work-table,  but  at  this  unlooked-for  apparition  a  dead  silence 
fell  on  the  whole  party.  Nettie's  quick  nervous  voice  broke  upon 
it  quite  abruptly  as  she  went  through  the  necessary  introductions. 

"  How  dreadfully  late  you  are,  Miss  Maturin  !  I  hoped  you 
would  not  have  been  so  ceremonious — we  are  all  friends  here.  Mrs. 
Ord,  Miss  Clinton,  Miss  Maturin,  the  Vicar,  Mr.  Robert  I  think 
you  know  already" — and  so  on.  Considering  all  things,  Nettie 
did  it  pretty  well. 

Rotha  bowed  gravely  as  she  acknowledged  each  introduction, 
and  then  for  a  moment  her  dark  eyes  glanced  reproachfully  at  her 
young  hostess.  "  You  told  me  that  you  would  be  quite  alone,  Miss 
Underwood  ? "  she  said  in  a  low  voice,  but  which  was  perfectly 
audible  to  every  one  in  the  room.  In  spite  of  its  gentleness  it 
testified  to  some  displeasure. 

Nettie  coloured  and  hesitated  ;  she  was  sure  her  little  scheme 
was  discovered  now — it  would  never  do  to  tell  any  more  fibs  about 
it.  "After-thoughts  and  surprises  are  sometimes  pleasant,"  she 
said  rather  saucily.  "  We  Yorkshire  folk  are  rather  famed  for  our 
hospitality.  We  are  often  given  to  entertain  angels  unaware." 
Nettie  knew  that  the  Vicar  was  apt  to  rebuke  her  for  irreverent 
quotation,  and  she  rather  hoped  he  would  do  so  now — anything 
would  be  better  than  that  stiff  silence.  But  the  Vicar  was  deter- 
mined to  hold  his  peace  till  a  more  fitting  opportunity. 

"  Oh  Nettie ! "  said  Mary,  much  shocked ;  and  then  she  too 
relapsed  into  dumbness.  Rotha  flushed  up  crimson  as  she  glanced 
round  the  circle  once  or  twice  rather  pleadingly.  She  was  vexed 
and  indignant  for  them  as  well  as  herself.  She  saw  what  a  trap 
had  been  set  for  them  all,  and  felt  humiliated  in  her  own  eyes. 
She  turned  a  little  away  from  Nettie  after  that  flippant  answer  of 
hers,  and  addressed  herself  to  Miss  Underwood. 

It  was  no  use  endeavouring  to  secure  harmonious  relations  at 


NETTIE'S  TEA-PARTY.  137 

present — they  must  fit  into  their  places  by  and  by.  Nettie  was 
inclined  to  take  the  whole  matter  rather  coolly  now.  Miss  Maturin's 
dignity  made  her  cross ;  every  one  felt  awkward  and  annoyed,  and 
tried  to  get  rid  of  this  feeling  by  talking  as  fast  as  possible ;  the 
circle  broke  up  into  twos — a  discord  of  duets  jarred  everywhere. 
Garton  fenced  himself  up  in  a  corner  with  Lumber  and  tried  to 
teach  him  tricks.  Robert  came  over  to  Belle's  side  and  talked 
sulkily  in  her  ear.  Rotha,  dropping  out  of  the  conversation  now 
carried  on  between  Mrs.  Carruthers  and  Miss  Underwood,  heard 
fragments  and  snatches  of  the  whole. 

"  Trust ! — paid  for  !  Look  at  him,  Bob ;  how  well  he  balances 
my  shilling  !  Miss  Nettie,  your  dog  is  a  paragon  of  talent.  Come, 
Lumber,  sit  up  again." 

"  I  don't  think  the  new  curate  will  do  at  all,  my  dear :  that 
stammer  seems  inveterate,  and  is  very  disagreeable ;  the  old  people 
complain  sadly  of  him." 

"  What  a  pity !  And  he  seems  such  a  good  earnest  young 
man,  Austin." 

"Yes,  it  is  lamentable  how  all  good  earnest  young  men  with 
impediments  in  their  speech  think  themselves  especially  fitted  for 
the  Church.  In  my  opinion  even  the  slightly-halt  and  maimed 
ought  to  be  debarred  from  the  service  of  the  sanctuary ;  incom- 
pleteness or  imperfection  there  ought  not  to  be  tolerated.  George 
Greenhithe  is  a  fine  fellow,  but  to  my  mind  he  has  mistaken  his 
vocation." 

"  We  can't  get  the  mothers  to  work,  my  dear,"  came  in  Miss 
Underwood's  deep  bass  ;  "  some  of  them  have  never  been  taught 
even  to  put  in  a  patch." 

"  You  might  have  classes  for  the  elder  women,"  returned  Mrs. 
Carruthers  timidly. 

"  Yes,  and  waste  all  our  firing  and  gas.  Bless  you  !  we  can't 
get  the  mothers  to  attend.  Some  are  laundresses  or  charwomen  ; 
they  go  out  at  seven  in  the  morning,  and  never  get  home  till  eight 
in  the  evening.  '  How  am  I  to  mend  my  children's  clothes  now  ? ' 
said  one  only  the  other  day ;  '  why,  it's  eight  or  sometimes  nine 
before  I  get  back,  and  by  the  time  I've  cleared  up  the  place  a  little, 
and  washed  out  a  few  things,  and  got  my  master's  supper,  I'm  just 
clean  ready  to  drop.'  And  so  they  are.  What  those  poor  creatures 
have  to  go  through,  some  of  them  !  And  that's  why  good  ready- 
made  linen,  that  they  can  buy  cheaply  with  a  few  pence,  is  such  a 
help  to  them.  We  are  making  striped  shirts  for  the  men  now." 

"  Oh  !  do  let  me  help  Miss  Underwood,"  exclaimed  Rotha 
eagerly.  "  Mrs.  Carruthers  and  I  do  a  great  deal  of  that  sort  of 
work. " 


138  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

"Aunt  Eliza,  ain't  we  ever  going  to  have  tea?"  broke  in 
Nettie's  fretful  voice  at  this  juncture;  and  Aunt  Eliza  dropped 
her  knitting-needles  in  some  confusion  as  she  started  up  in  obedience 
to  her  niece's  summons. 

There  then  ensued  another  awkward  pause.  "  Will  you  take 
my  aunt  downstairs,  Mr.  Ord  ? "  said  Nettie  decidedly ;  "  and,  Mr. 
Robert,  please  give  your  arm  to  Miss  Maturin.  The  rest  of  us 
can  pair  ourselves."  And  she  laughed  over  her  shoulder  as  she 
took  possession  of  Mrs.  Ord.  But  Mary  had  not  her  pleasant 
smile  ready  for  her. 

Belle  looked  after  her  lover  anxiously  as  she  saw  him  cross 
the  room  on  his  unwelcome  errand ;  it  made  him  still  more  angry 
to  see  how  simply  and  naturally  Rotha  accepted  his  attention — 
somehow  she  was  always  compelling  him  to  admire  her  dignity. 

But,  in  spite  of  Rotha's  ease  and  Nettie's  talkativeness,  it  was 
not  a  sociable  meal.  Full  justice  was  not  done  to  the  dainty  pro- 
visions ;  Aunt  Eliza's  excellent  Souchong  had  lost  its  flavour ;  every 
one  missed  the  Vicar's  merry  speeches  and  droll  jokes  :  Austin  was 
very  grave — a  sure  sign  that  he  was  displeased ;  he  talked  parochial 
matters  with  Miss  Underwood,  quite  ignoring  his  favourite  Nettie. 
Garton  sat  between  Belle  and  Mary,  and  kept  up  a  low-toned  con- 
versation with  them.  Mary  tried  to  include  Mrs.  Carruthers  once 
or  twice,  but  Meg  was  shy,  and  gave  blunt  abrupt  answers.  The 
jarring  elements  were  not  to  be  reconciled. 

Robert  talked  across  the  table  to  them  at  intervals ;  now  and 
then  he  addressed  some  stereotyped  remark  to  his  next-door  neigh- 
bour :  "  He  hoped  she  had  enjoyed  her  visit  to  London  1 "  "  No," 
she  answered  frankly,  "  she  had  been  in  no  mood  for  enjoyment, 
but  they  had  made  her  very  comfortable.  She  had  liked  Mr. 
Tracy's  wife  and  daughters  very  much." 

"  Rather  old-fashioned,"  Robert  surmised,  with  a  slight  sneer. 

"  Oh,  old-fashioned,  of  course.  But  she  liked  such  old-world 
ways  ;  it  was  rather  refreshing  after  so  many  foolish  novelties." 

Robert  tried  to  be  politely  interested,  but  the  failure  was 
evident.  Rotha  bent  over  her  plate  in  relieved  silence  till  the 
next  remark  was  forthcoming. 

"  Did  she  like  Kirkby  1 "  Rotha  gave  a  quick  startled  flush, 
and  then  an  odd  sort  of  courage  came  to  her. 

"  I  like  Kirkby  sands  and  sea,  Mr.  Ord,"  she  answered  quietly, 
"  better  than  I  like  Kirkby  welcome."  And  at  that  moment,  by  a 
strange  coincidence,  her  eyes  met  the  Vicar's.  Somehow  that  look 
of  honest  reproach  struck  the  ground  from  the  Vicar's  feet.  He 
was  glad  that  the  sudden  ringing  out  of  the  church-bell  gave  him 
an  excuse  for  withdrawing. 


NETTIE'S  TEA-PARTY.  139 

"  Why,  you  are  not  going  to  the  service,  Mr.  Ord  ? "  cried 
Kettle  in  genuine  dismay,  as  she  saw  him  rise.  "  It  is  Mr.  Green- 
hithe's  week.  Besides,  it  is  too  cruel  to  break  up  our  evening  like 
this." 

"I  will  look  in  again  after  church  and  fetch  Mary,"  was  the 
uncompromising  answer ;  and  Nettie's  heart  sank  most  unpleasantly 
as  she  marshalled  her  little  party  upstairs.  Garton  had  his 
sacristan's  duty  to  perform,  and  accompanied  his  brother.  Nettie 
did  not  like  to  confess  that  she  had  failed,  but  she  felt  terribly 
cross.  She  left  her  remaining  guests  to  do  what  they  would,  while 
she  seated  herself  at  the  piano  and  ran  off  a  valse,  which  jarred 
sadly  with  the  bells.  Nettie  always  played  valses  when  she  was 
out  of  temper.  Aunt  Eliza  smoothed  her  silk  dress  nervously,  and 
left  off  talking  to  Mrs.  Carruthers  when  she  heard  the  flourish  of 
the  keys.  Robert  hummed  the  tunes  softly  as  he  turned  over  the 
big  scrap-book  and  album  on  the  centre  table.  Mary  and  Belle 
were  snugly  at  their  work  again.  Rotha,  lacing  and  interlacing 
her  long  fingers  on  her  lap,  suddenly  took  heart  of  grace  and  ap- 
proached them. 

"  Do  let  me  help  you,"  she  said  rather  hurriedly,  and  taking 
up  some  work  of  Mrs.  Ord's  that  lay  on  the  table.  "  I  do  so  like 
braiding,  and  I  am  so  tired  of  doing  nothing.  May  I  take  this 
pinafore  and  try  ? "  And  she  looked  so  pleadingly  at  Mrs.  Ord 
that  Mary  could  not  refuse  her.  "Thank  you;  then  I  will  take 
this  to  begin  on.  No,  do  not  disturb  yourself,"  as  Mary  made  room 
for  her  on  the  sofa,  "  I  shall  see  better  by  the  centre  lamp  ; "  and 
she  carried  off  her  work  and  began  to  sew  contentedly. 

Robert  looked  across  at  her  now  and  then  as  he  turned  over 
the  big  folio  :  the  lamplight  streamed  full  on  her — on  her  brown 
hair  and  long  eyelashes  and  pale  face.  It  was  an  interesting  face, 
after  all,  he  thought,  only  too  long  and  thin,  but  the  mouth  was 
very  sweet.  Those  covert  glances  made  him  both  moody  and  con- 
fused. What  was  there  about  this  girl,  so  seemingly  gentle,  he 
thought,  that  turned  him  to  gall  and  bitterness?  Do  what  he 
would,  he  could  not  make  her  look  conscious  or  ashamed ;  there 
she  sat,  a  stranger  and  alien  amongst  them,  knowing  and  owning 
herself  as  such,  and  quietly  acquiescing  in  such  knowledge.  The 
very  dignity  of  her  meekness  tried  him  sorely ;  no  blame  could  be 
attached  to  the  modest  reserve  in  which  she  had  chosen  to  entrench 
herself.  Hypocritical  or  real,  he  felt  instinctively  that  the  impres- 
sion made  upon  his  brother's  mind  must  be  a  favourable  one,,  and 
his  brow  grew  blacker  at  the  thought.  How  was  he  to  prevent 
himself  from  hating  her  ?  Aunt  Eliza's  voice  struck  in  most  oppor- 
tunely now. 


140  ROBERT  ORD^S  ATONEMENT. 

"  Nettie,  my  dear,  Mrs.  Carruthers  is  good  enough  to  say  that 
she  will  sing  to  us." 

Nettie's  waltzing  fingers  broke  over  the  keys  with  a  final 
flourish  and  quaver.  "  What !  Do  you  sing,  Mrs.  Carruthers  ? 
How  delightful!" 

"  Yes,  but  only  sacred  music,"  answered  Meg  gravely ;  and  the 
clear  brown  light  came  into  her  eyes.  "  Of  late  years  I  have  cared 
for  little  else." 

The  Vicar's  wife  looked  up  with  an  approving  smile. 

"  I  think  we  all  enjoy  sacred  music  better  than  anything,"  said 
Mary,  looking  very  much  like  her  husband  as  she  spoke.  Meg's 
stoop  and  eye-glasses  were  forgotten  now  :  a  thrill  of  suppressed 
excitement  passed  through  the  circle  as  the  grand  deep  voice  filled 
the  little  room.  Belle  put  down  her  work,  and  her  eyes  filled  with 
tears,  and  even  Eobert  looked  moved  and  surprised.  The  Vicar, 
coming  in,  took  his  place  at  his  wife's  side  noiselessly ;  only  Rotha 
sat  and  worked  on,  seemingly  unimpressed. 

"  Do  not  leave  off;  pray — pray  give  us  something  more,"  cried 
Nettie,  delighted. 

Meg  received  their  praises  as  simply  as  they  were  given.  She 
sang  everything  they  asked  her  without  stint  or  limitation.  When 
Garton  became  urgent  with  her  to  repeat  a  favourite  passage,  she 
complied  with  perfect  good-humour  and  precision.  There  was  quite 
a  circle  round  the  piano  presently  :  even  Belle  joined  it.  The  Vicar 
drummed  with  his  fingers  delightedly  as  he  listened  ;  now  and  then 
he  left  off  to  watch  Rotha  sitting  so  patiently  aloof. 

The  chiming  of  the  church-clock  interrupted  them  all. 

"It  is  very  late.  I  must  go  now,"  said  Rotha,  as  she  came 
up  again  to  the  little  work-table.  "  I  wish  I  could  have  finished 
the  braiding  for  you,  Mrs.  Ord."  Mary  thanked  her  rather  form- 
ally. "  Good-night,"  continued  Rotha,  quite  ignoring  the  eulogism 
passed  on  the  beauty  of  her  work.  Then  the  Vicar  rose  and  held 
out  his  hand. 

"  Good -night,  Miss  Maturin.  To-morrow  I  shall  do  myself 
the  honour  of  calling  at  Bryn ;  that  is,  if  you  are  not  otherwise 
engaged." 

Rotha  gave  him  one  of  her  queer  wistful  looks,  and  then 
something  seemed  to  rise  up  and  choke  her,  and  she  turned  away. 

"  Shall  you  be  at  home  ?"  he  continued,  watching  her  keenly. 

"  I  shall  always  be  at  home  to  my  clergyman,  I  hope,"  was  the 
low-toned  answer.  Perhaps  it  came  to  our  Vicar  in  the  light  of  a 
reproach,  for  he  drew  back  instantly. 

Rotha  included  all  her  other  adieux  in  one  grave  comprehensive 
bow,  and  only  Garton  followed  his  brother's  example  and  shook 


NETTIES  TEA-PARTY.  141 

hands.  She  hardly  spoke  at  all  till  she  wished  Nettie  good-bye, 
and  then  there  was  no  resentment  in  her  smile  and  shake  of  the  hand. 

"  It  has  been  a  horrid  evening,  I  am  afraid,"  said  Nettie,  with 
a  dismal  shrug  of  her  shoulders. 

"  No,  you  must  not  say  that.  You  meant  it  kindly,  I  am  sure. 
But  it  was  very  unfortunate.  You  must  never  ask  me  again  with 
them — never ! "  cried  the  girl,  with  a  sudden  pang  in  her  voice 
that  struck  Nettie.  "I  don't  think  they  wish  it.  It  is  very 
strange,  but  no  one  seems  to  care  to  know  me."  They  were 
standing  outside  the  door  in  the  moonlight  when  Rotha  said  this. 
The  sadness  of  the  words  sobered  Nettie  instantly. 

"  Yes,  indeed,  Miss  Maturin,  they  do.  I  care  to  know  you, 
and  Aunt  Eliza  too ;  every  one  will  when  they  have  once  broken 
the  ice.  In  a  small  place  like  this  there  are  always  difficulties. 
People  get  into  cliques  and  sets,  and  no  one  knows  at  first  who 
belongs  to  which.  It  is  so  confusing." 

"I  fancy  Meg  and  I  will  make  our  own  clique,"  answered 
Rotha,  smiling  very  sadly. 

"  Oh  !  that's  stuff  and  nonsense,"  returned  Nettie,  with  a  droll 
little  laugh.  "  Why  there's  Mrs.  Blake  dying  to  get  you  into  her 
set,  and  that's  the  tip-top  of  Kirkby  society — la  creme  de  la  creme, 
you  know,  only  it's  rather  heavy.  I  like  my  set  the  best.  You 
should  come  to  one  of  my  '  tea-kettle  gossips,'  as  I  call  them  when 
I  have  the  pick  of  my  twenty-three  friends.  I  don't  think  you 
would  go  away  with  such  a  grave  face  as  you  have  to-night." 

"  Oh,  Miss  Underwood !  I  did  my  best ;  I  did,  indeed,"  began 
Rotha,  pleading.  "  But  I  was  so  taken  by  surprise,  and " 

"Oh,  you  mean  about  them !"  returned  Nettie,  nodding  in  the 
direction  of  the  drawing-room  window.  "Yes,  yes,  I  understand.  Of 
course  they  were  very  stiff  and  disagreeable — Mr.  Robert  especially. 
But  you  take  my  advice,"  she  continued,  linking  her  arm  good- 
humouredly  in  Rotha's  as  they  walked  down  the  little  footpath 
together.  "Just  let  him  have  his  ill -humour  out.  He's  pre- 
judiced— that's  what  he  is.  He  can't  bear  to  see  any  one  enjoying 
the  goods  that  he  thinks  ought  to  belong  to  himself.  Bless  you, 
I  know  all  about  it !  And  so  he's  gone  and  put  everything  in  a 
wrong  light,  and  made  them  all  stiff  and  uncomfortable  together. 
Of  course  they  won't  thaw  all  at  once.  It's  very  unfortunate,  as 
you  say,"  continued  Nettie,  with  breathless  candour,  "all  the 
more  that  I  have  put  my  foot  into  it.  But  if  there's  one  thing  I 
hate  it  is  meanness,  and  it  is  dreadfully  mean." 

"  Miss  Nettie,  I  am  waiting  to  say  good-night,"  said  a  voice 
behind  them,  and  there  was  the  Vicar  striding  down  the  path. 

Rotha  released  herself  from  Nettie's  arm  in  some  confusion. 


142  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

Had  he  heard — was  it  possible  that  he  could  have  heard  the  last 
speech  1  Nettie  was  wondering  the  same  as  she  put  out  a  pettish 
hand  to  him. 

"What,  are  you  going  already1?  It  is  impossible  to  be  in  two 
places  at  once.  You  might  have  waited  till  I  came  back,"  and 
Nettie's  voice  was  full  of  outraged  dignity. 

"I  left  a  message  with  your  aunt,"  he  replied  coolly.  "Mary 
and  Belle  are  upstairs  still.  I  am  hurrying  home  to  write  an 
important  letter.  Miss  Maturin,  you  are  without  an  escort ;  we 
are  going  the  same  way.  I  will  walk  with  you  to  your  door." 

"No,  indeed,  Mr.  Ord,"  returned  Kotha  hastily.  "I  have 
Mrs.  Carruthers  with  me."  But  the  Vicar  was  determined.  Nettie 
bade  them  good-bye  with  some  confusion  and  then  pouted,  because 
the  Vicar  only  lifted  his  hat  to  her  as  he  went  out.  As  she  stood 
leaning  against  the  little  gate  and  watched  the  three  long  shadows 
in  the  moonlight  she  thought  of  Rotha's  sad  words — "  It  is  very 
strange,  but  no  one  cares  to  know  me."  Perhaps  Mr.  Ord  had 
repented  of  his  coldness  by  this  time,  and  had  taken  this  oppor- 
tunity of  making  friends.  He  often  had  odd  ways  of  doing  things, 
Nettie  thought.  But  for  once  Nettie  Underwood's  surmises  were 
wrong ;  for  all  the  way  the  Vicar  only  spoke  to  Mrs.  Carruthers 
about  church  music ;  and  when  they  parted  at  the  door  Rotha 
had  not  once  opened  her  lips,  except  to  say  good-night. 

"Are  you  very  tired,  dearest?"  asked  Mrs.  Carruthers,  as  she 
lingered  on  the  threshold  of  Rotha's  room  when  they  had  retired 
for  the  night. 

"  No,"  said  Rotha  very  quietly,  as  she  gave  her  cheek  passively 
to  her  friend.  "  I  am  so  glad  that  you  have  had  such  a  pleasant 
evening,  and  that  they  admired  your  singing  so  much,  Meg."  And 
then  she  closed  the  door,  still  smiling,  and  Mrs.  Carruthers  went  away. 

The  smile  was  still  on  her  face  when  she  reached  the  dressing- 
table.  But  stretching  out  her  hand  to  the  glass  for  some  purpose 
or  other,  she  suddenly  saw  with  surprise  that  she  was  quite  white 
to  her  lips,  and  tried  to  sit  down  before  the  gathering  faintness 
should  overpower  her.  "  I  am  glad  she  is  gone.  I  am  glad  she 
did  not  see  me  like  this,"  she  said  feebly,  as  she  struggled  with 
the  languor  that  oppressed  her.  "  I  suppose  the  strain  was  too 
great,  or  I  made  myself  out  braver  than  I  was." 

Braver  than  she  was  ?  Ah,  One  alone  knew  where  the  frail 
girlish  heart  found  all  its  strength  and  power  of  patience  !  Long 
after  the  Vicarage  people  were  asleep,  and  Meg  was  calling  on 
Jack's  name  in  her  dreams,  Rotha  was  praying  her  nightly  prayer 
over  and  over  again  with  streaming  eyes — "  Lead  me  in  a  plain 
path,  0  God,  because  of  my  enemies  ! " 


CHAPTER   XIV. 

THE  VICAR  GOES  TO  BRYN. 

11  Upon  her  face  there  was  the  tint  of  grief, 
The  settled  shadow  of  an  inward  strife, 
And  an  unquiet  drooping  of  the  eye, 
As  if  its  lid  were  charged  with  unshed  tears." — BYRON. 

"  Duke.  What's  her  history  ? 

Viola.  A  blank,  my  lord. " — SHAKSPEAHE. 

THE  Vicar  was  in  no  very  enviable  frame  of  mind  the  following 
afternoon  as  he  went  up  the  sandy  road  towards  Bryn.  It  was 
bad  enough  to  be  inwardly  conscious  of  failure,  and  to  know  that 
his  practice  had  not  exactly  tallied  with  his  precepts.  But  that  he 
should  have  been  taught  this  lesson  by  a  chit  like  Nettie  was 
humiliating,  to  say  the  least  of  it.  On  his  return  home  the  pre- 
vious evening  he  had  said  very  little  to  his  wife  about  Miss 
Maturin,  but  had  expressed  himself  as  being  very  wrathful  with 
Nettie. 

"  I  hope  you  will  be  very  severe  with  her,  Austin,"  Mary  had 
remarked.  "I  consider  that  she  has  put  an  affront  upon  us  all, 
and  especially  on  Robert." 

"I  am  beginning  to  doubt  my  ability  to  fight  all  Robert's 
battles,"  returned  the  Vicar,  with  a  sigh.  "  But  you  need  not  be 
afraid  of  my  leniency  with  Nettie ;  if  I  do  rebuke  her,  it  will  be 
in  no  very  measured  terms,  I  assure  you.  But  I  hardly  know 
whether  it  will  not  be  wiser  to  leave  her  alone  altogether." 

"  I  think  she  ought  to  be  lectured  for  her  meddling,"  Mary 
had  answered,  and  then  the  subject  had  dropped.  After  that  she 
had  tried  to  say  a  word  or  two  that  might  induce  Austin  to  speak 
of  their  next-door  neighbour,  but  her  hints  were  disregarded ;  the 
Vicar  could  not  be  persuaded  to  open  his  lips  on  the  events  of 
the  evening. 

As  he  crossed  the  bridge  and  rang  at  the  bell  he  had  not  yet 
made  up  his  mind  what  plan  he  should  pursue  during  the  coming 
interview;  on  the  whole  he  thought  it  would  be  better  to  let 


144  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

circumstances  guide  him.  If  Mrs.  Carruthers  were  there  he  would 
confine  himself  to  mere  commonplaces,  and  watch  Miss  Maturin 
closely  as  he  talked.  But  if  she  were  alone,  well !  he  hardly  knew 
what  he  should  do — he  almost  thought  perfect  frankness  would  be 
the  best.  He  little  thought  that  Miss  Maturin  had  taken  the 
matter  into  her  own  hands,  that  she  had  chosen  to  be  alone,  and 
had  sent  Mrs.  Carruthers  into  Blackscar  on  some  pretext,  that  she 
might  be  free  from  all  interruption. 

The  Vicar  had  wondered  in  which  room  he  would  be  received. 
He  rather  thought  there  would  be  some  little  state  in  the  mode  of 
his  reception.  But  here  he  was  wrong.  The  drawing-room  door 
indeed  stood  open ;  he  could  see  the  marble  pillars,  and  the  black- 
and-gold  Chinese  cabinet,  and  the  long  slants  of  sunlight  through 
the  French  windows,  as  he  passed,  but  he  was  not  invited  to  enter. 
The  rosy-cheeked  maidservant  ushered  him  instead  into  a  sunny 
little  room  which  he  remembered  to  have  been  his  aunt's  breakfast- 
parlour,  where  Miss  Maturin  was  alone. 

She  laid  aside  her  work  to  receive  him,  but  took  it  up  again 
immediately.  Some  women  feel  less  nervous  when  they  have  .their 
needle  in  their  hands.  Rotha  Maturin  was  one  of  these  :  she  must 
always  be  turning  those  restless  fingers  of  hers  to  account.  As  the 
Vicar  sat  down  he  could  not  fail  to  note  the  pleasantness  of  the 
surroundings,  the  little  refined  womanly  touches  which  make  a 
room  so  characteristic  of  its  owner  :  the  freshly-filled  flower-vases, 
the  few  well-chosen  books,  the  basket  heaped  up  with  useful  work, 
a  half-finished  illumination  beautifully  designed ;  outside  the  lilies, 
and  the  lawn  with  its  beds  of  creamy  tea-roses  and  geraniums ;  a 
pair  of  doves  cooed  from  some  hidden  recess,  and  a  small  black 
kitten  was  chasing  the  fantail  pigeons. 

"  You  see  I  have  kept  my  promise,"  said  the  Vicar,  turning  to 
Rotha  with  a  scrutinising  smile.  As  he  spoke  he  noticed  the 
smoothness  of  her  hair  and  the  swift  movements  of  her  thin  white 
hands ;  there  was  a  womanly  propriety  about  her  whole  person  that 
pleased  him  better  than  mere  beauty,  her  very  gravity  seemed  fit- 
ting to  him. 

"  I  have  expected  you  for  a  long  time,"  she  replied ;  "  perhaps 
it  was  my  ignorance,  but  I  thought  a  clergyman  always  visited  all 
the  members  of  his  congregation."  She  spoke  quite  simply  and 
without  any  intention  of  reproach,  but  the  Vicar  looked  slightly 
perturbed. 

"  It  is  rather  difficult  in  these  free  churches  for  a  clergyman  to 
know  all  his  parishioners,"  he  returned  hesitatingly.  "  I  have 
given  offence  more  than  once  from  this  cause.  One  lady  left  my 
church  because  I  had  never  been  near  her.  I  found  out  afterwards 


THE  VICAR  GOES  TO  BRYN.  145 

that  she  had  been  a  constant  attendant  for  more  than  six  months. 
These  mistakes  will  occur,  but  I  am  only  mentioning  this  casually. 
Of  course  I  have  been  aware  for  some  time  that  you  are  a  member 
of  my  congregation." 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Ord,  and  I  have  fully  understood  why  you  have 
deviated  from  your  ordinary  rule  with  regard  to  me." 

"  Indeed,  Miss  Maturin." 

"  Of  course  I  felt  how  difficult  it  must  be  for  you  to  come 
here." 

"Do  you  mean  on  my  aunt's  account?"  And  the  Vicar 
looked  at  her  very  keenly  as  he  asked  this  question.  But  Rotha 
raised  her  eyes  to  his  without  flinching. 

"  No,  Mr.  Ord ;  I  do  not  mean  that.  I  do  not  think  that 
you  would  shrink  from  coming  to  Bryn  from  a  sense  of  painful 
associations.  Men  are  braver  than  women  in  everything.  I 
think,  nay  I  am  sure,  that  you  have  avoided  it  from  a  far  different 
reason." 

She  was  coming  to  the  point  now ;  how  pale  she  was,  and  her 
voice  was  beginning  to  tremble ;  but  in  his  heart  the  Vicar  thought 
she  had  the  better  courage  of  the  two.  He  hardly  knew  what  to 
make  of  such  valour. 

"  Of  course  I  knew  why  you  have  refrained  from  coming  to 
see  me,"  she  continued,  and  her  voice  was  very  sad.  Then  the 
Vicar  drew  his  chair  a  little  closer. 

"Miss  Maturin,  do  you  mind  speaking  out  a  little  more 
plainly?"  he  said.  "We  are  trenching  on  a  painful  subject,  I  can 
see.  Half  measures  are  always  unsatisfactory.  Would  it  not  be 
better  that  there  should  be  full  confidence  between  us?" 

"  I  think  it  would,  Mr.  Ord." 

"  Well,  do  you  mind  telling  me  in  plain  words  why  you  think 
I  have  refrained  from  coming  to  Bryn  ?" 

Then  for  a  moment  a  feeling  very  like  shame  dyed  her  face 
with  crimson.  There  was  something  very  painful  in  her  blush, 
and  he  could  not  fail  to  see  it.  For  a  moment  it  undid  the  favour- 
able impression  that  her  manner  and  words  had  hitherto  made  on 
him,  and  perhaps  the  consciousness  that  it  would  do  so  drove  the 
hateful  colour  still  more  hotly  to  her  face. 

"  I  mean,  of  course,  if  you  do  not  mind,"  he  said,  rather  more 
coldly. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Ord,  how  can  I  help  minding  ?  But  still,  I  will  tell 
you  if  you  wish  it.  Of  course  it  is  on  your  brother's  account  that 
you  have  hitherto  avoided  me." 

"  On  my  brother's  1     Do  you  mean  on  Robert's  account  1" 

<:  Yes,  undoubtedly." 

10 


146  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

Then  it  was  the  Vicar's  turn  to  hesitate. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Ord  V }  There  was  a  touch  of  sharpness  in  her  tone 
elicited  by  pain. 

"  You  are  right,  of  course,"  he  replied  in  a  very  low  voice. 
"  But  still  I  am  far  from  acknowledging  that  I  have  done  my  duty. 
I  ought  to  have  come  and  told  you  the  truth  if  needs  be." 

"  When  I  first  saw  you  I  made  up  my  mind  that  you  would 
certainly  do  so." 

"  Yes,  and  my  delay  has  done  you  harm  ;  I  can  see  that 
plainly." 

"Oh,  as  to  that,  of  course  I  am  the  talk  of  the  village.  How 
can  people  help  suspecting  things  when  they  see  even  their  pastor 
holds  aloof  ?  When  you  failed  to  come  I  knew  then  what  hard 
things  he  had  been  saying  about  me,  and  how  you  had  all  judged 
and  condemned  me  in  your  hearts.  Is  it  not  so  1 "  she  continued, 
looking  at  him  full  as  keenly  as  he  had  at  her. 

"  No,  Miss  Maturin,  you  are  wrong  there." 

"  Wrong  in  thinking  that  you  have  condemned  me  ? " 

"  Yes  ;  whatever  the  others  may  have  done,  I  have  refused 
entire  credence  to  my  brother's  words  till  I  could  come  and  judge 
for  myself." 

"  That  was  kind  of  you,  Mr.  Ord,  and  I  thank  you  for  it  most 
heartily.  I  did  not  like  to  think  that  a  clergyman  could  be  so 
unjust." 

"  You  must  remember  that  appearances  are  sadly  against  you," 
he  replied,  a  little  piqued  by  this  implied  rebuke  on  his  brother. 
"  It  is  very  difficult  to  say  all  that  one  feels  to  a  stranger,  but  you 
must  pardon  me  if  I  add  that  my  brother  is  a  man  of  strong  dis- 
cernment." 

"And  of  strong  prejudices  too,"  she  returned,  with  a  faint 
smile.  "  I  cannot  fancy  him  soon  parting  with  an  idea  that  he 
has  once  formed.  If  I  were  not  afraid  of  troubling  you,  Mr.  Ord, 
I  would  ask  you  to  listen  to  my  defence.  It  would  be  such  a 
relief  if  I  might  go  over  it  once  again." 

"Do  so,  by  all  means,"  was  the  reply.  And  as  the  Vicar 
composed  himself  to  listen,  the  wonderful  softness  of  her  voice  and 
bearing  filled  him  again  with  a  feeling  akin  to  admiration.  If  she 
should  indeed  be  innocent  of  this  grievous  sin  of  covetousness,  how 
nobly  and  well  would  she  have  borne  herself  under  the  bitterness 
of  their  accusation  !  He  thought  then  that  she  would  be  a  woman 
of  no  common  stamp,  of  whom  any  one  might  be  proud — worthy 
to  bear  comparison  with  Belle  or  even  his  own  Mary ;  but,  all  the 
same,  he  felt  as  though  he  could  not  hold  her  guiltless. 

So  Rotha  Maturin  told  the  story  of  her  life,  and  she  told  it 


THE  VICAR  GOES  TO  BRYN.  147 

well.  She  used  few  words,  she  made  no  attempt  to  work  upon 
his  feelings — a  simple  statement  of  facts,  ungarnished,  almost  bare, 
was  all  she  offered.  When  she  had  finished,  she  sat  with  her 
hands  folded  and  her  head  just  a  little  drooping,  waiting  for  his 
reply.  The  quietness  of  her  manner  might  have  been  taken  for 
indifference,  but  the  Vicar  did  not  misunderstand  it. 

"Well,  Mr.  Ord?"  she  said  at  last,  as  he  still  sat  silent,  re- 
volving her  last  words.  Then  he  got  up  and  walked  about  the 
room  with  his  face  still  turned  from  her. 

He  almost  wished  now  that  she  had  not  told  him  her  story  : 
it  made  him  so  full  of  pity  for  her.  What  an  unloved  hard- 
working youth  !  Was  it  any  wonder  that  amid  such  temptations 
the  longing  for  what  was  not  hers  should  cleave  to  her  1  Would 
Robert's  or  his  hands  have  been  cleaner  if  they  had  been  placed  in 
the  same  circumstances  ?  Good  man  as  he  was,  he  almost  shrank 
from  asking  himself  the  question. 

"  Neither  do  I  condemn  thee."  The  words  came  to  him  again 
and  again  as  he  paced  the  room.  Should  the  servant  be  less 
merciful  than  the  Master  1  Was  it  for  him  to  cast  the  first  stone 
at  this  erring  child  because  he  and  his  were  so  sorely  injured  1 
The  hardness  of  his  prejudice  was  dying  out  as  far  as  he  was  con- 
cerned ;  he  could  tell  himself  with  a  clear  conscience  that  he  had 
forgiven  her.  But  would  he  be  fulfilling  his  duty  1  Ought  he  not 
to  refrain  from  his  pity  until  she  had  been  led  to  acknowledge  her 
fault  1  The  world  might  gloss  it  over  and  exonerate  it,  but  until 
she  had  owned  that  she  had  "coveted  and  desired  other  men's 
goods  "  he  ought  not  to  threw  open  his  hearth  and  home  to  her ; 
until  she  had  confessed  her  sin  the  forgiveness  must  be  qualified. 

Poor  Rotha !  She  did  not  need  any  words  to  tell  her  of  her 
condemnation.  She  sat  watching  the  Vicar  with  dry  hot  eyes  as 
he  walked  heavily  to  and  fro.  Her  little  story  had  failed  then  1 
Why  was  her  word  to  be  always  doubted  ?  For  a  moment,  as  she 
sat  apart,  she  thought  she  would  fling  all  her  hated  possessions 
away,  and  go  out  of  Bryn  empty-handed  and  with  head  erect; 
they  must  believe  her  then,  she  thought.  But  a  few  minutes' 
reflection  showed  her  the  folly  of  this  impulse.  Where  was  her 
endurance  ?  Would  it  not  be  cowardly  to  fly  from  her  troubles  ? 
Was  she  sure  that  such  a  reckless  step  would  clear  her  in  their 
eyes?  Would  it  not  be  nobler  to  live  it  down?  Ay,  and  she 
would  do  it,  too.  "  God  defends  the  innocent,"  she  said,  with  an 
inward  sob,  and  then  the  Vicar  came  to  her  side  and  took  her 
hand. 

"My  child,"  he  said  in  a  low  tender  voice,  "you  do  not  know 
how  earnestly  I  desire  to  be  your  friend."  And  as  she  lifted  up 


148  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

her  sad  eyes  to  him  in  some  surprise,  "  Yes,  indeed ;  and  no  less 
your  friend  because  I  cannot  hold  you  perfectly  guiltless  in  this 
thing." 

She  tried  to  answer  him,  but  she  could  not ;  her  head  dropped 
lower  and  lower.  "  Oh,  my  God !  do  not  try  me  above  what  I 
am  able  to  bear,"  came  from  her  inmost  heart,  but  her  lips  were 
firmly  closed. 

"Do  not  mistake  us,"  he  continued,  still  more  earnestly,  "we 
shall  not  be  hard  on  you.  My  brother  is  prejudiced,  but  even  he 
spoke  most  feelingly  of  your  youth  and  temptation.  You  are  not 
the  first  who  has  been  gravely  tried  and  has  fallen." 

The  drooping  head  was  raised  a  little. 

"  The  shock  of  our  disappointment  is  broken  now,"  he  went 
on.  "  You  need  not  fear  that  we  shall  grudge  you  your  possessions. 
All  we  ask  you  is  to  acknowledge  that  you  have  wronged  us,  by 
word  if  not  by  deed,  and  to  show  some  sorrow  for  the  wrong." 

The  head  was  raised  higher — higher ;  the  firm  lips  unclosed. 

"  Mr.  Ord  !     Would  you  have  me  perjure  myself  ?" 

"  My  poor  child  !     Why  ask  me  such  a  question  1" 

"  Would  it  not  be  perjuring  myself  if  I  took  a  lie  on  my  lips  1 
How  can  I  tell  you  I  have  done  this  thing  when  I  am  innocent  1 
Why  will  you  all  persist  in  believing  what  is  false  ?" 

"My  dear  Miss  Maturin  !" 

"Mr.  Ord,"  she  said  passionately,  "we  are  both  traversing  a 
circle,  but  we  shall  never  meet,  for  you  are  on  one  side  and  I 
another.  Can  I  make  you  see  with  my  eyes  when  my  very  white- 
ness is  blackness  to  you  1  Why  do  you  ask  me  to  defend  myself 
when  you  know — you  know  you  will  not  believe  my  word  1" 

"  I  would  believe  you  if  you  would  only  be  candid  with  me  in 
this  matter." 

Then  she  rose,  drawing  up  her  slender  figure  to  its  full  height, 
so  that  he  was  obliged  to  rise  also. 

"Do  you  wish  to  dismiss  me,  Miss  Maturin  ?" 

"  No,  Mr.  Ord ;  I  am  not  quite  so  ungracious  as  that.  But 
I  owe  it  to  my  own  dignity  not  to  talk  any  longer  on  this 
matter." 

"Do  you  know  you  are  grieving  me  terribly?"  he  went  on. 

"  I  am  sorry  for  that,  Mr.  Ord." 

"  I  did  so  desire  to  be  your  friend,  but  now  you  are  setting 
yourself  so  deliberately  apart  from  us ;  how  can  I  help  you  if  you 
will  not  be  persuaded  in  this  thing?" 

"You  cannot  help  me,"  she  returned  hurriedly.  "No  one 
can  help  me  who  does  not  believe  my  word.  Don't  look  so  sad, 
Mr.  Ord.  T  can  feel  how  kind  and  good  you  are  in  spite  of  all 


THE  VICAR  GOES  TO  BRYN.  149 

this  miserable  misunderstanding.  It  will  not  be  your  doing  if  I 
am  talked  about  and  slandered  by  the  whole  village." 

"  I  hope  nothing  of  that  kind  will  happen,"  he  returned ;  and 
then  Rotha  briefly  told  him  the  remarks  she  had  overheard. 

"That  will  never  do,"  he  exclaimed,  much  concerned;  "Mary 
must  call  on  you  at  once.  I  think  it  would  not  be  wise,  under  the 
circumstances,  for  you  to  come  to  the  Vicarage — at  least  for  the 
present ;  but  no  time  must  be  lost  in  letting  people  know  that 
Mrs.  Ord  has  called." 

Rotha  hesitated  for  a  moment,  and  then  a  great  yearning  for 
kindness  and  sympathy  seized  her. 

"Yes,  yes,  you  may  send  her.  Do  not  leave  me  all  alone 
here,"  she  pleaded ;  and  now  her  eyes  brimmed  over  with  tears. 
"  You  and  Mrs.  Ord  shall  say  what  you  like  to  me,  and  I  will 
try  and  bear  it  if  you  will  only  let  me  hear  sometimes  a  kind 
voice  from  the  outer  world.  Meg  is  always  so  sad,  and  it  is  so 
dreary  here." 

The  pathetic  voice,  the  childishness  of  the  appeal,  which  came 
nevertheless  from  a  woman's  wrung  heart,  were  too  much  for  our 
Vicar,  and  he  stretched  out  his  kind  hand  to  her. 

"I  will  come,  my  child — I  wifl  come,  and  Mary  too,  never 
fear ;  and  perhaps  in  a  little  while  you  will  not  be  afraid  to  confide 
in  us.  Have  you  anything  else  to  say?"  he  continued,  for  she 
seemed  as  though  she  were  about  to  speak. 

"  Yes ;  I  was  going  to  ask  you  if  you  would  find  me  some 
work.  You  don't  know  what  it  is  for  two  women  to  sit  here  all 
alone  and  eat  their  hearts  out.  Give  me  something  to  do  for  those 
who  are  more  wretched  than  I — any  work — I  would  not  refuse 
the  meanest  office — indeed  I  would  not,  Mr.  Ord." 

As  she  raised  her  face,  flushed  with  its  earnestness,  he  thought 
what  a  good  face  it  was,  and  for  an  instant  the  doubt  crossed  him, 
had  he — had  they  all  been  mistaken  ? 

"  You  will  not  refuse  me  because  of  my  unworthiness  1 "  she 
continued,  misinterpreting  his  silence. 

"  Refuse  you,  poor  child !  Who  am  I,  after  all,  that  I  should 
judge  of  your  worthiness  or  unworthiness  ?  I  was  only  considering 
the  difficulties  attendant  on  your  proposition.  Perhaps,  for  the 
present,  I  will  not  put  you  on  our  regular  staff  of  workers ;  but 
there  is  an  old  blind  woman  who  would  be  most  thankful  if  any 
one  would  read  her  a  chapter  daily ;  and  there  is  a  poor  girl  dying 
of  consumption,  who  has  a  drunken  mother — it  is  a  very  sad  case 
indeed.  I  do  not  know  whether  you  would  care  to  undertake  such 
a  painful  duty  1 " 

"  Try   me,"    was    Rotha's    answer.       And   then,    with   sweet 


150  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

humility,  "  If  there  be  any  work  that  Mrs.  Ord  or  you  wish  done, 
and  that  you  think  the  other  ladies  will  not  like,  I  hope  you  will 
reserve  it  for  me." 

"Very  well — then  that  is  a  bargain,"  he  replied  cheerfully, 
not  caring  to  show  how  much  he  was  touched.  "  I  shall  come  up 
and  see  you  again  about  these  cases,  and  perhaps  I  had  better 
take  you  to  poor  Annie  myself;  one  can  never  tell  what  sort  of 
reception  a  lady  is  likely  to  meet  with  from  that  wretched  woman. 
I  have  taken  you  at  your  word,  Miss  Maturin ;  the  task  is  no 
easy  one,  I  assure  you." 

"  I  am  not  afraid,"  returned  Rotha  simply. 

"  Perhaps  Mrs.  Carruthers  might  be  induced  to  help  us  with 
our  school  and  clothing-club  ?  I  am  afraid  I  am  very  covetous, 
but  I  must  turn  that  magnificent  voice  of  hers  to  account.  I  wish 
it  were  possible  to  make  her  choir-master." 

"  That  reminds  me  that  I  have  another  .favour  to  ask,  Mr. 
Ord.  You  see,"  with  a  faint  smile,  "  your  kindness  is  making  me 
bold.  Do  not,  please,  be  angry  with  Miss  Underwood  ;  I  am  sure 
she  meant  it  kindly  last  night." 

The  Vicar's  face  grew  dark.  "  It  was  very  dubious  kindness 
then,  Miss  Maturin.  I  am  greatly  disposed  to  be  very  severe  on 
the  subject  with  Miss  Nettie." 

"  Yes,  but  you  will  not  1 "  she  pleaded  earnestly.  "  I  know 
how  wrong  it  was  to  you  all — how  very,  very  wrong,  but  I  am 
sure  she  meant  good  to  us  all ;  miserable  as  I  was,  I  could  not 
help  feeling  that,  and  I  did  so  hope  you  would  forgive  her." 

"  Well,  well,  we  shall  see  about  it,"  returned  the  Vicar,  but 
his  smile  was  a  little  forced,  and  then  he  bade  her  good-bye.  It 
might  have  been  the  force  of  old  habit,  but  he  went  through  the 
glass  door  out  on  the  lawn,  and  so  to  the  green  door  in  the  wall. 
As  he  let  himself  out  he  glanced  back,  and  saw  Kotha  standing 
among  the  lilies  and  watching  him. 

It  was  noticed  by  every  one  at  the  Vicarage  that  the  Vicar 
was  not  himself  that  day :  he  was  grave  and  preoccupied,  and 
scarcely  spoke  to  Robert  when  he  came  in  to  spend  the  evening. 
When  the  boys  had  gone  to  bed,  and  he  and  Mary  were  alone,  he 
briefly  related  his  interview  with  Miss  Maturin,  and  begged  her 
to  lose  no  time  in  calling  at  Bryn. 

"  I  don't  think  we  are  justified  in  letting  a  young  girl  be  the 
talk  of  the  place,"  he  continued.  "  Graves  will  be  getting  hold 
of  it,  and  we  don't  want  to  be  slashed  by  his  virulent  tongue.  I 
know  he  would  do  anything  to  spite  me  and  Robert."  Now 
Graves  was  the  editor  of  the  Blackscar  and  KirTcby  Herald, 
a  shoemaker  by  trade,  and  a  Radical  and  Dissenter,  and  was 


THE   VICAR  GOES  TO  BRYN.  151 

much  given  to  snarl  at  the  heels  of  the  so-called  High  Church 
party. 

Austin's  innovations,  few  and  simple  as  they  were,  had  given 
great  offence  to  the  Rector  of  Blackscar,  a  worthy  gentleman  of 
the  old  school,  who  clung  to  the  black  gown  and  the  "high 
pulpit "  as  though  they  were  the  symbols  of  his  party.  A  sur- 
pliced  choir  had  recently  been  started  at  Blackscar,  much  to  the 
tribulation  of  the  elder  members  of  his  congregation,  and  it  was  a 
fine  thing  to  see  the  Rector  gallantly  bringing  up  the  procession 
on  a  choir  festival  in  his  short,  well-worn,  corded  silk  gown.  The 
Rector  had  been  rather  averse  to  the  surplices  for  some  time,  and 
had  united  his  groans  with  the  elder  members,  who  thought  fustian 
jackets  and  clean  collars  would  have  been  more  in  accordance  with 
the  views  of  St.  Paul ;  but  the  groans  had  been  overborne  by  the 
younger  portion  of  the  congregation.  A  "bee"  was  organised  by 
some  enterprising  young  ladies ;  the  surplices  were  duly  sewn  and 
stitched,  and  a  large  parcel  deposited  at  the  Rectory  on  the  Satur- 
day night.  Next  morning  the  rosy -faced  country  lads  walked 
sheepishly  to  their  places,  the  beheld  of  all  beholders,  looking  for 
all  the  world  like  a  flock  of  white  geese,  as  one  irascible  old  lady 
in  the  greengrocery  trade  suggested;  "  Or  like  the  cherubim  and 
seraphim,  continually,"  as  was  remarked  by  one  mother,  whose 
red-headed  lad  was  the  black  sheep  of  the  whole  choir  from  his 
habit  of  eating  sour  apples  during  the  sermon. 

The  surplices  had  carried  the  day,  but  the  Rector's  soul  was 
sad  within  him.  He  had  always  been  a  little  high  with  the 
neighbouring  clergy,  especially  with  the  Rev.  Austin  Ord,  whose 
daily  services  had  been  a  great  offence  in  his  eyes,  but  he  had  now 
become  almost  tyrannical ;  latterly  he  had  taken  up  Ebenezer 
Graves,  the  editor  of  the  Blackscar  Herald.  Ebenezer  made  shoes 
for  his  Reverence,  and  for  Mrs.  Price  and  the  young  ladies,  and 
the  Rector  often  came  to  his  shop,  ostensibly  for  boots,  but  in 
reality  for  a  gossip.  Mrs.  Graves,  who  managed  her  husband's 
business,  a  thin  bilious -looking  woman  with  a  nasal  drawl,  was 
also  in  high  favour  at  the  Rectory. 

"  A  very  worthy  man ;  very  worthy  people,  my  dear,"  the 
Rector  would  say.  "  Pity  they  are  Dissenters.  Writes  very  good 
articles  does  Ebenezer,  quite  native  talent.  I  think  Blackscar 
ought  to  be  proud  of  him  :  it  is  no  use  Ord  snubbing  him  and 
putting  him  down  on  every  occasion ;  the  man  can't  help  having 
a  fluent  pen,  I  suppose." 

"Ebenezer  hates  Mr.  Ord,"  put  in  one  of  the  younger 
daughters.  "  I  believe  it  is  because  he  told  him  that  he  ought 
to  look  after  his  business  better  and  make  his  own  shoes.  Fancy 


152  ROBERT  ORD'S  A  TONEMENT. 

the  author  of  the  'Bullfinch's  Elegy'  and  'The  Lamb's  Com- 
plaint '  making  shoes  ! " 

"Yes,  and  he  said  'The  Lamb's  Complaint'  ought  to  be  that 
it  was  generally  too  much  done,"  put  in  another  daughter. 

"And  he  declared  the  'Bullfinch's  Elegy'  reminded  him  of 
treacle  and  brown  sugar,"  whereby  it  might  be  seen  that  Austin 
was  apt  to  be  a  little  funny  at  the  expense  of  the  poet  shoemaker. 
At  home  he  was  rather  more  plainspoken;  he  called  Ebenezer 
Graves  a  canting  rascal,  and  was  very  indignant  when  Mary 
wanted  to  buy  Laurie  some  boots  there,  pleading  that  they  were 
cheaper  than  at  any  other  shop  in  Blackscar.  Therefore  the 
Vicar's  fear  with  regard  to  themselves  and  Miss  Maturin  was  not 
without  foundation.  Letters  had  often  appeared  in  the  Blackscar 
Herald  containing  mysterious  hints  and  surmises  by  an  unknown 
correspondent  very  damaging  to  some  inhabitant  of  Blackscar; 
little  private  family  matters  had  even  been  divulged  in  this 
manner.  Once  or  twice  an  injured  person  had  been  inclined  to 
sue  Ebenezer  for  libel,  but  the  hints  had  been  so  obscure,  and  the 
whole  couched  in  such  mysterious  language,  that  there  was  nothing 
of  which  one  could  take  hold.  "  They  should  try  a  good  horse- 
whipping," Garton  had  said  once.  "  What  is  the  use  if  they  can- 
not prove  the  article  is  his?"  returned  the  Vicar;  "he  would 
only  have  you  up  for  assault  and  battery.  There's  no  getting  at 
the  rascal.  I  remonstrated  with  him  once  in  very  strong  language 
about  one  of  my  parishioners  being  annoyed  by  just  such  a  letter. 
'  Why  do  you  allow  such  a  libellous  thing  to  be  printed  in  your 
paper  1 '  I  said  to  him  when  he  had  denied  all  knowledge  of  the 
writer.  'Why  not1?'  was  his  only  answer;  'it  is  a  very  good 
letter.  People  think  the  Correspondence  Corner  the  most  amus- 
ing in  the  whole  paper.  The  man  who  wrote  that  article  knew 
what  he  was  about.  I  don't  see  a  thing's  libellous  because  the 
cap  happens  to  fit  one  of  your  congregation.  Bless  you  !  some  of 
these  things  are  just  make-ups,  and  mean  nothing  at  all*  'I  am 
positive  that  there  is  meaning  in  this,'  I  replied.  'My  friend 
feels  himself  much  injured.  You  ought  to  induce  your  corre- 
spondent to  retract  the  invidious  paragraph  and  write  an  apology.' 
'  I  don't  think  he'll  do  that,'  he  said,  quite  coolly.  I  declare  I 
came  out  of  the  place  in  a  perfect  rage." 

Therefore,  when  the  Vicar  mentioned  Ebenezer's  name  on  this 
occasion,  Mary  looked  grave,  and  said  at  once  that  she  would  call. 
"  I  don't  think  you  feel  so  badly  about  her  now  you  have  been  to 
Bryn,"  she  said,  arguing  rather  shrewdly  from  her  woman's 
judgment. 

"I  don't  know  what  to  think  about  her,  Mary,"  returned  the 


THE  VICAR  GOES  TO  BRYN.  153 

Vicar,  rather  sadly.  "  I  am  only  sure  of  one  thing,  that  the  whole 
affair  is  making  me  quite  miserable.  I  cannot  help  thinking  all 
day  that  we  are  letting  ourselves  be  blinded  by  Robert's  prejudice 
and  mere  circumstantial  evidence.  And  yet,  what  can  we  do1? 
Not  Proven  is  not  equivalent  to  Not  Guilty.  And  I  tell  you  what, 
Mary — faulty  or  not  faulty,  covetous  or  not,  she  is  the  sweetest- 
spoken  woman  I  have  met  for  a  long  time." 

"Oh  Austin!" 

"  Yes  indeed,  dear;  and  you  must  go  and  speak  kindly  to  her. 
Whatever  Robert  may  choose  to  do,  it  is  not  for  us  to  refuse  the 
cold  water  of  charity.  Perhaps  by  patience  and  gentleness  we  may 
win  her  from  her  reserve." 

"  I  don't  think  I  shall  sleep  all  night  for  thinking  of  what,!  am 
to  say  to  her,"  said  Mrs.  Ord  ruefully. 

"  Come,  Mary,  that  is  not  brave.  Don't  think  about  it  at  all ; 
that  is  the  best  way."  And  with  that  homely  counsel  Mrs.  Ord 
was  fain  to  be  content. 

Procrastination  was  not  one  of  Mrs.  Ord's  sins.  She  had  decided 
to  go  on  the  morrow,  and  punctually  at  the  appointed  hour  she  set 
off  to  perform  her  difficult  duty. 

Miss  Maturin  had  evidently  expected  her  visit,  for  Mary  found 
her  alone  as  on  the  previous  day. 

"My  husband  has  prepared  you  for  my  visit,  I  hope?"  she 
said,  when  they  had  shaken  hands  and  had  sat  down.  But  this 
time  Miss  Maturin  had  not  taken  up  her  work. 

"Oh  yes ;  he  told  me  to  expect  you.  I  think,  under  the 
circumstances,  it  was  very  good  of  him  to  send  you." 

"  Oh  no ;  you  must  not  say  that." 

"  Oh,  but  it  was  !  It  was  goodness  itself.  And  it  was  kind 
of  you  too  to  come." 

"  Of  course  I  should  do  as  he  wished."  But  Mary,  when  she 
had  said  this,  felt  as  though  her  words  had  implied  some  reproach. 

"  But  nevertheless  it  was  very  kind,  Mrs.  Ord.  I  don't  know 
whether  you  will  care  to  hear  it  from  my  lips,  but  I  think  I  never 
knew  any  one  so  good  as  your  husband." 

"  I  was  afraid  you  might  think  him  hard." 

"  Hard  1  oh  no !  Of  course  it  hurt  me  to  have  him  saying 
such  things  of  me,  and  refusing  to  believe  my  words,  but  through 
it  all  his  gentleness  touched  me  to  the  heart." 

"  Austin  is  always  gentle,"  replied  Mary,  and  her  eyes  looked 
very  softly  at  Rotha.  It  was  not  in  a  wife's  nature  to  hear  such 
sweet  praises  of  her  husband  unmoved. 

"  Yes ;  I  saw  that  in  his  face.  As  far  back  as  that  first  evening 
when  he  put  open  the  church-door  for  me  I  longed  for  him  to  be 


154  ROBERT  ORD^S  ATONEMENT. 

my  friend.  Do  you  know,  when  he  was  pleading  with  me  yester- 
day, I  almost  wished  that  I  had  done  this  thing — that  I  might 
confess  it,  I  was  so  sure  of  his  sympathy  and  forgiveness." 

"  Why  did  you  not  1 "  was  on  Mrs.  Ord's  lips,  but  she  prudently 
refrained  herself.  She  was  very  much  startled  then  when  Roth  a 
answered  her  unspoken  thought. 

"  You  see  I  could  not  say  what  was  not  true,  Mrs.  Ord." 

"  No,  of  course  not,"  returned  Mary  hastily,  and  then  there 
was  an  awkward  pause. 

"  I  was  so  afraid  that  you  might  think  us  unnecessarily  hard," 
she  went  on,  anxious  to  sound  this  singular  girl  more  deeply.  "  In 
your  position  I  think  I  should  be  tempted  to  defend  myself  more 
boldly." 

"  If  you  were  in  my  position,"  replied  Rotha  gently,  "  you 
would  know  how  hard  it  is  for  a  lonely  stranger  to  do  otherwise 
than  I  have  done.  When  the  first  shock  of  it  all  came  upon  me 
I  was  at  once  paralysed ;  then  I  was  for  giving  it  all  up  and  going 
away,  but  Meg  proved  to  me  that  I  was  wrong." 

"  Do  you  mean  Mrs.  Carruthers  ?"  asked  Mary,  much  interested. 

"Yes;  she  showed  me  how  morbid  and  cowardly  I  was,  and 
how  God  would  take  account  of  my  stewardship ;  and  she  told  me 
that  if  I  carried  my  cross  well,  it  would  in  the  end  carry  me  ;  and 
it  is  none  the  less  a  cross  because  it  is  laid  upon  me  by  a  fellow- 
creature." 

"Mrs.  Garruthers  must  be  a  very  good  woman,"  returned 
Mary.  She  was  inwardly  wondering  whether  Meg  believed  in  her 
friend's  innocence. 

"  Yes,  she  is  one  of  a  thousand ; "  and  then,  with  a  sudden 
impulse,  she  told  Mrs.  Ord  a  little  of  Meg's  strange  history.  Mary 
listened  with  unfeigned  sympathy  :  it  was  a  safe  topic,  and  led  their 
thoughts  into  a  less  painful  channel  ;  and  the  allotted  half-hour 
had  long  ago  passed  before  she  had  bethought  herself  of  taking  leave. 

"  Be  sure  you  tell  Mrs.  Carruthers  that  I  hope  she  will  come 
to  the  school,"  she  said,  as  she  rose  from  her  chair.  "  I  shall  be 
most  thankful  for  her  help." 

"  Not  more  thankful  than  Meg  will  be,"  returned  Rotha,  "  she 
is  so  fond  of  children." 

"And  Austin  will  see  you  about  those  cases  to-morrow.  We 
are  so  glad  to  get  any  one  who  will  read  to  poor  Annie.  He  told 
me  to  say  again  that  you  were  to  send  for  him  if  you  were  in  any 
special  need." 

"  Thank  you.  He  is  very  kind.  Am  I — am  I  to  see  you 
again,  Mrs.  Ord  1 "  And  she  looked  wistfully  into  Mary's  pleasant 
face  ;  there  was  something  so  lovable  and  trusting  in  it. 


THE  VICAR  GOES  TO  BRYN.  155 

Mrs.  Ord  hesitated. 

"  Never  mind ;  of  course  you  must  ask  your  husband.  I  shall 
quite  understand  if  you  do  not  come."  And  there  was  such  sweet- 
ness and  sadness  in  her  tone  that  Mrs.  Ord's  heart  quite  ached  for 
her,  and  she  bade  her  good-bye  so  kindly  that  the  poor  girl 
coloured  with  pleasure. 

"  Well,  Mary,"  said  the  Vicar,  as  she  came  into  the  study  and 
leant  over  him  silently,  "was  the  task  a  very  difficult  one?" 

"  No,  not  very,"  returned  Mary  absently,  as  her  fingers  strayed 
among  his  curls.  "  But,  Austin,  I  do  feel  very  unhappy." 

"  Unhappy,  my  darling  !"  And  the  Vicar  put  back  his  head 
that  he  might  see  her  face.  "  Why,  nothing  has  happened  surely  ? " 

"  No,  not  happened ;  but,  Austin,  I  do  feel  as  though  we  may 
be  wrong  about  this.  When  I  sat  and  talked  to  her  I  almost 
thought  that  Robert  could  not  be  right." 

The  Vicar  drew  a  long  breath. 

"There  was  something  so  thoroughly  true  about  her  face;  she 
does  not  look  as  though  she  knew  how  to  deceive ;  and  it  would 
be  deceit  if  she  kept  telling  us  that  she  never  wanted  the  money. 
Oh,  Austin  !  suppose  we  are  wronging  her  all  this  while?" 

"  I  am  afraid  the  same  doubt  iias  occurred  to  me,"  he  said  in 
a  grave  voice.  "  Once  or  twice  yesterday  I  had  some  unpleasant 
twinges.  It  is  certainly  very  dreadful  to  think  that  we  may  have 
been  accusing  an  innocent  girl  wrongly,  but  appearances  were  so 
much  against  her ;  and  then  I  never  knew  Robert  to  suspect  a 
person  unjustly  before." 

"  It  will  be  a  comfort  to  think  the  blame  will  be  his  and  not 
ours,"  returned  Mary. 

"  Why,  that  would  be  a  poor  comfort,  and  of  which  I  should 
decline  to  avail  myself.  No,  no,  my  dear  !  We  must  not  shelter 
our  mistakes  under  other  people's.  '  Every  one  for  himself/  in  a 
wider  sense,  '  and  God  for  us  all.'  I  don't  know  how  it  is,  Mary, 
that  you  have  infected  me  with  your  fears — I  suppose  by  giving 
colour  and  expression  to  my  own  thoughts ;  but  I  feel  as  though 
this  were  a  thing  rather  to  pray  over  than  talk  about."  And  such 
an  anxious  line  came  across  the  Vicar's  forehead  that  Mary  stooped 
and  kissed  it  away. 

"  Dear  Austin  !  she  was  so  full  of  your  goodness  to  her." 

"Was  she,  Mary?"  Then,  in  a  half-whisper  full  of  feeling, 
"  Dear  Lord !  Should  I  not  be  good  to  one  of  the  stray  lambs 
Thou  earnest  in  Thy  bosom  ? "  Then,  in  his  natural  voice,  "  Look 
there,  Mary,"  and  he  pointed  to  a  little  picture  of  the  Good  Shep- 
herd that  hung  over  his  writing-table.  "  Look  how  that  foolish 
lamb  has  got  entangled  in  that  thicket,  and  how  sorely  the  briers 


156  ROBERT  ORD*S  ATONEMENT. 

and  thorns  must  be  wounding  him ;  and  now  look  how  the  Shep- 
herd helps  him.  He  has  gone  down  upon  his  knees,  and  with  his 
own  hands  is  putting  aside  one  cruel  bramble  after  another,  calling 
to  him  fondly  all  the  time.  One  sees  the  foolish  little  face  raised 
to  bleat  its  answer.  By  and  by  he  will  carry  it  on  his  shoulders 
rejoicing.  That  is  just  how  He  deals  with  all  His  erring  ones." 

"  Well  1 "  whispered  Mary — she  was  kneeling  by  him  now. 

"  People  think  I  am  not  bitter  enough  in  my  invectives  against 
sin,  because  I  am  so  ready  to  put  aside  the  briers.  But  these  men 
are  more  like  hirelings.  It  has  come  into  our  hearts  to  distrust 
this  poor  child ;  nay,  more,  to  be  angry  with  her.  We  accuse  her 
of  coveting  our  money  and  diverting  it  into  a  .wrong  channel — is  it 
not  so  ? " 

"  Yes,  Austin." 

"  And  we  have  been  very  bitter  about  it,  and  said  all  manner 
of  harsh  things,  all  the  while  knowing  that  we  ought  to  be  heap- 
ing coals  of  fire  on  her  head.  I  am  far  from  saying  still  that  1 
hold  her  guiltless,  but,  all  the  same,  last  night  and  to-day  I  have 
felt  very  sad." 

"  It  is  not  our  fault,"  whispered  Mary. 

"  No,  dear,  it  has  not  been  our  fault  in  the  first  instance ;  but 
I  ought  to  have  gone  to  her  before.  People  are  beginning  to  say 
things  to  her  injury,  and  it  may  be  very  bad  for  her  and  for  us  too." 

"  But,  Austin,  what  are  we  to  do?" 

"  Well,  Mary,  we  must  wait  and  pray ;  that  is  all  we  can  do 
for  the  present.  I  forgive  her  from  my  heart,  but  for  Robert's 
sake  I  cannot  have  her  at  the  Vicarage.  Why,  he  and  Belle  would 
be  up  in  arms  !  You  can  go  and  see  her  now  and  then,  just  to 
stop  people's  tongues ;  and  be  sure  you  let  Mrs.  Blake  know  you 
have  been  to  Bryn.  They  will  get  to  understand  in  time  that  we 
have  no  wish  to  be  intimate." 

"  And  if  she  be  not  really  what  we  think  her  ?"  asked  Mary, 
returning  to  the  principal  subject  of  her  thoughts. 

"  Well,  God  defends  the  innocent — we  are  too  liable  to  forget 
that — and  in  His  good  time  He  will  enable  her  to  prove  it  to  us. 
Any  way,  my  course  is  clear.  I  must  get  an  influence  over  her 
and  induce  her  to  repose  confidence  in  me.  I  am  putting  her  to  a 
severe  test  now  by  the  work  I  have  given  her.  The  way  in  which 
she  performs  that  will  be  a  great  argument  in  her  favour.  In  old 
times,  Mary,  an  accused  person  had  to  walk  blindfold  over  nine 
ploughshares  of  burning  iron." 

"  I  think  she  walked  over  one  last  night,"  replied  Mary,  rather 
soberly.  And  then,  as  the  Vicar  looked  meaningly  at  his  watch, 
she  gathered  up  her  things  and  went  away. 


CHAPTER    XV. 

THE   BLACKSCAR    HERALD. 

l(  Now,  hear  me  ;  there  be  troubles  in  this  world 
That  no  man  can  escape,  and  there  is  one 
That  lieth  hard  and  heavy  on  my  soul, 
Concerning  that  which  is  to  come  : 

I  say 

As  a  man  that  knows  what  earthly  troubles  mean 
I  will  not  bear  this  one — I  cannot  bear 
This  one  :  I  cannot  bear  the  weight  of  you. 

"My  heart  is  sore  for  her 
How  long,  How  long  ? " 

JEAN  INGELOW. 

FOR  six  long  weeks  Rotha  Maturin  had  enjoyed  a  seclusion  as 
deep  and  almost  as  monotonous  as  Mariana  in  her  moated  grange  ; 
and  as  the  days  had  lengthened  into  weeks,  a  sort  of  patient 
heart -sickness,  which  amounted  well-nigh  to  hopelessness,  had 
crept  over  her,  making  her  weary  of  her  life. 

But  all  at  once  the  whole  aspect  of  things  had  changed ;  from 
the  moment  Nettie  Underwood  had  wrought  out  her  daring 
scheme,  and  brought  Rotha  and  her  detractors  face  to  face,  a 
faint  suspicion  of  brighter  days  began  to  dawn  slowly  over  Bryn. 

There  were  signs  of  life  about  the  place  now ;  the  rusty  bell 
began  to  have  its  proper  share  of  work,  and  the  servants  ceased  to 
start  at  its  wiry  clanging;  other  footsteps  besides  Rotha's  and 
Meg's  crunched  on  the  trim  garden -paths  between  the  lilies. 
Rotha's  days  were  no  longer  purposeless,  nor  her  task  self-imposed ; 
as  she  went  to  and  fro  on  her  errands  of  mercy,  her  slow  move- 
ments became  brisk;  Meg  would  come  upon  her  in  the  village, 
walking  fast  with  her  head  erect,  and  her  brown  hair  rippled  with 
the  sea-breezes ;  sometimes  there  would  be  a  soft  colour  in  her  face 
— she  would  nod  and  smile  quite  brightly  as  Meg  looked  across  at 
her  from  the  schoolhouse.  One  day  Garton  Ord  had  met  her 
before  the  smile  'had  quite  died  out,  and  .had  walked  with  her 


158  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

the  whole  length  of  the  village  street,  and  right  before  the  Vicar- 
age window,  where  Belle  was  sitting  at  her  work.  He  touched 
his  hat  rather  mischievously  as  he  passed ;  Belle  took  no  notice 
of  it  then  or  afterwards — Garton  was  always  doing  odd  things. 
Since  their  evening  at  Miss  Underwood's  he  had  always  a  pleasant 
word  for  Rotha  when  they  met,  but  he  had  never  gone  so  far  as  to 
retrace  his  steps  and  walk  with  her.  Rotha  tried  gently  to  shake 
him  off,  but  it  was  no  use ;  she  looked  up  at  him  shyly  once  or 
twice  as  he  went  striding  down  the  road  beside  her  in  his  shabby 
coat,  with  his  flapping  wideawake,  and  his  great  brown  hands 
gesticulating  fiercely. 

"  How  often  has  my  brother  been  to  Bryn  *[  I  think  this  feud 
is  all  nonsense ; "  he  went  on,  "  Let  bygones  be  bygones ;  it  struck 
me  the  other  night  that  we  were  all  riding  full  tilt  against  windmills 
— and  in  the  dark  too." 

"  The  Vicar  has  been  to  see  me  twice ;  he  came  the  last  time 
about  poor  Annie,  and  to  fetch  Mrs.  Carruthers  to  the  school. 
How  long  have  you  arrived  at  this  conviction,  Mr.  Ord — about 
the  windmills,  I  mean  1  I  thought  you  were  all  going  to  break 
my  heart  between  you." 

Garton  looked  round  at  her  with  a  kind  smile  as  she  said 
this — he  was  a  tender-hearted  fellow ;  lately  he  had  had  a  feeling 
that  it  was  just  possible  that  Robert  had  been  wrong — he  had 
seen  little  things  now  and  then  which  had  brought  this  feeling 
home  to  him ;  he  had  watched  her  pretty  narrowly  that  evening 
while  he  was  teaching  Lumber  tricks  in  the  corner,  and  her  quiet 
dignity  and  patience  had  made  a  great  impression  on  him.  From 
his  seat  in  the  choir-stall  he  could  see  her  plainly,  evening  after 
evening,  sitting  behind  her  pillar;  often  when  the  little  congrega 
tion  had  broken  up  he  had  left  her  still  kneeling,  with  her  face 
hidden  in  her  hands.  Garton  would  not  tell  how  or  when  his  con- 
viction had  become  certainty — in  the  home-circle  he  never  uttered 
her  name ;  but  now,  as  Rotha  spoke,  he  faced  round  upon  her 
impetuously. 

"  Never  mind  about  the  windmills.  I  suppose  we  shall  always 
look  in  the  glass  darkly  as  long  as  we  are  here ;  things  must  clear 
themselves  up  by  degrees.  I  think  we  have  all  treated  you  very 
badly,  Miss  Maturin,  and  I,  for  one,  am  heartily  sorry  for  it ;  but 
there,  you  needn't  go  and  tell  my  brother  that  I  said  so." 

"I  am  not  likely  to  have  the  opportunity,  thank  you,  Mr. 
Ord.  I  suppose  you  do  not  know  how  much  good  you  have  done 
me,  so  you  must  forgive  me  being  silly  over  it ; "  and  Rotha  dried 
her  eyes  and  smiled  at  him  gratefully — she  was  flushing  happily, 
her  cheeks  had  a  pretty  pink  colour  in  them — her  hair  was  blowing 


THE  BLACKSCAR  HERALD,  159 

softly  over  her  temples.  At  the  gate  she  stopped  and  gave  hinr 
her  gloved  hand. 

"  I  suppose  you  will  be  at  church  as  usual  this  evening  ? "  he 
asked  absently.  He  was  wondering  why  Belle  and  Nettie  had 
called  her  so  plain.  Rotha  took  her  hand  away,  with  a  little 
laugh. 

"  Oh  yes,  we  always  go ;  I  am  getting  quite  used  to  my 
corner.  There  is  Mrs.  Carruthers  waiting  for  me.  Good-bye,  Mr. 
Ord,"  and  then  she  left  him  still  standing  there.  Meg  thought 
she  saw  tears  in  her  eyes  as  Rotha  ran  past  her  indoors.  All  that 
afternoon  she  could  hear  her  moving  about  her  room  and  humming 
to  herself  in  sweet  little  snatches. 

"  Was  that  Mr.  Garton  Ord  who  was  standing  with  you  at 
the  gate  ? "  Meg  had  asked  her  as  they  sat  at  dinner.  Rotha 
looked  up  with  a  little  fun  and  defiance  in  her  eye. 

"  Yes,  it  was  he.  We  walked  from  the  school  and  right  over 
the  bridge,  and  he  has  made  me  so  happy,  for  he  doesn't — he 
doesn't  believe  all  that  odious  slander.  Oh,  Meg,  he  was  so  kind 
about  it!" 

"  Kind  about  it,  was  he  ? "  answered  Meg.  "  Well,  I  thought 
I  knew  that  ugly  felt  hat  of  his  ^  he  is  the  most  singular  young 
man  I  ever  met.  I  am  glad  one  of  the  Ords  has  come  to  his 
proper  senses  at  last,  but  I  wish  it  was  the  Vicar ; "  and  Rotha 
echoed  the  wish  with  a  sigh. 

Bryn  had  no  lack  of  callers  now.  Nettie  Underwood  and 
Aunt  Eliza  were  constant  visitors,  and  the  day  after  Mrs.  Ord's 
visit  Mrs.  Blake  had  called,  and  had  been  very  kind  and  concilia- 
tory. Nettie,  who  came  in  afterwards  and  found  Rotha  rather 
dispirited  by  the  interview,  was  of  the  opinion  that  all  would  have 
gone  well  if  only  Miss  Brookes  had  not  chosen  the  same  day  for  a 
visit  of  ceremony  to  Bryn. 

Every  one  at  all  conversant  with  Kirkby  society  knew  of 
course  that  Mrs.  Blake  and  Miss  Brookes  were  the  leading  ladies  of 
the  place — la  creme  de  la  creme,  as  Nettie  phrased  it.  Not  to 
know  Mrs.  Blake  or  Miss  Brookes — and  voluntarily  to  acknowledge 
the  fact — was  to  be  lowered  for  once  and  for  ever  in  the  eyes  of 
the  feminine  portion  of  the  Kirkby  community.  In  all  things 
relating  to  fashion  and  etiquette  their  opinion  was  simply  infallible. 
Any  stranger  coming  to  settle  in  the  neighbourhood  found  it 
utterly  impossible  to  steer  through  the  shoals  and  quicksands 
which  engirt  all  such  small  societies  without  abandoning  him  or 
herself  to  the  able  pilotage  of  one  or  the  other  lady.  Nettie,  in 
spite  of  her  envious  sneers,  never  ventured  to  condemn  a  bonnet 
that  Mrs.  Blake  had  approved.  The  one  dressmaker  at  Kirkby 


1GO  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

•was  almost  abject  when  Miss  Brookes  found  fault  with  a  trimming, 
and  threatened  to  withdraw  her  custom — and  yet  Miss  Brookes 
was  long  in  paying  her  bill,  and  always  omitted  the  odd  shillings 
and  pence.  But  then  if  you  want  cream  you  must  pay  for  it,  as 
Nettie  often  remarked. 

As  is  not  uncommon  in  such  cases,  these  ladies  were  very  dear 
friends,  and — to  borrow  another  of  Nettie's  expressions — they 
generally  hunted  in  couples.  The  great  difference  between  them 
was,  that  whereas  Mrs.  Blake's  cream  was  very  good  cream  indeed 
— in  respect  of  its  richness  and  sweetness — Miss  Brookes'  was 
slightly  iced,  and  was  touched  with  a  slight  flavour  of  frigidity, 
which  rather  congealed  an  unwary  stranger. 

Mrs.  Blake  was  a  little  fair-haired  woman,  with  quiet  retiring 
manners  and  a  soft  caressing  voice.  In  spite  of  her  furs  and 
velvets,  her  handsome  house  and  big  footman,  there  was  nothing 
very  formidable  about  her.  She  did  not  inspire  one  with  a  tithe 
of  the  awe  which  Miss  Brookes  always  created  in  the  mind  of  a 
stranger.  Whether  it  was  her  Roman  nose  or  the  Indian  shawls 
which  she  always  wore  in  such  massive  drapery — not  unlike  a 
Roman  toga — the  unbending  lines  of  her  tall  stiff  figure,  or  the 
resolute  loudness  of  her  voice,  she  certainly  was  a  most  imposing 
woman.  Nettie,  who  always  suffered  a  martyrdom  in  her  pre- 
sence, was  of  opinion  that  many  people  would  have  been  com- 
municative, and  as  a  matter  of  course  more  sociable,  if  "  my  cousin 
Sir  Peregrine  and  my  brother-in-law  the  bishop  had  not  been 
dragged  in  at  every  available  pause  ; "  but  then  every  one  knows 
that  this  was  only  wicked  envy  on  Nettie's  part. 

Rotha  would  have  got  on  very  well  indeed  with  Mrs.  Blake  if 
Miss  Brookes  had  not  been  announced  a  minute  afterwards ;  as  it 
was,  she  was  painfully  fluttered  and  confused.  Nettie  had  not 
come  in  as  she  expected,  and  Mrs.  Carruthers  was  unfortunately 
out.  She  had  given  a  very  warm  welcome  to  her  first  visitor, 
whom  she  knew  perfectly  well  by  sight,  and  had  already  been 
addressed  once  or  twice  as  "  my  dear  "  in  return ;  but  at  the  first 
sight  of  the  Indian  shawl  and  Roman  nose  her  shyness  returned 
on  her  tenfold. 

Antagonistic  feelings  are  generally  reciprocated.  Rotha  knew 
that  curiosity  and  not  neighbourly  kindness  had  brought  Miss 
Brookes  to  Bryn. 

Mrs.  Blake  was  hoping  that  Rotha  liked  her  new  home — it 
must  have  been  rather  trying  for  her  under  the  circumstances — 
and  so  on,  in  a  gentle  reassuring  voice.  Rotha  thanked  her. 
Yes ;  she  liked  it  better  than  she  ever  thought  she  would. 

"  Ah,  but  you  must  be  quite  settled  in  it  by  this  time,"  inter- 


THE  BLACKSCAR  HERALD.  161 

posed  Miss  Brookes.  "  You  forget,  my  dear  Mrs.  Blake,  that  Miss 
Maturin  is  far  from  being  a  new  comer.  You  have  been  here 
two  months,  have  you  not,  Miss  Maturin?" 

"  Oh  no  ;  not  quite  so  long  as  that,"  returned  Rotha  quietly. 

"Oh,  I  thought  it  was  longer.  I  was  asking  Mrs.  Ord 
yesterday  whether  you  had  returned  her  visit.  I  am  sure  I  forgot 
what  she  said  in  answer." 

"  Mrs.  Ord  only  called  on  me  yesterday,"  replied  Rotha,  trying 
to  bear  Miss  Brookes'  hard  glance  with  composure. 

"You  know  she  told  us  that,  Delia,"  observed  Mrs.  Blake 
reproachfully. 

"To  be  sure,  to  be  sure,"  responded  Miss  Brookes  in  her 
loudest  voice ;  "  and  that  is  why  we  are  here  to-day,  Miss  Maturin. 
It  would  never  have  done  to  have  anticipated  the  Vicar's  lady,  you 
know ;  in  a  place  like  this  one  is  bound  to  be  particular.  I  can- 
not say  that  the  Ords  have  shown  very  good  taste  in  their  mode 
of  proceeding.  It  is  what  my  cousin  Sir  Peregrine  would  have 
called  bad  style  altogether ;  but,  all  the  same,  Miss  Maturin,  we 
must  stand  by  one's  vicar." 

"Of  course!"  murmured  poor  Rotha.  Miss  Brookes'  steel- 
coloured  eyes  had  never  once  been  removed  from  her  face  yet. 

"No  one  thinks  that  the  Ords  have  done  the  right  thing," 
murmured  the  lady  decidedly ;  "  but,  there,  they  have  been 
severely  tried,  poor  things — that  ill-tempered  brother  of  theirs 
especially.  The  heart  knows  its  own  bitterness,  Miss  Maturin." 

Rotha  was  thinking  just  then  that  her  inward  bitterness  at 
that  time  was  very  great. 

"  Of  course  you  feel  sore  yourself,"  she  went  on  in  a  would-be 
sympathising  voice.  "Any  one  would  in  your  place;  but  you're 
young,  and  don't  know  the  world  just  yet.  Mrs.  Blake  and  I 
were  talking  about  it  last  night  over  our  piquet,  and  we  are  quite 
of  opinion  that  the  best  thing  for  all  parties  would  be  to  take 
no  notice  of  past  coolness,  but  just  return  the  call  as  early  as 
possible." 

"Return  the  call !"  exclaimed  Rotha,  utterly  bewildered;  and 
then  a  moment  afterwards  she  turned  as  red  as  fire. 

"  Yes,  the  call  at  the  Vicarage,  my  dear.  Mrs.  Blake  and  I 
think  it  cannot  be  made  too  soon.  It  is  still  quite  early.  Why 
should  you  not  accompany  us  now  1  I  have  a  business  errand  this 
afternoon  with  the  Vicar." 

"Oh  no  !  Indeed  I  cannot.  I — I  am  engaged.  Miss 

Underwood  is  coming  to  me "  and  here  Rotha  broke  down 

utterly. 

"I  don't  think  Miss  Underwood  ought  to  stand  in  your  way," 
11 


162  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

returned  Miss  Brookes  coldly.  "She  would  be  the  first,  I  am 
sure — in  spite  of  her  frivolity — to  estimate  the  importance  of 
losing  no  time.  This  coolness  is  influencing  the  parish." 

"  My  dear  Delia,  that  will  do,"  interposed  Mrs.  Blake's  soft 
voice,  "you  are  quite  overwhelming  Miss  Maturin.  You  forget 
she  is  a  comparative  stranger,  and  perhaps  cannot  understand  her 
own  position.  Miss  Brookes  means  well,  my  dear;  we  want  to 
help  you  over  this  awkwardness,  if  you  will  allow  us." 

"You  are  very  kind,"  responded  Kotha  gratefully.  Mrs. 
Blake  looked  pleased.  Rotha's  shrinking  and  modest  manners 
rather  prepossessed  her  in  her  favour. 

"  I  hope  you  will  accept  our  kindness,  then,"  she  continued, 
with  a  pleasant  smile ;  "we  have  wasted  much  time  already  over 
these  troublesome  quibbles  of  etiquette.  I  do  not  mean  to  be 
formal  any  longer;  two  or  three  friends  are  coming  to  me  to- 
morrow evening,  Miss  Maturin,  and  I  shall  be  most  happy  to 
introduce  you  to  them,  if  you  will  allow  me.  I  will  send  the 
carriage  round  for  you  at  seven  o'clock." 

"  Oh,  pray,  do  not — I  mean — that  is — I  do  thank  you  ex- 
tremely, but  I  must  not  accept  your  kind  invitation." 

"  Not  accept  Mrs.  Blake's  invitation  ?  You  cannot  be  serious, 
Miss  Maturin." 

"  No,  no ;  I  cannot,"  returned  Rotha,  turning  her  shoulder  on 
her  tormentor,  and  addressing  the  elder  lady.  "  I  know  how  good 
it  is  of  you  to  ask  me,  and  how  kindly  you  mean  it ;  but  it  is 
impossible.  I  cannot  explain  myself,  but  indeed  it  is  impossible 
for  me  to  go  into  society  just  now." 

"  Go  into  society,  my  dear  Miss  Maturin  !  What  a  singular 
expression !  There  is  no  cause  for  such  romantic  seclusion,  is 
there?"  and  Miss  Brookes  regarded  the  black  dress  critically 
through  her  eye-glass. 

"  I  know  I  am  expressing  myself  very  badly,"  returned  Rotha, 
with  a  little  dignity ;  "  but  you  cannot  tell  what  it  costs  me  to 
refuse  Mrs.  Blake's  kindness." 

"  Then  I  hope  you  will  think  better  of  it,  my  dear,"  replied 
Mrs.  Blake,  but  her  tone  was  not  quite  so  cordial.  "  Nettie  told 
us  that  you  were  at  her  tea-party  the  other  night,  and  I  have  only 
the  Vicar  and  his  wife  and  two  other  ladies  coming.  I  trust  you 
will  not  think  us  obtrusive,"  she  continued,  hesitating  slightly, 
"when  I  say  that  I  think  it  would  be  better  rather  to  conciliate 
than  to  shun  those  with  whom  we  have  a  coolness,  but  whom  not- 
withstanding society  compels  us  to  recognise." 

It  was  a  very  long  speech  for  the  gentle  little  widow,  and 
directly  she  had  finished  it  she  rose  with  an  apologetic  air. 


THE  BLACKSCAR  HERALD.  163 

"We  must  not  press  the  point,  Delia,"  she  said  quietly,  as 
Miss  Brookes  seemed  about  to  annotate  her  remark.  "  I  am  sure 
that  Miss  Maturin  understands  that  we  have  only  spoken  for  her 
good ;  we  must  leave  her  to  think  over  it  now.  May  I  send  the 
carriage  for  you  to-morrow,  my  dear1?"  She  finished  with  a  little 
lady-like  obstinacy  which  showed  that  even  soft-spoken  Mrs.  Blake 
liked  her  own  way. 

"  No,  thank  you,  dear  Mrs.  Blake,"  returned  Rotha  firmly. 
"  I  know  it  seems  ungracious  of  me  to  reject  your  kindness ;  but  I 
have  made  up  my  mind  to  refuse  all  invitations  for  the  present, 
and  if  you  knew  everything  I  am  sure  you  would  say  I  am  right ; " 
and  after  that  there  was  nothing  more  to  say. 

"  Now  you  have  gone  and  done  it,"  was  Nettie's  first  words, 
when  Rotha,  with  much  soreness  of  spirit,  had  made  her  acquainted 
with  the  result  of  the  interview ;  "  and  if  you  were  Simeon  Stylites 
himself,  or  what's  his  name  on  the  top  of  the  pillar,  you  couldn't 
be  more  shut  out  from  Kirkby  society,  my  dear  Rotha." 

It  was  "  my  dear  Rotha "  now,  for  the  two  girls  now  called 
each  other  by  their  Christian  names.  "  No,  you  will  find  I  am 
right,  and  you  will  have  to  do  without  cream  for  the  rest  of  your 
life."  But  whether  Nettie  was  right  or  wrong  Rotha  led  a  very 
active  life  now ;  the  Vicar  found  her  plenty  of  work,  and  expressed 
himself  as  well  pleased  with  the  mode  in  which  she  discharged  it. 
Ruskin  and  Carlyle  were  quite  discarded,  and  Butler's  Analogy 
accumulated  dust  on  its  covers.  Rotha  was  always  out  now ;  in 
the  evenings,  as  Meg  and  she  worked,  they  had  all  sorts  of  pleas- 
ing or  unpleasing  experiences  to  narrate,  anecdotes  of  Meg's  scholars, 
or  the  last  bit  of  gossip  at  the  clothing  club ;  painful  incidents 
connected  with  the  wretched  home  where  Rotha's  protegee,  poor 
Annie,  lay  dying;  long  histories  of  the  several  patients  in  the 
Convalescent  Hospital,  where  she  was  now  a  constant  visitor.  Very 
often  Nettie  and  Aunt  Eliza  dropped  in  with  their  work  also,  and 
then  there  was  plenty  of  talk.  Nettie  would  chatter  volubly  till 
Aunt  Eliza  would  point  to  the  clock  warningly ;  sometimes  Meg 
would  play  and  sing  to  them,  or  they  would  read  the  last  new 
novel  aloud.  Rotha  would  forget  all  about  her  troubles  then,  and 
laugh  her  low  musical  laugh,  to  Nettie's  great  delight.  She  could 
hardly  believe  sometimes  that  it  was  the  same  grave  sad-looking 
girl  of  whom  she  had  spoken  so  slightingly. 

Rotha's  work  suited  her  admirably — she  had  a  way  of  meeting 
difficulties  which  hardly  belonged  to  her  age ;.  she  was  wise  as  well 
as  patient,  and  made  light  of  the  many  disagreeable  incidents  to 
which  district  visitors  are  continually  liable,  added  to  which  she 
hud  an  innate  dignity  which  effectually  protected  her  from  any- 


164  ROBERT  ORD^S  ATONEMENT. 

thing  like  impertinence.  Poor  Annie  almost  worshipped  her ;  the 
dim  eyes  of  the  dying  girl  learned  to  brighten  at  her  approach. 
From  the  first  day  Rotha  surrounded  her  with  all  sorts  of  tender 
ministries ;  her  little  offices  were  all  the  more  touching,  that 
they  were  performed  so  simply  and  unconsciously ;  the  reading  and 
talk  almost  always  came  last.  Rotha  knew  how  the  besotted 
creature  she  called  mother  neglected  her;  she  never  forgot  the 
squalid  sight  when  she  first  entered  the  stifling  garret.  Now,  day 
after  day,  little  comforts  and  luxuries  found  their  way  to  the 
invalid.  The  Vicar,  when  he  called  and  found  them  together,  was 
not  slow  to  appreciate  the  change ;  all  traces  of  dirt  and  squalor 
had  disappeared :  there  was  clean  linen  on  the  pallet-bed,  fresh 
flowers  and  fruit  on  the  little  table,  one  or  two  simple  pictures  on 
the  sloping  whitewashed  walls. 

The  improvement  was  still  more  apparent  in  poor  Annie  her- 
self ;  the  pale  shrunken  face  looked  as  though  it  had  been  freshened 
with  pure  water,  the  rough  unkempt  hair  was  combed  back  and 
confined  with  a  ribbon,  and  the  black  fevered  lips  had  cool  drinks 
ready  for  their  relief.  Not  till  the  little  room  was  all  swept  and 
garnished  would  Rotha  give  her  the  sweet  holy  lessons  that  were 
to  make  her  nights  less  wearisome.  When  Rotha  looked  up  from 
her  Bible  that  day  at  the  Vicar's  entrance  she  saw  a  look  on  his 
face  that  set  her  heart  beating  with  happiness.  "  Well,  Annie," 
he  said,  taking  the  thin  work-roughened  hand  in  his,  "it  is  a  hard 
troublesome  business  climbing  the  dark  mountains,  is  it  not  *?  But 
you  see  God  gives  you  flecks  of  sunshine  by  the  way  ;  the  fruit 
and  flowers  must  be  like  texts  to  you  in  the  night."  And  his  eyes 
dwelt  musingly  on  a  crimson  rose  and  one  single  white  lily  reposing 
side  by  side  in  the  cracked  earthenware  jar. 

Annie  wiped  the  tears  from  her  eyes.  "  Oh,  sir,  if  you  would 
only  tell  me  how  to  thank  Miss  Maturin — the  things  she  has  done 
for  me  ! — I  never  knew  a  lady  like  her." 

"Hush,  Annie,  you  know  I  like  to  do  them." 

"  You  must  give  her  a  text  in  return  sometimes,  Annie.  I 
will  leave  one  with  you  for  to-day — '  Inasmuch  as  ye  did  it  unto 
the  least  of  these  ye  did  unto  me;'"  and  as  he  said  this  there 
had  been  that  look  on  his  face,  its  warmth  lasted  Rotha  all  day. 
Rotha's  other  charge,  old  Sally,  was  quite  a  character  in  her  way ; 
the  hours  that  Rotha  spent  in  her  cottage  were  always  productive 
of  mutual  pleasure.  There  was  a  quaintness  and  originality  about 
the  old  woman  that  Rotha  heartily  enjoyed. 

Sally  was  a  Londoner  by  birth,  and  was  very  proud  of  having 
been  born  within  the  sound  of  Bow  bells.  She  had  lived  all  her 
Hfe  in  a  northern  manufacturing  town,  and  yet  she  still  mentioned 


THE  BLACK  SCAR  HERALD.  165 

Whitechapel  and  Shadwell  with  regret.  In  conversation  she  always 
spoke  of  "them  Northerners"  with  a  bitterness  of  accent,  as 
though  fate  had  compelled  her  to  pitch  her  tent  among  a  horde  of 
savages.  Rotha  first  won  her  heart  by  buying  her  a  woollen  shawl 
that  had  been  knitted  in  Chatham  Place. 

"  It  is  so  fine  and  fleecy,  you  see,"  she  said,  fumbling  over  the 
web  with  her  wrinkled  fingers.  "Ah,  London  is  the  place  for 
people  to  get  their  money's  worth.  Them  Northerners  make 
everything  by  steam,  and  charge  according." 

She  was  rather  fantastic  too  in  the  matter  of  her  blindness. 
It  was  nine-and-twenty  years,  she  would  assure  Rotha,  since  she 
last  saw  the  light  of  day  last  Michaelmas,  and  no  offence  to  the 
Almighty,  who  sends  cataracts  and  hailstones  and  all  the  plagues 
of  Egypt  for  His  own  wise  purposes,  and  saw  fit  to  make  her  a 
stiff-necked  and  useless  hulk  all  her  days ;  and  thereupon  she  would 
shake  her  head  and  lament  her  infirmity  with  a  gentle  obstinacy  of 
sorrow  which  no  amount  of  spoken  or  written  consolation  could 
soothe. 

"Why,  Sally,  how  old  are  you?"  asked  Rotha  one  day,  when 
the  old  woman's  lamentations  had  interrupted  the  course  of  their 
reading. 

"  Well,  if  I  live  till  Easter,  ma'am,  which  the  Lord  forbid,  I 
shall  be  eighty-three." 

"Eighty-three  !  Then  you  are  past  the  fourscore  years  of  the 
Psalmist,  Sally.  Well,  it  is  only  to  be  patient  a  little  longer — a 
very,  very  little  bit  longer  it  may  be." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  I'll  have  to  be  dark  till  kingdom  come," 
returned  Sally  disconsolately.  "  It  is  a  long  tunnel  to  be  in  nine- 
and-twenty  years ;  but  it  is  not  that  that  worries  me ;  lately  it 
has  been  coming  in  my  head  that  it  ain't  the  pleasantest  sort  of 
thing  to  have  to  grope  one's  way  into  heaven — it  will  be  kind  of 
hard,  Miss  Maturin,  to  be  standing  out  so  long  in  the  cold,  feeling 
about  for  the  door,  when  others  are  going  in  as  spry  and  smart  as 
possible." 

"  But,  Sally,  my  dear  woman,  you  are  making  a  mistake — there 
will  be  no  blindness  there." 

"  No,  not  when  you  are  once  inside ;  but,  law  bless  you,  I've 
thought  it  all  over,  and  what  a  mighty  dazzle  it  will  be,  to  be 
sure." 

" '  Thine  eyes  shall  see  the  King  in  his  beauty,' "  murmured 
Rotha,  wishful  to  turn  the  old  woman's  whimsical  thoughts  to 
account. 

Sally  caught  her  breath  for  a  moment.  "Ay,  that's  grand, 
that  is.  Do  you  mind,  Miss  Maturin,  reading  to  me  one  day  about 


1 66  ROBER  T  ORD  'S  A  TONEMENT. 

the  New  Jerusalem  a'coming  down,  and  all  about  the  palms  and 
the  gates  of  pearls?" 

"  Oh  yes,  I  remember  it  very  well,  Sally,  and  we  had  a  long 
talk  about  it  afterwards." 

"  Well,  I've  been  thinking  it  over.  I  do  a  power  of  thinking 
sometimes  of  a  night,  when  my  old  bones  won't  let  me  sleep  for 
aching,  and  I've  thought  about  it  till  I've  been  pretty  nigh  crazed, 
I  can  tell  you ;  and  it  does  seem  to  me  that  I'd  rather  see  a  green 
field,  with  the  wind  blowing  over  it,  and  the  buttercups  and  daisies 
all  in  a  smirks  of  nods,  than  I'd  see  them  shining  streets  of  gold  ; 
it  seems  all  a  dazzle  together — there  now." 

Sally's  "  there  now "  sounded  argumentative,  but  Rotha  was 
just  then  trying  to  control  her  risible  muscles,  and  was  in  no  mood 
to  continue  the  subject  j  but,  as  she  closed  the  book  and  put  back 
her  chair,  she  quietly  remarked  that  our  earthly  and  obscure  light 
would  there  be  purified  and  strengthened.  "We  shall  be  as  the 
angels,  you  see,  Sally." 

"  Ah  !  and  the  angels  don't  want  shades,  you  mean.  I  don't 
care  so  as  the  scales  will  drop  somehow  from  my  eyes ;  but  twenty- 
nine  years  is  a  long  pilgrimage  in  the  dark,  and  all  the  wrong 
turnings  taken  too.  Well,  if  you  must  be  going,  thank  you  kindly," 
and  Sally  got  up  and  dropped  her  best  curtsey  as  Rotha  went  out 
of  the  door. 

So  Rotha  was  beginning  to  find  that  though  cream  was  with- 
held from  her,  she  had  still  a  keen  relish  for  such  skimmed  milk 
as  came  in  her  way ;  she  had  returned  Mrs.  Blake's  call,  and  had 
found  Nettie's  words  correct.  Miss  Brookes  had  been  there  as 
usual  and  had  been  simply  terrible,  and,  in  spite  of  Mrs.  Blake's 
sweetness,  Rotha  was  made  to  feel  that  she  had  put  herself  out  of 
the  pale  of  all  Christian  fellowship  by  refusing  her  friend's  mediation. 

"We  had  such  a  pleasant  evening,"  Miss  Brookes  observed 
casually,  "  and  the  Vicar  was  most  agreeable — he  expressed  himself 
as  deeply  regretting  the  cause  that  kept  you  away." 

"  And  what  cause  did  you  assign,  Miss  Brookes  V  asked  Rotha, 
somewhat  proudly. 

"  Of  course,  my  dear,  I  told  him  the  truth ;  he  certainly  had 
the  candour  to  acknowledge  that  he  had  been  very  slow  in  making 
the  first  advances ;  but  he  agreed  with  me  that  it  was  a  great  pity 
that  such  advances  were  not  more  warmly  received." 

"  My  dear  Delia,  I  never  understood  Mr.  Ord  to  say  as  much 
as  that." 

"  No,  not  in  exact  words,  my  dear  Mrs.  Blake,  but  he  most 
certainly  implied  it.  I  asked  him  if  it  were  not  a  great  pity  that 
Miss  Maturin  were  not  there,  and  he  distinctly  assented." 


THE  BLACK  SCAR  HERALD.  167 

"You  must  have  misunderstood  him,"  returned  Eotha,  very 
quietly.  She  was  not  a  bit  afraid  of  Miss  Brookes  to-day — she 
went  on  with  the  subject  she  had  been  discussing  with  Mrs.  Blake 
with  the  utmost  composure.  When  Miss  Brookes  contradicted  and 
found  fault  with  her,  she  held  to  her  opinions  with  smiling  tenacity ; 
her  leave-taking  might  have  been  a  piece  of  consummate  acting ; 
she  managed  so  admirably  during  the  whole  visit,  and  it  was  a 
somewhat  prolonged  one,  that  she  had  not  given  either  lady  an 
opportunity  to  patronise  her. 

But,  in  truth,  she  was  beginning  to  show  herself  competent  to 
fight  her  own  battles ;  and,  indeed,  her  courage  was  very  great ; 
and  there  is  no  knowing  how  soon  she  would  have  gained  an 
advantage  by  her  own  prowess  but  for  an  untoward  incident  that 
shortly  afterwards  occurred. 

It  happened  in  this  wise. 

The  Vicar  was  sitting  in  his  wife's  room  one  evening  before  tea 
— it  had  been  his  habit  lately — little  family  matters  had  been 
harassing  both  wife  and  husband  during  the  last  few  weeks,  and 
the  Vicar  would  come  into  the  mother's  room  for  a  leisure  half- 
hour  or  so  and  discuss  them  freely,  without  fear  of  comment  from 
the  boys  or  Belle;  and,  indeed,  Belle  had  grown  so  sadly  un- 
sociable of  late  that  it  was  almost  a  relief  to  be  without  her 
constant  presence. 

The  Vicar  was  both  tired  and  harassed  this  evening,  and  Mary 
had  in  consequence  given  him  up  her  own  chair,  and  was  making 
his  fatigue  a  pretext  for  all  sort  of  soft  manipulations  and  womanly 
fuss,  though  in  reality  she  was  the  more  tired  of  the  two.  These 
half-hours  were  very  precious  to  her,  and  she  looked  rather  dis- 
appointed therefore  when  she  saw  Robert  come  up  the  gravel-path 
and  enter  the  open  window. 

"  Here  is  Robert ;  how  early  he  is.  I  suppose  he  has  come  to 
tea,"  she  said,  with  a  spice  of  regret  in  her  voice ;  for  Robert's 
visits  lately  had  been  rather  depressing  than  otherwise. 

Robert  did  not  look  as  though  he  had  heard  her  remark ;  he 
gave  her  a  brief  nod  by  way  of  good  evening  as  he  entered,  and 
then  unfolding  a  newspaper  that  he  had  in  his  hand,  placed  it 
before  his  brother  without  a  word,  and  then  walked  slowly  away  to 
the  window. 

The  Vicar  looked  rather  surprised,  but  took  up  the  article 
without  remark ;  but  Mary,  who  was  struck  dumb  by  the  mystery 
of  the  proceeding,  was  quietly  reading  it  over  her  husband's 
shoulder.  Robert  looked  round  at  them  once,  and  then  began  to 
whistle. 

"  What  does  it  mean  ?"  she  exclaimed.     "  Oh,  Austin,  what  a 


1 68  ROBER T  ORD 'S  A  TONEMENT. 

dreadful  shame  ! "  The  Vicar  lifted  his  hand  with  an  injunction 
to  silence ;  he  was  reading  it  over  slowly  and  ponderously,  almost 
spelling  the  words,  as  Mary  thought  in  her  impatience.  Eobert 
had  resumed  his  whistling  "before  he  put  it  away  from  him,  with  a 
look  of  grief  that  went  to  his  wife's  heart. 

"  Well,  Austin,  what  do  you  think  of  Ebenezer  now  1"  The 
Vicar  stretched  out  his  strong  right  arm  with  a  sufficiently  eloquent 
gesture. 

Robert  nodded  with  grim  approval.  "Horse -whipping,  eh? 
Well,  he  deserves  it  richly,  the  rascal !  How  dare  he  use  his 
scurrilous  pen  at  our  expense,  and  just  now  too,  when  we  cannot 
give  him  the  lie !"  The  Vicar  shook  his  head  sadly. 

11 1  always  feared  this  ;  I  was  always  afraid  of  it,"  he  said  in 
a  deeply-pained  voice.  "Poor  unhappy  girl,  she  has  fallen  into 
the  hands  of  Philistines  indeed."  And  he  began  to  pace  the  room 
with  the  utmost  agitation.  Robert,  as  he  watched  him,  grew  a 
little  mystified. 

It  was  a  copy  of  the  Blackscar  Herald  that  he  had  put  before 
his  brother,  and  it  was  dated  two  days  ago ;  the  offending  article 
had  met  his  eye  in  looking  over  the  correspondence  corner,  where 
choice  little  bits  of  fashionable  scandal  were  often  served  up  hot, 
and  peppered  to  suit  certain  palates  among  the  weaker  sex. 

The  Vicar  recognised  the  slander  and  venom  of  Ebenezer 
Graves'  pen  in  a  moment,  in  spite  of  the  sobriquet  he  had  chosen 
to  assume. 

"  That  truth  is  stranger  than  fiction,"  it  began,  "  is  a  some- 
what worn-out  and  hackneyed  phrase ;  but  all  the  more  we  are 
tempted  to  make  use  of  it  in  discussing  certain  curious  circumstances 
which  have  recently  come  to  our  knowledge,  and  which,  in  point 
of  interest,  certainly  reduce  the  Hon.  Miss  Blank's  affair,  which 
we  have  lately  been  noticing,  to  a  very  second-rate  place  indeed ; 
all  the  more  that  these  circumstances  are  connected  intimately 
with  certain  well-known  and  highly-respected  residents  of  our  little 
watering-place. 

"  The  facts — for  that  they  are  facts  we  have  ample  means  of 
proving — are  these,  and  we  may  suggest  in  passing  that  they 
would  form  capital  material  for  any  three -volume  sensational 
novel :  A  certain  clergyman  intimately  connected  with  the  so- 
called  High  Church  movement,  but  which,  by  the  bye,  we  would 
gladly  stigmatise  by  another  name,  has  made  himself  somewhat 
singular  by  holding  aloof  from  an  influential  parishioner  who  has 
recently  come  as  a  stranger  into  our  neighbourhood.  Now,  without 
stirring  up  any  vexed  question  about  the  house-to-house  visitation, 
of  which  this  reverend  gentleman  is  a  somewhat  loud  advocate,  it 


THE  BLACK  SCAR  HERALD.  169 

does  seem  rather  worthy  of  note  that  a  person  of  such  wealth  and 
influence  should  be  suffered  to  take  up  her  residence  in  a  strange 
parish ;  to  be  utterly  ignored — we  might  almost  say  insulted — by 
the  Vicar  of  that  parish ;  but  the  cause  has  recently  leaked  out. 
There  is  a  sad  secret  at  the  bottom. 

"  The  new  comer  is  looked  upon  not  only  as  an  interloper,  but 
as  a  usurper ;  Blackscar  and  Kirkby  are  not  unacquainted  with 
the  facts  of  a  certain  unhappy  family  quarrel,  in  which  an  eccentric 
lady  disinherited  all  her  rightful  heirs  in  favour  of  a  young 
dependent. 

"  It  has  been  whispered  lately — indeed  we  have  heard  it  from 
more  than  one  source — that  things  have  not  been  quite  shipshape 
and  above-board,  and  that  the  family  of  the  aforesaid  reverend 
gentleman  have  very  good  cause  for  holding  themselves  aloof. 
Old  ladies  in  their  rightful  senses  do  not  endow  penniless  depend- 
ents with  all  their  property.  The  family  complain,  and  very 
justly,  that  they  were  not  permitted  to  hold  any  communication 
with  the  deceased  lady,  that  their  letters  were  returned  unopened, 
and  that  they  were  kept  too  long  in  ignorance  of  her  final  illness. 
The  facts  speak  for  themselves,  and  we  are  compelled  in  justice  to 
avow  that  the  family  have  shown  great  magnanimity  in  keeping 
so  long  silent  on  the  subject.  We  can  only,  in  conclusion,  hope 
that  report  as  usual  has  slightly  exaggerated  the  matter ;  and  that, 
at  all  events,  the  breach  which  threatens  a  scandal  in  the  parish 
will  be  healed  by  some  compromise — coals  of  fire  not  being  fashion- 
able in  the  nineteenth  century." 

"  The  fellow  ought  to  have  his  impertinence  rammed  down  his 
throat,"  began  Robert,  when  his  brother  had  taken  two  or  three 
turns  across  the  room  without  speaking :  then  the  Vicar  had  again 
stretched  out  that  sinewy  right  hand  of  his. 

"Oh,  Austin,  what  will  she  do?"  exclaimed  Mary,  with  the 
tears  in  her  eyes — the  whole  thing  seemed  so  terrible ;  then  the 
Vicar  faced  solemnly  round  on  her. 

"What  did  I  always  tell  you,  Mary?  Didn't  I  say  that 
fellow  Graves  would  be  up  to  mischief?  Granted  he  is  a  foul 
tongued  villain,  whom  have  we  to  blame  but  ourselves  ?" 

"  Ourselves,  Austin  ?" 

"  Yes,  ourselves.  Have  we  not  put  it  into  that  man's  power 
to  injure  her  ?  have  we  not  caused  her  to  be  talked  about  1  What 
can  be  more  injurious  than  for  a  young  woman's  actions  to  be 
canvassed  as  hers  have  been  canvassed?  Of  course  people  will 
believe  the  worst  of  her.  I  am  almost  ashamed  to  think  now 
what  a  paltry  part  we  have  been  acting  " 

Robert  frowned. 


1 70  ROBER  T  ORD  >S  A  TONEMENT. 

"I  confess  I  do  not  understand  you." 

"Perhaps  not.  That  is  because  you  will  not  be  convinced. 
In  your  heart  you  are  just  as  bitter  as  ever  against  Miss  Maturiu. 
You  have  chosen  to  lay  this  sin  to  her  charge,  and  you  would  have 
her  expiate  it  to  the  last  dregs.  But  I  tell  you  plainly,  once  for 
all,  that  such  is  not  my  opinion." 

"Do  you  mean  that  you  have  acquitted  her?"  asked  his 
brother,  with  a  sneer. 

The  Vicar  hesitated. 

"  Acquitted  her  ?  Well,  no ;  perhaps  I  can  hardly  say  that. 
Sometimes  I  have  been  tempted  lately  to  believe  her  innocent ; 
and  then  again  the  whole  thing  sounds  so  plausible  when  I  am 
away  from  her.  I  cannot  think  how  the  doubt  has  arisen.  It  is 
a  miserable  affair  altogether." 

"  Do  you  think  we  shall  make  it  any  better  by  talking  about  it  V 

"Humph,  that  depends  how  we  discuss  it.  Look  here, 
Robert,  I  have  told  you  that  I  differ  with  you  in  opinion,  and  yet 
that  I  am  not  quite  prepared  to  hold  Miss  Maturin  innocent ;  but, 
all  the  same,  I  have  made  up  my  mind  what  I  shall  do." 

"  And  what  is  that,  if  I  dare  ask  V ' 

"  I  shall  have  her  here." 

"  Here  !  in  this  house  ?     Have  you  lost  your  senses,  Austin  V 

"  No,  Robert,  I  am  in  sober  earnest ;"  and  the  Vicar  made 
himself  very  big  as  he  stood  on  the  rug.  "  The  fact  is  I  am  sick 
of  these  half-measures.  "We  must  do  one  thing  or  the  other.  I 
have  said  over  and  over  again  that  I  decline  to  criminate  this  poor 
girl  on  mere  circumstantial  evidence,  and  yet  all  the  while  I  am 
allowing  myself  to  treat  her  as  though  she  were  guilty." 

"  But  what  if  this  be  the  truth  ?"  and  Robert  laid  his  hand 
musingly  on  the  paper. 

"It  is  not  the  truth,"  almost  shouted  the  Vicar.  "It  is  a 
base  fabrication  of  lies.  Have  we  ever  accused  her  in  our  sober 
senses  of  keeping  back  our  letters  ?  When  we  were  most  hard 
against  her  did  we  not  acknowledge  that  there  were  extenuating 
circumstances  in  her  favour  ?  Supposing  that  she  were  guilty,  are 
we  to  condemn  her  without  mercy  because  an  unjust  will  has 
rendered  all  restitution  impossible'?  Do  I  not  see  clearly  how 
severely  she  is  expiating  her  fault  1  No,  I  have  made  up  my 
mind ;  she  may  have  done  wrong — though,  for  my  part,  I  begin  to 
doubt  it — but  we  have  no  right  to  inflict  so  frightful  a  penalty." 

"  It  is  only  what  she  deserves,"  muttered  Robert  sullenly. 

"  Perhaps  so ;  but  for  Heaven's  sake  don't  let  us  be  eternally 
climbing  into  the  judgment  seat.  We  are  too  interested  to  be 
fair  judges.  I  have  tried  to  adopt  a  medium  course,  but  this 


THE  BLACKSCAR  HERALD.  171 

fellow  Graves  has  made  all  such  medium  policy  unavailable.  By 
this  time  the  scandal  will  be  half  over  Blackscar — it  will  not  be 
enough  for  Mary  and  me  to  call  at  Bryn.  We  must  disarm  sus- 
picion by  making  her  welcome  here.  Mary,  I  am  sure  you  agree 
with  me." 

"  I  don't  know  how  it  will  answer,  Austin,"  returned  his  wife, 
with  a  doubtful  glance  at  Robert's  face,  which  was  just  now 
looking  very  dark. 

"My  dear,  it  must  answer,"  replied  the  Vicar  decidedly. 
"Robert  will  have  the  good  sense  to  see  that  I  must  act  con- 
scientiously in  my  own  house.  I  am  very  sorry  that  I  can  no 
longer  espouse  his  quarrel,  but  a  clergyman  is  more  fettered  in 
these  matters  than  a  layman." 

"  You  need  not  trouble  to  apologise  to  me,  Austin,"  returned 
Robert,  biting  his  lip,  and  his  brow  was  very  black  indeed.  "  I 
should  be  sorry  to  interfere  with  any  one's  conscience.  Of  course, 
Mary,  you  will  understand  that  Austin  is  virtually  forbidding  me 
his  house ;  for  he  can  scarcely  expect  me  to  meet  Miss  Maturin 
here  on  terms  of  intimacy." 

"  Intimacy  ?  No ;  but  I  suppose  you  can  treat  anybody  who 
visits  here  with  civility,"  retorted  the  Vicar,  who  was  becoming 
slightly  warm  in  his  turn. 

"  Allow  me  to  say  that  I  am  the  best  judge  of  that  myself," 
returned  Robert  haughtily.  "  I  hope  you  will  explain  all  this  to 
Belle,  Mary;  it  will  surely  make  her  dependent  position  more 
tolerable  to  know  what  sort  of  companion  Austin  is  selecting  for 
her." 

"  Mary  will  do  no  such  thing.  While  Belle  is  under  my  roof 
she  must  certainly  meet  those  with  whom  my  wife  and  I  see  fit  to 
associate ;  and  I  think  it  would  be  wiser  of  you,  Robert,  and  more 
in  accordance  with  charity,  not  to  incense  her  any  further  against 
Miss  Maturin ;  she  endorses  all  your  opinions." 

"Belle  and  I  quite  understand  our  own  affairs,  Austin." 

"My  dear  Bob,  why  need  you  be  so  touchy?"  and  here  the 
Vicar  laid  his  hand  on  his  brother's  shoulder.  "Mary  and  I  have 
both  enough  to  bear  without  having  to  fight  you  and  Belle, 
separately  and  collectively.  Take  my  advice ;  just  think  over  the 
matter  coolly  and  dispassionately,  and  leave  Belle  for  once  to 
me." 

"  On  the  contrary,  Austin,  I  am  going  up  to  her  now.  Belle 
has  no  relish  for  any  more  of  Mary's  lectures  ;  Mary  misunderstands 
her  so." 

"  Poor  girl,  I  wonder  who  does  understand  her — she  herself 
least  of  all.  I  wish  you  would  spare  her  feelings  a  little  more  than 


172  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

you  do,  Robert.  I  suppose  you  are  going  now  to  make  her  happier 
by  telling  her  I  have  forbidden  you  the  house." 

"  That  is  exactly  what  I  am  going  to  do." 

"  Pshaw  !  what  nonsense." 

"Austin,  don't  let  him  go,"  exclaimed  Mary;  "Belle  is  far 
from  well  to-day,  and  I  will  not  have  her  agitated.  There,"  as 
Robert  went  out,  shutting  the  door  after  him,  "now  we  shall 
have  a  miserable  evening." 

"  Well,  Mary,  and  how  was  I  to  prevent  it  ?  Never  mind,  let 
him  go  and  do  his  worst — a  wilful  man  must  have  his  way.  He 
is  in  one  of  his  perverse  moods,  and  Belle  must  manage  him  as  best 
she  can.  I  am  not  going  to  take  the  trouble  to  reason  with  him 
when  he  is  like  this.  Heigho  !  what  a  trying  world  it  is.  Leave 
them  alone  upstairs,  and  give  the  children  their  tea.  I  am  going 
out  now." 

"Not  without  your  tea,  surely,  dear  Austin,  and  you  are  so 
dead  tired." 

"  Nothing  to  what  I  shall  be  when  I  come  home,"  and  the 
Vicar  nodded  with  quiet  good-humour  as  he  took  up  his  hat  and 
went  out 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

TREATS  PRINCIPALLY  OF  TEARS. 

'  The  small,  fair  face  within  the  darks  of  hair 
I  used  to  liken,  when  I  saw  her  first, 
To  a  point  of  moonlit  water  down  a  well  : 
The  low  brow,  the  frank  space  between  the  eyes, 
Which  always  had  the  brown  pathetic  look 
Of  a  dumb  creature  who  had  been  beaten  once 
And  never  since  was  easy  with  the  world. 
Ah,  ah — now  I  remember  perfectly 
These  eyes,  to-day, — however  large  they  seemed, 
As  if  some  patient,  passionate  despair 
Like  a  coal  dropt — and  forgot  our  tapestry, 
Which  slowly  burns  a  widening  circle  out, 
Had  burnt  them  larger,  larger."  Aurora  Leigh. 

"  He  would  have  saved  me  utterly,  it  seemed. 
He  stood  and  looked  so. "  Ibid. 

MRS.  ORD  obeyed  her  husband's  orders  with  a  heavy  heart ;  she 
knew  that  the  Vicar  valued  his  cup  of  tea  above  everything ;  that 
he  placed  it,  indeed,  among  the  good  things  of  this  life  which  he 
would  be  very  unwilling  to  forego ;  neither  was  he  always  careful 
to  moderate  his  desires  in  this  respect.  She  had  known  him  to 
discuss  six  cups  of  this  fragrant  beverage  with  the  utmost  cheerful- 
ness and  with  unabated  relish,  and  to  consider  himself  aggrieved 
if  withheld  from  the  seventh ;  and  yet  now  he  had  gone  out  faint 
and  tired,  utterly  refusing  all  such  refreshment,  and  leaving  her  in 
ignorance  of  his  movement. 

Upstairs  all  was  sufficiently  quiet — neither  Belle  nor  Robert 
made  their  appearance.  As  Mrs.  Ord  dispensed  the  few  homely 
viands  to  the  hungry  lads,  she  was  straining  her  ears  painfully  to 
detect  the  faintest  sound ;  it  was  no  good  pretending  at  last  to 
disguise  her  anxiety.  She  drank  a  cup  of  tea  standing,  and  then 
charging  the  boys  to  keep  quiet  until  Garton  should  come  in,  she 
made  some  excuse  and  hurried  away. 

Scarcely  twenty  minutes  had  elapsed  since  Robert  had  left 


174  ROBERT  ORD^S  ATONEMENT. 

them,  closing  the  door  somewhat  loudly  ;  but  Mary  became  aware 
(as  she  entered  the  drawing-room)  that  he  had  made  good  use  of 
his  time  notwithstanding.  Belle's  face  always  had  a  strange 
capacity  for  looking  miserable  on  the  shortest  possible  notice,  but 
to  Mary's  knowledge  it  had  never  looked  so  utterly  woebegone  as 
on  this  occasion. 

"Mary,"  she  said,  almost  before  her  sister  was  within  the 
room,  and  her  voice  sounded  quite  sharp  with  misery — "  Mary, 
come  here.  Is  this  true,  that  Austin  has  forbidden  Robert  the 
house?" 

"No,  Belle,  it  is  not  true." 

"  Ah  !  but,  all  the  same,  he  is  making  it  impossible  for  him  to 
come  here.  It  is  just  as  though  he  were  shutting  the  door  against 
him  with  his  own  hand.  Mary,  I  don't  want  to  say  anything 
specially  unkind  about  Austin,  but  if  he  carry  out  what  he  threatens 
we  can  no  longer  be  friends." 

"  You  and  I,  do  you  mean  1 " 

"  No,  I  am  talking  about  Austin ;  but  of  course  you  take  his 
part,  so  it  will  amount  to  the  same  thing.  Mary,"  she  continued 
excitedly,  as  her  sister  put  on  an  unusually  severe  look,  "  you  must 
tell  him — you  must  tell  Austin — from  me  that  if  he  do  this  thing 
he  will  not  only  injure  Robert,  but  he  will  drive  me  from  under 
the  shelter  of  his  roof." 

"  That  is  what  she  keeps  saying,"  ooserved  Robert ;  who,  to 
do  him  justice,  was  already  beginning  to  repent  of  his  hasty  ex- 
pressions of  wrath.  He  had  never  seen  Belle  so  fairly  roused 
before,  except  once ;  and,  to  tell  the  truth,  the  sight  did  not  please 
him. 

"  This  is  your  work,  I  suppose,"  retorted  Mary,  turning  upon 
him  still  more  severely.  "  I  do  not  know  whether  it  be  part  of 
your  plan  to  set  Belle  against  Austin,  but  I  shall  certainly  take 
my  husband's  side.  I  wonder  you  are  not  ashamed  to  act  so 
treacherous  a  part  in  your  brother's  house.  Things  have  come 
indeed  to  a  cruel  pass  when,  after  all  his  kindness,  Belle  can 
refuse  to  live  with  him;"  and  Mary  looked  very  stern  as  she 
thought  of  her  own  and  her  husband's  wrongs. 

"  I  don't  think  Belle  ought  to  be  blamed  because  my  brother 
makes  her  position  intolerable  to  her,"  returned  Robert  indignantly. 
"  A  bare  crust  and  freedom  would  be  better  than  such  a  state  of 
servitude.  How  is  she  to  go  on  living  here  when  I  am  not  allowed 
to  come  to  the  housed" 

"  Robert,  I  must  say  that  I  think  you  ought  to  be  ashamed  of 
yourself." 

"  Thank  you,  Mary." 


TREATS  PRINCIPALLY  OF  TEARS.  175 

"  How  can  you  make  Belle  believe  such  a  falsehood  as  that ! 
just  because  Austin's  duty  as  a  clergyman  will  not  allow  him  any 
longer  to  stand  by  and  see  this  poor  girl  oppressed.  Keep  away 
from  the  house,  if  you  will ;  but  it  will  be  your  own  pride  that  is 
shutting  you  out.  As  for  Belle,  if  she  choose  to  set  herself  against 
the  man  who  has  been  such  a  brother  to  her  all  these  years,  and 
who  could  ill  afford  to  share  his  bread  with  her,  she  is  not  the 
girl  I  thought  her." 

"  I  cannot  help  it,  Mary,"  returned  Belle,  who  was  beginning 
to  show  symptoms  of  strong  hysterical  excitement.  "  It  is  no  use 
your  turning  round  and  saying  hard  things  against  Robert,  because 
he  has  his  faults  like  other  men." 

"  Oh  dear  !  oh  dear  !"  sighed  Mrs.  Ord. 

But  Belle  again  interrupted  her — "  He  has  declared  to  me  that 
nothing  will  induce  him  to  meet  Miss  Maturin  here  ;  and  I  can- 
not say  that  I  think  he  is  wrong.  Austin  ought  never  to  have 
thought  such  a  thing  possible ;  and  if  he  do  not  come  here,  where 
am  I  to  see  him  1  We  might  as  well  give  each  other  up  if  we  are 
to  be  separated." 

"  Now,  Belle,  I  thought  you  promised  that  you  would  never 
say  such  a  thing  again,"  began  Robert  reproachfully ;  but  Mary's 
sternness  again  interposed. 

"  If  Belle's  love  for  you,  Robert,  is  to  lead  her  to  do  wrong,  I 
cannot  say  that  I,  for  one,  should  be  grieved  at  such  a  separation. 
I  don't  see — I  never  have  seen — that  her  engagement  has  brought 
her  any  happiness.  The  fact  is,"  she  continued  firmly,  "you  do 
not  study  her  enough.  When  she  wants  soothing,  you  excite  her ; 
you  try  her  patience  with  your  ill-humours.  When  she  is  at  her 
brightest,  you  depress  her ;  and  yet  you  have  no  sympathy  with 
her  little  moods.  In  spite  of  your  goodness,  Robert,  there  is  some- 
thing selfish  in  your  love ;  and  whether  Belle  is  angry  or  not,  I 
will  tell  you  the  truth." 

"You  hear  what  is  Mary's  opinion  of  me,  Belle?" 

"  Then,  again,  if  you  had  any  generosity  you  would  not  seek  to 
stir  up  strife  between  her  and  Austin.  Do  you  think  Austin  will 
ever  let  her  quit  his  roof  till  you  have  given  her  shelter  under 
yours  ?  You  talk  about  her  dependent  position  as  though  women 
with  brothers  and  lovers  are  ever  independent,  while  all  the  time 
your  pride  is  making  her  bread  so  bitter  to  her,  she  can  hardly 
endure  to  swallow  it." 

"  Mary,  I  declare  I  will  not  listen  to  any  more  of  this.  Austin 
and  Belle  may  settle  it  between  them  as  they  will ;  but  I  vow  I 

will  not  enter  the  Vicarage  walls  again  until — until "     But 

whatever  vow  Robert  was  imprudently  taking  upon  himself  in  his 


176  ROBERT  ORD^S  ATONEMENT. 

anger  was  to  remain  a  mystery  for  ever,  for  at  that  moment  Belle 
astonished  them  both  by  going,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  into  a 
downright  fit  of  hysterics. 

It  was  a  very  silly  affair  altogether;  but  it  was  the  wisest 
thing  that  Belle  ever  did,  for  it  brought  Robert  to  his  senses  in  a 
moment,  when  Mary's  wrathful  eloquence  could  prevail  nothing. 

Granted  that  the  scene  was  most  humiliating  and  distressing, 
still  the  whole  thing  was  a  novelty  to  Robert,  and  could  not  fail  to 
impress  him  with  the  heinousness  and  cruelty  of  his  own  conduct. 
That  Belle,  grave,  quiet,  sensible  Belle,  should  be  one  minute  in 
fits  of  mad  laughter  and  the  next  convulsed  with  sobs ;  that  she 
should  be  clenching  and  unclenching  her  little  hands  in  a  way  that 
would  be  ludicrous  if  it  were  not  so  terrible ;  that  she  should  turn 
so  persistently  from  him  and  bury  her  pale  face  in  the  sofa-cushions 
when  he  tried  to  take  her  in  his  arms,  with  all  manner  of  endearing 
speeches, — were  things  frightful  to  contemplate.  Mary,  who  was  but 
little  less  alarmed,  pushed  him  away  without  the  least  compunction. 

"You  should  never  treat  hysterics  like  that,  Robert,"  she 
observed,  with  a  little  feminine  contempt ;  "  leave  her  to  me,  if 
you  please.  Belle,  if  you  are  not  quiet  directly  I  shall  send  for 
Austin ! "  And  then  she  applied  one  remedy  after  another,  with 
hands  that  would  tremble  in  spite  of  her  best  efforts. 

But  Robert,  who  was  very  determined,  was  not  to  be  pushed 
away  for  more  than  a  moment.  The  poor  fellow  was  cunning 
enough  to  detect  the  trembling.  He  took  the  sal  volatile  into  his 
own  hands,  and  turned  that  strong  will  of  his  to  great  account. 
Notwithstanding  his  provocations,  Mary  was  constrained  to  admire 
him. 

Belle  had  the  grace  to  be  thoroughly  ashamed  of  herself  when 
the  fit  of  weakness  was  over.  She  sat  up  among  the  sofa-cushions 
very  sad  and  silent,  leaning  her  aching  head  on  her  hand,  but 
saying  very  little  about  her  illness.  Her  fair  hair  had  come  un- 
loosened in  the  struggle,  and  lay  damp  and  soft  on  her  forehead, 
and  as  Mary  stooped  to  smooth  it  back  she  was  struck  with  the 
painful  delicacy  of  her  sister's  look.  Robert  noticed  it  too,  and  for 
the  first  time  a  chill  feeling  almost  of  fear  crossed  him. 

"  Belle,  dear,  you  are  quite  sure  you  are  better  now?"  he  asked 
anxiously. 

"  Oh  yes,  much  better,"  and  Belle  closed  her  eyes  wearily. 

"Well,  you  have  given  us  a  terrible  fright,  but  it  is  over  now. 
You  must  not  think  any  more  of  what  I  said,"  he  continued 
hesitatingly. 

"How  do  you  mean?"  she  asked  faintly;  "what  am  I  not  to 
remember  2" 


TREATS  PRINCIPALLY  OF  TEARS.  177 

"  Well,  all  my  ill  temper  against  Austin.  When  a  man  is 
provoked  he  often  says  more  than  he  means ;  you  should  not  have 
been  so  ready  to  take  me  at  my  word,  you  silly  child." 

Belle's  hand  closed  suddenly  round  his  wrist. 

"Do  you  mean  that  you  will  come  here  after  all,  Robert ?" 

"  Of  course  I  shall  come  here.  How  can  I  help  it  when  you 
are  taking  it  to  heart  like  this  1  I  did  not  think  you  had  so  much 
feeling,  Belle,"  he  continued  mischievously,  but  Belle  was  too  much 
in  earnest  to  perceive  the  tender  raillery. 

"  But  Miss  Matuiln  will  be  at  the  Vicarage  sometimes,"  she 
continued,  and  Robert  was  quick  to  detect  the  pain  in  her  voice. 

"  Never  mind,  Belle,  I  suppose  I  must  bear  it ;  after  all,  she 
has  done  mischief  enough  already  without  setting  us  four  by  the 
ears.  I  only  hope  Mary  is  ashamed  of  her  crossness."  Mrs.  Ord 
shook  her  head  smilingly,  but  she  dealt  him  a  comfortable  little 
pat  on  the  shoulder,  and  Robert  put  back  his  handsome  head,  and 
laughed  at  her,  and  so  peace  was  declared. 

And  after  that  Mary  and  Belle  made  it  up  between  them. 
Mary  got  on  her  knees  before  her  sister,  and  said  all  sorts  of  com- 
forting little  things,  and  coaxed  and  scolded  her  in  a  breath,  and 
Belle  lay  and  looked  at  her  with  her  great  beautiful  eyes,  and  said 
little,  and  they  were  all  very  foolish  and  very  happy. 

Meanwhile  the  Vicar,  forgetful  of  his  inner  man,  had  taken  up 
his  worn  felt  hat  and  sallied  out  faint  and  tired ;  his  errand  was 
an  important  one.  The  Vicar  was  no  ascetic.  In  spite  of  his 
goodness  he  was  not  one  lightly  to  forego  any  of  his  creature 
comforts,  and  the  renunciation  of  his  cup  of  tea  had  gone  hardly 
with  him.  As  he  halted  a  moment  on  the  door-mat  he  told  him- 
self that  it  was  a  triumph  of  mind  over  matter ;  but  the  latter 
would  take  its  revenge  in  an  aching  head  on  the  morrow.  As  he 
walked  down  the  garden-path  it  was  a  pity  Robert  could  not  see 
him,  he  looked  so  big.  At  the  little  gate  he  met  Garton,  to  whom 
he  told  his  errand  at  once ;  he  was  going  to  Ebenezer  Graves. 

Garton  stared  when  he  heard  that.  I  would  not  advise  you 
to  have  anything  more  to  do  with  him,  Austin,"  he  observed,  and 
thereupon  the  Vicar  received  a  piece  of  intelligence  that  filled  him 
with  amazement.  Robert  had  only  just  returned  from  a  most 
exciting  interview  with  the  recreant  editor  of  the  Blackscar  Herald. 

"  Do  you  mean  that  Robert  has  really  been  pitching  into  this 
fellow  Graves  T'  ejaculated  the  Vicar  in  an  excess  of  astonishment. 

"  Pitching  into  him ;  I  believe  you,"  returned  Garton,  rubbing 
his  hands  in  great  enjoyment,  and  rocking  to  and  fro  against  the 
little  gate.  "  I  never  saw  a  man  so  cowed  and  crestfallen  in  my 
life.  Robert  made  me  go  with  him  in  case  he  should  be  tempted 

12 


178  ROBERT  ORD^S  ATONEMENT. 

to  do  violence  to  the  fellow ;  Bob  had  got  his  spirit  up,  I  can  tell 
you." 

"But  why  did  he  not  tell  me  he  had  been  to  the  man?"  re- 
torted the  Vicar  in  sore  perplexity.  "  Here  he  has  left  me  abruptly, 
will  not  listen  to  a  word  of  reason,  and  talks  about  turning  himself 
out  of  my  house,  and  all  the  time  the  foolish  fellow  had  not  the 
courage  to  confess  that  he  had  taken  up  cudgels  himself  in  Miss 
Maturin's  defence — Eobert,  too,  of  all  men." 

"  Oh,  that  is  just  Bob's  way ;  he  is  so  terribly  hard,  you  know. 
He  would  go  and  do  the  right  thing  just  for  the  sake  of  doing  it, 
and  make  himself  so  disagreeable  all  the  time  that  there's  no  bear- 
ing with  him.  I  suppose  you  said  or  did  something  to  offend  him." 

"I  told  him  I  should  have  Miss  Maturin  at  the  Vicarage." 

"  Ah,  that  was  quite  enough,  no  doubt ;  he  would  turn  round 
and  tell  you  that  you  had  shut  the  door  in  his  face.  Poor  old 
Bob,  he  will  never  bring  himself  to  forgive  her." 

"  But,  Gar,  why  should  he  enter  the  list  at  all  on  the  girl's 
behalf?  He  had  much  better  have  left  the  business  to  me." 

"  So  I  told  him  when  he  explained  the  matter  to  me ;  but  he 
chose  to  be  obstinate  over  it.  '  Austin  has  enough  work  of  his 
own  to  do,'  he  said.  'Ebenezer  gives  him  plenty  of  kicks  and 
side  flings  already.  No,  no;  you'll  see  how  I'll  manage  the 
scoundrel.'  And,  true  enough,  he  did  give  it  him ;  the  rascal 
quite  shook  in  his  shoes." 

"  Yes,  but  how  could  Robert  refute  the  attack,  believing  in  it 
all  the  time,  as  he  does?"  asked  the  Vicar  perplexedly. 

"  Oh,  as  to  that,  I  could  see  he  was  very  careful  not  to  com- 
promise himself.  Ebenezer  could  not  nail  him  to  a  single  point. 

"  '  How  dare  you  bring  all  these  slanderous  charges  against  a 
lady  V  he  repeated  over  and  over  again.  Graves  had  his  wife  in 
at  last  as  a  sort  of  protection.  '  You  will  bear  witness,  Jemima, 
that  he  attacked  me  first,'  he  said,  almost  whimpering ;  '  and  you 
have  no  right  to  bully  me,  Mr.  Ord.  How  was  I  to  know  that 
our  correspondent  had  said  anything  damaging  to  the  lady  ?  Re- 
ports of  that  kind  are  often  erroneous.' 

"  '  Very  well,  Mr.  Graves,  you  may  take  your  own  choice,'  said 
Robert,  quite  quietly.  '  You  may  either  make  your  correspondent 
retract  the  article  with  an  apology  next  week,  or  I  will  have  you 
up  for  libel.  My  brother  and  I  are  quite  determined  to  put  a  stop 
to  this  sort  of  persecution ;  so  unless  you  want  your  paper  to  be 
ruined  you  had  better  get  rid  of  this  bad  habit  of  yours  of  inventing 
scandalous  stories  about  people.  Do  you  understand  me,  Mr. 
Graves?' 

"  '  I  will  see  what  I  can  do,'  muttered  the  fellow,  quite  sullenly, 


TREATS  PRINCIPALLY  OF  TEARS.  179 

and  Robert  came  away.  I  don't  know  how  he  managed  it,  but  he 
actually  got  through  the  whole  affair  without  compromising  himself. 
Bob  is  awfully  clever." 

"He  is  awfully  good  too,  if  he  would  but  let  people  find  it 
out  for  themselves,"  returned  the  Vicar;  "and  here  I  have  been 
accusing  him  of  want  of  generosity;  I  suppose  it  was  my  blunt 
assertion  put  him  out.  Well,  I  will  finish  my  work.  Go  in  for 
the  lads,  Gar;"  and  the  Vicar  unlatched  the  gate  and  walked 
thoughtfully  down  the  road.  This  unlooked-for  generosity  on 
Robert's  part  was  making  his  cause  a  little  difficult,  but  he  was  not 
one  to  be  easily  moved  from  his  purpose,  and  so  he  went  on  to  Bryn. 

He  had  planned  his  visit  none  too  early,  and  had  a  shrewd 
suspicion  of  how  he  would  find  matters.  Mrs.  Carruthers,  as  she 
met  him  in  the  hall  on  her  way  to  church,  looked  grave  enough  to 
verify  these  suspicions. 

"  I  am  so  glad  you  are  come,  Mr.  Ord,"  she  said,  warmly  wel- 
coming him.  "  I  can't  think  what  is  the  matter  with  Miss 
Maturin  to-day ;  she  has  scarcely  spoken  or  eaten  for  hours,  and 
she  will  not  answer  a  single  inquiry  as  to  whether  she  be  ill. 
I  was  almost  unwilling  to  go  to  church  to-night,  but  I  thought  she 
would  rather  be  alone.  Will  you  go  to  her  ? "  she  added.  The 
Vicar  nodded.  Mrs.  Carruthers  pushed  open  the  door  of  the 
little  sitting-room,  and  Mr.  Ord  entered  unannounced.  As  usual 
the  room  was  filled  with  evening  sunshine ;  it  slanted  full  on  the 
pretty  tea-table,  from  whence  they  had  just  risen ;  but  Rotha  still 
sat  in  her  place  with  her  empty  plate  before  her.  When  the 
Vicar  first  saw  her  she  had  her  two  arms  on  the  table ;  her  shoulders 
had  a  weary  stoop  in  them,  and  her  face  was  hidden  in  her  hands. 
The  sound  of  the  opening  door  evidently  startled  her ;  when  she 
saw  who  it  was  she  rose  at  once  to  her  feet  and  remained  standing. 

"I  suppose  you  knew  that  I  should  come  to  you,"  he  said 
gently,  as  he  took  the  unoffered  hand  and  pressed  it  in  his. 

Then  she  shook  her  head.  "  No,  Mr.  Ord,  I  never  expected 
to  see  you  here  again;"  and  as  she  turned  from  him  he  saw  that 
the  newspaper  lay  half-hidden  under  her  plate. 

"You  thought  I  should  not  come  to  you  in  your  trouble?"  he 
repeated  reproachfully;  "you  were  wrong,  you  see.  I  hope  you 
do  not  think  I  am  less  your  friend  because  you  are  just  now  so 
sorely  in  need  of  one." 

Her  only  answer  was  to  turn  hurriedly  from  him  and  burst 
into  tears ;  covering  her  face  with  her  hands,  and  pressing  him  to 
leave  her,  she  wept  as  though  her  heart  were  broken.  Only  once 
before  had  Rotha  so  wept.  Good  Christian  as  he  was,  his  thoughts 
were  very  bitter  against  Ebenezer  as  he  heard  her  sobs. 


1 80  ROBER T  ORD^S  A  TONEMENT. 

"  My  dear  Miss  Maturin,  hush  !  poor  child,  poor  child  !  it  has 
gone  very  heavily  with  you,  I  fear." 

Gone  very  heavily  with  her  !  Could  he  guess,  as  she  sat 
hiding  her  face  from  him  in  her  misery,  the  utter  hopelessness  that 
had  crept  over  her  during  the  last  few  hours — the  crushing  press- 
ure— the  outraged  pride — the  whole  helplessness  of  a  woman 
knowing  her  own  innocence,  yet  powerless  to  defend  it.  A  few 
months  ago  the  cruelty  of  the  thing  would  have  gone  hardly  with 
her — but  now — now,  when  a  little  promise  of  brighter  days  had 
come,  it  was  unbearable. 

She  had  taught  herself  to  regard  the  man  who  was  near  her  as 
her  friend — as  one  tolerant  enough  to  help  her  in  spite  of  her  sup- 
posed sin.  She  had  spoken  of  his  goodness  as  though  it  had  been 
a  joy  to  her  ;  her  work  had  been  very  pleasant  under  his  eyes  :  as 
she  had  gone  about  it  she  had  told  herself  that  one  day  he  would 
do  her  justice  and  believe  in  her ;  she  remembered  Garton's  honest 
bluntness  of  avowal,  and  then  her  bliss  had  been  very  great.  But 
now  of  what  avail  were  all  these  things  since  Blackscar  and  Kirkby 
would  believe  in  her  guilt  1  Would  it  be  possible  any  longer  that 
they  should  defend  her  1 

No,  he  could  not  be  her  friend ;  but  for  all  that  she  must  tell 
him  what  it  had  come  into  her  heart  to  do.  Just  now  his  sym- 
pathy was  keeping  him  silent.  By  and  by  he  would  ask  her  some 
question  that  would  make  it  easy  for  her  to  tell  him  that  she  had 
made  up  her  mind  to  go  away ;  for  her  burden  was  too  heavy  for 
her. 

"  Miss  Maturin,"  he  said  at  length,  "  can  you  not  understand 
that  this  is  very  bitter  to  me  as  well  as  to  you  1 "  And  as  she 
shook  her  head  mournfully,  "  Indeed  it  is ;  when  I  read  that  paper 
I  felt  cut  to  the  heart — it  seemed  to  me  so  wantonly  cruel." 

She  turned  her  face  to  him  at  that.  "Mr.  Ord,  it  has  been 
my  deathblow." 

"  Hush  !  you  must  not  say  that." 

"  Ah !  but  it  has,"  and  here  she  struggled  ineffectually  with 
her  emotion  ;  "  it  has  been  the  deathblow  to  all  my  hopes.  You 
will  never  know  now  how  I  have  planned  and  worked,  and  all  I 
meant  to  do.  Everything  would  have  come  right,  I  know,  if  they 
had  let  me  stay  here  a  little  longer." 

"  Stay  here  !  at  Bryn,  do  you  mean  T 

"  Yes,  it  is  my  own,  is  it  not  1  No  one  has  the  right  to  drive 
me  away,  have  they  1  And  I  was  beginning  to  love  it  so  in  spite 
of  all ;  if  I  could  only  have  stopped  on  here  and  worked  as  I  was 
working  I  am  sure  people  would  have  grown  to  believe  in  me.  I 
have  so  prayed  to  be  allowed  to  live  it  down." 


TREATS  PRINCIPALLY  OF  TEARS.  181 

41  You  will  live  it  down  if  you  will  only  be  brave  over  this." 

"I  shall  not  try,"  she  replied,  turning  very  white.  "  In  the 
heat  of  the  day  my  strength  has  failed.  I  am  going  away  from 
here,  Mr.  Ord." 

"  I  rather  dreaded  to  hear  you  say  so,"  was  the  answer ;  "  but 
perhaps  it  is  only  natural.  How  long  do  you  intend  to  remain 
away  T 

Rotha  looked  up  at  him  rather  puzzled.  "  If  I  go  away,  of 
course  I  shall  never  return,"  she  replied  simply.  "  I  am  very 
sorry,  for  Meg's  sake;  poor  Meg,  she  was  just  beginning  to  feel 
happy  here.  It  is  hard  for  her  to  go  back  to  her  old  drudgery ; 
but  there  is  no  help  for  it." 

"  Do  you  mean,  Miss  Maturin,  that  you  seriously  contemplate 
leaving  Kirkby — utterly  and  entirely,  I  mean  3" 

"  What  can  I  do  1 "  she  answered  bitterly ;  and  there  was  a 
passionate  ring  in  her  voice  no  one  had  ever  heard  before.  "  How 
can  I  live  on  here  when  the  very  poor  about  my  gate  will  look 
upon  me  as  little  better  than  a  thief  ?  Can  I  go  about  the  streets 
protesting  my  innocence  when  people  are  pointing  their  ringers  at 
me  as  one  who  has  defrauded  the  injured  of  their  rights  ?  Will 
they  believe  me  if  I  cry  shame  9n  them  for  the  baseness  of  their 
falsehood  ?  Mr.  Ord,  you  know — you  must  know,  that  it  is  not 
possible  for  me  to  do  otherwise  than  I  am  doing." 

"  Nevertheless  I  intend  that  you  shall  not  leave  us." 

"  Who  is  to  prevent  me,  Mr.  Ord  r 

"  Who  is  to  prevent  you  1  Why  I,  if  it  lies  in  my  power — 
common  sense — your  own  conscience — the  dictates  of  prudence  and 
generosity — nay  more,  your  very  self-respect." 

"  They  will  be  all  as  nothing  in  this  case.  Do  you  think  I 
should  sacrifice  Meg  if  it  were  possible  to  remain — that  I  should 
renounce  all  hope  and  plans  for  the  future  ?  Mr.  Ord,  your  argu- 
ment will  not  shake  me ;  I  am  determined  to  bear  all  this  no 
longer." 

He  gave  her  a  pitying  look  before  he  resumed  his  speech  ;  he 
could  see  now  how  wrung  and  galled  her  spirit  was  within  her. 
A  difficult  piece  of  work  lay  before  him,  but  its  toughness  did  not 
daunt  him ;  he  was  not  the  less  patient  with  her  now  that  trouble 
was  making  her  reckless. 

"  You  know,  of  course,  that  the  conditions  of  the  will  oblige 
you  to  live  at  Bryn  1 "  he  continued  after  a  pause  ;  "  pardon  me  if 
I  remind  you  of  what  you  know  already — the  clause  is  a  binding 
one,  I  believe." 

"  I  have  no  intention  to  set  it  aside,"  she  returned,  with  a  little 
scorn.  "  I  know  in  leaving  Bryn  that  I  shall  leave  it  a  beggar, 


182  ROBERT  ORD^S  ATONEMENT. 

but  anything  will  be  better  than  these  gilded  chains ;  poverty  can- 
not degrade  me,  though  at  first  it  will  be  hard  to  bear.  We  must 
go  back  to  our  teaching,  Meg  and  I.  Poor  Meg,  it  is  very  sad  for 
her,  certainly." 

"  I  should  think  it  sadder  for  you." 

"  No,  I  am  younger,  and  in  spite  of  my  sorrow  I  am  not  quite 
so  hopeless.  I  shall  go  away  from  here,  and  in  a  few  years  perhaps 
I  shall  forget  my  troubles.  When  I  next  come,"  she  added,  with 
a  bitter  smile,  "  your  Convalescent  Home  will  have  got  its  new 
wing,  and  the  Almshouses  will  have  been  built." 

"You  mean  that,  in  case  of  your  refusal  to  live  at  Bryn,  the 
money  is  to  revert  to  the  original  purpose — at  least  to  the  pur- 
pose my  aunt  proposed  to  herself  after  she  had  disinherited  her 
lawful  heir." 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Ord ;  the  Almshouses  were  much  in  her  thoughts. 
I  cannot  think  what  induced  her  to  give  them  up,  unless  indeed  it 
were  natural  caprice." 

"Very  likely,"  returned  the  Vicar  quietly.  "Well;  so  it  is 
your  intention,  Miss  Maturin,  to  let  the  property  go  out  of  your 
hands  and  to  resume  your  old  drudgery  of  teaching, — in  short,  to 
use  your  own  expression,  to  leave  Bryn  a  beggar?" 

"That  is  my  intention,  certainly." 

"  Have  you  any  idea  that  by  doing  so  you  will  at  all  alter  the 
present  state  of  feelings  towards  you  ? " 

"  No,"  she  faltered ;  "  I  have  no  hope  at  all  of  that  kind." 

"  Perhaps  you  are  not  aware  that  it  may  rather  injure  you  than 
otherwise ;  some  people  are  so  unjust  that  they  may  hold  it  rather 
a  corroboration  of  their  suspicions  than  otherwise." 

He  touched  her  there — he  saw  her  wince.  "  I  cannot  help  it," 
she  answered  despairingly.  "  I  have  tried  what  I  can  do  to  remove 
it,  but  it  is  all  no  use ;  people  must  think  of  me  as  they  will — it 
will  be  all  over  some  day." 

"  Yes,  if  we  be  not  weary  of  well-doing ;  have  you  forgotten 
that  1 " 

"  I  have  forgotten  everything,  I  think,"  she  answered  in  a  tired 
voice,  putting  back  her  hair  from  her  face — such  a  worn  young  face 
it  looked.  "  Mr.  Ord,  when  I  think  of  Meg — poor  Meg — I  hate 
myself  for  being  such  a  coward ;  but  the  sin  is  with  them  who  are 
driving  me  to  desperation." 

"  That  is  true  in  one  sense,  but  we  may  not  rid  ourselves  of 
the  responsibility  of  our  own  actions ;  if  you  carry  out  this  inten- 
tion, you  will  cause  suffering  to  many." 

"  You  mean  that  poor  Annie  will  miss  me.  I  am  afraid  she 
will,  but  it  will  be  only  for  a  little  time  ;  what  hurts  me  most  is 


TREATS  PRINCIPALLY  OF  TEARS.  183 

that  the  hospital  will  claim  all  the  money,  and  I  have  been  saving 
it  all  so  carefully  for  him." 

For  him — the  words  had  escaped  her  almost  unconsciously. 
As  soon  as  she  had  spoken  them  she  shrunk  back  in  uncontrollable 
confusion,  and  covered  her  face  with  her  hands.  "  Oh,  Mr.  Ord," 
she  exclaimed,  "  what  have  I  said  !  I  never  meant  any  of  you  to 
know  this." 

He  had  scarcely  understood  her  meaning  at  first,  but  now  a 
certain  quick  brightness  came  into  his  eyes  as  he  leant  forward — 
he  almost  held  his  breath  in  the  intensity  of  his  surprise  and 
suspense. 

"  Do  you  mean  that  you  are  saving  it  for  Robert  1  Don't  be 
afraid  to  trust  me,"  he  continued  pleadingly ;  "  you  hardly  know 
how  important  this  all  is — on  my  honour,  as  a  gentleman  and  a 
clergyman,  I  will  not  betray  your  confidence." 

She  looked  at  him  a  little  comforted. 

"  You  will  not  even  tell  your  wife  1" 

11  No,  no ;  this  shall  be  solely  a  matter  between  you  and  me — 
your  words  shall  be  as  though  they  had  not  been  spoken.  Did  I 
understand  you  to  say  that  you  had  been  keeping  the  money  for 
him?" 

"Yes,"  she  returned,  still  hesitating;  "all  of  it  that  I  could 
honestly  spare  from  my  necessities.  Meg  and  I  are  used  to  live 
simply,  you  know;  there  is  no  sacrifice  in  the  case — none.  I 
know  that  I  cannot  make  restitution  in  my  lifetime,  but,  all  the 
same,  it  makes  me  happier  to  think  that  it  is  all  being  saved  up 
for  him." 

"But,  my  dear  Miss  Maturin,  you  are  much  younger  than 
Robert.  Women  on  an  average  live  longer  than  men." 

"Yes,  happy  women  do,  no  doubt.  I  should  be  sorry  to 
believe  that  in  my  case ;  but  at  least  his  children  will  have  the 
benefit.  The  idea  surprises  you,  perhaps,"  she  continued,  with  a 
faint  smile ;  "  it  did  Mr.  Tracy ;  but  it  was  the  only  thing  that 
gave  me  any  comfort.  It  may  be  possible  for  some  people  to 
enjoy  themselves  at  the  expense  of  others,  but  this  is  not  my 
nature." 

"  I  most  thoroughly  believe  you :  in  giving  up  your  property, 
therefore,  you  are  making  this  noble  intention  of  yours,  with 
regard  to  my  brother,  null  and  void.  Never  mind,  the  Convales- 
cent Hospital  will  reap  the  benefit." 

"  Oh  ! "  she  said  reproachfully.  "  Why  do  you  remind  me  of 
that  1  Are  you  going  to  make  it  as  impossible  for  me  to  go  as  it 
is  to  remain1?" 

"  I  hope,  indeed,  that  I  shall  succeed  in  making  it  impossible.'1 


184  ROBERT  ORD^S  ATONEMENT. 

"  But  why — why  be  so  cruel  1 " 

"Because  Kirkby,  and  Kirkby  Vicarage  especially,  cannot 
afford  to  part  with  you,  Miss  Maturin — because  they  shall  not 
part  with  you  until  they  have  acknowledged  themselves  to  be  in 
the  wrong.  Do  not  misunderstand  me,  and  think  I  am  saying 
this  on  account  of  what  you  have  told  me  about  my  brother.  In 
my  own  mind  I  think  Robert  will  never  derive  any  good  from 
your  money,  or  any  one  else's.  No ;  I  say  this  solely  because  I 
believe  in  you,  and  think  you  are  an  injured  woman." 

Before  he  had  finished  speaking  she  had  risen  to  her  feet,  and 
was  confronting  him. 

"  Mr.  Ord,  say  that  again,"  she  panted. 

"  What  am  I  to  say  again  ? "  he  asked,  taking  her  two  hands, 
and  still  holding  her  before  him.  As  he  looked  at  her  something 
like  a  mist  passed  before  his  own  eyes. 

"What  you  said  just  now — that  you  believed  in  me,"  she 
replied,  hardly  able  to  get  out  the  words  in  her  agitation,  and 
trembling  all  over. 

"  Very  well ;  I  will  repeat  my  words.  I  said  that  I  believe 
in  you,  and  I  do.  I  believe  that  we  have  wronged  you  utterly 
and  bitterly,  and  that  you  have  never  done  this  thing  of  which 
we  accused  you." 

"  Thank  God ! "  was  all  she  said  ;  but,  oh,  the  sparkling 
brightness  of  her  face,  and  then  a  little  astonishment  mingled 
with  her  joy ! 

"  Well,"  he  said,  smiling,  "  are  you  disposed  to  forgive  me  ? 
I  confess  I  hardly  like  to  ask  your  pardon." 

Then,  in  her  sweet  humility,  she  put  that  by. 

"  But,  Mr.  Ord,  I  cannot  understand  it.  Surely  you  did  not 
come  here  this  evening  to  tell  me  this  ? "  and  her  eyes  dwelt  for  a 
moment  on  the  offending  Herald. 

"  You  mean  that  you  cannot  understand  my  sudden  conver- 
sion. Well,  I  will  tell  you  the  truth.  Just  before  I  came  here 
my  brother  asked  if  I  were  prepared  to  acquit  you,  and  I  told  him 
*  No.'  At  the  time  I  certainly  meant  what  I  said." 

"Ah!" 

"I  knew  how  I  should  find  you.  When  I  came  into  your 
presence  just  now,  and  saw  you  bowed  down  with  grief — my 
doubts  were  still  heavy  on  my  mind — they  were  there;  but,  to 
be  candid  with  you,  they  were  certainly  lessened." 

"  How  so  ? "  she  asked  timidly. 

"  Well,  I  had  overcome  my  prejudice.  Perhaps  I  should  be 
right  in  saying  that  I  was  no  longer  disposed  to  be  hardened 
against  you.  I  had  been  proving  you  lately.  I  could  not  recon- 


TREATS  PRINCIPALLY  OF  TEARS.  185 

cile  the  fact  that  came  before  my  eyes  with  Robert's  suspicions, 
and  every  day  I  found  it  more  difficult  to  doubt  Annie's  patient 
nurse  and  comforter.  Do  you  understand  me  ?" 

"  Yes,"  she  returned  humbly ;  "  but  I  am  afraid  I  was  only 
working  for  your  praise  then." 

"  It  may  be  so ;  but  it  struck  me  you  were  laborious  and  self- 
denying.  I  knew  you  to  be  patient.  When  you  talked  to  me,  in 
your  grief,  about  going  away — and  giving  up  everything — it  was 
impossible  not  to  believe  you  were  in  earnest.  It  is  true  I  hinted 
that  others  might  attribute  such  conduct  to  far  different  motives ; 
but,  in  my  own  mind,  then  I  began  to  see  you  were  innocent." 

"Is  that  all ?" 

"  No ;  it  is  not  all.  I  supposed  you  managed  to  convince  me 
by  your  own  words.  There,  will  that  do  1 "  he  added,  smiling. 

Somehow  he  found  it  difficult  to  explain  to  her  how  his  doubts 
really  had  been  set  at  rest.  How  could  he  tell  her  that  it  had 
been  those  few  unconscious  words  of  hers  that  had  carried  con- 
viction straight  to  his  mind  1 

"  I  am  saving  it  all  so  carefully  for  him."  Could  he  ever  for- 
get the  tenderly  mournful  intonation  of  her  voice  as  she  said  that, 
and  the  shrinking  confession  that  had  followed  her  words  1  "I 
never  meant  any  of  you  to  know  this,"  she  said  to  him  in  her 
distress ;  and  then,  when  he  had  drawn  her  on  with  his  promise 
of  secrecy,  what  did  he  hear  1 — that  she  was  living  simply,  only 
supplying  her  necessities  in  fact,  that  an  abundance  should  be 
laid  up  for  him,  for  the  man  who  had  wronged  her,  and  for  his 
children  after  him — and  this  was  the  woman  whose  pure  generous 
heart  they  were  crushing  to  the  dust.  He  wished  now  that  he 
had  not  given  her  his  word — that  it  were  possible  that  others 
might  share  his  knowledge — it  would  make  his  defence  of  her  so 
much  less  difficult ;  but  when  he  hinted  at  this  wish  she  reminded 
him  of  his  promise  with  a  decision  against  which  there  was  no 
appeal. 

"  I  could  not  stay  here  and  look  any  of  them  in  the  face,"  she 
said  in  a  frightened  voice,  when  he  suggested  it.  At  that  he 
smiled  a  little. 

"You  are  thinking  better  of  your  intended  exodus  then,  Miss 
Maturin — you  are  not  leaving  Bryn  now  *? " 

"Of  course  I  am  not  leaving  it,"  she  returned  with  energy. 
"  When  you  said  you  would  prevent  me,  how  could  I  know  what 
means  you  would  take  ?  Do  you  think  I  would  ever  go  away  from 
Kirkby  now  that  I  have  a  friend  here  who  believes  in  me  1 "  She 
might  have  added  "two  friends"  when  she  thought  of  Gartoa 
but  a  little  consciousness  kept  her  silent. 


186  ROBERT  ORB'S  ATONEMENT. 

"  Ah,  so  my  argument  has  been  successful,  after  all  1  By  the 
bye,  Miss  Maturin,  I  have  something  to  tell  you,  only  all  this  has 
put  it  out  of  my  head  till  now — do  you  know  who  has  been  taking 
up  the  cudgels  in  your  defence  1 "  and  he  glanced  meaningly  at  the 
obnoxious  paper. 

She  shook  her  head.     "  How  can  I  know  1 " 

"  Well,  I  will  tell  you ;  it  was  Robert.  Garton  told  me  all 
about  it,  and  I  was  very  nearly  as  surprised  as  you  are.  Robert 
seems  to  have  done  his  work  well ;  Garton  says  the  fellow  fairly 
shook  in  his  shoes.  He  has  consented  to  write  some  sort  of 
apology.  I  hardly  know  whether  he  will  go  so  far  as  to  retract 
entirely ;  so  you  see  things  are  not  quite  so  hopeless  as  you  made 
them  out  half  an  hour  ago." 

"  No,  indeed ;  but  oh,  Mr.  Ord,  how  good  of  your  brother, 
when  all  the  time  he  believes — at  least,  he  suspects — this  of  me ; 
and  I  was  going  to  wrong  him  so  by  going  away." 

"  Ah  !  true ;  that  would  have  argued  badly  for  his  prospects," 
returned  the  Vicar,  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye,  as  he  thought  of 
Rotha's  full-grown  heir ;  but  Rotha  was  too  much  occupied  with 
her  own  thoughts. 

"  I  always  said  he  was  just  in  spite  of  his  hardness,"  she  said 
at  last.  "  Thank  you,  Mr.  Ord  ;  I  am  glad  you  have  told  me,  it 
will  make  it  easier  for  me  to  bear  things  in  the  future.  It  does 
not  seem  to  me  that  I  shall  mind  what  people  think  now." 

"  But,  all  the  same,  I  am  afraid  that  your  troubles  are  not  yet 
over.  I  hope  you  have  not  forgotten  Mrs.  Blake  and  Miss 
Brookes." 

"  Ah,  Miss  Brookes  is  the  worst — I  am  terribly  afraid  of  that 
woman.  No,  I  have  not  forgotten  them;  but  I  feel  even  as 
though  I  have  a  panacea  for  all  ills." 

"And  what  is  that?" 

"  That  you  believe  in  me,"  she  said  touchingly ;  and  somehow 
the  Vicar  had  no  answer  ready. 

"  I  was  going  to  ask  you  if  you  would  do  me  a  favour,"  he 
said  presently,  in  his  usual  manner.  "  I  want  your  assistance  in 
a  little  matter  that  I  have  to  settle  in  the  village.  Do  you  think 
you  are  too  tired  to  come  with  me  1 " 

"  Too  tired !  oh  no,"  she  returned,  with  alacrity  j  but  he 
hesitated  a  little  when  he  saw  her  face. 

"  Are  you  sure  you  are  not  1  Well,  perhaps  it  will  be  better 
to  have  it  over.  Put  on  your  bonnet  then  while  I  stroll  out  in 
the  garden  for  a  breath  of  air." 


CHAPTER    XVII. 

MRS.    OKD   HEARS    ARTY    HIS    PRAYERS. 

' '  I  know  her  !  the  worst  thought  she  has 
Is  whiter  even  than  her  pretty  hand  ! 
She  must  prove  true  ;  for,  brother,  where  two  fight 
The  stronger  wins,  and  truth  and  love  are  strength." — TENNYSON. 

ROTHA  had  acceded  to  the  Vicar's  request  with  alacrity.  She  was 
far  too  happy  to  feel  any  surprise  at  it  being  preferred — she  was 
not  even  curious  on  the  subject.  She  bathed  her  swollen  eyes, 
and  was  very  careful  about  the  adjustment  of  her  bonnet-strings ; 
she  even  caught  herself  smiling  at  the  rather  forlorn-looking  image 
in  the  glass. 

"  I  wonder  what  people  will  say  to  my  red  eyes,"  she  thought. 
"I  declare  I  look  as  pale  as  a  ghost;"  and  a  vision  of  Belle's 
beautiful  face  rose  before  her  as  she  ran  downstairs.  Prue  looked 
up  in  surprise  when  her  mistress  passed  her;  the  light  footstep 
scarcely  touched  the  ground,  she  thought.  The  Vicar  was  standing 
in  the  doorway  leading  into  the  lane. 

"  You  have  not  been  long,"  he  said,  with  an  approving  smile, 
and  then  they  walked  down  the  road  together. 

Rotha  felt  as  though  she  could  hardly  keep  her  feet  in  order ; 
she  felt  extremely  happy,  and  yet  in  an  odd  sort  of  dream  too. 
Her  tears  had  made  her  weak ;  she  felt  a  little  dazed, — that  he 
should  believe  in  her  !  She  wished  all  Kirkby  could  have  seen  her 
walking  beside  him,  her  friend ;  she  gave  him  wistful  glances  now 
and  then,  inexpressively  touching.  Somehow  that  brief  walk  was 
stereotyped  in  her  memory  for  ever.  Years  after  she  could  see 
it  all :  the  sunset  sky  all  gilded  with  amethyst  and  crimson,  the 
west  a  perfect  flood  of  yellow  glory ;  just  below  the  horizon  the 
clear  blue  outline  of  tho  Leatham  hills;  in  the  foreground  the 
church,  with  its  weather-worn  lich-gate;  a  stone  cross,  with  a 
wreath  of  withered  immortelles ;  some  children  swinging  on  a 
rusty  chain.  Down  the  white  sandy  road  comes  the  Vicar,  slow 
and  ponderous.  What  a  grand-looking  man,  Rotha  thinks,  as  she 


188  ROBERT  ORD^S  ATONEMENT. 

looks  up  at  him.  He  has  crisp  curly  hair,  with  open  gray  eyes  and 
massive  shoulders.  His  footsteps  go  thud,  thud,  beside  Rotba'n 
springy  ones.  He  carries  his  felt  hat  in  his  hand  as  they  come  near 
the  church.  They  can  hear  music  through  the  open  door — "Oh, 
Paradise!  oh,  Paradise  !"  Rotha's  pulse  gives  a  little  thrill  as  she 
hears  it.  "Where  loyal  hearts  and  true,  stand  ever  in  the  light." 

"Amen!"  she  whispered. 

The  Vicar  had  gone  over  to  speak  to  the  verger.  He  came 
back  presently,  and  they  retrace  their  steps.  "All  rapture, 
through  and  through ; "  he  is  humming  it  from  where  they  left 
off.  The  clouds  are  all  crimson  and  gold  now ;  the  air  has  a  soft 
crispness  in  it. 

"  Where  are  we  going  ? "  asks  Rotha,  a  little  bewildered. 

They  had  been  walking  up  and  down  just  to  listen  to  the 
hymn,  and  now  he  has  unlocked  another  door  in  the  wall. 

" '  Open,  Sesame.'  Do  you  not  like  wandering  in  a  strange 
garden  of  an  evening,  Miss  Maturin  ?  It  always  reminds  me  of  a 
German  Mahrchen.  Do  you  admire  my  fuchsias  ? " 

They  are  walking  down  a  gravel-path ;  two  ducks  come  wad- 
dling over  the  grass  to  Rotha's  feet ;  a  little  white  kitten,  up  in 
an  apple  tree,  grins  at  her  like  a  gargoyle  as  they  pass.  There 
are  beds  of  scarlet  geraniums  and  mignonette  ;  a  westeria  trails 
clusters  of  gray  grapes  over  a  low  bow-window ;  a  passion-flower 
climbs  over  the  porch.  A  sleepy  voice  sounds  querulously  from 
the  upper  regions. 

"  Where  am  I  ?  Why  do  you  bring  me  here  ?"  cries  Rotha  in 
an  uncertain  voice. 

She  is  more  in  a  dream  than  ever ;  the  Vicar  puts  her  hand 
on  his  arm  with  a  smile. 

"  I  will  tell  you  by  and  by,"  he  answers,  stopping  to  gather 
a  great  creamy  rose,  and  slipping  it  between  her  fingers.  "At 
present  we  have  to  go  upstairs.  Don't  be  frightened,  it  will  be 
over  soon ; "  and  he  draws  her  across  the  threshold. 

Rotha  gives  herself  up  for  lost  now — they  are  stumbling  up  a 
dark  staircase ;  more  roses  like  the  one  she  has  in  her  hand  came 
peeping  through  a  little  lattice-window  all  festooned  with  greenery. 
The  sleepy  voice  they  heard  in  the  upper  regions  has  descended, 
and  is  blowing  through  a  tin  trumpet. 

"  Be  quiet,  Arty,  you  rogue ;  come  and  make  friends  with  this 
lady."  And  Rotha  bends  down  to  an  invisible  curly  head. 

"  Mother,  the  lady  has  kissed  my  curls,"  shouts  Arty,  turning 
short  round  into  an  open  door ;  "  she  has,  indeed,  and  I  won't  let 
Uncle  Robert  cut  them  off.  Will  you  play  ( Gefoozalem,'  Uncle 
Robert?" 


MRS.  ORD  HEARS  ARTY  HIS  PRA  YERS.         189 

"  What  lady  ?  Hush  !  "  says  his  mother,  "you  are  disturbing 
your  aunt.  Why,  Austin ! "  and  then  Mary  rises  in  confusion.  In 
the  sudden  stillness  Rotha  can  hear  the  ripple  of  the  water  behind 
the  sand-hills.  Coming  out  of  the  light  and  glory,  the  room  seems 
full  of  dusk  corners — a  black  dress  comes  out  of  one;  a  tall  dark 
man  bows  to  her  from  a  distance ;  there  is  a  mass  of  white  drapery 
glimmering  somewhere.  Rotha  is  conscious  that  she  is  crushing 
her  rose  between  her  fingers — the  carpet  is  strewn  with  pale  creamy 
leaves — one  flutters  on  to  Arty's  curls;  the  Vicar  has  her  hand 
still  firmly  on  his  arm;  she  feels  she  is  white  to  the  lips. 

"  Mary,  I  have  brought  Miss  Maturin  to  see  you ;  make  her 
very  welcome,  my  dear ; "  and,  as  he  delivers  himself  of  his  little 
speech,  he  lifts  his  boy  in  his  arms  and  smothers  him  with  kisses, 
and  Mary  takes  Rotha's  hand. 

The  Vicar  has  retreated  to  the  rug,  and  is  eyeing  the  white 
drapery  rather  doubtfully.  "  Why,  Belle,  child,  are  you  ill?"  he 
asks  kindly. 

"  Hush !  Austin,"  says  Mary  again,  and  she  drops  Rotha's 
hand  and  comes  up  to  the  sofa  a  little  anxiously.  "  Yes,  Belle  has 
been  ill,  but  she  is  better  now,"  and  she  whispers  something  into 
her  sister's  ear ;  but  Belle  colours,  and  looks  at  Robert. 

"  Will  you  not  sit  down,  Miss  Maturin  *?  I  think  we  can  find 
you  a  chair."  A  tall  figure  passes  between  her  and  the  light — 
the  waves  are  rippling  up  louder  than  ever  now — they  seem  surg- 
ing over  the  sand-hills. 

"Thank  you,"  says  Rotha.  There  is  only  a  bare  flower-stalk 
between  her  fingers  now;  the  blue  convolvuli  on  the  carpets  seem 
twining  into  knots  and  festoons.  "  Are  there  such  things  as  blue 
convolvuli?"  thinks  Rotha,  with  a  little  wonder.  There  is  a 
curious  lump  in  her  throat;  her  temples  are  throbbing  with  sharp 
pain,  and  her  eyes  are  aching  and  swollen. 

Robert  had  brought  her  a  chair — and  now  he  has  gone  off 
somewhere.  She  can  hear  him  whistling  softly  at  a  far-off  window; 
he  has  taken  no  notice  of  Mary's  whisper,  and  Belle  still  colours 
and  hesitates. 

"  It  will  be  too  late  in  another  minute,"  says  Mary,  with  a 
patient  sigh  ;  and  then  Belle  gets  up  and  crosses  the  room — a  cold 
hand  holds  Rotha's  for  a  moment,  and  the  Vicar,  with  a  pleased 
smile,  presses  his  boy  to  him. 

"  What  lots  of  kisses  you  are  giving  me  to-night,  father,"  says 
Arty,  a  little  ruefully. 

"  There  are  two  more  to  give  to  your  Aunt  Belle,"  says  Austin, 
with  a  laugh,  as  he  releases  him ;  and  Arty  blows  an  ode  to  freedom 
through  his  tin  trumpet. 


190  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

"  Do  you  think  the  walls  of  Jericho  will  soon  blow  down  1  You 
are  Jericho,  Aunt  Belle,  and  I  am  going  to  walk  seven  times  round 
you.  Where  are  the  palm  trees,  Uncle  Bob?" 

"  Hush,  Arty,  that  is  not  a  proper  game,"  said  his  mother, 
quite  shocked.  "  Austin,  will  you  ring  the  bell,  please  1  It  is  time 
for  Arty  to  go  to  bed;  Deb  will  hear  him  say  his  prayers  to-night." 

"  Am  I  to  pray  for  the  lady  too  1 "  says  Arty,  rubbing  his  curls 
sleepily.  As  he  blows  a  last  refrain  he  is  a  little  unsteady — his 
head  nods  drowsily  on  Deb's  shoulder. 

"  Do  you  know  I  have  had  no  tea  to-night,  Mary,"  says  the 
Vicar,  rather  solemnly.  "Why  should.  Deb  hear  him  say  his 
prayers'?  he  will  only  gabble  them.  Let  Miss  Maturin  go  upstairs 
and  take  off  her  bonnet,  my  dear,  and  then  we  will  have  some  tea 
together  in  your  room." 

"  Oh,  Austin,  I  am  so  sorry  I  did  not  think  of  it  before,"  she 
says  remorsefully.  As  she  goes  out  of  the  room  she  is  a  little 
mystified — why  should  not  Deb  hear  Arty  his  prayers  1  Austin 
has  never  before  objected  to  that  godly  handmaiden.  She  makes 
a  little  excuse  to  Rotha  as  they  go  up  the  dark  stairs.  "  Mother's 
rooms  are  always  untidy,"  she  observes,  as  she  picks  up  a  broken 
drum  and  a  whole  file  of  soldiers  off  the  floor ;  the  soldiers  are 
oscillating  on  their  zigzag  parade;  as  Mary  picks  them  up  they 
drop  off  by  twos  and  threes. 

"  Let  me  help  you,"  says  Rotha,  with  a  little  laugh — and  in 
another  moment  she  is  down  on  the  carpet ;  in  the  dim  light  she 
can  see  faint  patches  and  stains  everywhere — some  marbles  crunch 
under  her  feet  and  roll  under  the  bed.  By  and  by  Arty  comes  in 
with  bare  rosy  feet  and  startles  them. 

"Miss  Maturin,  I  am  quite  ashamed.  Arty,  come  here  and 
say  your  prayers." 

"Why  should  I  not  play  at  my  Jericho  game,  mother?"  says 
Arty,  as  he  huddles  up  his  feet  in  his  mother's  dress.  "  Deb's 
cross,  and  I  wouldn't  have  said  my  prayers  to  her." 

"  Shut  your  eyes,  Arty ;  do  you  think  the  child-Christ  will  be 
beside  your  bed  to-night  if  you  talk  like  that  ? "  says  Mary's  cooing 
voice. 

A  hushed  feeling  comes  over  Rotha  as  she  sits  down  by  the 
open  window.  By  and  by,  when  Deb  is  making  the  tea,  and  Arty 
is  prattling  after  his  prayers,  she  begins  to  have  a  diin  conscious- 
ness why  the  Vicar  has  sent  her  upstairs. 

"  I  think  my  room  has  the  best  view  in  the  house,"  says  Mrs. 
Ord  cheerfully,  as  she  tucks  away  her  son  under  her  arm.  Arty 
is  going  in  for  a  cuddle  to-night.  "  I  often  sit  up  here  of  an  even- 
ing when  I  am  not  at  church." 


MRS.  ORD  HEARS  ARTY  HIS  PRA  YERS.         191 

"  Yes,  it  is  very  beautiful,"  returns  Rotha.  Somehow  her  hot 
eyes  will  keep  filling  with  tears  as  she  looks  over  the  dark  sea  and 
at  the  distant  lights.  The  mother  and  boy  opposite  seemed  framed 
with  a  dim  halo — it  is  all  so  peaceful  and  still ;  a  young  moon 
trembles  on  the  verge  of  the  sea,  and  one  or  two  stars  show  like 
sparks  of  gold  against  a  long  cloud.  There  are  two  figures  moving 
up  and  down  among  the  sand-hills ;  a  woman's  cloak  flutters  far  out 
at  the  margin  of  the  waves — the  lights  come  flickering  up  upon  the 
sea-wall.  "  There  is  Meg  taking  her  solitary  stroll,"  thinks  Rotha; 
and  then  Mrs.  Ord's  voice  breaks  in  a  little  plaintively : 

"  Yes,  when  one  looks  at  a  scene  like  that,  one  is  ashamed  of 
being  discontented." 

"Are  you  ever  discontented1?"  asked  Rotha  curiously.  Mary 
laughed,  and  then  dimpled  consciously  in  the  twilight,  and  then 
laughed  again. 

"  I  wish  Austin  had  heard  you  ask  that.  Do  you  know  I  was 
small  enough  to  feel  ashamed  when  he  told  me  to  bring  you  up- 
stairs. I  was  afraid  you  would  think  everything  so  poor  and 
shabby,  and  Arty's  toys  did  look  so  bad,"  finished  Mary.  She 
scolded  herself  afterwards  for  her  confession,  but  she  was  a  woman 
who  missed  sadly  the  beauty  an<|  fitness  of  things.  She  always 
said  that  one  of  the  joys  of  heaven  to  her  would  be  that  there 
would  be  nothing  worn  out  or  broken  there ;  "  and  breakages  are 
so  trying  to  the  temper,"  she  would  add  naively. 

Rotha  looked  round  the  room  when  Mrs.  Ord  gave  vent  to  this 
womanish  speech ;  and  then  she  told  Mary  plainly  that  "  she 
thought  it  the  most  delicious  old  room  she  had  ever  seen ;  she  liked 
the  motherly  arrangements — Arty's  high  chair,  and  the  big  chintz 
couch,  and  the  round  table  with  its  litter  of  boxes  and  puzzles." 

"  Yes,  but  you  cannot  think  how  faded  all  the  curtains  are," 
returned  Mrs.  Ord  disconsolately ;  "  and  I  have  darned  them  till 
I  don't  think  they  will  bear  another  wash ;  I  have  had  them 

fifteen  years.  And  as  to  the  carpet Well,  with  great  boys 

how  can  you  expect  carpets  to  wear  properly?" 

"  Carpets  won't  last  for  ever,"  returned  Rotha  sententiously. 
She  had  a  dim  idea  that  the  Vicar  had  not  sent  them  upstairs  to 
talk  about  carpets,  but  it  was  very  nice  all  the  same.  "  I  think 
this  is  a  dear  room,"  she  continued,  with  a  little  burst,  "  and  I 
would  not  mind  a  bit  about  its  shabbiness,"  and  then  Arty  was 
sent  away,  and  the  two  women  became  more  confidential. 

"  I  suppose  tea  is  ready  now,"  Mary  had  observed,  suddenly 
rising  ;  then  Rotha  had  put  her  hand  on  her  dress  very  timidly  to 
detain  her. 

"  Please  do  not  go  just  yet,  Mrs.  Ord,  I  want  you  to  know  how 


192  ROBERT  ORUS  ATONEMENT. 

good  your  husband  has  been  to  me."  Then  Mary  sat  down  again 
directly. 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  hear  it,"  she  returned,  with  a  little  effort. 
She  too  had  felt,  as  she  held  forth  on  carpets,  that  her  eloquence 
had  been  a  failure  ;  but,  ignorant  as  she  was  of  the  result  of  her 
husband's  mission,  it  was  hardly  possible  for  her  to  become  ani- 
mated on  any  other  subject.  "  I  am  very  glad  he  has  been  good 
to  you.  I  think  there  is  no  one  like  Austin  for  helping  when  one 
is  in  trouble,"  finished  Mary,  with  innocent  tautology.  She  was 
always  ready  to  expatiate  for  any  length  of  time  on  the  cardinal 
virtues  of  her  husband. 

"  No  one  like  him.  Well,  no.  I  suppose  a  drowning  wretch 
believes  in  the  goodness  of  the  man  who  saves  him.  When  I  think 
of  your  husband,  there  seems  no  limit  to  my  gratitude.  Do  you 
know  what  he  has  done  for  me,  Mrs.  Ord?" 

"No,  my  dear,  will  you  tell  me?" 

"  I  will,  if  I  can  get  the  words  out ;  but  when  I  think  of  his 
nobleness,  my  heart  seems  ready  to  burst.  If  I  had  not  been  a 
woman  I  think  I  should  have  fallen  at  his  feet  when  he  told  me 
he  believed  in  me." 

"Did  Austin  tell  you  that?" 

"  He  told  me  that,  Mrs.  Ord.  I  was  standing  up  on  my  feet, 
and  he  took  my  two  hands,  and  I  could  see  there  were  tears  in  his 
eyes.  '  I  told  you  that  I  did  believe  you,  and  I  do/  he  said,  and 
his  voice  seemed  almost  divine  to  me.  '  I  think  we  have  wronged 
you  utterly  and  entirely,  and  that  you  have  not  done  this  thing  of 
which  we  accused  you ;'  and  then  it  was  that  I  could  have  fallen 
at  his  feet  in  my  joy ;  but  I  only  said,  '  Thank  God  !' " 

"You  did  right,"  returned  Mary  seriously;  "but  now  do  you 
mind  telling  me  a  little  more  of  what  passed  between  you  and 
Austin  ?  I  want  to  know  what  it  was  that  induced  him  to  change 
his  opinion  so  quickly." 

"  You  shall  hear  everything,"  returned  Rotha,  and  she  related 
the  conversation  that  had  taken  place  between  her  and  the  Vicar. 
Mary  listened  breathlessly  as  Rotha  spoke  of  the  bitter  fit  of  reck- 
lessness that  had  come  over  her,  and  of  the  course  she  had  been 
prompted  to  take  in  her  despair.  She  wiped  her  eyes  once  or  twice 
as  Rotha  spoke  of  that  dreary  exodus  ;  but  all  at  once  there  was  a 
flaw  and  gap  in  the  narrative.  Austin's  words  were  repeated  where 
there  seemed  no  solidity  of  foundation  for  them ;  the  speech  that 
had  wrought  the  Vicar's  conversion  had  no  place  in  Rotha's 
record.  Mary  felt  the  discrepancy,  and  said  so. 

"  It  was  something  that  I  said  by  mistake,  dear  Mrs.  Ord,  that 
I  never  meant  any  one  to  hear ;  it  is  quite  between  him  and  me, 


MRS.  ORD  HEARS  ARTY  HIS  PRA  YERS.         193 

you  know,"  she  continued,  hesitating.  "  One  sometimes  says  things 
to  one's  clergyman." 

"  Yes,  of  course." 

"  Not  that  I  had  ever  meant  to  tell  him,"  she  went  on  quickly, 
with  the  truth  that  seemed  inherent  in  her ;  "  it  was  quite  a  mis- 
take— quite,  though  I  cannot  be  sorry  for  it  now.  When  I  said  it 
I  had  no  idea  how  it  would  influence  him." 

"  Was  it  then  that  he  said  those  words  1" 

"  Yes,  then,  or  almost  directly  afterwards.  When  I  think  of 
it  I  am  puzzled  to  comprehend  how  it  all  happened ;  it  was  such  a 
simple  thing  that  I  said,  and  it  seemed  such  a  clear  duty,  I  can 
hardly  understand  now  why  he  magnified  it." 

"And  it  is  quite  between  you  and  him;  no  one  else  must 
know  it  1" 

"  No;  no  one.    Dear  Mrs.  Ord,  you  are  not  angry  with  me  ?" 

"  Why  should  I  be  angry  with  you  ?  You  could  not  have  a 
better  confidant  than  Austin  ;  you  are  quite  safe  there.  I  am  only 
sorry — that  is,  it  seems  a  pity — that  people  should  not  know  what 
cleared  you  in  his  eyes." 

"  It  does  not  seem  to  me  a  pity  at  all.  For  the  matter  of  that, 
what  have  people  to  do  with  him  or  me  either  ?" 

"  I  think  we  should  always  be  desirous  to  prove  our  own  in- 
nocence," returned  Mary  gently,  as  though  rebuking  Rotha's  pride. 

"  Ah  !  and  have  I  not  been  1  Dear  Mrs.  Ord,  you  must  not  be 
vexed  with  me ;  but,  indeed,  I  cannot  let  any  one  know  this ;"  and 
Rotha  crimsoned  up  to  the  roots  of  her  hair  in  the  twilight  as  she 
thought  of  her  impulsive  words.  "  It  would  put  me  in  a  false 
position,  and  make  me  so  terribly  conscious  ;  and,  after  all,  people 
might  misunderstand  me,  and  look  upon  it  in  quite  a  different  light 
to  what  he  does." 

"  Very  well,  then,  we  will  say  no  more  about  it,"  returned 
Mary,  but  she  felt  a  little  natural  regret  as  she  said  so,  being  only 
a  woman,  and  curious,  as  most  of  her  sex  are ;  in  reality,  she  was 
dying  to  know  those  few  words  that  had  wrought  Austin's  conver- 
sion. "  Of  course  I  am  of  my  husband's  opinion,"  she  continued, 
with  a  soft  laugh,  and  then  she  stooped  down  in  the  darkness  and 
kissed  Rotha. 

But  for  the  kiss  Rotha  would  have  been  slow  to  understand 
her  words ;  even  now  she  hesitated.  "  What  does  that  mean  1 " 
she  asked  ;  "  does  it  mean  that  you  too  believe  in  me  ?" 

"  Of  course  I  believe  in  you,  if  Austin  does.  Austin  cannot 
be  wrong,"  returned  the  weak  woman.  She  was  perfectly  abject 
on  this  subject.  To  her  her  husband  was  something  short  of  a 
demi-god  ;  her  faith  in  his  goodness  and  cleverness  was  so  simply 

13 


194  ROBERT  ORD^S  ATONEMENT. 

transparent  that  her  brothers-in-law  would  laugh  at  her  fond 
credulity.  "  Mary  will  never  go  in  for  the  rights  of  women," 
Garton  would  say.  "  When  Austin  holds  up  his  little  ringer  she 
dare  not  say  she  has  a  soul  of  her  own." 

Mary  did  not  mind  their  laughing  one  bit — the  clauses  in  the 
marriage  service  were  always  terribly  real  things  to  her.  She 
loved  and  honoured  and  obeyed  the  big  homely  priest  with  an 
excess  and  perfectness  of  reverence  that  was  almost  touching.  It 
was  not  enough  that  she  gave  him  her  beauty  and  youth,  and  a 
daily  and  hourly  self-sacrifice ;  it  was  not  enough  that  she  made 
home  sunshine  for  him  and  his  boys ;  but  she  adopted  his  opinions 
in  a  way  that  would  have  incurred  the  scorn  of  any  strong-minded 
woman  of  sound  judgment.  When  Austin  was  for  daily  services, 
and  had  announced  the  fact  in  the  family  circle,  Mary  was  full  of 
enthusiasm  on  the  subject,  though  the  day  before  she  had  privately 
informed  Belle  that  she  thought  them  terrible  interruptions  to 
work.  She  would  tie  on  her  bonnet  with  the  utmost  cheerfulness 
and  trudge  off  with  her  boys  beside  her  if  she  were  ever  so  tired 
and  busy.  The  face  that  was  dearer  to  the  Vicar  now  than  in  its 
young  beauty  would  always  beam  on  him  brightly  from  morning 
till  night.  No  wonder,  when  the  Vicar  read  that  lesson  out 
of  Proverbs  about  the  woman  "whose  price  is  above  rubies,"  that 
his  voice  would  tremble,  and  he  should  think  of  that  other  woman 
"  whose  clothing  was  not  of  silk  and  purple,"  for  whose  sake  he 
had  given  up  a  goodly  inheritance,  but  who,  he  thanked  God, 
was  his  patient  helpmeet  and  his  joy  for  ever. 

Meanwhile  the  Vicar  was  doing  his  own  special  work  down- 
stairs ;  he  had  got  rid  of  the  two  women  by  a  pretext  that  had 
been  sufficiently  transparent  to  the  one,  though  Mary's  tender  con- 
science had  remained  sore  for  some  time  after  his  reproof  as  to 
Arty's  prayers  :  since  the  daily  services  Deb  had  often  had  occasion 
to  hear  them ;  her  grievance  over  that  and  the  carpet  had  quite 
ruffled  her  spirits  for  the  time  being. 

But  the  Vicar  had  chuckled  to  himself  as  he  closed  the  door 
after  them.  It  was  a  favourite  theory  with  him  that  nature  had 
intended  him  for  a  diplomatist,  and  that  in  consequence  Govern- 
ment had  lost  a  good  deal  in  his  being  ordained  a  priest ;  but  as 
the  Vicar's  notions  of  diplomacy  mainly  consisted  in  maintaining 
his  own  opinions  and  having  his  own  way,  and  making  every  one 
else  like  his  way  too,  it  was  the  most  clumsy  conceit  possible.  The 
fact  was,  he  could  not  employ  finesse  at  all — he  hardly  understood  the 
word  ;  he  would  take  a  raging  bull  by  the  horns,  or  would  go  among 
any  number  of  the  same  noisy  cattle  as  likely  as  not,  with  his 
colours  pinned  ostentatiously  in  front,  and  would  not  be  one  whit 


MRS.  ORD  HEARS  ARTY  HIS  PR  A  YERS.         195 

daunted  by  their  bellowing ;  but  in  truth  he  was  too  honest  for  a 
diplomatist,  he  hated  shams  too  inveterately,  and  was  too  ready 
to  maintain  that  black  was  not  white  to  insure  him  much  political 
success.  In  the  pulpit  he  was  like  a  lamb,  but  an  argument  on 
some  subjects — say  Messrs.  Bright  and  Mill,  the  Fenians,  or  Dis- 
establishment— and  he  would  be  transformed  into  a  roaring  lion, 
and  the  Vicar's  roar  could  be  a  very  loud  one  indeed. 

He  had  a  notion  that  he  would  employ  a  little  finesse  on  the 
present  occasion,  and  so  he  walked  up  to  his  brother. 

"  Well,  Robert,  I  have  done  a  tolerable  bit  of  work  this  even- 
ing. In  my  opinion  things  are  pretty  much  now  as  they  ought 
to  be." 

"  That  means  you  have  got  your  own  way,  I  suppose  ?" 
returned  Robert,  who  was  in  no  very  enviable  mood,  and  whose 
words  were  in  consequence  rather  brusque  than  pleasant. 

"  Exactly,"  agreed  his  brother,  with  perfect  good  humour. 

"  And  lost  no  time  about  it  either,"  observed  Robert  shortly. 

"  Oh,  as  to  that,  I  hate  procrastination.  When  a  thing's  to  be 
done  it  ought  to  be  done  quickly,"  returned  the  Vicar,  feeling 
rather  guilty  as  he  uttered  this  truism,  and  wishing  that  he  had 
put  it  in  practice  two  months  agov  He  did  not  like  to  look  back 
on  the  slow  torture  of  those  days  and  weeks. 

"  I  have  no  doubt  Miss  Maturin  is  extremely  obliged  to  you, 
Austin." 

"Well,  as  to  that,  she  is  rather  grateful  certainly,  poor  thing. 
By  the  bye,  Robert,  I  hope  you  have  thought  better  of  your 
threat,  and  that  your  evenings  at  the  Vicarage  are  not  yet 
numbered." 

It  was  very  clumsy  of  the  Vicar  ;  he  might  have  known  that 
a  man  of  Robert's  calibre  could  not  bear  that  sort  of  good- 
humoured  bullying — he  would  not  have  stood  it  for  a  moment. 
In  fact  he  was  growing  decidedly  cross — stiffening  up  for  a  breeze 
certainly — only  Belle,  who  was  lying  very  quiet,  slipped  a  stealthy 
hand  in  his,  and  a  very  soft  persuasive  little  hand  it  was,  if  she 
had  only  known  it. 

"  I  think  I  should  have  kept  my  word  but  for  Belle,"  he 
replied,  a  little  less  sulkily. 

"Oh,  Belle  was  the  mediator,  was  she1?" 

"  I  don't  think  you  would  have  admired  her  style  of  media- 
tion," observed  Robert,  with  grim  humour.  "  Of  course  when  a 
woman  gets  up  a  scene,  and  makes  a  fuss  in  real  earnest,  she  can 
turn  any  man  round  her  finger ; "  and  Robert,  as  he  said  this, 
looked  as  though  he  rather  enjoyed  his  subjugation.  The  Vicar 
was  greatly  amused  ;  it  was  a  new  thing  to  hear  that  Belle  could 


196  ROBERT  ORB'S  ATONEMENT. 

turn  Robert  round  her  little  finger — he  felt  rather  inclined  to 
pursue  the  subject ;  but  Belle  looked  so  anxious  and  so  uncomfort- 
able that  he  went  off  on  another  track  instantly. 

"  Well,  now  that  matter  is  settled,  I  want  to  speak  to  you 
about  something  else.  Why  did  you  not  tell  me  you  had  been  to 
that  fellow  Graves  1  I  had  it  all  second-hand  from  Garton." 

Robert  bit  his  lip  and  looked  a  little  annoyed. 

"  I  did  not  see  any  good  in  telling  you,  Austin." 

"  Why  not1?  I  should  have  gone  to  the  man  myself  if  it  had 
not  been  for  Garton.  Gar  gave  me  an  account  of  the  whole  affair 
verbatim." 

Robert  was  silent.  He  particularly  disliked  being  reminded 
of  his  good  deeds.  He  was  a  man  who  would  have  followed 
literally  the  Divine  exhortation  "  not  to  let  his  left  hand  know 
what  his  right  hand  doeth."  He  had  not  a  grain  of  sympathy  with 
the  Pharisee  of  the  present  day;  he  would  have  hidden  such 
things,  if  needs  be,  from  the  wife  of  his  bosom  ;  and,  in  truth,  his 
acts  of  kindness  were  by  no  means  rare.  Women,  in  general, 
understood  this  reticence.  He  never  shirked  a  duty,  however 
difficult,  if  he  had  taught  himself  that  it  was  a  duty ;  but,  all  the 
time,  he  would  make  himself  so  disagreeable  over  it  that,  as 
Garton  said,  there  was  no  bearing  with  him.  He  was  quite  on 
the  qui  vive  to  be  disagreeable  now. 

"  I  must  say  that  I  think  it  was  very  noble  of  you." 

"  Pshaw  !  what  nonsense,  Austin." 

"  Very  noble,  indeed,  considering  the  light  in  which  you  regard 
the  whole  affair.  I  don't  think  anything  has  pleased  me  so  much 
for  a  long  time.  Belle  has  a  right  to  be  proud  of  you  to-night*" 

Again  Robert  pished  and  pshawed. 

"  What  a  fuss  you  make  about  nothing,"  he  observed  brusquely; 
but,  in  spite  of  himself,  he  could  not  fail  to  be  touched  by  his 
brother's  honest  praises. 

"  I  think  we  shall  get  an  apology  out  of  him,"  he  said  pre- 
sently ;  and  his  voice  had  lost  its  gruffness. 

"  He  will  not  retract  entirely,  then  ?" 

"  Oh,  as  to  that,  I  don't  think  we  ought  to  expect  it.  I,  for 
cne,  should  hardly  wish  that,"  he  added,  with  the  truthfulness 
which  seemed  as  inherent  in  him  as  it  was  in  Roth  a.  There  was 
a  certain  obstinacy  of  truth  about  both  that  would  always  come  to 
the  surface,  even  though  it  were  to  their  own  injury.  "  You  see 
I  could  not  conscientiously  press  for  it." 

"  That  is  why  it  would  have  been  better  to  have  left  it  to  me  ; 
not  but  what  I  should  have  found  it  quite  as  difficult  as  you  did 
a  few  hours  ago.  Now  of  course  it  is  different." 


MRS.  ORD  HEARS  ARTY  HIS  PRA  YERS.        197 

"How  is  it  different?" 

"Well,  then  I  had  my  doubts  in  common  with  you;  now  I 
am  satisfied  that  we  have  all  of  us  been  wrong." 

"  You  believe  in  her  innocence  !" 

"  I  would  stake  my  life  on  it.  My  dear  Robert,  you  have 
never  made  a  greater  mistake  than  you  have  committed  there." 

Robert  looked  at  his  brother  and  then  walked  away  without 
saying  a  word ;  but,  as  he  got  to  the  door,  he  felt  as  though  he 
had  received  a  blow.  He  was  a  good  man.  He  had  done  a 
generous  thing  that  day,  and  he  had  done  it  well  according  to  his 
light ;  but  his  brother's  words  were  as  gall  and  bitterness  to  him ; 
and  yet,  at  the  same  time,  so  strange  are  the  workings  of  the 
human  heart,  the  first  faint  doubt  came  to  chill  and  harass  him. 
Was  it  possible  that  they  were  all  right  and  he  wrong1?  Was 
not  the  suspicion  bred  merely  of  his  own  envy  ?  But  he  stifled  the 
feeling  instantly;  right  or  wrong — innocent  or  guilty — he  knew 
he  hated  her,  and  he  hated  himself  no  less  for  his  meanness  of 
anger.  He  had  got  to  the  door  when  he  remembered  Belle,  and 
came  back  to  say  good-night  to  her. 

"  My  dear  Bob,  don't  go  away  like  this." 

'*  We  shall  do  no  good  by  any  further  talking,  Austin." 

"  There  I  am  quite  of  your  opinion.  I  suppose  we  must  agree 
to  differ  a  little  longer." 

"  I  shall  certainly  take  the  liberty  to  differ. " 

"  Well,  so  shall  I ;  but  we  need  not  quarrel  over  it.  Life  is 
too  short  for  quarrels ;  give  me  your  hand,  dear  old  boy,"  and  as 
Robert  gave  it  to  him  and  felt  Austin's  cordial  grasp,  the  evil 
spirit  seemed  to  pass  out  from  him,  and  the  old  brotherly  love  took 
its  place. 

"  Greater  is  he  that  ruleth  his  spirit  than  he  that  taketh  a 
city  " — the  words  kept  haunting  him  as  he  turned  the  key  in  his 
door  and  went  into  his  solitary  ill -lighted  room.  He  said  them 
aloud  once  to  get  rid  of  them  ;  but  by  and  by,  when  he  went  up  to 
his  cheerless  bedchamber,  others  seemed  to  replace  them  in  his 
brain.  They  had  chanted  them  last  Sunday,  he  remembered, 
"How  good  and  pleasant  it  is,  brethren,  to  dwell  together  in 
unity." 

"  I  don't  believe  there's  such  another  good  fellow  as  Austin  in  the 
whole  world,"  he  said,  as  he  laid  his  head  on  his  pillow.  "  I  wonder 
what  makes  me  such  a  bear  to  him  ? "  and  then,  as  he  fell  into  a 
doze,  he  woke  up  with  a  start,  for  the  sweet  low  refrain  seemed 
floating  close  to  his  pillow — "  Behold  how  good  and  pleasant  it  is, 
brethren,  to  dwell  together  in  unity." 


CHAPTER   XVIII. 

WHY    MRS.    ORD    GOES    WITHOUT    HER    NEW    DRESS. 

"  What  them  bidd'st 
Unargued  I  obey  ;  so  God  ordains  ; 
God  is  thy  law  ;  thou  mine :  to  know  no  more 
Is  woman's  happiest  knowledge  and  her  praise. " 

MILTON. 

Two  things  happened  that  night,  and  both  were  fraught  with  con- 
sequences— Robert  Ord  had  a  terrible  dream,  and  the  Vicar  pro- 
posed another  tea-party. 

Robert  dreamt  that  he  was  in  a  place  between  two  seas,  and 
that  the  waves  came  lapping  up  slowly  to  his  feet ;  and  that  the 
place  was  all  barren  and  desolate,  and  full  of  shivering  night-winds, 
while  now  and  then  a  strange  solemn  music  seemed  to  come  from 
the  stars  and  curdle  his  blood.  And  a  voice  said,  "  Look  and 
see ; "  and  a  whole  chorus  of  whispering  voices  answered,  "  Look 
and  see."  And  he  thought  that  he  was  standing  on  a  bank  of 
gold  and  silver  shells,  and  they  were  all  breaking  and  crunching 
under  his  feet,  so  that  there  seemed  no  foothold  for  him.  But  as 
he  stumbled  among  the  shining  heaps  he  saw  a  white  dress  floating 
down  a  narrow  channel  between  two  mountains ;  and  as  it  passed 
him  he  could  see  it  was  Belle,  lying  with  her  hands  crossed  on  her 
bosom  and  her  dead  face  turned  up  to  the  stars. 

He  thought  that  in  his  horror  he  plunged  into  the  current  and 
tried  to  catch  her  by  her  golden  hair.  He  could  feel  distinctly  the 
icy  waters  closing  round  his  ankles  and  creeping  above  his  knees ; 
and  then  it  seemed  darker  and  colder,  and  the  stars  went  out,  and 
a  great  hollow  moaning  of  wind  filled  the  cavern  of  the  mountains, 
which  seemed  peopled  with  dark  gibbering  shapes ;  and  one  of  the 
shapes  said — "  Dore'  can  paint  the  Inferno  better  than  he  can  paint 
Paradise — he  is  of  the  earth  earthy.  The  man  is  not  born  yet 
who  can  paint  the  seven  palaces  of  the  Infinite."  And  another 
shape  said,  "  Are  mysteries  in  the  hands  of  madmen  ?  The  earth 
is  peopled  with  madmen ;  there  is  one  yonder  trying  to  catch  ;i 


MRS.  ORD'S  NEW  DRESS.  199 

freed  soul  by  the  dripping  of  golden  hair."  And  they  all  said, 
"  Look  and  see."  And  a  sound  of  mocking  laughter  filled  the  air. 
And  the  water  came  bubbling  into  his  teeth,  and  he  set  them  hard, 
and  said — 

"This  is  the  intermediate  state,  and  I  am  the  only  living 
man,  and  yonder  is  my  dead  love;  but  all  the  shadows  of  the 
shadowy  laud  itself  shall  not  prevent  my  laying  my  head  on  her 
breast." 

And  as  he  spoke  his  hands  seemed  full  of  damp  straggling  hair, 
and  it  seemed  to  get  about  his  face  and  neck,  and  choke  him  with 
its  wet  coils ;  but  he  put  it  by,  and  stooped  oyer  her,  and  tried  to 
kiss  her  lips,  and  started  away  with  a  cry,  for  from  the  dead  face 
there  were  Rotha  Maturin's  living  eyes  looking  reproachfully  at 
him  with  an  awful  smile  in  them. 

And  the  cry  woke  him,  and  he  saw  it  was  the  gray  light  of 
morning,  and  got  up  and  looked  over  the  sand-hills  to  the  dim 
seaward  line  of  froth  and  spray,  and  at  the  dim  white  roads,  and 
at  the  yellow  flare  of  a  distant  lamp ;  and  then  he  struck  a  light 
and  tried  to  read,  but  he  could  not  get  rid  of  the  ghastly  vision ; 
so  when  the  day  had  fairly  broken  he  dressed  himself  and  went 
out,  and  walked  away  into  the  country  for  miles,  and  brought  back 
ferns  and  wood-flowers,  dripping  with  dew,  and  sent  them  to  Belle, 
who  lay  and  looked  at  them  all  that  day. 

Meanwhile  the  Vicar  had  proposed  another  tea-party  ;  and  if  a 
thunderbolt  had  descended  to  her  very  feet  Mrs.  Ord  could  not 
have  looked  more  astonished. 

"When  did  we  give  our  last  tea-party,  Mary?"  he  said  to  her 
that  night,  when  she  had  returned  from  her  usual  pilgrimage  to 
Belle  and  the  boys.  Mary  had  her  candle  in  her  hand,  and  she 
looked  a  little  surprised  as  she  prepared  to  extinguish  it. 

"I  think  it  was  about  three  weeks  ago,  Austin." 

"Ah,  that  is  short  notice,  certainly,  but  I  don't  see  how  we 
can  help  ourselves.  Well,  we  must  give  another,  that  is  all."  And 
then  it  was  that  Mrs.  Ord  had  sat  down  with  that  annihilated  look 
upon  her  face. 

Now  tea-parties  were  much  thought  about  in  Kirkby  and 
Blackscar;  they  were,  in  fact,  the  only  dissipation  in  which  the 
inhabitants  of  the  place  greatly  indulged ;  dinners  were  not  much 
in  vogue — they  were  voted  extravagant  and  a  bore — and  only  the 
very  gay  portion  of  the  community  gave  dances ;  a  few  of  the 
parvenus,  or  here  and  there  a  naturalised  stranger,  would  send  out 
cards  of  invitation  for  a  dinner  &  la  Russe  ;  and  there  would  be 
cold  soup  and  warm  champagne,  and  lukewarm  coffee  to  follow, 
handed  round  by  hired  greengrocers  in  disguise ;  but  the  attempt 


200  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

was  rather  coldly  looked  upon — the  parvenus  were  called  preten- 
tious, and  the  naturalised  stranger  rather  snubbed  in  consequence. 
Mrs.  Blake  had  certainly  given  several  of  a  very  superior  descrip- 
tion in  the  colonel's  time,  but  since  his  death  it  had  been  under- 
stood that  she  had  retired  from  the  world  as  far  as  dinner-parties 
were  concerned ;  and  Miss  Brookes'  poverty  and  single  blessedness 
accounted  for  her  singular  animadversions  on  the  same  subject. 
People  were  not  slow  to  understand  that  the  leading  ladies  of  the 
place  set  their  faces  against  them,  and  so  it  came  to  pass  that  tea 
and  muffins  was  the  only  form  of  refreshment  that  could  be  genteelly 
offered  to  one's  guests.  As  a  matter  of  course  every  one,  from  the 
greatest  to  the  least,  gave  tea-parties ;  Kirkby,  especially,  fairly 
steamed  with  them;  in  the  season — which,  by  the  way,  lasted 
from  September  to  May — there  was  a  perfect  round  of  these  festive 
gatherings.  But  this  was  not  all ;  there  was  as  much  fashion  and 
etiquette  in  the  Kirkby  tea-parties  as  in  any  Belgravian  assembly ; 
it  was  quite  amusing  for  a  stranger  to  go  the  round  of  a  season 
and  note  the  diversity  of  these  entertainments. 

There  was  Mrs.  Stephen  Knowles'  kettledrums.  Mrs.  Knowles 
was  one  of  the  naturalised  strangers  who  would  not  be  convinced 
that  dinners  d,  la  Russe  were  devices  of  the  Evil  One  to  entrap 
unwary  sinners  to  the  much  drinking  of  lukewarm  champagne. 
Mrs.  Stephen  Knowles  was  a  little  woman,  but  she  waged  a  big 
war — she  would  dine  late,  and  she  would  put  dahlias  and  nuts  and 
oranges  in  the  place  of  vegetables,  and  the  dingy  greengrocer  in 
the  white  cotton  gloves  always  cut  up  the  joint  at  the  side-table. 
But  after  a  time  it  did  not  do.  Mrs.  Stephen  Knowles  soon  found 
that  people  did  not  respond  readily  to  her  invitations ;  there  were 
gaps  at  her  table — her  choicest  guests  deserted  her  at  the  last 
minute ;  and  so  it  came  about  that  she  and  her  husband  dined  in 
solitary  grandeur,  and  Mrs.  Knowles  gave  kettledrums,  and  the 
greengrocer  in  the  white  cotton  gloves  handed  about  greasy  muffins 
at  an  early  hour  in  the  afternoon. 

Then  there  were  the  Lancashire  teas  at  the  Traverses' ;  the 
Traverses  were  Lancashire  people,  and  always  promoted  eating  and 
drinking  on  a  heavy  style ;  people  always  lunched  very  early  when 
they  came  to  the  Traverses',  that  they  might  do  justice  to  the 
salmon  and  the  cold  game.  The  diversity  of  bread-stuff  used  to 
create  envy  in  the  bosoms  of  more  than  one  Kirkby  housekeeper ; 
people  did  not  mind  the  hot  bread  and  cakes — every  one  made 
cakes — but  the  fruit  tarts  were  felt  to  be  an  eyesore ;  somebody 
had  heard  Miss  Brookes  say  that  fruit  tarts  were  vulgar.  Mrs. 
Travers  used  to  lament  loudly  that  no  one  did  justice  to  hei 
daughter's  pastry  except  the  Vicar,  who  always  partook  of  the 


MRS.  ORD'S  NEW  DRESS.  201 

neglected  dish  and  frequently  asked  for  more ;  but  then  the  Vicar 
always  would  do  as  he  liked. 

Next  to  the  Traverses  came  Nettie's  "tea-kettle  gossips,"  which 
were  chiefly  conspicuous  for  sweetmeats  and  scandal.  Very  snug 
little  entertainments  these,  and  very  much  in  request ;  and  then 
there  were  Miss  Brookes'  evenings,  to  which  people  went  once  or 
twice  in  the  winter,  as  a  sort  of  duty — for  about  the  same  reason 
that  induce  other  and  more  fashionable  people  to  go  to  Court. 

People  did  not  enjoy  these  evenings,  but  they  always  went  as 
a  matter  of  course.  Miss  Brookes  never  regaled  her  guests  with 
anything  but  the  thinnest  bread-and-butter  and  the  plainest  seed- 
cake. She  thought  eating  and  drinking  vulgar,  and  said  so  openly 
at  the  Traverses'  when  she  sent  up  her  plate  for  more  game,  and 
there  was  not  much  conversation  either ;  the  whist-table  was  the 
prevailing  feature  of  the  evening.  Directly  tea  was  over  there 
was  a  general  stir  and  shaking  of  silk  and  satin  skirts — the  genteel 
and  frosty  atmosphere  thawed  a  little — the  young  people  were  set 
down  to  Pope  Joan  in  one  corner,  while  the  elders  shuffled  and  cut 
for  partners,  and  played  long  whist  for  love  with  the  utmost  per- 
severance till  the  entrance  of  Miss  Brookes'  little  maid  with  sand- 
wiches and  ginger  wine  warned  them  it  was  time  to  disperse. 

But  the  tea-parties  that  were  most  greatly  loved  were  those 
given  a.t  Mrs.  Blake's  and  the  Vicarage ;  for  a  long  time  there  was 
great  indecision  as  to  which  should  have  the  palm,  but  latterly 
people  had  decided  in  favour  of  the  Vicarage.  The  parties  at  Oak- 
mead,  Mrs.  Blake's  house,  were  very  nice — there  could  be  only  one 
opinion  as  to  that ;  it  was  very  nice,  for  instance,  to  sit  in  a  room 
with  ruby  velvet  curtains,  with  a  blazing  fire,  and  an  extravagant 
number  of  wax  candles — Mrs.  Stephen  Knowles  had  once  counted 
four-aud-twenty.  And  it  was  very  pleasant  to  drink  one's  tea  out 
of  real  Dresden  china ;  the  tea-table  at  Oakmead  was  the  prettiest 
sight  possible ;  Mrs.  Blake  always  presided  over  it  herself  in  the 
good  old-fashioned  way,  and  the  coachman  and  footman  handed 
round  the  tea  and  coffee,  and  the  gentlemen  helped  them.  There 
was  nothing  stiff,  in  spite  of  the  grandeur ;  there  were  plenty  of 
nice  things,  and  people  were  expected  to  do  justice  to  them.  Some- 
times cards  would  follow,  but  oftener  there  were  games  that  should 
include  the  young  people,  who  never  felt  in  the  way  at  Mrs.  Blake's. 
When  the  Vicar  was  there  it  was  understood  that  music  was  to  be 
the  order  of  the  evening,  and  the  young  ones  sang  duets  and  glees, 
in  their  fresh  young  voices,  under  their  hostess'  gentle  patronage. 
Sometimes  she  would  prepare  little  surprises  for  them  of  hothouse 
fruit  in  the  conservatory.  There  were  all  sorts  of  cosy  nooks  and 
corners  about  the  long  drawing-room,  that  made  the  young  people 


202  ROBERT  ORD>S  ATONEMENT. 

very  sociable.  One  or  two  very  happy  little  understandings  had 
grown  out  of  these  evenings,  which  gave  rise  to  a  report  that  Mrs. 
Blake  was  a  match-maker. 

But  notwithstanding  all  these  attractions  the  Vicarage  carried 
off  the  palm  :  there  was  a  hearty  genial  atmosphere  there  that 
people  recognised  and  appreciated  ;  and  then  the  Vicar  was  the 
perfection  of  a  host. 

Every  one  who  came  felt  that  he  or  she  was  separately  and 
individually  welcome,  and  that  their  comfort  and  entertainment 
were  matters  of  importance  in  the  eyes  of  the  Vicar  and  his  wife : 
no  one  was  left  out  in  the  cold  for  a  moment :  shy  new  comers 
were  entertained  in  corners  by  Mrs.  Ord,  and  challenged  and 
brought  into  notice  by  the  Vicar ;  young  persons  with  a  pet  talent 
felt  themselves  of  importance,  and  were  ready  to  clear  their  throats 
or  take  off  their  gloves  at  the  shortest  notice ;  silent  people  were 
paired  off  with  talkative  people.  No  one  was  neglected ;  and, 
though  cards  were  strictly  forbidden,  certainly  no  one  found  the 
time  heavy  on  their  hands.  And  then  everything  was  so  well 
ordered.  Mary  had  the  knack  of  making  her  rooms  cosy — she 
liked  plenty  of  light,  though  there  were  no  wax  candles.  She  and 
Belle  were  always  busy  days  before  concocting  all  manner  of  simple 
and  inexpensive  delicacies.  Belle  would  dress  the  table  with 
flowers  and  lights  and  evergreens.  She  had  wonderfully  skilful 
fingers,  and  would  go  quietly  in  and  out,  ordering  things,  while 
her  sister  sat  talking  among  her  guests ;  Garton  was  very  useful 
too  in  keeping  the  boys  in  order,  and  Robert,  though  he  was 
generally  quiet,  looked  very  distinguished  as  he  went  about 
among  the  ladies  saying  civil  things,  and  holding  his  head  very 
high. 

A  tea-party  at  the  Vicarage  was  therefore  considered  the  most 
important  event  of  the  season,  the  only  regret  being  that  they 
were  so  few  and  far  between.  But  both  the  Vicar  and  his  wife 
had  decided  that  they  were  expensive  luxuries.  Mary,  with  all 
her  economy  and  management,  found  it  very  hard  to  make  ends 
meet ;  even  candles  and  muffins  cost  something — the  family  would 
go  without  some  trifling  comforts  for  days  after  one  of  these  simple 
feasts.  She  was  beginning  to  be  a  little  ashamed  too  of  her  one 
well-preserved  silk  dress.  The  Vicar  had  bought  her  a  pretty 
cheap  muslin,  and  in  a  fit  of  generosity  she  had  made  it  over  to 
Belle,  alleging  as  an  excuse,  when  Austin  reproached  her,  that 
Belle  had  a  lover,  and  was  ten  times  worse  off  for  dress  than  she. 
Belle  had  made  up  the  dress  herself,  and  had  worn  it  to  Robert's 
great  delight,  and  he  had  bought  her  some  ribbons  to  match. 
Belle  had  looked  lovely,  but  the  Vicar  shook  his  head,  and  had 


AfRS.  CfiD'S  NEW  DRESS.  203 

been  heard  to  mutter  that  there  was  more  to  be  had  of  the  same 
pattern;  and  now  if  they  had  another  tea-party  he  would  carry 
out  this  terrible  threat. 

Mrs.  Ord  was  thinking  of  this  when  she  sat  with  the  extin- 
guished look  on  her  face. 

"And,  Mary,  of  course,  I  shall  get  you  that  dress." 

"  Oh,  Austin,  what  nonsense  ! " 

"  What !  is  it  not  pretty  enough  1  I  declare  I  thought  the 
pattern  was  lovely ;  you  and  Belle  ought  always  to  wear  blue." 

"  The  idea  of  comparing  me  to  Belle — an  old  married  woman 
like  me." 

"  An  old  married  fiddlestick —  But  here  we  will  not  repeat 
all  the  Vicar  said ;  there  are  some  men  so  blind  as  to  admire  their 
own  wives  even  after  fifteen  years,  and  the  praises  were  just  as 
sweet  to  Mary  as  when  she  first  heard  them ;  she  would  blush  as 
brightly  over  them  as  ever  she  did  then. 

"  But  my  dove-coloured  silk  is  as  good  as  ever,"  she  pleaded. 
Oh  Mary,  Mary,  how  could  you  come  out  with  such  a  fib,  with 
the  grease-spots  in  the  front  breadth  that  Mrs.  Blake's  maid  with 
all  her  efforts  could  not  remove  1  "At  least — that  is,  it  is  quite 
presentable." 

"  I  don't  know  that,  my  dear.  I  thought  Belle  said  something 
about  its  being  scanty,  and  you  have  worn  it  twice  over  every- 
where. People  must  have  new  dresses  sometimes,"  persisted  the 
Vicar,  knowing  all  the  time  that  his  best  coat  was  getting  sadly 
frayed  at  the  edges  and  decidedly  shiny  at  the  elbows. 

"  But  if  we  cannot  afford  it,  love,"  reminded  his  wife  gently — 
she  knew  all  about  the  frayed  edges,  and  would  have  gone  in  rags 
cheerfully  if  only  Austin  were  well  dressed.  She  had  turned  over 
the  coat  only  the  day  before  yesterday  and  noticed  the  shininess, 
and  then  he  wanted  those  shirts  so  sadly.  "  I  will  have  the  dress 
in  the  spring  if  I  want  it,  Austin,"  she  continued.  "  Besides,  I 
cannot  wear  blue  just  now." 

"  There  was  one  with  violet,"  he  returned  decidedly  ;  "  it  was 
almost  prettier  than  the  blue,  and  perhaps  you  would  not  like  to 
be  the  same  as  Belle.  I  shall  go  to  Alison's  to-morrow  and  order 
it,"  finished  the  Vicar,  who  was  apt  to  be  a  little  dictatorial  on 
the  subject  of  his  wife's  dress.  Then  Mary  sighed,  for  she  knew 
that  her  rash  generosity  had  availed  nothing. 

"  But,  Austin,  is  it  absolutely  necessary  that  we  should  give 
another  tea-party  ?"  she  asked,  after  a  pause;  for  it  just  occurred 
to  her  that  she  had  as  yet  said  no  word  as  to  her  husband's 
astounding  proposition.  But  the  Vicar,  who  had  been  waiting  for 
some  such  word,  answered  her,  with  considerable  briskness  : 


204  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

"Well,  yes,  Mary;  I  think  I  may  say  that  it  is  absolutely 
necessary — at  least,  it  appears  so  to  me." 

"  But,  Austin— 

"  Well,  my  dear  V1 

"  People  will  wonder  so." 

"  Never  mind  that." 

"And  then  I  am  so  sure  that  we  cannot  afford  it.  How  are 
the  boys  to  have  their  new  boots  1  and  there  is  winter  coming, 
and  that  heavy  coal-bill  not  settled  yet."  Then,  at  the  mention  of 
the  coal-bill,  the  Vicar  did  look  somewhat  grave. 

"My  dear  wife,  I  am  very  sorry  to  worry  you." 

"  Oh  Austin  !"  with  a  deprecating  blush. 

"  But  I  don't  see  how  I  can  help  myself.  If  you  only  knew  how 
uncomfortably  sore  my  conscience  is  about  all  this  business.  I  have 
thought  it  over,  and  it  seems  so  right  that  we  should  do  this  thing, 
even  though  we  should  have  to  pinch  a  little  afterwards,  Mary." 

Mary  assented  rather  doubtfully. 

"  Besides,  I  don't  see  that  we  need  make  it  such  an  extravagant 
affair.  Come,  dear ;  don't  you  think  you  and  Belle  could  contrive 
to  entertain  our  friends  at  a  very  trifling  expense  V 

"Perhaps  we  might,  if  only "  and  then  Mary  stammered 

and  hesitated,  and  finally  added,  under  her  breath,  "if  only  he 
would  dispense  with  the  dress." 

She  could  have  bitten  her  tongue  before  she  had  said  the 
words,  when  she  saw  the  grieved  look  on  his  face,  and  heard  the 
tone  in  which  he  said,  "Oh  Mary,  Mary!"  She  had  her  arms 
round  his  neck  in  a  moment,  so  great  was  her  penitence. 

"  Husband,  I  never  meant  to  hurt  you  by  refusing  your  gift." 

"Nay,  Mary,  it  is  not  that — why,  what  nonsense,  love;"  but 
for  a  moment  he  seemed  to  find  it  difficult  to  explain  himself.  "  I 
suppose  my  pride  needs  this  humbling ;  but  to  think  I  cannot  lay 
out  a  few  poor  shillings  on  my  wife's  dress  !"  She  heard  him  catch 
his  breath  quickly,  and  then  he  went  on  in  his  usual  voice :  "  Do 
you  think  I  don't  see  how  the  boys  want  their  boots  1  I  was  lying 
awake  for  hours  last  night  thinking  of  them  and  the  coal -bill, 
Mary.  Well,  dearest,  I  was  a  poor  man  when  you  married  me, 
but  I  never  thought  that  the  time  would  come  when  I  could  not 
afford  my  wife  a  gown." 

Mary  kept  her  arms  still  round  his  neck,  but  without  a  word. 
She  was  a  woman  who  had  the  rare  gift  of  knowing  when  to  speak 
and  when  to  be  silent;  these  moments  of  depression  were  very 
unusual  with  the  Vicar,  whose  sweet  temper  and  almost  childlike 
faith  enabled  him  to  rise  above  daily  trials  which  would  have 
crushed  or  subdued  weaker  men.  He  used  to  say  that  he  was  a 


MRS.  ORD'S  NEW  DRESS.  205 

poor  priest  who  could  not  bear  poverty  uncomplainingly.  One  of 
his  quaint  sayings  was  that  poverty  was  handed  down  with 
Apostolic  succession,  and  that  the  poorer  the  priest  the  more  was 
he  in  accordance  with  the  primitive  custom  of  the  early  Church, 
"  whose  ministers  worked  with  their  hands."  "  Grand  hands,"  he 
would  say,  "  that  could  sew  the  rough  canvas  of  a  tent,  lay  lightly 
on  the  sick  with  healing  touch  and  dispense  the  bread  of  life. 
Now,  when  the  poor  wretches  crowd  about  us  for  alms,  and  we 
can  truly  say,  '  silver  and  gold  have  we  none/  no  halting  cripple 
springs  into  renewed  life  and  vigour  at  our  touch  ;  and  yet  such 
as  we  have — our  daily  life,  our  strength,  the  labour  of  our  brains, 
the  fervour  of  our  prayers,  the  purity  and  weakness  of  our  efforts, 
the  patient  endurance  of  our  infirmities,  ( such  as  we  have  we  give 
unto  you.' " 

It  was  a  charity  sermon  for  the  Convalescent  Home,  and  he 
had  ended  his  discourse  with  some  such  words  as  these.  Many  of 
the  patients  had  heard  him ;  and  some  remember  to  this  day  the 
long  wistful  look  of  tenderness  that  accompanied  his  words,  and 
how  he  stretched  out  his  hands  over  them  as  though  to  evoke  the 
Healer.  .  Nor  was  it  the  sick  only  who  shared  his  sympathy — he 
was  one  who  had  learnt  by  experience  the  black  woes  of  poverty, 
and  who  owned  that  Christ's  ptfor  ought  to  be  ranked  among  the 
"noble  army  of  martyrs." 

"We  think  too  much  of  the  stake  and  the  faggot,  and  the 
cleansing-fire,  and  the  white  robes  washed  in  blood,"  he  said  once, 
"  and  all  the  while  Christ's  poor — the  little  ones  and  the  old,  and 
the  women — the  women,  Mary — are  all  out  in  the  cold — stumbling 
on  in  the  darkness;  from  dreary  morning  to  hopeless  night, 
working  and  toiling,  not  for  comforts,  but  that  they  may  keep 
their  wretched  body  and  still  more  wretched  soul  together,  and  no 
one  tells  them  that  they  are  martyrs."  And  when  he  had  spoken 
like  this,  he  would  push  away  his  cup  or  plate,  and  go  down  to 
the  school,  and  gather  all  the  little  ones  around  him  and  tell  them 
of  the  Child  who  lay  one  winter's  night  in  a  manger,  and  who, 
when  a  man,  wrought  out  His  Divine  ministries,  and  lived  and 
died  the  World's  Wonder,  having  nowhere  to  lay  His  head." 

Mary  had  often  been  strengthened  by  her  husband's  teaching ; 
but  now  and  then  he  would  tell  her,  still  in  the  quaint  phraseology 
which  was  at  times  habitual  to  him,  that  his  "manna-pot  was 
empty  and  all  its  sweetness  gone ;"  and  she  would  understand  that 
things  had  gone  heavily  with  him,  and  that  for  the  time  her 
Samson  was  shorn  of  his  strength.  "  The  Philistines  are  upon  me 
to-day,  Mary,"  he  would  say,  when  the  evidences  of  his  poverty 
fcrere  unusually  crushing.  "  I  must  leave  off  writing  sermons 


206  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

just  now,  and  let  you  and  the  boys  preach  to  me."  And  he  would 
come  in  and  sit  silently  in  her  room,  or  let  the  boys  coax  him  to 
join  in  their  games,  till  the  bitter  mood  was  over,  and  he  could 
assure  her,  with  the  sweet  brave  smile  which  always  made  her  lip 
tremble,  that  her  "  Richard  was  himself  again." 

She  drew  her  hand  now  across  his  forehead,  with  a  touch  as 
though  she  would  smooth  out  the  deep  wrinkles,  but  she  knew 
better  than  to  speak  to  him — this  woman,  who  was  so  wise  and 
tender  in  her  love.  Another  time  she  would  talk  to  him  cheerfully, 
and  tell  him,  as  she  had  told  him  many  times,  that  she  wore  her 
old  stuff  gown  as  proudly  for  his  sake  as  she  would  have  worn 
silks  and  jewels  if  he  had  given  them  her,  and  another  time  he 
would  believe  her ;  but  just  now  she  knew  his  heart  was  wounded 
past  its  usual  patience  at  the  thought  that  he  must  deny  this 
trifling  gift  to  the  woman  he  loved ;  and  yet  that  he  would  deny 
himself  and  her  she  had  not  a  doubt.  So  she  only  stood  beside 
him  quietly  smoothing  out  the  furrows  with  her  soft  hands. 

"  Very  well,  Mary,"  he  said  at  last,  and  speaking  as  though  he 
were  very  tired,  "  it  shall  be  as  you  wish.  We  will  make  as  little 
fuss  as  possible  over  this  tea-party,  and  you  shall  do  without  the 
dress."  And  Mary's  thanks  were  as  gratefully  spoken  as  though 
he  had  endowed  her  with  some  costly  gift. 

For  the  next  few  days  Kirkby  was  in  a  state  of  unusual  excite- 
ment, which  the  news  of  a  second  tea-party  at  the  Vicarage  was 
not  at  all  calculated  to  allay.  On  the  receipt  of  the  invitation 
Mrs.  Stephen  Knowles  had  put  on  her  bonnet  and  stepped  across 
to  her  dear  friend  Mrs.  Travers,  where,  in  spite  of  the  earliness 
of  the  hour,  a  choice  clique,  composed  of  the  Misses  O'Brien, 
the  Montague  Thompsons,  and  Nettie  Underwood  were  already 
assembled,  all  discussing  the  two  absorbing  topics  of  the  day — the 
extraordinary  letter  in  the  Blackscar  Herald,  and  the  little  less 
extraordinary  invitation  to  the  Vicarage. 

The  first  of  these  topics  had  already  been  discussed,  the  chief 
speaker  being  Miss  Matilda  O'Brien,  an  elderly  young  lady,  of  the 
class  Albert  Smith  has  immortalised  as  the  "  Prancers,"  and  whose 
remarks  were  always  more  or  less  acid.  Miss  O'Brien  had  been 
holding  forth  on  this  occasion  till  her  temper  had  become  decidedly 
acerbated,  chiefly  owing  to  Nettie  throwing  in  a  contumacious 
"  Fudge,"  after  the  manner  of  the  renowned  Mr.  Burchell,  some- 
times elongated  into  the  feminine  and  somewhat  striking  interjec- 
tion, "  Fiddle-de-dee." 

"  Fiddle-de-dee,  Mattie,"  repeated  Nettie  rather  loudly,  at  this 
juncture;  "you  may  say  what  you  like,  but  I  am  not  going  to 
believe  all  that  trash." 


MRS.  ORD'S  NEW  DRESS.  207 

"  I  do  hope  you  are  wrong,  Mat,"  suggested  her  sister  humbly. 
Kitty  O'Brien  was  a  poor  sickly  cripple,  very  young  and  weak, 
and  was  generally  understood  to  be  snubbed  by  her  elder  sister. 

"  It  is  no  good  giving  your  opinion,  Kitty,"  returned  Miss 
Mattie  sharply,  "  every  one  knows  you  always  differ  from  me  on 
principle.  I  say  again,  it  is  a  very  strange  proceeding  of  the 
Vicar's,  asking  all  the  leading  ladies  of  his  congregation  to  meet 
so  soon  again  at  his  house.  Mark  my  words,  girls,  we  shall  hear 
the  rights  of  the  matter  that  evening." 

"Do  you  really  think  so,  Miss  Mattie?"  asked  Mrs.  Stephen 
Knowles  eagerly,  untying  her  bonnet-strings,  with  the  notion  evi- 
dently that  they  were  like  ideas,  and  were  all  the  better  for  being 
loosened.  Mrs.  Knowles'  bonnet-strings  were  always  more  or  less 
in  a  state  of  crumple. 

"  Think  it,  Mrs.  Knowles  1  I  am  sure  of  it ;  it  is  no  good, 
Nettie,  saying  fudge  and  nonsense.  Of  course  the  Vicar  would 
not  leave  an  influential  parishioner  unvisited  if  it  were  not  for 
some  wise  purpose,  and  he  has  asked  us  to  tea  just  as  a  sort  of 
pretence  to  get  us  all  together  and  warn  us  against  having  any- 
thing to  do  with  Bryn  and  Miss  Maturin ;  and  I  for  one  must  say 
that  I  never  liked  the  look  of  her.  Those  pale  down -looking 
women  never  have  much  good  in 'them." 

"Oh,  and  you  begged  and  prayed  me  to  take  you  to  Bryn  !" 
exclaimed  Nettie.  "  You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself,  Mattie." 
And  Nettie,  who  had  remained  staunch  to  her  new  friend  in  spite 
of  the  animadversions  of  her  clique,  grew  so  very  scornful  and 
personal  in  her  remarks  that  by  general  consent  the  subject  was 
abruptly  changed,  to  be  resumed  on  the  earliest  opportunity.  In- 
deed it  would  not  be  too  much  to  say  that  during  the  few  days 
that  still  intervened  before  the  evening  in  question  the  one  half  of 
the  female  population  of  Kirkby  was  for  ever  putting  on  its  bonnet 
to  call  on  the  other  half  with  any  morsel  or  crumb  of  gossip  that 
could  be  gleaned  on  the  subject. 

Of  course  many  curious  facts  leaked  out.  Two  figures,  one 
very  much  resembling  Garton  Ord,  who  in  his  cassock  and  round 
hat  looked  not  unlike  one  of  the  wooden  Shems  in  Noah's  Ark, 
had  been  seen  in  the  twilight  walking  in  the  direction  of  Bryn ; 
but  as  the  Miss  Travers  who  vouched  for  the  truth  of  the  incident 
was  shortsighted,  and  was  supposed,  indeed,  to  be  blind  of  one 
eye,  no  one  attached  much  importance  to  her  story ;  but  a  greater 
excitement  ensued  when  her  sister  Amy  declared  that  from  the 
top  window  of  their  house  she  had  seen  Miss  Maturin  distinctly 
walking  in  the  rabbit-warren  with  the  Vicar. 

"  Depend  upon  it*  my  dear,,  he  was  giving  her  ghostly  counse1 


208  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

and  advice,35  said  Mattie  O'Brien  in  a  tone  that  made  every  one 
jump — it  was  so  suggestive.  Kitty  looked  up  with  her  sharp 
bright  eyes,  but  said  nothing. 

In  point  of  fact  the  lame  girl  knew  more  about  it  than  they 
supposed.  In  her  halting  way  she  knew  a  good  deal  of  the  move- 
ments of  other  people.  Walking  down  the  sea-wall  she  had  met 
the  party  coming  up  from  the  sands.  The  Vicar  had  his  four  boys 
with  him  ;  and  Miss  Maturin  held  Arty  by  the  hand.  She  might 
have  added  that  Rotha  had  rosy  cheeks,  and  was  laughing  merrily; 
but  of  late  Kitty  had  never  added  her  yea  and  nay  to  the  village 
gossip.  Perhaps  she  had  found  it  useless  to  differ  from  her  sister ; 
or  perhaps  she  had  grown  indifferent  to  the  trivialities  of  her  daily 
life  ;  or  it  might  be  that  the  sharp  bright  eyes  had  learnt  to  look 
higher — since  Kitty  had  known  the  sad  truth  that  her  halting 
footsteps  would  soon  cease  altogether,  and  that  she  must  lay  aside 
her  crutches  soon  at  the  entrance  of  the  dark  valley. 

Kitty  and  the  Vicar  were  great  friends,  and  he  nodded  brightly 
enough  to  her  when  they  met  that  evening. 

"  Father  says  that  Kitty  O'Brien  will  soon  sit  at  the  *  Gate 
Beautiful,' "  said  Arty,  in  a  tone  loud  enough  to  reach  the  lame  girl. 

"Hush  !  Arty;  oh,  Arty,  hush  !"  cried  Rotha,  as  she  looked 
wistfully  after  the  little  shrunken  figure. 

Kitty  gave  a  brisk  little  nod  all  to  herself  when  they  had  gone 
out  of  sight,  but  there  were  tears  in  her  eyes  too. 

"  '  They  shall  mount  up  with  wings  like  eagles  :'  ah,  that  is  what 
he  said  last  Sunday ;  and  then  when  he  spoke  of  the  '  Gate  Beau- 
tiful' he  looked  at  me.  Well,  the  sooner  it  is  over  the  better. 
It  is  just  the  dip  and  the  first  touch  of  the  cold  water  that  is  so 
bad ;  but  I  shall  ask  him  to  keep  near  me  and  hold  my  hand.  I 
daresay  it  is  only  a  childish  fancy — Mat  would  laugh  at  it — but  I 
think  I  could  die  more  easily  if  he  would  hold  my  hand." 

Long  before  some  very  sad  events  that  changed  the  aspect  of 
this  story  took  place,  poor  little  Kitty  O'Brien  had  her  wish. 

"  When  it  grows  dark  still  hold  my  hand  and  say  the  '  Lighten 
our  darkness '  out  loud,  please,"  she  said  to  him ;  and  the  Vicar, 
who  understood  the  feeble  childishness  of  the  petition,  assented, 
and  held  the  little  hand  in  his  as  the  dying  girl  went  out  through 
the  cold  and  darkness  and  into  the  light  beyond.  Somehow,  after 
that,  he  always  used  that  collect  for  light  by  other  death-beds. 

And  the  short-sighted  Miss  Travers  had  been  right,  after  all. 
Garton  Ord  had  met  Rotha  at  the  lich-gate  one  evening  after 
service,  and  had  walked  with  her  to  her  own  door,  and  this  time 
Rotha  had  not  been  shy  with  him. 

"  I  wish  I  had  been  at  the  Vicarage  the  other  evening,"  he 


MRS.  ORD'S  NEW  DRESS.  209 

had  begun,  in  his  usual  abrupt  fashion — Robert  always  found  fault 
with  his  abruptness — "I  think  it  was  a  capital  idea,  Austin  bring- 
ing you  in  like  that,  without  fuss  or  ceremony.  It  must  have 
made  you  feel  at  home  directly." 

"  I  won't  say  that,"  returned  Rotha,  smiling,  "  but  it  made  me 
very  happy." 

Somehow,  since  that  evening  that  they  had  talked  about  wind- 
mills, she  had  felt  very  grateful  and  friendly  to  the  poor  fellow, 
who  seemed  in  everybody's  way,  and  who  yet  had  no  place  of  his 
own.  She  seemed  to  understand  by  a  sort  of  dim  instinct  that  he 
was  not  one  whom  the  world  had  surrounded  by  a  visible  halo  of 
success,  but  she  liked  him  very  much  in  spite  of  that ;  and  had 
he  not  been  the  first  to  own  her  innocence  1 

"  It  was  so  honest  of  him  to  tell  me  that  he  differed  from  his 
brother,"  she  thought,  when  she  recalled  the  conversation  ;  and  so 
her  heart  was  very  soft  to  him. 

"  There  is  no  need  for  me  to  tell  you  how  good  your  brother 
is,"  she  continued  after  that  expression  as  to  happiness  ;  "I  only 
wish  I  did  not  feel  so  overwhelmingly  grateful." 

"  I  don't  believe  there's  such  another  fellow  as  Austin,"  burst 
out  honest  Gar  enthusiastically,  and  unconsciously  echoing  Robert's 
words. 

"  No,  indeed  ;  but  then  you  are  all  so  good." 

"  All  I—  not  Robert,  I  suppose?" 

"Why  not  Robert?"  asked  Rotha  innocently,  repeating  the 
name ;  "  I  hope  you  don't  think  I  exclude  him  because  he  is  still 
a  little  hard  to  me.  His  hardness  is  certainly  a  misfortune,  but 
then  think  how  I  have  wronged  him." 

"Wronged  him,  my  dear  Miss  Maturin?"  and  Garton  faced 
round  on  her  in  the  dark  road  with  the  utmost  astonishment. 

"  Innocently,  of  course,"  she  returned,  colouring  deeply ;  "  and 
his  unfortunate  prejudice  has  undoubtedly  caused  me  great  un- 
happiness ;  but  I  don't  mean  to  fret  about  it  any  more.  I  am 
sure  it  will  all  come  right." 

"  I  wish  there  were  more  like  you,"  returned  Garton,  striking 
his  hands  together,  and  squaring  his  shoulders.  "  I  would  give 
something  for  a  little  of  your  charity,  Miss  Maturin.  Robert  tries 
my  temper  more  than  any  one." 

"That  is  because  you  do  not  understand  each  other,"  she 
answered  in  a  quiet  old-fashioned  way,  as  though  she  were  older 
than  the  young  man  before  her,  who  was  trying  to  time  his  im- 
petuous strides  to  her  even  footsteps ;  "of  course  I  don't  know 
much,  but,  from  the  little  I  have  seen,  I  should  think  you  must  be 
like  flint  and  steel  to  each  other." 

14 


210  ROBERT  ORD'S  A  TONEMENT. 

"  Robert  must  be  the  steel,  then,  ha  !  ha  ! "  laughed  Garton. 
"  I  wish  he  could  hear  you  say  that.  Polished  and  cool,  that's 
just  what  he  is.  Miss  Maturin,  you  are  a  keen  observer." 

"  I  hope  you  don't  think  me  impertinent,"  said  Rotha,  as  she 
echoed  the  laugh — Garton's  boyish  "ha!  ha!"  was  so  very  infec- 
tious. She  could  see  the  brown  face  and  the  white  teeth  gleaming 
in  the  dim  light.  Up  in  the  sky  the  stars  were  coming  out  by 
twos  and  threes.  How  many  nights  ago  was  it  since  she  sat 
looking  at  the  reflections  of  the  stars  in  the  waters,  and  hearing 
Arty  say  his  prayers — how  many1?  What  did  it  matter — what 
did  anything  matter  since  she  was  so  very,  very  happy  ? 


CHAPTER   XIX. 

THE    VICAR'S   ATONEMENT. 

"  PAGE. — Madam,  there  is  a  lady  in  your  hall 

Who  begs  to  be  admitted  to  your  presence. 

LADY.  — Is  it  one  of  our  invited  friends  ? 

PAGE.— No  ;  far  unlike  to  them.     A  stranger. 

LADY. — How  looks  her  countenance  ? 

PAGE. — So  queenly,  so  commanding,  and  so  noble, 

I  shrunk  at  first  in  awe ;  but  when  she  smiled 
Methought  I  could  have  compass'd  sea  and  laud, 
To  do  her  bidding." 

BAILLIE. 

WHILE  Kirkby  thought  and  spoke  of  little  else  but  the  tea-party 
at  the  Vicarage,  Rotha  looked  forward  to  the  eventful  evening  with, 
mingled  feelings  of  pleasure  and  pain  :  on  the  whole  the  pain  pre- 
dominated. There  were  times  when  an  absolute  dread  took 
possession  of  her,  when  she  thought  of  the  ordeal  that  awaited 
her.  There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  turn  her  attention  resolutely 
to  other  things,  and  to  do  her  daily  work  so  thoroughly  and  heartily 
as  to  leave  no  time  for  cowardly  reflections. 

Rotha  despised  half  measures.  She  was  very  intolerant  of 
herself  and  other  people  in  such  matters.  She  was  aware  that  she 
drove  her  chariot-wheels  heavily  just  now,  but  she  drove  on  for 
all  that.  On  the  night  before  the  party  she  went  to  bed  quaking 
in  every  limb,  and  cried  herself  to  sleep,  as  a  means  of  keeping  up 
her  courage ;  and  in  the  morning  she  woke  up  with  a  firm  belief 
that  she  was  pre-ordained  to  martyrdom.  She  carried  this  con- 
viction in  her  face  to  the  breakfast-table. 

Some  hours  after,  when  she  had  stitched  a  collar  of  a  surplice 
upside  down,  and  had  tried  to  translate  a  piece  of  crabbed  German, 
and  had  not  made  sense  out  of  a  single  sentence,  she  came  down 
ready  dressed  for  the  evening,  and  asked  Meg,  with  a  lurking 
smile,  whether  she  would  do. 

Meg,  who  was  very  short-sighted,  put  up  her  eye-glasses  and 
looked  her  over — to  use  idyllic  language,  much  as  "  careful  robins 


212  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

eye  the  delver's  toil " — and  then  dropped  them  again  with  a  dis- 
satisfied look.  Rotha  looked  wofully  pale,  and  wore  her  old 
black  silk. 

"  Not  a  flower — not  a  trinket,"  grumbled  Meg. 

Rotha  stood  up  very  slim  and  straight  under  the  reproof. 
"  Not  the  vestige  of  an  ornament,"  went  on  Mrs.  Carruthers  dis- 
contentedly. 

"  Criminals  ought  not  to  be  decked  out  with  ornaments  when 
they  are  brought  before  the  bar,"  returned  Rotha  gravely ;  "  it  is 
true  victims  were  garlanded  for  sacrifice  under  the  old  dispensation, 
but  not  the  new  dispensation  victim  of  the  Old  Bailey." 

"My  dear,  what  a  ghastly  joke" — and  Meg  dropped  her  eye- 
glasses and  then  picked  them  up  with  a  frightened  air — Rotha  was 
decidedly  odd  to-day.  "  You  forget  this  is  to  be  the  evening  of 
your  triumph." 

"  Meg,  do  you  recollect  the  story  of  Haman  1" 

Mrs.  Carruthers  shook  her  head — her  wits  were  wool-gathering 
to-night.  Rotha  laughed  good-humouredly  as  she  smoothed  Meg's 
sandy  hair  and  tucked  in  a  loose  end.  Meg  wore  her  hair  in  thin 
ropes  and  braids,  and  in  truth  its  colour  was  not  unlike  tow. 

"  For  shame,  Meg,  do  you  ever  read  your  Bible — I  mean  the 
story  of  Haman,  the  son  of  Hammedatha  the  Agagite  ?" 

"  My  dear  Rotha,  are  you  sure  you  are  well  ?" 

"You  mean  I  am  rather  odd ;  don't  be  afraid  to  mention  the 
word.  If  you  are  nervous,  never  mind  Haman  for  the  present, 
though  I  confess  my  thoughts  are  still  running  on  Mordecai  the 
Jew.  My  mention  of  the  Old  Bailey  offended  you ;  I  know  nothing 
at  all  about  the  Old  Bailey,  but,  all  the  same,  I  did  feel  such  a 
criminal  as  I  dressed  myself." 

"  Rotha,  if  you  would  but  be  sensible." 

"Impossible,  Meg;  just  think  of  the  twelve  jurymen — jury- 
women,  I  mean — who  are  to  sit  on  my  case  presently,  and  the  grim 
leading  counsel  at  their  head ;  it  does  not  matter  a  bit  just  now 
that  the  judge — my  judge — has  acquitted  me,  he'll  have  to  take 
his  notes  all  the  same ;  and  you  ask  me  after  that  to  take  pride  in 
dressing  myself." 

"  I  think,  if  I  were  you,  I  should  wear  the  symbol  of  my  inno- 
cence," remarked  Meg  obscurely.  The  speech  was  somewhat 
metaphorical,  and  had  reference  to  a  certain  white  dress  which  was 
laid  out  mysteriously  in  Rotha's  room  ;  it  had  been  ordered  for  this 
evening,  but  at  the  last  moment  she  had  chosen  to  indulge  this 
grim  fancy. 

"  Presently — by  and  by,"  replied  Rotha,  who  understood  the 
metaphor  perfectly;  "not  while  waiting  for  the  verdict  though. 


THE  VICAR'S  ATONEMENT.  213 

Wouldn't  the  twelve  jurymen — jurywomen,  I  mean — be  astonished 
if  I  were  suddenly  to  pop  up  during  tea  and  say,  '  Not  guilty,  my 
Lord,'  and  the  other  learned  gentleman  knows  it  *{  How  the  Vicar 
and  the  leading  counsel  would  stare ! " — and  Rotha,  who  had 
worked  herself  gradually  into  this  rash  humour,  and  was  as  tired 
as  heart  could  wish,  laughed  over  this  wretched  little  farce  of  hers 
till  Meg  scolded  and  reasoned  her  into  gravity. 

She  was  as  grave  and  inanimate  as  the  seven  sleepers  when  she 
entered  the  Vicarage  drawing-room.  She  had  stipulated  some  days 
ago  that  she  was  to  be  the  first  visitor,  so  only  the  family  were 
assembled. 

It  was  odd  that  the  Vicar  should  also  notice  her  dearth  of 
ornament.  Rotha's  appearance  must  have  been  rather  striking  in  its 
simplicity.  She  had  put  back  her  hair  from  her  face  too — always 
a  hazardous  experiment  with  thin  faces  :  before  she  had  been  five 
minutes  in  the  room  he  had  taken  out  a  handful  of  ferns  and  late 
scarlet  geranium  and  had  desired  Mary  to  pin  them  in  her  dress. 

"  Flowers  for  girls,  and  jewels  for  married  women,  and  both  for 
the  mistress  of  Bryn,"  remarked  the  Vicar  oracularly,  from  his 
favourite  platform  the  rug ;  and,  despite  his  whimsical  smile,  Rotha 
read  a  rebuke  in  his  eyes — whether  from  that  or  the  flowers  she 
had  no  lack  of  colour  now ;  she  understood  that  he  also  would  have 
had  her  dressed  as  though  for  a  triumph. 

Robert,  who  was  holding  some  silk  for  Belle,  looked  up  at  his 
brother's  speech,  and  what  he  saw  greatly  surprised  him ;  yes,  it 
was  true — she  had  no  ornament,  not  even  a  ring,  nothing  but  a 
silver  brooch,  which  she  might  have  picked  up  anywhere  for  a  few 
shillings.  Was  this  artifice — was  she  studying  effect?  No,  he 
could  not  but  acknowledge  to  himself  that  this  might  possibly  be 
an  evidence  of  good  taste.  What  would  have  been  his  feelings  if 
she  had  come  there  decked  with  the  Ord  jewels  ? 

How  well  he  remembered  them  !  He  could  go  over  the  whole 
list  in  his  mind  now.  How  often,  as  a  boy,  he  had  stood  by  Aunt 
Charlotte's  dressing-table,  turning  out  the  casket  with  rough  boyish 
hand,  half -disdaining  and  half -admiring  the  glittering  baubles. 
What  wonderful  emerald  and  diamond  rings  she  had  worn  on  her 
fingers ;  and  there  was  the  pearl  necklace,  which  she  used  to  tell 
him  should  be  his  wife's  on  her  wedding-day,  "  providing  I  approve 
of  her,  Robbie  dear,"  she  would  add,  "  and  I  hope  she  will  have  a 
pretty  white  neck  to  set  off  the  pearls."  And  then  she  would  go 
on  to  tell  him  that  she  would  lend  her  her  favourite  set  of  rubies 
on  the  day  when  she  went  to  Court,  "  for  a  lady  ought  always  to  pay 
that  homage  to  her  Sovereign,"  and,  added  Aunt  Charlotte,  "  I  shall 
see  that  your  wife  is  not  remiss  in  her  duty  as  an  Englishwoman." 


214  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

"If  I  have  a  wife,  and  she  goes  to  Court,"  remarked  Master 
Bob  stoutly,  "  I  hope  she  won't  wear  those  dirty  yellow  lace  flounces 
that  you  did,  Aunt  Charlotte,  and  I  think  those  red  stones  hideous." 

"  That's  because  you  are  such  a  very,  very  little  boy,"  answered 
his  aunt ;  but  she  had  looked  rather  affronted,  nevertheless ;  what 
a  sad  scapegrace  he  had  been,  to  be  sure.  He  recollected  very 
well  her  coming  into  his  room  one  night  with  those  same  red  stones 
shining  in  her  gray  hair,  half  hidden  under  the  rare  old  lace,  and 
she  wore  more  on  her  throat  and  arms.  He  must  have  been  ill, 
he  thought,  and  feverish,  for  he  called  her  a  hag  and  Medusa,  and 
pushed  her  away,  screaming  that  he  could  see  the  red  tongues  of 
the  snakes  in  her  hair,  and  she  had  pulled  them  out,  crying  that 
she  was  a  miserable  old  woman,  and  that  her  boy  did  not  know  her 
— that  her  Robbie,  her  darling,  was  dying.  He  was  stabbing 
himself  with  these  memories,  and  growing  very  stern  over  them, 
when  a  singular  interruption  occurred.  Belle  left  off  winding  the 
silk  in  some  displeasure.  Mary  had  asked  her  and  Rotha  Maturin 
to  go  downstairs  and  arrange  the  flowers  for  the  tea-table — a  finish- 
ing task  that  Belle  had  always  been  accustomed  to  do  alone. 

Belle  could  hardly  believe  her  ears,  but  Rotha  rose  at  once — 
as  usual  her  quick  instinct  comprehended  the  little  ruse.  She 
gave  the  Vicar  a  pleased  look  as  he  opened  the  door  for  her ;  and 
Belle,  with  a  bad  grace,  had  to  follow. 

So  far  as  sociability  was  concerned,  the  plan  did  not  answer  at 
all  Rotha  soon  discovered  that  Belle  was  one  who  liked  a  mono- 
poly even  of  labour,  so  she  soon  gave  up  her  arrangement  of  vases 
and  dishes,  and  watched  Belle's  nimble  fingers  instead. 

And  she  found  out  three  things. 

She  noticed  first  that,  though  Belle  had  never  looked  more 
beautiful  than  on  this  evening,  there  was  a  strange  wanness  and 
shadow  over  her  beauty  which  was  quite  indescribable ;  secondly, 
that  as  she  moved  about  she  kept  her  hand  to  her  side,  as  though 
in  habitual  pain — she  did  it  very  quietly,  as  though  to  avoid  notice, 
but  the  movement  spoke  volumes ;  thirdly,  putting  two  and  two 
together — the  wanness  and  the  pain — she  took  it  into  her  head 
that  what  seemed  sullenness  was  in  reality  repressed  suffering ;  and 
so  she  arrived  at  the  conclusion  that,  in  spite  of  her  evenness  and 
repellent  manners,  Belle  Clinton  was  at  heart  a  loving  woman. 

And  she  noticed  something  else ;  she  had  detected  two  or  three 
times  a  sad  wistfulness  in  Belle's  large  dark  eyes  whenever  she 
fixed  them  on  her  lover's  face ;  and  as  she  went  downstairs  she  said 
this  singular  thing  to  herself — "  Belle  Clinton's  love  for  Robert  Ord 
is  a  suffering,  and  she  knows  it ;  there  is  no  happiness  in  her  face  ;" 
and  then,  "  Robert  Ord  is  a  very  noble  lover,  he  has  given  freely 


THE  VICAR'S  ATONEMENT.  215 

everything  he  held  most  precious,  except  his  heart ;  and  he  thinks 
he  has  given  that,  but  he  is  wrong." 

There  are  strange  surprises  in  life — quick  revelations.  A 
stranger  will  at  times  grasp  a  mystery  of  years ;  sudden  flashes 
reveal  a  chasm.  This  girl,  who  had  never  loved,  never  tasted 
the  sweet -bitter  experience  of  womanhood,  who  had  led  such  a 
strangely  repressed  existence,  realised  in  a  moment  the  twofold 
suffering  of  Belle  Clinton's  life. 

And,  being  a  keen  observer,  she  read  the  mystery  two  ways, 
but  it  was  but  a  sudden  lightning  flash  that  made  the  rift  in  the 
clouds.  By  and  by,  as  the  clouds  broke,  she  read  it  all  clearly 
enough. 

It  was  dreary  work  standing  by  and  doing  nothing.  Belle 
was  unusually  taciturn;  her  position  thoroughly  displeased  her. 
She  was  angry  with  Mary  and  Austin  for  making  her  a  party  to 
the  ruse ;  she  answered  only  in  monosyllables  to  Rotha's  admiring 
ejaculations.  Girls  seldom  found  Belle  Clinton  communicative. 
Rotha  offered  once  to  relieve  her  of  a  heavy  vase.  "Do  let  me 
carry  it ;  it  is  easy  to  see  you  have  a  pain  in  your  side,"  she  said. 

"Oh,  that  is  nothing;  I'm  used  to  it,"  was  the  indifferent 
reply,  but  the  observation  evidently  annoyed  her. 

"  Pain  is  not  a  pleasant  companion,"  returned  Rotha  cheerfully; 
"you  are  not  very  strong,  Mrs.  Ord  says.  She  tells  me  that  you 
work  too  much." 

"  Oh,  Mary  is  always  croaking.  Don't  you  think  it  better  to 
wear  out  than  rust  out,  Miss  Maturin  ? " 

"  When  a  life  depends  upon  us,  I  think  it  is  best  to  do  neither," 
observed  Rotha  simply.  She  would  speak  the  truth  that  was  in 
her,  even  to  this  singular  girl.  Belle  looked  up  in  astonishment 
at  the  earnest  tone.  "  It  seems  to  me  that  people  are  often  work- 
ing when  they  had  better  be  playing,  and  so  they  miss  the  salt 
and  the  sunshine  of  life.  It  is  not  every  one  who  has  learnt  to 
play  properly." 

Belle  did  not  answer,  but  Rotha  fancied  she  heard  a  sigh,  and 
then  Garton  and  the  four  boys  came  in,  and  Rotha's  brief  penance 
was  over. 

Rotha  was  a  great  boy-lover,  and  she  had  long  desired  to  make 
acquaintance  with  the  curly-headed  denizens  of  the  Vicarage.  She 
had  been  much  struck  by  Guy's  handsome  face,  and  even  loose- 
limbed  Rufus  had  come  in  for  a  share  of  her  admiration  ;  but 
Laurie  had  taken  her  fancy  most ;  she  had  singled  him  out  from 
the  rest  of  the  choir  before  she  knew  who  he  was,  and  had  spoken 
of  him  to  Meg  as  "  the  little  king ; "  the  sobriquet  had  been  sug- 
gested by  the  boy's  sleepy  grace  of  movement,  and  a  certain  proud 


216  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

carriage  of  the  head  as  he  walked  up  to  his  place  in  the  choir 
stalls. 

The  boys  know  Rotha  pretty  well  by  this  time.  They  were 
very  sociable  well-mannered  lads,  Guy  especially,  and  so  in  five 
minutes  they  were  all  quite  at  their  ease,  and  "  the  little  king " 
was  retailing  an  anecdote  with  great  gusto. 

"  Who  is  that  dark-complexioned  boy  who  is  so  often  with  you 
of  an  evening  1 "  asked  Rotha,  when  Laurie  had,  with  much  absence 
of  mind,  left  his  anecdote  to  be  finished  by  his  elder  brothers. 
Garton  and  the  boys  exchanged  glances  at  Rotha's  question,  and 
Garton  laughed  guiltily. 

"  Do  you  like  boys,  Miss  Maturin  ? "  asked  Garton  as  he  admin- 
istered a  warning  shake  to  Guy, 

"Indeed  I  do,"  returned  Rotha  warmly ;  "but  the  boy  I  am 
asking  about  does  not  seem  to  me  to  be  a  gentleman's  son — he  is 
a  bright-eyed  intelligent  lad,  in  a  rough  coat  like  a  sailor's." 

"That's  Garton's  Shadow,"  called  out  Guy,  closing  with  his 
uncle  in  rather  a  summary  manner — "we've  nicknamed  him  Gar's 
Shadow,  for  short.  He  is  a  regular  David,  is  that  fellow.  Come 
on  now,  if  you  want  to  argue,"  he  continued,  doubling  up  his  fist 
in  a  tempting  manner  ;  but  Garton  manacled  him  in  a  moment. 

"  Peace,  my  son  !  we  must  have  no  sparring  in  a  lady's  pre- 
sence. Miss  Maturin,  if  these  lads  will  be  quiet,  I  will  answer 
your  question.  The  boy's  name  is  Reuben  Armstrong,  and  he  is 
the  best  and  the  most  unhappy  boy  in  the  parish.  Now,  Rufus, 
we  don't  want  any  of  your  remarks." 

"  Garton  is  afraid  we're  going  to  peach.  Don't  be  nervous, 
my  dear  boy,"  remarked  Guy  soothingly,  and  Rufus  grumbled 
out : 

"  Oh,  we're  nobody  ;  don't  take  any  notice  of  us.  We  haven't 
got  a  drunken  father  who  beats  us  and  throws  us  out  of  window 
— oh  no  !  "  And  a  sudden  chorus  of  "  Oh  noes,"  uttered  ironically 
by  the  other  boys,  brought  Aunt  Belle  on  the  tapis,  with  a  stern 
admonition  to  be  quiet. 

"  Boys,  do  behave  yourselves.  Garton,  you  don't  keep  them  a 
bit  in  order ;  what  will  Miss  Maturin  think  1 " 

Miss  Maturin  evidently  thought  it  good  fun  enough.  For  the 
time  being  she  had  forgotten  all  about  the  twelve  jurywomen,  who 
were  unshawling  at  that  moment  in  Mrs.  Ord's  room.  Arty  was 
on  her  lap  examining  the  workings  of  her  watch.  "  And,  do  you 
know,  it  was  a  silver  watch  like  Garton's,"  Guy  informed  his  father 
afterwards ;  and  "  the  little  king's "  fair  head  was  very  close  to 
her  shoulder,  and  so  she  looked  very  happy.  Garton,  lounging 
against  the  mantelpiece  in  his  shabby  coat,  caught  himself  wonder- 


THE  VICAR'S  A  TONEMENT.  21 7 

ing  again  why  the  women  thought  Rotha  Maturin  so  plain. 
"They  couldn't  have  seen  that  pretty  dimple  when  she  laughs," 
he  said  to  himself.  "  I  like  her  face  ever  so  much  better  than 
Belle's — Belle  never  laughs." 

Belle  moved  away  again  when  she  had  made  her  protest.  The 
lads'  merriment  generally  wearied  her. 

"Don't  put  yourself  out,  Aunt  Belle,"  Guy  had  remarked 
patronisingly ;  "Rufus  and  I  will  keep  him  in  order.  Is  there 
any  other  information  that  you  want  respecting  'the  Shadow,' 
Miss  Maturin  1 " 

"He  is  rather  a  substantial  shadow,"  laughed  Rotha.  "He 
is  a  broad-shouldered,  thick-set  lad  enough.  No,  Guy,  I  won't 
ask  any  more  questions,  as  it  seems  a  sore  subject." 

"  The  boys  are  jealous,"  interposed  Garton. 

Another  scornful  chorus,  culminating  in  "Oh  yes  "  and  " are 
we  ? "  which  reaches  Mother  Mary's  ear,  and  causes  her  to  say  that 
the  boys  are  enjoying  themselves  somewhere,  and  would  Austin  go 
and  look  after  them. 

"By  and  by,"  remarks  the  Vicar.  "Mrs.  Blake  and  Miss 
Brookes  are  not  yet  arrived,  and  the  moment  for  the  coup  d'oeil 
has  not  yet  come." 

"  Uncle  Gar  saved  Reuben's,  life,"  observed  Laurie,  absently 
deserting  his  brother's  side  and  going  over  to  the  enemy.  "  Reu- 
ben was  out  among  the  rocks,  and  got  out  of  his  depth,  and  cramp 
came  on  ;  and  Uncle  Gar  jumped  in  in  his  long  coat,  just  as  he  is, 
and  brought  him  out." 

"  That's  enough — shut  up,  Laurie  ; "  but  Laurie  chose  to  prose 
on  in  his  gentle  way. 

"  It  was  awfully  deep ;  and  the  water  got  into  Uncle  Gar's 
clothes ;  and  he  could  hardly  drag  Reuben,  he  was  so  heavy. 
Aunt  Belle  saw  it  all  from  the  shore ;  didn't  you,  Aunt  Belle  1 " 

"  Yes,  Laurie,"  returned  Belle,  with  a  shiver,  "  and  I  never 
expected  to  see  either  of  them  again." 

"  Yes ;  and  she  said  Reuben  looked  like  death  when  Uncle 
Gar  carried  him  in ;  and  we've  called  him  '  the  Shadow '  ever  since, 
haven't  we,  Rufus  ? " 

"  Laurie,  if  you  say  another  word  I  will  double  your  Latin 
Delectus  to-morrow." 

"No,  no — he  has  told  it  so  prettily,"  pleaded  Rotha,  looking 
up  respectfully  to  the  hero  of  Laurie's  tale.  "  What  a  brave  thing! 
No  wonder  the  boy  is  fond  of  you,  when  you  have  saved  his  life." 

"  He  has  no  one  else  to  love,"  replied  Garton,  with  a  sudden 
reddening  over  his  sunburnt  face  at  Rotha's  praise ;  and  then  the 
Vicar  came  in. 


218  ROBERT  OR&S  ATONEMENT. 

He  looked  rather  amused  at  the  little  group. 

"Arty,  you  rogue,  you  are  up  to  mischief,  as  usual.  Come, 
Miss  Maturin,  you  and  Belle  have  done  your  work  well,  and  I  am 
going  to  take  you  upstairs." 

Rotha  rose  without  a  word.  It  was  a  positive  fact  she  shut 
her  eyes  when  the  Vicar  opened  the  drawing-room  door,  though  she 
opened  them  again  directly.  She  said  afterwards  that  it  was  the 
longest  room  she  had  ever  walked  up  in  her  life ;  and  that  she  was 
sure  that  for  the  moment  the  twelve  or  thirteen  ladies  were  quad- 
rupled in  her  eyes.  Meg  told  her,  when  they  talked  the  little 
scene  over,  that  when  she  entered  the  room  she  looked  so  white 
that  she  was  afraid  she  was  going  to  faint,  but  that  her  bearing 
was  grand  almost  to  haughtiness. 

"  You  have  no  idea  of  the  majestic  way  you  bowed  to  Miss 
Brookes,  and  you  looked  so  tall — oh,  ever  so  much  taller,  Rotha." 

Rotha  had  no  conception  of  the  way  she  looked.  All  manner 
of  introductions  were  going  on ;  there  was  a  general  stir  and  move- 
ment. The  Misses  Travers  were  rustling  their  new  blue  dresses 
in  quite  a  deafening  manner;  Mrs.  Stephen  Knowles'  garnet- 
coloured  satin  came  into  most  unbecoming  juxtaposition  with  Miss 
O'Brien's  canary  silk.  In  the  midst  of  the  turmoil  Nettie  rushed 
forward  and  kissed  her,  and  tore  a  yard  and  a  half  of  her  muslin 
flounce  in  making  room  for  Aunt  Eliza.  In  the  little  sympathising 
hubbub  that  ensued  Rotha  found  herself  in  a  seat  by  Mrs.  Ord, 
with  the  Vicar  whispering  something  into  her  ear. 

"You  are  a  brave  woman,"  said  the  voice,  "and  our  little 
coup  d'oeil  is  over." 

Rotha  drew  a  long  breath,  as  though  she  had  come  out  of 
some  deep  water,  and  then  she  was  herself  again. 

She  could  look  round  quietly  now.  She  was  quite  fenced  in 
by  her  friends.  The  Vicar  still  kept  his  position  at  the  back  of 
her  chair,  and  Aunt  Eliza  was  on  the  other  side.  Nettie,  as  she 
pinned  up  her  dilapidated  flounce,  talked  across  to  her  with  studied 
cheerfulness. 

"  Somebody  else  besides  Nettie  Underwood  likes  surprises,"  she 
said,  with  a  meaning  look  at  the  Vicar. 

The  Vicar  laughed,  and  glanced  merrily  over  the  discomfited 
heads  of  ladies,  whispering  among  themselves,  and  glancing  askance 
at  the  unexpected  guest ;  but  Miss  Brookes  disdained  whispers. 

"  Some  people  like  anything  theatrical,"  she  observed  in  rather 
a  loud  key. 

"  Mary,  I  believe  Miss  Brookes  is  dying  for  her  tea.  Robert, 
my  dear  fellow,  make  yourself  useful  among  the  ladies — there  are 
no  gentlemen  to-night,  you  know.  Miss  Maturin,  allow  me  to 


THE  VICAR'S  ATONEMENT.  219 

take  you  down."  It  was  really  very  cunning  of  the  Vicar,  as  his 
wife  told  him  afterwards,  for  Miss  Brookes  was  bent  on  making 
herself  disagreeable. 

Rotha  felt  quite  at  her  ease  sitting  between  the  Vicar  and 
Garton,  with  Aunt  Eliza's  kind  face  opposite.  It  was  perfectly 
evident  now  to  all  the  ladies  that  the  obnoxious  Miss  Maturin  was 
the  Vicar's  most  favoured  guest  of  the  evening.  Had  he  not 
caused  her  to  take  precedence  of  Mrs.  Colonel  Blake,  a  privilege 
never  before  accorded  to  any  unmarried  lady?  and  had  he  not 
placed  her  in  the  seat  of  honour  at  his  right  hand  ?  and  did  not 
Garton  Ord  stretch  out  a  long  arm  everywhere  to  secure  if  possible 
a  Benjamin's  mess  of  such  good  things  as  the  table  furnished1? 
Certainly,  if  the  Vicar  had  wished  to  create  a  sensation  by  this 
novel  surprise  which  he  had  prepared  for  them,  most  clearly  he 
need  not  be  disappointed,  for  a  more  crestfallen  and  disconsolate 
set  of  women  could  not  be  seen  anywhere ;  nevertheless,  as  the 
Vicar  looked  at  Miss  Brookes,  he  was  not  quite  at  ease  in  his  mind. 

He  had  told  himself  that  this  tea-party  would  achieve  a  perfect 
success,  and  that  there  would  be  no  need  for  him  to  say  a  single 
word ;  he  would  contrive  it  so  that  the  fact  of  their  reconciliation 
with  Rotha  Maturin  should  be  patent  to  all  eyes.  He  had  hoped 
so  at  least,  for  his  own  and  Rotlm's  sake,  seeing  that  the  saying  of 
such  words  could  not  be  pleasant ;  but  what  if  Miss  Brookes  should 
compel  him  to  abandon  this  silence?  The  thought  made  him  a 
little  anxious  in  spite  of  himself. 

Mary,  at  her  end  of  the  table,  was  not  a  whit  happier  in  her 
mind ;  before  five  minutes  were  over  she  was  quite  sure  that  Miss 
Brookes  was  bent  upon  making  herself  most  thoroughly  disagree- 
able. From  the  moment  the  Vicar  had  entered  with  Miss  Maturin 
on  his  arm,  that  good  lady  had  arrived  at  an  alarming  state  of 
rigidity;  so  extremely  angular  had  she  become  that  her  lace 
shawl  could  not  retain  its  position  at  all,  but  kept  slipping  from 
her  shoulders,  and  had  to  be  held  on  by  the  elbows  in  a  most 
graceless  fashion.  In  vain  had  Mrs.  Ord  tried  to  engage  her  in 
conversation  ;  Miss  Brookes'  steely  glances  would  rove  to  the  other 
end  of  the  table,  where  Rotha  sat  looking  very  quiet  and  happy 
under  the  Vicar's  wing. 

"  Hem,"  coughed  Miss  Brookes,  rather  more  loudly  than  was 
consistent  with  a  baronet's  first  cousin ;  Mary  in  an  agony  tele- 
graphed signals  of  distress  to  Robert,  who  either  could  not  or 
would  not  understand  them. 

"  Hem,"  again  coughed  Miss  Brookes,  and  this  time  Rotha  did 
unfortunately  look  up,  and  was  nailed  at  once  by  one  of  the  steely 
glances. 


220  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

"Did  you  speak  to  me?"  asked  Rotha  timidly,  and  changing 
colour.  She  did  not  much  like  raising  her  voice,  even  now,  before 
the  twelve  jury  women ;  a  dim  suspicion  came  across  her  that  the 
deep  waters  were  not  passed  yet. 

"I  was  trying  to  attract  your  attention  certainly,"  returned 
Miss  Brookes,  coolly  dropping  her  eye-glass,  and  once  more  trying 
to  arrange  her  shawl  round  her  shoulders.  "  One  needs  a  speaking- 
trumpet  across  such  a  long  table.  I  was  only  going  to  observe 
that  you  have  very  soon  changed  your  mind." 

"  Miss  Maturin  is  not  a  Quaker,"  remarked  the  Vicar,  promptly 
coming  to  the  rescue.  "  I  thought  ladies  were  always  allowed  to 
change  their  mind." 

"Not  without  good  reason,  Vicar,"  returned  Miss  Brookes 
sharply.  She  always  addressed  the  Vicar  somewhat  familiarly, 
and  just  now  she  resented  his  interference.  "  Young  people  will 
have  whims  and  fancies  sometimes,  but  it  is  possible  to  carry  them 
too  far,  as  in  this  instance." 

"In  what  instance?  Suppose  we  change  the  subject,  Miss 
Brookes." 

"  Miss  Brookes  means  when  I  refused  Mrs.  Blake's  invitation," 
returned  Rotha,  colouring  deeply.  "I  am  very  sorry  to  appear 
so  rude." 

"Appearances  are  deceitful  sometimes,"  moralised  the  Vicar. 
He  did  not  like  the  course  the  conversation  had  taken,  but  it  was 
too  late  to  check  it. 

"Appearances  were  certainly  not  in  Miss  Maturin's  favour  in 
this  instance,"  remarked  Miss  Brookes,  with  a  scornful  laugh  that 
chilled  Rotha.  "  My  dear,  when  you  used  that  singular  expression 
to  Mrs.  Colonel  Blake  the  other  day — you  remember  the  expres- 
sion, Catharine,  that  Miss  Maturin  used — that  you  could  not  go 
into  society,  we  hardly  expected  to  meet  you  here  this  evening." 

"  I  daresay  not,  Miss  Brookes." 

"  No,  indeed ;  and  it  was  just  after  Nettie  Underwood's  tea- 
party,  too,  that  Mrs.  Colonel  Blake  asked  you." 

"  Yes,  I  was  so  very,  very  sorry  to  have  to  refuse,"  began  poor 
Rotha,  "  but — but " — but  the  Vicar  again  came  to  her  relief.  "  But 
circumstances  over  which  she  had  no  control  prevented  her  from 
availing  herself  of  the  pleasure,  et  cetera,  et  cetera.  Never  mind 
excuses,  Miss  Maturin,  they  are  mischievous  things  ;  if  Mrs.  Blake 
will  give  me  the  favour  of  five  minutes'  conversation  after  tea,  I'll 
undertake  to  set  you  right  with  her,  and  the  next  time  she  asks  us 
both  to  Fairmeads  we  will  go.  I'll  promise  her  that." 

The  shawl  had  slipped  down  again,  and  Miss  Brookes  gave  her 
head  a  displeased  toss.  The  Vicar  had  tackled  her  successfully 


THE  VICARS  ATONEMENT.  221 

this  time ;  but  that  she  was  meditating  an  assault  in  a  fresh  place 
was  evident ;  and  the  Vicar  groaned  inwardly  as  he  passed  up  his 
cup  to  be  replenished. 

No ;  there  was  no  help  for  it,  he  must  perform  his  penance 
thoroughly ;  so  he  made  a  face  at  Arty,  who  had  found  his  way  to 
Miss  Maturin's  lap,  and  in  another  moment  he  was  on  his  feet. 

"  Ladies  and  Gentlemen, — I  ought  to  say  ladies,  as  the  gentle- 
men are  limited  this  evening  to  my  brothers  and  my  four  worshipful 
sons, — I  know  it  is  not  the  fashion  to  christen  a  Kirkby  tea-party — 
except,  perhaps,  a  select  few — such  as  Mrs.  Stephen  Knowles, 
for  example,  who  is  fashionable,  and  gives  kettledrums,  and  Miss 
Nettie  Underwood,  who  has  delightful  tea-kettle  gossips ;  but  still 
it  is  not  an  ordinary  custom.  Now,  if  I  were  inclined  to  christen 
this  particular  tea-party,  do  you  know  what  I  should  call  it  ?" 

A  pause,  a  subdued  rustling  among  the  younger  jurywomen, 
and  then  Arty  shouts  out,  "  Call  it  the  *  Old  Ladies'  Feast,5  father," 
and  is  promptly  suppressed  by  Garton — so  promptly,  indeed,  that 
he  chokes,  and  has  to  be  patted  on  the  back.  The  Vicar  waits  a 
minute  till  Mary's  maternal  alarms  for  her  youngest-born  subside, 
and  then  he  begins  afresh — he  is  warming  to  his  work.  Rotha 
looks  up  at  him  anxiously. 

"  No,  Arty,  my  boy,  I  would  not  call  it  the  '  Old  Ladies'  Feast,' 
because  there  are  no  old  ladies  here.  When  you  have  lived  a  little 
longer,  Arty,  you  will  know  that  ladies  never  grow  old.  If  I  were 
to  christen  my  tea-party,  I  should  give  it  a  better  name  than  that 
—I  should  call  it  'The  Vicar's  Atonement.'" 

Great  excitement  in  the  jury-box — Miss  Brookes  dropped  her 
shawl  for  the  ninth  time,  and  looks  across  at  Robert,  who  is 
frowning  at  his  plate ;  Belle  is  playing  with  the  trinkets  of  her 
watch-chain ;  Rotha  leans  back  in  her  chair,  so  that  Garton's 
broad  shoulders  may  shield  her  from  notice — she  has  not  a  vestige 
of  colour ;  perhaps  Garton  understands  the  movement,  for  he  keeps 
his  arms  still  on  the  table.  As  for  the  Vicar,  he  has  what  Guy 
called  "  his  grand  preaching  look  "  on  his  face,  and  is  waxing  very 
big — he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  the  work,  and  is  quite  warm  now. 

"Yes,  I  should  call  it  'The  Vicar's  Atonement.'  Why,  you 
dear  people,  you  have  no  idea  what  a  culprit  I  have  felt  for  this 
last  week.  Isn't  it  next  Sunday  that  I  shall  have  to  preach  my 
sermon  on  charity  1  Sunday  next,  isn't  it,  Gar  ?  WeU,  I'll  not 
shirk  it ;  it  is  not  my  way  to  shirk  anything,  and  I  hope  you  will 
all  listen  to  me  most  attentively.  But  remember  this,  that  I  shall 
be  preaching  every  word  to  myself,  as  well  as  to  you.  If  I  did 
not  think  that,  I  should  just  take  the  thirteenth  chapter  of 
Corinthians  and  read  it  all  through  without  another  word." 


222  ROBERT  ORDyS  ATONEMENT. 

4i  Oh,  Mr.  Ord!"  interrupted  one  young  jury  woman  bashfully 
— Amy  Travers  by  name — a  silly  young  thing  of  nine-and- twenty. 

"  Who  was  that  who  spoke  1  Yes,  indeed,  Miss  Travers ;  and 
1  daresay  the  consciences  of  a  great  many  amongst  us  will  not  be 
quite  free  on  that  occasion.  I  daresay  there  has  been  plenty  of 
silly  things  said  in  many  drawing-rooms  this  week.  About  that 
wretched  letter  in  the  Blackscar  Herald,  for  example ;  I  daresay 
you've  said  a  few  things  yourself,  Miss  Amy,  that  you  would  not 
have  cared  for  Miss  Maturin  and  me  to  have  heard — eh,  ladies  1" 
(Unmistakable  confusion  in  the  jury-box;  the  leading  counsel 
frowns  more  darkly  over  his  plate,  and  Miss  Brookes  watches 
him.)  The  Vicar  has  his  eye  on  both,  but  he  does  not  look  once 
at  Rotha,  shrinking  under  cover  of  Garten's  broad  shoulder,  but 
Garton  still  keeps  his  arm  on  the  table. 

"  Bless  you,  we  know  all  about  it,"  continues  the  Vicar,  "  and 
that  makes  me  feel  so  guilty.  Mary  there  will  tell  you  how  sore 
I  have  been.  I  feel  it  was  such  a  shabby  thing  of  us  allowing  this 
coolness  to  spring  up  just  because  poor  old  Aunt  Charlotte  chose 
to  treat  Robert  so  badly ;  but  as  Miss  Maturin  has  forgiven  us,  I 
need  say  nothing  more  about  that,  except  to  express  our  grief  for 
the  sad  mischief  to  which  our  coolness  has  led ;  that,  I  confess, 
has  given  me  great  uneasiness." 

"Who  wrote  the  letter,  Vicar f  The  question  was  in  Miss 
Brookes'  sharp  voice. 

"  My  dear  Miss  Brookes,  I  have  no  desire  to  know  the  writer, 
but  Graves  has  to  bear  the  odium,  of  course.  I  daresay  you  ladies 
have  agreed  by  this  time  that  it  was  a  most  infamous  letter — and 
you  were  right.  I  can  tell  you  Robert  made  short  work  of  the 
whole  business  "  (oh,  cunning,  cunning  Vicar  !).  "  The  fellow 
shook  in  his  shoes,  Garton  tells  me ;  so  I  hope  next  week  there 
will  be  some  sort  of  apology." 

At  the  mention  of  Robert's  name,  the  jurymen  to  a  man — or 
rather  to  a  woman — come  over,  except  Miss  Brookes,  who  still 
slips  her  shawl  and  looks  at  Robert.  Robert  sees  her  looking  at 
him,  fights  a  bitter  battle  with  his  pride,  and  half  succeeds ;  his 
brow  clears  a  little,  and  he  looks  up  pale  and  resolute. 

"  Oh,  Robert  Ord,"  thinks  Rotha,  "  there  is  something  noble 
about  you  in  spite  of  all ; "  for  he  looks  straight  at  the  Vicar,  and 
says : 

"  There  will  certainly  be  an  apology,  Austin ;  I  insisted  on  it." 

Miss  Brookes  draws  on  her  shawl  well  now,  and  hugs  herself 
well  up  in  it :  she  is  vanquished. 

The  Vicar  nods  pleasantly  at  his  brother,  and  goes  on  : 

"  So  you  know  now,  dear  ladies,  why  I  call  this  '  The  Vicar's 


THE  VICAR'S  ATONEMENT.  223 

Atonement.'  I  want  to  atone  for  my  want  of  charity  to  this  poor 
child;"  and  he  lays  his  hand  lightly  on  Rotha's,  keeping  it  there 
in  his  fatherly  way ;  "  and  I  want  you  all  to  help  me  to  make  up 
to  her  for  all  the  pain  and  annoyance  to  which  she  has  been  sub- 
jected during  her  brief  sojourn  amongst  us,  and  to  promise  her  that 
she  shall  be  better  treated  for  the  future."  And  then  he  releases 
Rotha's  hand  and  sits  down. 

In  truth  he  has  done  his  work  well. 

During  the  lull  that  follows  the  Vicar's  words  you  might  hear 
a  pin  drop.  Garton  has  moved  his  arm  at  last,  and  is  rubbing  it 
gently  as  though  it  is  cramped.  Rotha  has  raised  her  eyes  to  the 
Vicar  with  a  look  that  only  he  can  understand,  for  it  speaks  of 
undying  gratitude.  There  is  a  brief  silence,  but  when  they  all 
rise  from  the  table  Mrs.  Blake — gentlest  of  women — comes  round 
to  Rotha  and  kisses  her ;  and  after  that  it  is  only  a  repetition  of 
the  Vicar's  queer  illustration  of  sheep  jumping  through  a  gap  in 
the  hedge. 

Yes,  the  verdict  was  "  Not  Guilty,  my  Lord."  Rotha  might 
have  worn  her  white  dress  after  all,  but  nobody  could  think  the 
black  one  unbecoming  now  the  sweet  pale  face  is  suffused  with 
blushes  of  happiness.  Even  Belle  roused  a  little  out  of  her  apathy 
to  wonder  if  it  were  possible  that  Robert — her  Robert — could  be 
wrong. 

To  Rotha  the  rest  of  the  evening  was  simply  a  triumph,  swelled 
by  Meg's  glorious  singing.  When  it  was  over  she  walked  home 
with  Garton  in  the  starlight,  saying  little  snatches  of  the  "  Te 
Deum  "  to  herself. 

"  What  did  you  mean  by  the  story  of  *  Haman,'  Rotha  ?"  asked 
Meg,  in  her  slow  ponderous  way,  as  they  were  about  to  retire 
for  the  night.  She  had  been  puzzling  over  it  several  times  that 
evening. 

Rotha  had  the  grace  to  look  a  little  ashamed  of  herself,  and 
then  she  burst  out  laughing. 

"  Oh,  Meg !  the  idea  of  remembering  my  silly  speech." 

"  But  you  looked  as  though  you  meant  it,  Rotha." 

Rotha  grew  rather  grave. 

"Well,  perhaps  I  did;  but,  all  the  same,  I  don't  want  to 
explain  myself,  it  seems  so  ungrateful  after  all  this  happiness ;  it 
is  the  one  thorn  in  the  handful  of  roses — the  death's-head  at  the 
Egyptian  feast ;  and,  after  all,  Haman  the  son  of  Hammedatha 
the  Agagite  was  a  terrible  heathen  to  say  such  a  thing." 

"What  thing ?" 

But  Rotha  would  not  tell  her. 


CHAPTER   XX. 
GAR'S  SHADOW. 

"  Murmur  not !  whatever  ill 
Cometh,  am  I  not  thy  friend 
(In  false  times  the  firmer  still) 
Without  changing,  without  end  ? 
Ah  !  if  one  true  friend  be  thine 
Dare  not  to  repine  !"  BARRY  CORNWALL. 

AND  so  a  little  sunshine  had  come  into  Rotha's  life. 

And  the  stigma  and  stain  of  a  grievous  suspicion  was  removed. 

"  Not  Guilty,  my  Lord." 

"  Not  Proven,"  still  echoed  one  dissentient  voice ;  for,  alas ! 
the  baseless  fancy  which  Envy  had  engendered  in  Robert  Ord's 
brain  still  lurked  there  in  dusky  corners,  and  came  to  light  in 
slow  brooding  moments  of  pain ;  only  with  this  difference — that 
he  dare  no  longer  avow  his  suspicion  openly. 

And  why  1 

He  had  grown  to  be  ashamed  of  it. 

Nay,  more ;  since  the  night  of  the  Vicar's  declaration  a  little 
doubt  had  crept  in ;  he  still  maintained  to  himself  that  he  was 
right,  but  he  had  begun  to  argue  on  the  matter.  Argument  pre- 
supposes doubt,  assurance  needs  no  reasoning.  Robert  began  to 
assert  his  right  to  this  ill-founded  dislike,  but  his  pride  ceased  to 
uphold  him  ;  it  was  the  first  evidence  of  weakness. 

The  conflict  had  begun  in  earnest  now ;  henceforth  there  would 
be  no  peace  for  Robert  Ord.  The  better  part  of  his  nature  was  at 
fault,  his  inner  integrity  was  disturbed ;  the  man  was  bred  for 
nobler  uses  than  to  expend  all  this  waste  of  passionate  resentment 
against  one  poor  woman,  whose  only  fault  was  in  being  the  un- 
willing instrument  of  a  most  unworthy  revenge. 

Sometimes  in  the  dead  of  night  he  would  start  up  and  ask 
himself,  could  he  be  wrong;  was  it  all  a  mistake — a  morbid 
fancy1?  He  had  heard  that  dwelling  on  a  single  thought  creates 
monomania;  had  his  brain  become  diseased  with  brooding  over 


GAR'S  SHADOW.  225 

his  wrongs'?  Latterly  he  had  had  stings  of  conscience,  little 
quivering  goads  of  remorse,  which  had  moved  him  to  generous 
impulses ;  but  he  always  grew  harder  afterwards.  Ever  since  his 
championship  in  the  case  of  Ebenezer  Graves  his  antagonism  had 
become  even  more  intense;  all  the  more  that  in  their  outward 
relations  he  could  find  no  fault  with  her.  Botha's  instinct  detected 
all  this;  in  her  quaint  way  she  had  spoken  of  it  as  "the  one 
thorn  in  the  handful  of  roses  ; "  but  she  never  would  allow  even 
to  herself  how  much  power  it  had  to  wound.  She  could  afford  to 
wait  now,  she  said,  and  it  was  in  her  nature  to  be  patient ;  and 
certainly  she  showed  wonderful  tact  and  discrimination. 

Since  the  night  of  her  triumph,  as  Meg  called  it,  she  had  been 
a  daily  visitor  to  the  Vicarage — the  Vicar  and  his  wife  wished  it — 
and  already  a  very  strong  friendship  had  sprung  up  between  her 
and  Mrs.  Ord.  Mary,  who  had  no  friend  but  her  husband,  felt  a 
great  comfort  in  this  little  interchange  of  womanly  feeling ;  Belle 
had  long  ceased  to  be  her  confidante,  and  there  were  many  things 
with  which  she  preferred  not  to  trouble  Austin ;  and  Rotha  was  a 
useful  and  sympathising  listener,  and  had  such  old-fashioned 
simple  ways. 

So  Rotha  came  every  morning  to  the  "mother's  room."  But 
for  helping  Mary  she  would  have  been  very  idle  just  now.  Poor 
Annie's  suffering  life  was  ended,  a'nd  Rotha  had  many  spare  hours 
in  consequence.  The  Vicar,  when  she  had  applied  to  him  for 
work,  had  flatly  refused  to  employ  her.  "You  have  worked 
enough  for  two  women  already,"  he  said,  very  wisely ;  "  you  must 
learn  to  play  a  little  now.  Your  visits  to  old  Sally  and  the  Con- 
valescent Hospital  will  employ  you  quite  sufficiently;"  and  Rotha, 
though  she  chose  to  argue  the  matter,  felt  he  was  right.  And, 
after  all,  there  was  no  fear  of  her  being  idle :  the  Vicar  always 
found  her  with  her  thimble  on  in  Mary's  room.  "  I  wish  Nettie 
Underwood  could  see  you,"  he  would  say  sometimes,  when  he 
came  in  of  a  morning  and  found  Rotha  stitching  away  with  a  heap 
of  white  drapery  in  her  lap.  Rotha  would  look  up  and  smile ; 
these  visits  of  the  Vicar  were  the  most  sunshiny  parts  of  the  day. 
He  had  begun  to  treat  her  to  the  same  gentle  raillery  with  which 
he  treated  Mary  and  Belle.  How  the  girl's  cheeks  used  to  flush 
over  those  innocent  jokes — what  a  tender  earnest  vein  of  feeling 
ran  under  all  the  raillery — what  a  great  loving  heart,  she  thought. 
Her  eyes  would  glisten  for  hours  after  one  of  these  sallies.  "  I 
am  so  happy  that  I  am  almost  afraid  of  my  own  happiness,"  she 
would  say  to  Mary  sometimes.  Mrs.  Ord  would  be  touched  by 
the  simple  expression  of  feeling ;  the  child-like  element  of  Rotha's 
nature  came  very  plainly  to  the  surface  just  now.  I  think 

15. 


226  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

Mary,  being  a  very  simple  woman  herself,  liked  her  all  the  bettei 
for  it. 

Rotha  was  devoted  to  Mary,  but  it  would  not  be  too  much  to 
say  that  she  half-worshipped  the  Vicar.  She  told  Mary  once  that 
she  thought  he  was  faultless,  and  Mary  quite  agreed  with  her — 
they  both  thoroughly  believed  the  little  fiction.  They  would  sit 
and  plot  for  hours  against  his  peace,  as  the  Vicar  quickly  dis- 
covered :  Mary,  who  had  never  had  a  secret  from  her  husband, 
quaked  daily  over  some  scheme  of  Rotha's  devising ;  they  would 
sit  smiling  in  his  face  all  the  time  they  were  stitching  those  beauti- 
ful linen  shirts  and  cambric  handkerchiefs,  whereof  the  stuff  had 
been  surreptitiously  conveyed  into  the  house.  Unfortunately  for 
them,  the  Vicar  knew  fine  linen  and  cambric  when  he  saw  them, 
though  he  chose  at  times  to  disguise  his  knowledge.  He  chose  to 
shut  his  eyes  now. 

"  You  women  are  always  working,"  he  would  say  sometimes. 
"  I  hope  you  are  not  running  up  too  long  a  bill  at  Alison's,  Mary." 
And  then  he  would  take  up  the  linen  softly,  as  though  its  touch 
were  pleasant  to  him.  He  was  a  man  to  whom  no  purple  and  fine 
linen  would  have  come  amiss.  Mary  would  quake  more  than  ever 
when  she  saw  him  do  this. 

But  if  the  Vicar's  eyes  were  opened,  he  had  no  mind  to  protest 
just  now,  and  so  for  a  little  while  Rotha  had  her  way. 

Shirt -making  is  very  pleasant  work  to  those  who  like  it. 
Rotha  soon  came  every  morning,  and  stayed  for  hours  in  Mary's 
room,  but  Belle  seldom  joined  them ;  as  a  rule,  she  preferred 
taking  her  portion  of  work  upstairs ;  she  always  complained  there 
was  no  light  in  the  "  mother's  room,"  but  somehow  Belle  did  very 
little  of  any  work  just  now.  Rotha  was  not  the  only  one  who 
noticed  her  flagging  strength. 

Sometimes  Garton  or  one  of  the  lads  would  drop  in.  Rotha 
was  a  great  favourite  with  all  the  "  five  boys,"  as  Mary  called 
them ;  but  for  that  she  would  have  had  small  opportunity  for  see- 
ing them,  for  it  began  to  be  an  understood  thing  that  she  never 
came  of  an  evening  without  a  special  invitation  from  the  Vicar, 
and  out  of  consideration  for  Robert  these  invitations  were  very 
rare. 

But  sometimes  he  would  ask  her,  and  then  Rotha  would  come 
at  once.  It  was  not  a  part  of  her  plan  to  avoid  Robert  Ord ; 
Robert  was  always  very  civil  when  they  met;  if  visitors  were 
present,  outsiders  to  the  Vicarage,  he  would  make  a  point  of 
accosting  her  with  studied  politeness,  but  otherwise  he  would  keep 
much  to  himself. 

The  only  singularity  about  their  intercourse  was  that  he  never 


GAR'S  SHADOW.  227 

shook  hands  with  her  since  the  day  that  they  had  parted  at  the 
King's  Head,  Barnard  Castle ;  he  never  once  offered  his  hand ; 
there  seemed  to  be  a  tacit  understanding  that  no  hand-clasp  should 
pass  between  them  till  the  day  that  Robert  Ord  should  come  to 
her  and  acknowledge  that  he  had  done  her  this  wrong. 

That  day  was  far  enough  off  now,  Rotha  thought  sometimes  : 
as  she  watched  him  and  saw  the  sweet  gravity  of  his  ways  with 
Belle — he  was  more  lover -like  than  usual  just  now — she  could 
hardly  suppress  a  patient  sigh.  "It  is  so  dreadful  to  be  so 
disliked,"  thought  poor  Rotha.  At  such  times  she  would  feel  sad 
in  spite  of  her  happiness,  but  nothing  could  exceed  her  gentleness 
with  him  and  Belle — poor  Belle,  who  was  growing  more  wayward 
than  ever  with  her  increased  suffering. 

But  she  had  a  stanch  friend  in  Garton,  and  soon  afterwards 
she  was  able  to  render  him  a  great  service. 

Since  Laurie's  account  of  his  daring  exploit,  which  Belle  had 
corroborated,  he  had  risen  greatly  in  her  estimation.  Women  are 
not  slow  to  appreciate  natural  prowess ;  she  began  to  look  upon 
Garton  rather  in  the  light  of  a  hero,  and  was  disposed  to  think  in 
consequence  that  he  was  somewhat  unfairly  treated,  and  that  if 
every  one  had  his  dues  Garton  Ord  would  be  occupying  a  very 
different  sphere ;  but  she  saw,  or  thought  that  she  saw,  that 
Robert  and  even  the  Vicar  held  another  opinion.  Mary,  too, 
when  Rotha  spoke  on  the  subject,  would  always  shake  her  head 
and  say  Garton  wanted  ballast. 

"He  is  nearly  three-and-twenty,  and  he  does  not  even  earn 
bread  and  cheese  for  himself,"  Mary  would  add ;  and  then  Rotha 
would  be  silent. 

"  Do  they  expect  him  to  dig  for  it  1 "  she  sometimes  said  to 
herself  indignantly.  "How  can  a  man  learn  half  a  dozen  trades 
at  once  1  I  understood  he  was  to  be  a  clergyman."  She  thought 
Garton  very  hard  worked  indeed,  though  she  would  have  been 
puzzled  to  specify  the  exact  nature  of  his  employment.  From  her 
window  at  Bryn  she  could  see  him  working  in  his  own  or  the 
Vicar's  garden  as  though  his  livelihood  depended  on  it.  She  was 
always  meeting  him  in  the  village  or  on  the  shore  surrounded  by 
boys,  and  never  without  a  ponderous  volume  under  his  arm. 
When  she  went  into  church  there  he  was  striding  up  and  down 
the  aisles  in  his  long  cassock,  or  swinging  round  odd  corners  to 
look  after  stray  choir-boys.  When  service  was  over  he  would 
stand  bareheaded  by  the  lich-gate,  keeping  order  and  marshalling 
the  unruly  lads;  ten  minutes  later  she  would  see  him  through 
the  schoolhouse  -  window,  leading  the  singing  or  drilling  raw 
recruits  into  practice — and  doing  it  all  too  in  a  brisk,  energetic, 


228  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

cheerful  way  that  was  very  pleasant  to  see.  Rotha  could  not 
understand  that  remark  about  ballast  at  all ;  so  she  was  very  kind 
to  the  young  man  when  they  met,  and  in  a  simple  transparent  way 
patronised  and  made  much  of  him. 

And  one  night  she  made  acquaintance  with  Gar's  Shadow. 

It  happened  in  this  wise. 

Rotha  had  been  down  to  the  Convalescent  Hospital  after 
service  one  evening,  to  see  a  patient  who  had  met  with  a  severe 
accident ;  she  had  been  unexpectedly  detained,  and  it  was  quite 
late  by  the  time  she  had  finished  her  errand. 

It  was  a  wild  night,  and  as  Rotha  left  the  safe  shelter  of  the 
building  she  could  hardly  keep  her  footing ;  it  was  very  dark,  and 
the  wind  howled  and  rushed  at  her  round  corners  like  a  mad  thing 
— bonneting  and  buffeting  her  at  every  turn ;  the  sea  seemed  lashing 
itself  sullenly  to  make  a  night  of  it.  Little  eddies  of  sand  swirled 
round  Rotha,  stinging  her  face  and  neck  like  crowds  of  sharp 
midges ;  the  lights  on  the  sea-wall  wavered  before  her,  and  a  damp 
mist  of  rain  seemed  to  wet  her  to  the  skin.  "  If  I  could  only  get 
round  the  next  corner,"  thought  Rotha,  fighting  for  her  breath 
manfully,  "  I  should  be  all  right."  The  next  minute  she  was  taken 
off  her  feet,  and  drifted  right  on  to  a  dark  object,  over  which  she 
stumbled,  and  only  saved  herself  from  falling  by  being  brought  up 
against  an  opposite  wall. 

"  Oh  dear !  I  hope  I  have  not  hurt  anybody,"  said  Rotha 
breathlessly ;  for  the  object  had  moved  slightly,  and  in  the  dark- 
ness was  looming  gradually  into  the  figure  of  a  boy, — of  a  boy  lying, 
or  rather  crouching,  in  a  doorway,  with  his  head  hidden  in  his  hands. 

The  boy  lifted  up  his  head,  and  seemed  to  listen  through  the 
whirlwind,  as  Rotha  panted  out  the  inquiry. 

"  It  is  a  dreadful  night,"  she  continued,  shivering.  "  Don't 
you  think  it  rather  foolish  to  be  sitting  on  a  wet  door-step  in 
such  a  gale  as  this  ?" 

"  I  would  as  lief  be  here  as  anywhere,"  muttered  the  boy  dis- 
consolately, and  then  they  turned  their  faces  to  the  wall.  "  It 
always  tears  round  this  corner  like  this,"  he  observed  indifferently, 
"  sometimes  I  have  been  half  blinded  by  the  sand — there  are  drifts 
of  it  to-night." 

Rotha  wiped  her  eyes  ruefully ;  they  were  smarting  by  this 
time.  Down  below  there  was  a  faint  flickering  of  street  lamps, 
and  some  little  pools  shining  under  them.  Something  in  the  boy's 
attitude  or  voice  seemed  to  strike  her,  and  she  stooped  over  and 
touched  his  shoulder. 

"  My  poor  boy,  and  you  are  so  wet !  But  I  cannot  see  your 
face.  Is  it  Reuben  Armstrong  Vy 


GAR'S  SHADOW.  229 

He  started  up  as  though  ashamed  of  the  recognition. 

"  Yes,  I  am  Reuben ;  but  don't  tell  him — don't  let  him  know, 
I  mean,  that  you  saw  me  like  this." 

"  Of  whom  are  you  speaking,  Reuben  ?" 

"  Of  Mr.  Garton.  He  would  be  so  sorry  ;  it  would  vex  him, 
I  know,  to  hear  father  has  turned  me  out  again  on  such  a  night." 

"Turned  you  out  of  doors,  do  you  mean1?"  exclaimed  Rotha, 
horrified.  The  wind  was  whistling  so  loudly  she  was  obliged 
almost  to  shout  her  words. 

The  boy  nodded,  and  then  drew  himself  up  against  the  wall  in 
a  patient  sort  of  way,  as  though  he  were  used  to  it.  Rotha  fancied 
his  voice  sounded  as  though  he  had  been  crying,  but  it  was  impos- 
sible to  see  anything  clearly.  Poor  Reuben  !  She  was  as  wet  and 
tired  as  she  could  be ;  but  she  could  not  leave  him  like  this. 

"But,  Reuben,  this  is  dreadful.  I  never  heard  anything  so 
shocking  in  my  life.  Let  me  knock  at  the  door  and  persuade  your 
father  to  let  you  in."  In  such  an  emergency  it  seemed  to  her  the 
only  thing  she  could  do,  but  the  boy's  frightened  voice  stayed  her. 

"It  is  no  use — it  is  no  use,  indeed,"  he  continued ;  "he  has 
been  having  too  much  down  at  the  Green  Dragon,  and  he  is  sure 
to  turn  his  hand  against  mother  or  me  when  that's  the  case. 
I  don't  care  so  that  it  is  not  mother.  I  think  I  had  as  lief  be 
here  as  inside  to-night."  But  Reuben  could  not  keep  his  teeth 
from  chattering  as  he  spoke. 

"But  why  not  go  down  to  Mr.  Garton?"  persisted  Rotha; 
"  surely  he  or  the  Vicar  would  give  you  shelter  for  the  night  ?" 

"  They  have  done  it  often  enough  already,"  returned  the  boy 
sadly ;  "  but  I  cannot  bear  to  put  them  out  so.  Mr.  Garton  has 
often  gone  without  his  own  dinner  when  father  has  locked  up  the 
food  from  us.  I  think  I  should  have  starved  once  but  for  him  " — 
and  now  Rotha  could  see  the  tears  glistening  in  his  eyes — "  he 
took  me  into  his  own  bed  one  night  when  father  had  kicked  me 
out  into  the  street.  But  I  would  not  let  him  know  for  the  world 
to-night." 

"  But  why  not  1  You  will  die  of  cold  by  the  morning,"  pleaded 
Rotha.  But  she  was  spared  further  speech  by  the  stealthy  opening 
of  the  door  behind  them.  Through  the  crack  Rotha  could  see  a 
thin  haggard-looking  woman  trying  to  shield  a  rushlight  from  the 
draught  of  air.  In  another  moment  a  gust  of  wind  extinguished  it. 

"Is  that  you,  mother  1"  whispered  Reuben,  putting  his  face  to 
the  crack. 

"  Whist,  lad  !  Oh,  Rube,  Rube,  he  is  rumbling  out  curses  to 
himself  now  on  his  bed." 

"  Has  he  struck  you,  mother  1     You  speak  faint  like." 


230  ROBERT  ORD^S  ATONEMENT. 

"Nay,  nought  to  speak  of;  it's  thee  I'm  thinking  of,  lad; 
thou'lt  starve  of  cold  out  yonder.  Slip  through  into  the  kitchen, 
and  I'll  make  thee  up  a  bed  on  settle." 

"Mother,  I  dursn't." 

"  Come,  lad,  and  I'll  give  thee  summat  to  eat ;  thou  art  pined 
with  hunger — thy  stomach  must  be  quite  pinched  like.  Come, 
Rube  !" 

"No,  no,  I  dursn't;  he  would  kill  me!" — and  Rotha  could 
hear  he  was  sobbing  bitterly  now — "he  said  he  would  break  every 
bone  in  my  body.  Shut  the  door,  mother,  and  say  good-night ;  it 
is  not  so  very  cold  out  here." 

But  Rotha  came  close. 

"  He  says  right.  Shut  the  door,  Mrs.  Armstrong.  He  shall 
go  home  with  me.  Come,  Reuben,  I  am  getting  wet  through," 
and  she  put  out  a  soft  hand  in  the  darkness  and  drew  the  boy  on. 
"  There,  good-night,  and  God  help  you,  you  poor  woman." 

Reuben  tried  to  thank  her  as  they  battled  through  the  storm, 
but  she  would  not  let  him  speak. 

"  I  could  not  leave  the  poor  Shadow  on  the  door-step,"  she 
thought  to  herself.  She  was  quite  in  a  pleasant  glow  and  bustle 
when  she  arrived  at  Bryn,  and  would  not  let  Meg  be  anxious 
at  her  wet  appearance  for  a  minute.  "Just  stir  up  the  fire,  and 
tell  Prue  to  mull  some  wine  directly,"  she  said,  as  she  ran  off  to 
change  her  dripping  garments.  In  five  minutes  she  reappeared 
with  all  sorts  of  comforts  for  Reuben.  The  boy's  dejection  cleared 
a  little  as  he  felt  himself  invigorated  by  the  warmth  and  cheerful- 
ness. When  he  had  done  justice  to  the  good  supper  provided  for 
him  Rotha  took  him  up  to  his  room.  "  To-morrow,  when  you  are 
rested,  we  must  have  a  long  talk  together,"  she  said,  as  she  left  him. 

She  sat  over  her  fire  a  long  time  that  night,  and  scarcely  looked 
up  when  Meg  bade  her  good-night. 

"  I  think  I  see  my  way  clear,"  she  said  aloud,  as  she  shook 
herself  from  her  musing.  "  They  say  man's  importunities  are 
God's  opportunities ;  and  one  of  these  days  I  shall  have  to  give  an 
account  of  my  stewardship.  I  never  felt  glad  that  I  was  rich 
before  this." 

Rotha  had  her  talk  with  Reuben  the  next  morning ;  and,  in 
spite  of  the  boy's  reluctance  to  implicate  his  wretched  parent,  she 
managed  to  glean  sufficient  facts  to  assure  her  that  the  poor  lad 
was  habitually  ill  used ;  for  Armstrong  was,  at  the  best  of  times, 
a  hard  churlish  sort  of  man ;  but  in  his  drunken  fits  he  was  so 
savage  that  his  wife  and  boy  often  suffered  severely  from  his 
violence.  His  elder  sons  had  run  away  to  sea  when  mere  boys, 
unable  to  endure  his  intolerable  temper.  And,  but  for  his  poor 


GAR'S  SHADOW.  231 

broken-down  mother  and  Mr.  Garton,  Reuben  confessed  he  would 
long  ago  have  followed  their  example. 

"  It  is  Mr.  Garton  keeps  me  most,"  finished  Reuben.  "  It  is 
no  good  my  staying  any  longer  with  mother,  it  only  makes  things 
worse.  She  will  interfere  and  take  my  part  when  he  threatens 
me.  I  don't  think  he  would  touch  her  but  for  that ;  and  it  does 
make  my  blood  boil  to  see  him  lay  his  heavy  hand  on  her." 

"But  why  does  Mr.  Garton  keep  you  from  running  away, 
Reuben  ?"  asked  Rotha,  rather  curiously. 

The  boy  coloured  and  looked  down. 

"  He  does  not  keep  me,"  he  said  at  length,  hesitating,  "  I 
keep  myself.  I  don't  feel  as  though  I  can  leave  him  when  he 
wants  me  so." 

"  Wants  you  so  !"  repeated  Rotha  in  a  little  surprise. 

"  Yes,"  returned  the  boy  in  a  low  voice,  "  but  I  should  not 
like  him  to  hear  me  say  it ;  but  I  know  he  has  a  hard  life,  and 
that  people  don't  understand  him.  He  tells  me  sometimes  that 
he  would  feel  so  lonely  without  me.  I  have  always  been  so  much 
with  him  since  he  saved  my  life.  You  know  all  about  that,  don't 
you?"  he  continued,  raising  his  eyes  to  Rotha.  Her  kindness  was 
fast  thawing  his  reserve. 

"  Yes,  I  know  all  about  it,"  returned  Rotha  musingly ;  and 
at  that  minute  Garton  entered  the  room.  He  had  been  down  to 
the  cottage  to  see  Reuben,  and  had  heard  from  the  boy's  mother 
what  had  happened. 

Rotha  shook  hands  with  him  rather  shyly,  but  he  had  no  eyes 
for  any  one  but  his  favourite. 

"  Oh,  Rube,  Rube  !"  he  said,  as  the  boy  sprang  to  meet  him  ; 
and  Rotha  could  see  there  were  tears  in  his  eyes.  "  To  think  of 
your  being  turned  out  on  such  a  night  as  that,  and  never  to  come 
to  me  in  your  trouble !  But  for  Miss  Maturin's  kindness,  what 
would  have  become  of  you  1" 

"  I  did  not  want  you  to  know  anything  about  it,"  pleaded  the 
boy. 

"  He  was  afraid  of  disturbing  your  brother,"  added  Rotha  ;  but 
Garton  only  shook  his  head  sorrowfully,  and  said  again,  "  Oh, 
Rube,  Rube!" 

Rotha  never  liked  him  so  well  as  when  he  stood  there,  with 
his  arm  round  the  boy's  neck,  and  the  muscles  of  his  strong  face 
working  with  agitation. 

She  went  out  of  the  room  softly  by  and  by,  thinking  they 
would  like  to  be  alone ;  when  she  came  back  Reuben  had  evidently 
been  crying. 

"  Reuben  says  he  will  be  late  for  school,  Miss  Maturin  ;  he  is 


232  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT 

only  waiting  to  say  good-bye  to  you,  and  thank  you  for  youi 
kindness." 

Roth  a  made  believe  not  to  notice  the  red  eyes.  She  shook 
the  boy's  hand  heartily,  and  said,  "  But  I  shall  expect  you  back 
to  dinner,  Reuben,  remember  that ;  we  have  not  finished  our  talk 
yet.  Mr.  Ord,  if  you  are  in  no  hurry,  I  should  like  to  say  a  word 
to  you." 

Garton  muttered  something  about  the  boy's  lessons,  but  sat 
down  again  nevertheless ;  he  looked  tired  and  dispirited,  and 
opened  the  conversation  very  gloomily. 

"  Isn't  it  a  shame  to  ill-use  a  boy  like  that,  Miss  Maturin  ?  1 
feel  sometimes,  when  I  go  down  to  the  cottage,  I  can  hardly  keep 
my  hands  off  such  a  brute.  I  tell  Austin  the  fellow  must  be 
bound  over  to  keep  the  peace." 

"Something  must  be  done  for  the  lad  at  once,"  returned 
Rotha  with  decision ;  "I  could  not  sleep  another  night  and  feel 
that  such  a  thing  was  likely  to  happen  agaii;." 

"If  I  could  only  have  the  power  to  shelter  him,"  groaned 
Garton,  rocking  himself  to  and  fro,  "but  I  am  no  good  to  any  one. 
I  often  wonder  if  Rube  and  I  were  born  under  an  unlucky  star, 
for  there  seems  no  place  for  us  anywhere." 

" I  wish  I  could  help  you,"  returned  Rotha  timidly ;  "I  think 
I  can,  as  regards  the  boy.  I  don't  see  the  use  of  money,  unless  it 
be  to  do  other  people  good  ;  I  was  thinking  last  night  that  if  you 
and  Mr.  Ord  agreed,  I  would  remove  Reuben  entirely  from  his 
wretched  home  and  put  him  at  some  good  school.  Of  course  I 
will  only  act  in  the  matter  entirely  by  your  advice." 

Rotha  spoke  very  diffidently,  as  though  she  were  asking  instead 
of  conferring  a  favour.  Garton  looked  at  her  for  a  moment  as 
though  he  could  scarcely  believe  his  own  ears. 

"Do  you  mean  it?"  he  gasped  at  length. 

"  Yes,  but  I  think  we  ought  to  consult  the  Vicar ;  there  is 
the  Grammar  School,  and  if  he  goes  to  that  we  might  board  him 
in  some  nice  family.  I  suppose  his  father  would  not  object." 

Garton's  answer  was  conclusive. 

"  Let  us  go  to  Austin  at  once,"  he  said,  picking  up  his  felt  hat 
and  twisting  it  out  of  all  shape  in  his  sinewy  hand.  "  Miss 
Maturin,  you  are  an  angel;"  and  Rotha  laughed  and  reddened  as 
she  ran  off  to  put  on  her  bonnet. 

The  Vicar  was  in  his  study  writing  his  sermon,  but  he  put 
away  his  papers  very  good-humouredly  when  he  saw  them. 

"Why  have  you  left  those  few  sheep  in  the  wilderness?"  he 
said  to  Garton,  rather  reproachfully ;  "  the  boys  have  been  waiting 
for  you  an  hour." 


GAR'S  SHADOW.  233 

"  They  must  wait  a  little  longer,"  replied  Gar  carelessly,  as  he 
rested  himself  on  the  Vicar's  little  writing-table.  "  Miss  Maturin 
and  I  want  to  consult  you  about  something." 

And  Rotha  opened  her  little  business.  She  was  rather  bashful 
at  first ;  she  thought  it  must  look  odd,  her  taking  such  notice  of 
Garten's  protege,  but  her  pity  gave  her  courage. 

"  Do  you  not  think  it  a  good  plan  V  she  finished ;  "  the 
Grammar  School  will  cost  very  little,  and  Mr.  Garton  says  he 
knows  of  a  nice  respectable  family  who  would  be  too  glad  to 
board  him." 

"  If  Robert  were  not  such  a  misanthrope,  we  might  take  him 
in  ourselves,"  grumbled  Garton. 

The  Vicar  gave  him  a  quick  disapproving  glance. 

"  Oh  no,  that  would  not  do ;  it  would  not  be  fair  to  Robert  to 
ask  it;  you  are  rather  too  Quixotic  in  your  friendship,  Gar. 
Well,  you  want  my  sanction  to  the  scheme,  do  you?"  he  added, 
turning  to  Rotha. 

"  Yes,  if  you  will  give  it,"  she  returned,  feeling  rather  damped. 
Reuben  was  right,  and  not  even  the  faultless  Vicar  thoroughly 
appreciated  his  younger  brother.  Rotha,  who  was  very  enthusiastic, 
did  not  think  him  in  the  least  Quixotic.  She  took  the  term  quite 
as  a  reproach.  "  Well,  the  plan  is  a  good  plan,"  continued  the 
Vicar,  "  and  I  can  see  no  objection  to  it.  Garton  has  been  a  little 
foolish  about  the  boy,  as  Robert'  and  I  have  often  told  him ;  he 
has  given  him  a  smattering  of  learning,  and  placed  him  in  a  false 
position.  A  thoroughly  good  education  will  remedy  this  evil ;  and 
if,  as  you  say,  we  can  remove  the  poor  boy  from  his  father's  influence, 
it  will  be  the  making  of  him,  no  doubt ;  the  lad's  a  good  lad,  I 
believe,  though  Garton  has  done  his  best  to  spoil  him." 

"  Have  you  finished  your  sermon,  Austin  V  asked  Gar  sulkily. 
"  I  know  my  fondness  for  the  boy  is  little  short  of  high  treason." 

"No,  Gar,  no;  it  is  a  very  venial  offence,  after  all;  but  I 
don't  wonder  my  boys  get  jealous.  There's  Guy,  now,  would  do 
anything  for  his  uncle,"  he  continued,  turning  to  Miss  Maturin, 
"and  he's  always  threatening  to  pummel  Reuben.  I  believe 
Garton's  influence  over  boys  is  almost  magical ;  it  is  a  good  thing 
he  is  not  likely  to  afford  such  an  expensive  luxury  as  a  wife." 

Garton  rocked  himself  and  laughed ;  but  Rotha  asked  why 
very  innocently. 

"  Because,  unless  she  were  as  inveterate  a  boy  lover  as  himself, 
she  would  be  wretched.  How  would  you  like  to  see  your  husband, 
Miss  Maturin,  always  going  about  with  a  troop  of  village  lads 
tramping  at  his  heels,  or  clumping  with  hobnailed  boots  over  your 
best  carpets  1  No,  Gar's  cut  out  for  an  old  bachelor.  If  he  had 


234  ROBERT  ORD^S  ATONEMENT. 

lived  a  few  centuries  ago,  he  would  have  been  a  monk ;  wouldn't 
you,  Gar  ?" 

"I  think  they  had  the  best  of  it,"  assented  Garton ;  but 
Rotha,  who  had  rather  coloured  over  the  Vicar's  speech,  turned  the 
conversation  to  Reuben ;  and  Garton,  becoming  very  matter-of-fact 
all  of  a  sudden,  it  was  arranged  that  he  and  the  Vicar  should  go 
down  at  once  to  Joe  Armstrong's  and  settle  the  matter. 

Reuben  came  back  to  dinner,  and  was  strictly  charged  by 
Rotha  to  return  to  Bryn  the  moment  afternoon  school  was  over. 
The  Vicar  had  found  no  difficulty  in  arranging  things.  Joe 
Armstrong  was  soon  made  ashamed  of  his  last  night's  violence  ;  he 
was  a  selfish  worthless  coward,  and  was  glad  to  be  rid  of  such 
an  incumbrance  as  Reuben;  perhaps  the  boy's  steady  patience 
aggravated  him. 

"  The  lad's  nought  to  me,"  he  kept  saying,  "  a  lazy  good- 
for-nothing  chap,  who  won't  work,  and  cares  for  nought  but  book- 
learning  and  psalm-singing ;  the  gentlefolks  have  turned  his  head 
already,  and  the  best  they  can  do  is  to  finish  their  job." 

"  Miss  Maturin  undertakes  to  give  the  boy  a  good  education, 
and  to  article  him  to  some  useful  trade,"  exclaimed  the  Vicar, 
"  and  she  will  be  responsible  till  then  for  his  charge  and  main- 
tenance, only  stipulating  that  you  renounce  all  control  over  him." 

"  The  lad's  nought  to  me,"  returned  the  man  sullenly,  "  a 
young  artful  viper;"  but  the  Vicar  cut  short  the  list  of  vitupera- 
tion. On  the  threshold  he  lingered  a  moment  to  exchange  a  few 
kindly  words  with  the  poor  mother.  "  You  have  a  sad  cough,  Mrs. 
Armstrong,"  he  said ;  "  is  that  why  we  never  see  you  at  church  1" 

She  shook  her  head,  and  motioned  with  her  lips  to  her  husband. 

"  Joe,  is  this  true,  that  you  keep  your  wife  from  coming  to 
church  1"  demanded  the  Vicar  sternly. 

The  man  rose  with  an  oath  and  took  the  pipe  from  his  lips. 
"  What's  it  to  you,  parson,  if  I  do  ? — a  canting,  hypocritical,  pack 
of  rubbish." 

"It  is  a  great  deal  to  me,  Joe  Armstrong,"  retorted  the  Vicar ; 
"  and  I  do  not  choose  to  see  one  of  my  flock  absent  Sunday  after 
Sunday.  What,  do  you  not  know  there  are  six  days  on  which  to 
work — that  you  live,  and  make  your  wife  live,  like  a  heathen ; 
nay,  worse  than  a  heathen — an  infidel1?" 

"  Oh,  if  parson's  going  to  jaw,  we  had  better  have  that  door 
shut,  missus.  I  don't  want  folk  to  think  we  patronise  street  preach- 
ing." The  woman  looked  distressed  at  her  husband's  insolence. 

"  Don't  mind  him,  your  Reverence,"  she  whispered ;  "  he  ain't 
slept  it  off  yet.  Oh,  Joe,  Joe,  how  can  you  go  for  to  outrage  his 
Reverence1?" 


GAR'S  SHADOW.  235 

"  You  shut  up,  missus,"  was  the  rough  rejoinder,  "  and  leave 
me  to  mind  my  own  business.  If  parson  don't  like  my  words,  he 
needn't  listen  to  'em.  I  want  no  cluttering  round  here.  I  ain't 
a  going  to  be  converted,  I  can  tell  you." 

The  Vicar  turned  his  mild  eyes  on  him ;  there  was  something 
very  solemn  in  their  light. 

"  Perhaps  not,  Joe  Armstrong,  but  remember  there's  a  hell  for 
you,  and  such  as  you,  for  whom  the  Saviour  has  died  in  vain ;" 
and  then,  as  the  man  slunk  away,  awed  in  spite  of  himself,  he  took 
the  woman's  rough  hardened  hand  in  his. 

"  Good-bye,  Harriet,  my  wife  shall  bring  you  up  some  stuff  for 
your  cough.  One  of  these  days  I  hope  you  will  learn  to  fear  God, 
in  spite  of  your  husband ;  you  must  try  and  come  to  church  some- 
times when  he  will  let  you,  for  it  is  the  only  place,  the  only  place 
on  earth,  Harriet,  where  the  weary  are  at  rest." 

Garton  made  Roth  a  shudder  when  he  related  this  interview ; 
in  this  one  day  they  had  made  a  great  start  towards  intimacy. 
Garton  had  taken  her  to  the  Grammar  School,  and  had  introduced 
her  to  Mr.  Dentry,  the  head-master,  and  after  that  they  had  gone 
round  to  the  house  where  Garton  intended  that  Reuben  should  live. 

Rotha  commended  his  choice  afterwards ;  she  thought  he  had 
shown  a  vast  amount  of  common  sense  in  the  whole  business. 
Mrs.  Summerson  was  a  widow,  with  small  means,  very  gentle,  and 
prepossessing  in  appearance  and  manners,  and  had  boys  of  her  own 
who  went  to  the  Grammar  School,  and  were  members  of  the  choir ; 
and  Reuben  was  already  good  friends  with  them. 

Rotha,  who  had  led  to  the  subject  very  delicately,  soon  found 
that  she  was  conferring  a  benefit,  and  that  Mrs.  Summerson  would 
gladly  board  the  boy.  The  only  difficulty  lay  in  coming  to  terms ; 
neither  of  the  three  understood  business  in  the  least,  and  Rotha 
was  disposed  to  be  too  liberal,  so  they  were  obliged  to  have  recourse 
to  the  Vicar  again,  who  settled  the  matter  in  five  minutes. 

It  was  quite  dark  when  they  got  back  to  Bryu,  and  Reuben 
was  there  before  them.  Garton  had  been  invited  to  tea  in  honour 
of  the  occasion,  and  by  Rotha's  orders  Meg  had  prepared  quite  a 
festive  little  feast. 

On  their  way  home  GartoD  suggested  that  they  should  break 
the  thing  gently  to  the  boy.  "  I  never  saw  any  one  so  sensitive," 
he  remarked,  and  to  this  Rotha  agreed. 

"  I  think  you  had  better  do  it  yourself,"  she  said.  "  I  am 
such  a  stranger  to  him."  She  had  had  fits  of  shyness  all  day,  and 
one  was  strong  on  her  just  now. 

But  she  afterwards  asked  Garton  wherein  the  preparation 
consisted,  for  directly  he  caught  sight  of  his  favourite  he  forgot 


236  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

all  his  wise  precautions;  he  just  put  his  hands  on  the  boy's 
shoulders  and  said : 

"  Reuben,  this  young  lady  has  adopted  you ;  she  is  going  to 
take  you  away  from  your  wretched  home  and  put  you  at  a  good 
school,  where  you  can  learn  like  a  man.  Hold  up  your  head,  and 
thank  her,  boy ;  and,  Rube,  Rube,  God  bless  you ! — but  I  am  so 
happy." 

It  might  have  been  the  sudden  break  in  Garton's  voice,  but 
Reuben  showed  no  intention  of  holding  up  his  head ;  on  the 
contrary,  it  drooped  lower  and  lower ;  while  Garton,  recovering 
himself,  expatiated  on  the  bright  future  that  lay  before  them,  till 
at  last  the  boy  raised  his  eyes,  full  of  intense  joy  and  gratitude, 
to  his  young  benefactress,  and  then,  overwhelmed  by  his  conflicting 
feeling,  threw  himself  on  the  breast  of  the  best  friend  his  desolate 
childhood  had  ever  known,  and  burst  into  a  passion  of  tears. 


CHAPTER   XXI. 

TYLER    AND    TYLER. 

' '  Her  sweet  humour 
That  was  as  easy,  as  calm,  as  peaceful, 
All  her  affections,  like  the  dews  on  roses, 
Fair  as  the  flowers  themselves,  as  sweet  and  gentle." 

BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER. 

*'  As  free  her  alms — as  diligent  her  cures  ; 
As  loud  her  praises,  and  as  warm  her  prayers. 
Yet  was  she  not  profuse  ;  but  fear'd  to  waste, 
And  wisely  managed  that  the  stock  might  last ; 
That  all  might  be  supplied,  and  she  not  grieve, 
When  crowds  appear'd,  she  had  not  to  relieve, 
Which  to  prevent,  she  still  increased  her  store, 
Laid  up  and  spared,  thai;  she  might  give  the  more. " 

DRYDEN. 

THE  fogs  and  mists  of  November  had  set  in  now.  Others,  besides 
Belle,  shivered  at  the  strong  north  wind  that  rattled  at  the  old- 
fashioned  window-frames  at  the  Vicarage,  or  whistled  so  shrilly 
round  the  chimney-stacks.  The  boys  no  longer  ran  races  on  the 
shore  or  climbed  the  sand-hills  of  the  rabbit-warren.  There  was 
a  sombre  line  of  seaweed  now,  over  which  the  surf  bubbled  and 
frothed  ;  the  sea  and  sky  vied  with  each  other  in  grayness ;  the 
breakers,  as  they  rolled  sullenly  in,  brought  shivers  of  broken  rafts 
and  splinters  of  wood.  People  shuddered  at  the  tell-tale  frag- 
ments; rumours  of  wrecks  were  heard  everywhere.  One  night, 
over  at  Welburn,  the  signal-gun  was  fired,  and  rockets  were  sent 
off;  a  schooner  had  put  in  too  close  to  land,  and  had  gone  to  pieces 
on  the  low  black  rocks  that  lay  bedded  in  the  froth  and  slime. 
Next  day  the  poor  people  went  down  in  shoals  to  grope  in  the 
surf  for  floating  firewood  and  washes  of  grimy  coal. 

Belle  used  to  watch  the  line  of  little  carts  coming  up  from  the 
shore ;  sturdy  brown-faced  women,  with  browner  babies  in  their 
arms,  walking  with  plodding  step  beside  their  donkey's  head. 
Belle  had  seen  these  same  women  working  in  the  harvest -field 


238  ROBERT  ORD^S  ATONEMENT. 

among  the  reapers.  Next  spring  they  would  be  turning  the  hot 
swathes  of  hay  underneath  a  burning  sun.  How  she  envied  these 
strong-limbed  daughters  of  labour ;  this  girl,  whose  iron  will  was 
ever  battling  so  fiercely  with  her  failing  strength  !  As  she  sat  and 
watched  them,  her  face  would  be  full  of  a  dumb  misery  ;  how  long 
should  she  be  able  to  hide  from  them  or  from  herself  her  conviction 
that  things  were  not  well  with  her  1 

For  a  little  time  she  strove,  but  with  partial  success.  Mary's 
affectionate  eyes  could  not  be  blinded  to  the  fact  that  her  sister 
seemed  more  ailing  than  usual.  She  had  taken  cold ;  the  bitter 
weather  tried  her ;  the  season  was  more  than  usually  inclement, 
she  thought.  Rotha,  to  whom  she  confided  her  anxieties,  said  that 
in  her  opinion  it  was  more  debility  than  anything ;  she  noticed  that 
Belle's  sickly  appetite  rebelled  at  the  plain  fare  of  the  Vicarage 
table.  "  She  does  not  eat  enough  to  keep  up  her  strength,"  she 
concluded;  "I  remember  I  once  heard  Mrs.  Ord  say  that  bark 
and  port  wine  were  a  specific  in  such  cases.  She  always  said  it 
was  a  good  old-fashioned  remedy." 

Mary  sighed.  She  could  not  tell  Rotha  that  wine  was  a 
forbidden  luxury  at  the  Vicarage,  and  that  it  was  not  in  her  power 
to  provide  the  delicacies  that  would  tempt  Belle's  capricious  palate. 
She  changed  the  subject  as  soon  as  possible ;  but  the  heaviness  of 
her  heart  was  plainly  legible  in  her  face.  Rotha,  who  had  learnt 
to  read  her  tolerably  well  by  this  time,  was  quite  willing  that  the 
subject  should  be  changed.  She  had  made  up  her  mind  what  she 
would  do.  By  and  by  Mary  was  taken  into  her  confidence,  and 
from  that  time  they  plotted  and  carried  out  their  little  schemes 
together. 

Belle  was  to  be  coaxed  to  eat,  that  was  the  first  thing.  Every 
day  choice  poultry  or  game  made  its  appearance  on  the  Vicarage 
table.  Mary  would  avow  it  openly  at  first  as  a  present  from  Bryn, 
and  the  Vicar  would  thank  Rotha  for  it  when  they  met ;  but  after 
a  time  this  recognition  of  her  gifts  were,  by  mutual  consent,  tacitly 
unacknowledged.  Belle  seemed  to  enjoy  it  more  when  left  in 
ignorance  of  the  giver.  Every  now  and  then  Rotha  would  send 
over  hothouse  fruits  and  all  manner  of  soups,  jellies,  and  dainty 
creams.  It  was  reward  enough  for  her  to  hear  that  Belle  had  done 
justice  to  them.  Mary  would  come  with  a  happy  face  to  say  how 
Belle  had  enjoyed  such  and  such  a  thing ;  "  and  the  port  wine  was 
really  strengthening  her,"  she  added — for  one  day,  when  the  Vicar 
was  out,  Mary  and  Rotha  cleared  out  the  lumber  from  the  disused 
cellar,  and  the  choicest  contents  of  one  of  the  bins  at  Bryn  found 
their  way  on  the  Vicarage  shelves.  Mary  threw  her  dusty  arms 
round  Rotha  when  they  had  finished  that  little  job.  Garton,  who 


TYLER  AND  TYLER.  239 

had  been  packing  up  the  bottles  for  them — rare  old  bottles,  defiled 
with  cobwebs  and  sawdust — called  out  to  them  mischievously  that 
Austin  was  coming.  Rotha  shut  the  door  hastily,  and  they  all 
stood  listening  in  the  darkness,  till  Mary  thought  of  the  black-hole 
at  Calcutta  and  grew  nervous.  They  were  all  whitewashed  and 
covered  with  sawdust  when  they  came  out.  How  Rotha  laughed  ! 

The  Vicar  said  nothing  when  Mary  filled  Belle's  glass  at  dinner. 
He  had  seen  certain  cut-glass  goblets  stained  with  that  same  ruby 
fluid  ;  he  knew  exactly  from  what  bin  Rotha  had  taken  it.  No 
wine  like  that,  he  thought,  to  put  new  life  into  a  languid  frame. 
He  rather  marvelled  at  the  indifference  with  which  Belle  drank  it. 

Belle  took  it,  as  she  took  all  Rotha's  gifts,  with  indifference 
amounting  to  dislike ;  if  she  dared  she  would  have  refused  them. 
Robert,  when  he  heard  of  them,  strove  hard  to  conceal  his  displea- 
sure. Belle  guessed  at  this  feeling  on  her  lover's  part,  and  it  made 
Rotha's  kindness  intolerable  to  her.  Rotha  was  over  bold  once. 

One  afternoon,  when  Belle  had  a  headache,  and  was  lying  shiver- 
ing on  the  couch,  Mary  had  brought  down  an  old  rug  to  cover  her 
sister,  and  Belle  had  drawn  it  discontentedly  over  her,  complaining 
of  its  roughness ;  and,  as  Rotha  looked  at  her,  she  thought  how 
strangely  out  of  keeping  the  dingy  covering  was  with  the  fair  face 
that  rested  so  fretfully  against  it.  When  she  went  home  that 
night  Meg  was  surprised  to  hear  her  rummaging  in  the  big  ward- 
robe in  Mrs.  Ord's  room.  Next  'afternoon,  when  Belle  lay  down, 
she  found  herself  in  a  nest  of  costly  Cashmere  shawls,  with  a  sweet 
spicy  smell  lingering  in  their  soft  borders ;  surprise  kept  her  silent, 
and  then  she  averted  her  flushed  face  with  a  word  of  thanks.  She 
lay  warm  and  hidden  all  the  afternoon ;  but  the  next  day  the 
shawls  were  sent  back  with  a  pencilled  line  of  excuse  in  Mary's 
hand,  and  the  old  worn  rug  was  in  its  place  again. 

Rotha  felt  herself  repulsed,  and  no  wonder;  but  she  solaced 
herself  with  Mary's  delighted  gratitude.  She  was  diverting  her 
bounty  into  another  channel  now. 

What  friends  those  two  women  had  become  !  Mary  was  too 
genuinely  humble  to  withstand  Rotha's  generosity  very  long.  It 
began  to  be  an  understood  thing  between  them  that  Rotha  was  no 
longer  to  be  deprived  of  the  happiness  of  sharing  her  good  things 
with  those  she  loved.  She  would  thank  Mary  with  touching 
fervour  for  giving  her  such  happiness,  but  both  agreed  that  it 
must  be  kept  from  the  Vicar,  at  least  for  the  present.  How  they 
did  scheme  to  deceive  him  !  Rotha  was  the  braver  by  far ;  but 
Mary,  whose  conscience  was  for  ever  accusing  her,  blundered  sadly. 
The  Vicar  laughed  in  his  sleeve  at  her  clumsiness. 

What  a  day  that  was  at  Thornborough  when  they  went  to 


240  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

buy  flannels.  Mary,  who  had  never  transacted  such  an  extensive 
marketing  in  her  life,  would  not  hear  of  buying  flannels  anywhere 
else — they  must  go  to  the  good  old-fashioned  drapery  establishment 
of  Tyler  and  Tyler.  How  the  man  who  served  them  must  have 
smiled  at  the  eager  woman  !  Mary's  hands  trembled  as  they 
fingered  bale  after  bale  of  flannel ;  the  sweet  face  was  all  flushed 
and  smiling  under  the  shabby  bonnet ;  Rotha's  dimples  were  soon 
in  full  play. 

"  While  we  are  here  you  had  better  help  me  choose  my  new 
silk  dress,"  Rotha  said  to  her ;  "  and  then  there  is  the  carpet  and 
curtains  for  your  bedroom ;  you  know  you  have  promised  we  are 
to  look  at  them  to-day." 

"Yes,  but  how  are  we  to  put  the  carpet  down  without  his 
noticing  it1?"  returned  Mary  helplessly.  She  was  still  fingering 
the  gray  flannel  with  a  love  of  delight ;  she  could  get  shirts  for 
Robert  and  Garton  out  of  all  that  quantity.  Did  Rotha  guess 
that,  when  she  ordered  all  these  extra  yards,  poor  Garton's  ward- 
robe was  so  sadly  dilapidated  1  She  was  still  thinking  of  the  shirts 
when  she  followed  Rotha  dreamily  into  the  next  department.  She 
was  still  absent  when  Rotha  asked  her  opinion — the  shimmer  of 
the  silks  dazzled  her ;  she  held  on  to  a  silvery  gray  much  as  she 
had  done  to  the  flannel. 

"  Gray  won't  suit  me  at  all,"  said  Rotha  impatiently,  "  I  am 
too  pale ;  I  like  that  rich  prune  best,  and  look  how  that  lovely 
changing  blue  would  suit  Belle." 

Mary  looked  as  she  was  bid — she  assented  to  everything ;  her 
hands  wandered  over  the  shining  heaps,  but  she  was  a  little  confused. 
She  did  not  in  the  least  guess  why  Rotha  got  her  so  quickly  out  of 
the  silk  department,  or  why  she  was  left  alone  to  stare  so  long  at 
a  green  mossy  carpet.  Her  thoughts  would  keep  wandering  to  the 
white  and  gray  flannels,  and  the  blue  serge  for  Arty's  suit.  In  her 
own  mind  she  was  opening  a  certain  brown  paper  parcel.  Should 
she  cut  the  string,  or  would  her  fingers  untie  it  ?  Out  they  came 
— four  pairs  of  strong  boyish  boots.  She  could  almost  smell  the 
new  leather.  How  they  would  stamp  up  to  their  seats  in  the  choir- 
stalls,  Guy  especially.  Guy  had  been  so  ashamed  of  his  old  boots ; 
and  then  there  was  something  else. 

"Well,  have  you  fixed  upon  that  carpet,"  interrupted  Rotha, 
coming  suddenly  behind  her,  "  green  is  such  a  good  wearing  colour, 
and  those  curtains  will  match  so  nicely?" 

Mary  started  almost  as  though  she  had  in  reality  dropped  the 
boots  ;  the  green  moss  might  have  been  in  its  native  dell  for  her. 
"I  think  it  lovely,  but  far,  far  too  good  for  the  purpose;  this  is 
Kidderminster,  a  felt  would  do  nicely,"  she  said  in  a  little  flutter. 


TYLER  AND  TYLER.  241 

"  We  will  have  it !"  Rotha  had  answered  decidedly.  "  There, 
I  think  we  have  done ;  let  everything  be  sent  to  Bryn  as  soon  as 
possible." 

She  was  a  little  pompous  as  she  gave  her  orders ;  but  for  her 
stuff  dress  and  close  plain  bonnet  she  might  have  been  a  young 
princess.  She  took  Mary's  arm  and  walked  out  of  the  shop  very 
slim  and  straight ;  Mary  looked  quite  an  ordinary  woman  beside 
her.  It  was  just  this  about  Rotha — this  certain  nameless  grace — • 
that  had  abashed  Robert  Ord  once  or  twice. 

She  burst  out  laughing  when  they  were  m  the  street. 

"  Ought  people  to  pay  for  their  purchases  before  they  are  sent 
home?"  she  asked.  "I  thought  the  man  stared  a  little  when  I 
offered  to  write  out  that  cheque.  How  droll  it  seems  writing 
cheques.  I  wanted  to  laugh  dreadfully  all  the  time.  I  think  I 
shall  always  deal  at  Tyler  and  Tyler's,  it  is  so  pleasant  to  have  the 
two  masters  bowing  you  out  of  the  shop  in  that  way." 

"  They  don't  often  have  such  liberal  customers,"  replied 
Mary. 

She  was  in  the  open  air,  but  she  still  felt  a  little  dizzy.  Tyler 
and  Tyler's  dark  warehouse  always  appeared  to  her  after  this  like 
Aladdin's  Palace.  Rotha  might  have  been  a  benevolent  geui  con- 
juring up  shining  heaps  of  marvellous  silks  and  stuffs.  How  the 
carpets  had  unrolled  themselves  at  her  bidding !  There  was  no 
such  thing  as  gray  flannel  in  the  Arabian  Nights,  but  Mary's 
thoughts  still  clung  about  the  dun-coloured  bale;  she  had  some 
difficulty  in  rousing  herself. 

"  I  don't  know  what  we  shall  do  about  the  carpet,"  she  said 
in  a  voice  between  crying  and  laughing.  "  Rotha,  I  feel  as  though 
I  shall  never  dare  to  wish  for  anything  more ;  you  seem  to  guess 
my  very  thoughts,  just  like  a  fairy  godmother." 

"  Never  mind  about  the  carpet,  we  must  wait  our  opportunity, 
I  suppose ;  and  I  won't  be  a  fairy  godmother,  because  they  gener- 
ally turn  cross  in  the  end.  You  must  come  over  to  Bryn  and 
cut  up  all  that  flannel,  and  then  I  will  ask  Nettie  and  Aunt  Eliza; 
and  Meg  and  Prue  and  I  will  help  you,  and  we'll  have  a  regular 
1  bee,'  and  Mr.  Garton  shall  come  and  read  to  us." 

And  so  Rotha  chatted  on ;  she  had  still  hold  of  Mary's  arm — 
they  were  wading  through  the  wet  slushy  street.  The  sky  was 
grayer  than  ever,  and  a  thick  atmosphere  of  fog  and  smoke  seemed 
to  swallow  up  the  dingy  buildings.  People  turned  round  to  look 
at  Rotha's  happy  face ;  some  one  brushing  past  her  hastily,  stood 
still  in  astonishment. 

Rotha  flushed  up  suddenly  when  she  saw  Robert's  look.  They 
were  lighting  up  the  gas  now.  As  he  stood  under  one  of  the  lamps 

16 


242  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

Robert's  handsome  face  looked  more  haggard  and  thoughtful  than 
she  had  ever  seen  it. 

"  You  here,  at  this  hour,  Miss  Maturin  !  I  thought  I  must  have 
been  mistaken  until  I  saw  Mary."  Mary  gave  a  nervous  laugh. 

"We  do  not  often  honour  Thornborough  with  our  presence,  do 
we,  Robert?" 

"  Mrs.  Ord  and  I  have  been  shopping,"  put  in  Rotha.  "  I  dare- 
say you  saw  us  come  out  of  Tyler  and  Tyler's  just  now  ;  Mrs.  Ord 
has  been  helping  me  choose  a  new  silk  dress."  Rotha  spoke  up 
steadily,  but  she  still  looked  a  little  confused.  This  expedition  to 
Thornborough  was  to  have  been  a  little  secret ;  Robert  was  the 
last  person  whom  the  two  women  would  have  selected  for  their 
confidant. 

"It  is  rather  late  in  the  afternoon  for  shopping;  you  could 
hardly  distinguish  between  the  different  shades,  I  should  think," 
shrugging  his  shoulders  slightly. 

"  I  wanted  to  judge  of  them  by  candlelight,"  returned  Rotha 
demurely.  "  We  must  not  keep  Mrs.  Ord  standing  in  this  fog  any 
longer;  we  are  going  to  the  station  now."  She  dropped  a  little 
curtsey  as  she  drew  Mary's  arm  again  through  hers — the  dimples 
were  rebellious  now ;  she  did  not  dare  to  lift  up  her  eyes. 

"  Women  are  all  alike,"  muttered  Robert  cynically,  as  he  pulled 
up  the  collar  of  his  coat  and  strode  down  a  side  street,  where  a 
flaming  gaslight  or  two  made  darkness  visible.  "A  new  dress 
transports  them  into  the  seventh  heaven ;  how  happy  she  looked, 
to  be  sure  ! "  He  was  almost  inclined  to  resent  Rotha's  happiness 
as  personal,  and  to  think  very  poorly  of  her  in  consequence ;  but 
he  could  not  forget  it.  Once  or  twice,  as  he  went  hither  and 
thither  in  the  deepening  gloom,  or  shut  himself  up  in  his  lonely 
counting-house,  he  found  himself  recalling  a  bright  girlish  face,  in 
a  close  plain  bonnet,  with  brown  hair  lying  softly  over  the  temples, 
and  sweet  unsteady  lips,  ready  every  moment  to  break  into  laughter. 
"  How  rosy  and  well  she  looks  !  It  couldn't  have  been  all  that  dress 
made  her  so  happy.  She  holds  herself  as  straight  as  a  young  fir 
tree.  I  suppose,  if  I  admired  tall  women,  I  should  admire  her;" 
and  then  Robert  stirred  the  gaseous  coals  till  they  fell  into  a  blaze, 
and  wondered  what  it  was  in  Rotha's  face  that  allured  and  yet 
repelled  him ;  and  then  he  remembered  how  he  saw  her  first, 
standing  in  her  black  gown  under  the  low  apple  trees,  with  a  lace 
kerchief  tied  over  her  brown  hair.  Rotha  was  a  little  subdued 
after  that  encounter ;  Robert  always  seemed  to  have  the  power  to 
chill  her  somewhat.  Mary,  on  the  contrary,  chirped  all  the  way 
home  like  a  cricket ;  she  burst  into  her  husband's  study  in  quite 
an  excited  way. 


TYLER  AND  TYLER.  243 

"  There's  a  parcel  come  for  you,"  said  the  Vicar,  who  was  very 
busy — too  busy  to  notice  her  absence,  Mary  thought.  "Where  have 
you  been  so  long,  my  dear?" 

"  Rotha  had  some  things  to  get  in  Thornborough,"  said  Mary, 
getting  behind  his  chair.  "  If  you  are  busy,  Austin,  I  will  not 
disturb  you  by  talking.  Rotha  will  be  in  to  tea  by  and  by."  She 
gave  his  shoulder  a  triumphant  little  pat  as  she  passed  him ;  she 
knew  well  what  the  parcel  contained.  If  only  they  had  not  creased 
it.  She  ran  upstairs  like  a  young  girl.  Austin  leant  back  in  his 
chair,  and  smiled  as  he  heard  her.  "  What  plot  are  they  hatching 
now?"  he  muttered  to  himself  as  he  went  on  with  his  "loaves  and 
fishes."  It  struck  them  both  as  very  odd  he  should  preach  that 
sermon  the  following  Sunday.  Mrs.  Ord  went  up  to  her  room,  and 
then  she  locked  the  door.  She  did  not  dare  trust  herself  to  open 
the  parcel  till  she  had  done  that ;  how  carefully  she  unfolded  it 
from  its  wrapper,  and  shook  it  out !  There  it  was,  cut  out  of  finest 
cloth,  soft  and  glossy  as  satin.  Superfine — it  must  have  been  ultra- 
superfine.  How  grand  her  Austin  would  look  in  it;  no  frayed 
edges,  no  shinings  of  the  elbows  now.  She  took  out  the  old  coat 
and  laid  it  aside  tenderly  to  be  repaired,  and  then  she  hung  up  the 
new  one  in  its  place.  She  was  a  simple  woman,  hardly  wise  enough 
for  this  generation  perhaps  ;  but,  as  she  shook  out  the  glossy  folds, 
she  suddenly  wrapped  her  face  in  it  and  cried  for  very  joy. 

It  must  have  been  about  a  week  after  that  Rotha  noticed 
one  morning  that  the  Vicar  was  not  quite  himself.  Mary,  too, 
seemed  unusually  worried,  though  she  tried  to  evade  Rotha's 
inquiries. 

Rotha,  who  was  as  persevering  as  she  was  keen,  set  herself  to 
discover  the  reason  of  this  sudden  gloom,  and  she  succeeded  so  well 
that  Mrs.  Ord,  though  with  evident  reluctance,  admitted  that  her 
husband  was  in  temporary  embarrassment,  and  that  he  had  had 
some  almost  sleepless  nights  in  consequence. 

When  Rotha  had  discovered  this  she  was  determined  to  know 
more,  and  by  and  by,  by  a  little  quiet  perseverance,  she  managed 
to  elicit  the  facts  of  the  case. 

The  Vicar  had  ordered  in  a  large  supply  of  coals  for  the  winter's 
consumption,  but,  by  some  inconceivable  oversight,  a  blunder  on  his 
or  Garten's  part,  it  was  just  discovered  that  they  already  owed  a 
bill  dating  from  the  Christmas  before.  The  Vicar,  who  was  very 
careful  to  pay  his  bills  quarterly,  was  in  the  utmost  consternation, 
and  had  told  Mr.  Browning,  the  coal-merchant,  that  he  had  no 
means  of  paying  such  a  large  sum  in  full,  but  that  he  must  meet 
it  by  instalments.  The  result  had  been  a  great  deal  of  unpleasant- 
ness. Mr.  Browning  had  said  a  great  many  uncivil  things,  and 


244  ROBERT  ORD^S  ATONEMENT. 

Robert  had  been  much  ashamed  of  the  whole  transaction.  Since 
then  the  Vicar's  pillow  had  been  set  with  thorns,  and,  though  he 
had  striven  hard  to  bear  himself  with  his  wonted  patience,  the 
effort  had  been  manifestly  too  hard  for  him. 

"  No  wonder  he  looks  ill,"  finished  Mrs.  Ord,  "  for  I  ain  sure 
he  had  no  sleep  last  night  or  the  night  before ;  and,  though  he 
bears  all  Robert's  aggravation  like  a  lamb,  I  can  see  how  it  frets 
him.  Sometimes,  when  I  go  into  the  study  without  his  hearing 
me,  I  find  him  sitting  with  his  head  in  his  hand,  doing  nothing ; 
and  though  it  is  Thursday,  and  he  has  to  preach  twice  next  Sunday, 
he  has  not  touched  one  of  his  sermons." 

"What  does  Mr.  Robert  say?"  inquired  Rotha  sternly. 

Mrs.  Ord's  pitiful  eyes  and  the  thought  of  the  Vicar's  misery 
were  too  much  for  her  compassionate  nature.  She  had  come  this 
morning  full  of  another  surprise  she  had  planned  for  Mary.  Mary 
would  not  care  a  bit  about  the  gray  dress  now. 

She  put  her  question  rather  anxiously. 

"Robert  always  says  that  Austin  is  so  careless  about  his  papers," 
returned  Mrs.  Ord ;  "  that  he  tears  them  up  too  quickly,  or  throws 
them  in  the  waste-paper  basket,  and  that  he  must  have  torn  up 
Browning's  bill,  and  the  bill  delivered  that  came  afterwards ;  but 
that's  such  nonsense.  What's  the  use  of  Robert  telling  him  that 
when  the  thing's  done  ?  If  Austin  is  a  little  quick  in  his  move- 
ments, he  makes  fewer  mistakes  than  most  men." 

Rotha  smiled  a  little  ;  when  would  Mary  Ord  believe  that  her 
husband  had  been  to  blame  ! 

In  spite  of  the  Vicar's  faultlessness  she  was  inclined  to  think 
that  he  might  be  a  little  too  quick  sometimes. 

"  I  do  feel  as  though  it  were  so  mean  of  me  to  be  telling  you 
this,"  continued  Mrs.  Ord. 

Then  Rotha  looked  up  rather  troubled. 

"I  hope  you  do  not  repent  your  confidence?"  she  said 
gravely. 

"  Repent  it !  No,  not  in  that  way.  You  don't  know  what  a 
comfort  it  is  to  tell  you  all  my  worries ;  but,  all  the  same,  I  feel 
as  though  it  were  mean  of  me." 

"And  you  will  let  me  do  this  thing  for  you  ?"  pleaded  Rotha 
almost  in  a  whisper. 

"What?  pay  all  that  money?"  returned  Mrs.  Ord,  quite 
shocked,  with  vehemence.  "  Rotha,  promise  me  that  you  will  not 
frighten  me  by  proposing  such  a  thing  again,"  and  Mrs.  Ord  looked 
almost  desperate.  Then,  as  a  matter  of  course,  Rotha  got  on  her 
knees  beside  her  friend ;  it  seemed  impossible  to  her  that  this 
business  should  be  transacted  at  arm's  length. 


TYLER  AND  TYLER.  245 

"  Mrs.  Ord,  I  thought  you  had  begun  to  love  me,"  she  said  in 
a  hurt  voice. 

Then  Mary,  who  was  very  soft-hearted,  took  the  girl  in  her 
arms  and  said  all  manner  of  nice  affectionate  things ;  but  Rotha 
did  not  look  satisfied. 

"  If  you  loved  me  you  would  not  refuse  me  such  a  little  thing 
as  that,"  she  kept  saying. 

"  If  it  were  only  a  little  thing,  Rotha  !" 

"Well,  is  it  not  to  me1?  Have  I  not  heaps  and  heaps  of 
money  lying  unused  in  the  bank  1  and  is  not  Mr.  Tracy  always 
worrying  me  about  investments  1  Why  shouldn't  I  choose  my  own 
investments,  I  should  like  to  know1?"  and  Rotha  grew  a  little 
pompous  over  her  words;  she  thought  she  had  put  it  rather 
neatly. 

"But,  if  I  cannot  take  it,  dear?"  said  Mary,  gently  stroking 
back  the  hair  from  Rotha's  hot  face. 

"  Why  should  you  not  take  it  ?  Would  you  not  take  it  from 
Belle,  if  she  offered  it  ?  What  have  I  done  that  I  should  be  treated 
so  differently  from  her  V 

"  Belle  is  my  own  sister,"  returned  Mrs.  Ord,  hardly  able  to 
refrain  from  a  smile  over  Rotha's  petulance. 

"  Well,  and  am  I  not  your  friend "?  your  slave  of  the  lamp,  if 
you  will  1  and  does  it  not  make  me  happier  than  a  queen  to  share 
my  good  things  with  those  I  loVe?  Mrs.  Ord,  I  did  not  think 
you  could  have  been  so  proud  with  me !" 

Then  Mrs.  Ord  stroked  her  hair,  sorely  troubled. 

"  I  don't  think  it  is  pride,"  she  said  at  last ;  "  if  it  were,  I 
should  get  over  it,  for  Austin's  sake.  Oh,  Rotha!"  she  said, 
suddenly  breaking  out  into  unwonted  agitation,  "it  goes  to  my 
heart  to  refuse  you.  But  why  will  you  persist  in  heaping  all  these 
coals  of  fire  on  our  heads  ?" 

"  I  suppose  because  I  love  you  so,"  murmured  Rotha,  speaking 
rather  inaudibly.  Every  moment  her  heart  was  more  set  on  this 
thing.  Mary's  objections  had  no  chance  against  her  eloquence ;  when 
reasoning  failed  she  tried  coaxing.  No  woman  knew  how  to  coax 
better  than  Rotha.  It  ended  at  last  by  Mrs.  Ord  having  a  good 
cry  on  her  shoulder,  and  saying  a  great  many  incoherent  things ; 
and  then  Rotha  tied  on  her  bonnet  in  a  great  bustle,  and,  after 
promising  to  be  back  in  an  inconceivably  short  time,  gave  Mrs. 
Ord  another  reassuring  kiss  and  set  off. 

It  does  not  take  long  to  transact  a  little  business  like  that. 
Rotha  had  paid  a  visit  to  the  Blackscar  Bank,  and  had  received 
the  money  with  her  own  hands,  and  was  back  long  before  Mary 
had  believed  it  possible.  After  that  there  was  another  little  talk, 


246  ROBERT  ORD^S  ATONEMENT. 

and  then  Deb  was  called,  and,  with  many  hints  as  to  precaution 
and  safety,  the  precious  money  was  confided  to  her  care,  and  she 
was  strictly  charged  to  bring  back  the  receipted  bills  to  her  mistress. 
Everything  would  have  gone  on  well  if  only  Arty  had  not  clamoured 
for  a  walk.  Mary,  who  never  refused  the  little  fellow  anything, 
could  see  nothing  unreasonable  in  such  a  request,  so  Master  Arty 
was  put  in  full  walking  trim,  and  the  two  sallied  forth  together, 
while  Rotha  and  Mary  sat  down  to  their  interrupted  work. 

Now  it  so  happened  that  the  Vicar  was  walking  slowly  down 
the  Kirkby  road  when  he  felt  himself  suddenly  clasped  by  the 
knee,  and  there  was  Arty,  looking  very  red-cheeked  and  blowsy, 
with  his  white  comforter  dangling  behind,  and  his  straw  hat  set 
rakishly  over  one  ear,  and  a  filial  grin  of  delight  on  his  face. 

"  I've  caught  you,  father,"  panted  Arty.  "  Ah,  ha  !  and  Deb's 
ever  such  a  way  behind." 

"  Have  Deb  and  you  been  having  a  walk  \ "  observed  the 
Vicar,  taking  his  little  son's  hand  as  they  retraced  their  steps. 
"  What  have  you  done  to  your  trumpet,  Arty  1  it  is  squeezed  out 
of  all  shape." 

"  Deb  says  the  music  is  all  dead,  father,"  returned  Arty  mourn- 
fully ;  "I  used  it  as  a  hammer  at  the  coal-house.  We  haven:t 
been  a  nice  walk  at  all,  father ;  we  have  been  up  a  lane  all  coals, 
and  into  a  nasty  yard,  and  a  little  man  just  like  my  Jack-in-the- 
box  talked  to  Deb  for  ever  so  long." 

"Oh,  Master  Arthur!"  said  Deb,  who  had  overheard  the 
last  words. 

"  Has  your  mistress  been  sending  you  to  Browning's  again  ?" 
interrupted  the  Vicar  in  some  surprise ;  but  Arty's  chattering  was 
not  to  be  silenced. 

"Yes,  father;  and  the  dirty  little  man  like  Jack-in-the-box 
looked  so  pleased,  and  patted  my  head ;  he  had  such  dirty  fingers. 
I  heard  him  ask  Deb  to  give  his  compliments  to  you — are  com- 
pliments good  to  eat,  father  1" 

"  Hush,  Arty ;  be  quiet  a  moment,  my  little  man.  Is  that 
what  he  has  sent  to  your  mistress  in  return  1"  he  continued,  hold- 
ing out  his  hand  for  the  rather  formidable -looking  envelope. 
"  Poor  Mary,"  he  thought ;  "  she  has  been  trying  to  get  him  to 
agree  to  a  compromise,"  and  he  sighed  the  dull  heavy  sigh  that 
Mary  had  heard  so  often. 

"Yes,  sir;  that's  the  receipt,"  answered  Deb.  "Master 
Arthur  and  I  had  to  wait  ever  so  long  because  Mr.  Browning 
hadn't  the  proper  stamp.  He  said  he  was  very  sorry  to  have  to 
put  this  pressure  on  you,  sir,  only  things  were  so  bad  this  winter. 
You  will  find  the  receipt  all  right,  sir,"  she  continued,  as  her 


TYLER  AND  TYLER.  247 

master  looked  first  at  her  and  then  at  the  paper  as  though 
stupefied;  and  at  that  he  tore  it  open.  Yes — there  it  was;  a 
genuine  receipt,  stamp  and  all.  For  a  moment  he  was  utterly 
bewildered,  and  then  the  truth  flashed  on  him. 

"Was  any  one  with  your  mistress  just  now  when  she  sent 
you  1"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  sir,  Miss  Maturin." 

But  Arty  broke  in  again  breathlessly  : 

"Yes,  and  mamma  had  red  eyes,  and  Deb  said  she  had  been 
crying — didn't  you,  Deb?" 

"  Now,  Master  Arthur,  what  a  chatterbox  you  do  get,  to  be 
sure,"  returned  Deb,  turning  scarlet.  "  I'm  sure  your  ma  looked 
quite  cheered-like  when  she  gave  me  the  money.  Look  how  you 
are  twisting  your  comforter,  Master  Arthur  ;  you're  all  of  a 
strangle,"  and  Deb  confusedly  busied  herself  in  putting  him  tidy. 

The  Vicar,  who  had  listened  to  them  both  in  a  sort  of  maze, 
put  his  hand  on  the  boy's  head  fondly  and  turned  back  with  him 
to  the  house. 

"  Never  mind  about  the  receipt,  Deb ;  I  will  give  it  to  your 
mistress  myself,"  he  said,  as  he  let  himself  in  with  his  latch-key. 
But  he  did  not  go  straight  to  his  wife's  presence  ;  instead  of  that 
he  went  to  his  study  and  closed  the  door. 

We  need  not  follow  him  there.  What  if  his  inborn  enemy  is 
strong  within  him,  and  he  has  id  fight  a  battle  with  his  pride  1 
Is  he  less  an  Ord  or  more  than  mortal  because  he  is  enrolled 
among  the  ranks  of  them  who  serve  1  What  if  his  gratitude  is 
for  the  moment  blotted  out — and  the  thought  is  bitter  within  him 
that  he  must  take  these  things  again  and  again  from  this  girl's 
hand — are  his  needs  the  less  1  Leave  him  alone.  Presently  he 
will  take  out  his  paper,  and,  like  Hezekiah,  spread  it  before  the 
Lord,  and  then  will  he  aver  that  with  the  good  man  these  words 
are  true — 

"  He  shall  deliver  thee  out  of  six  troubles ;  yea,  in  seven  there 
shall  no  evil  befall  thee.'' 


CHAPTER   XXII. 

THE  LITTLE  SISTER. 

'  Yet  iu  herself  she  dwelleth  not, 
Although  110  home  were  half  so  fair  ; 
No  simplest  duty  is  forgot ; 
Life  hath  no  dim  arid  lowly  spot 
That  doth  not  in  her  sunshine  share." 

LOWELL. 

"  Fair  ladies  !  you  drop  manna  in  the  way  of  starved  people.'' 

SHAKSPEARS. 

ROTH  A  was  humming  over  her  work ;  it  was  a  habit  of  hers 
when  anything  particularly  pleased  her.  Mary  compared  it  one 
day  to  the  low  twitter  of  a  little  bird ;  but  the  Vicar,  who  had 
overheard  her,  and  was  not  quite  so  poetical,  would  have  it  that 
it  was  something  between  a  very  loud  purr  and  a  whole  hive  of 
honey-bees. 

"Do  you  always  purr  when  you  are  pleased?"  he  asked  once; 
but  Rotha  never  could  break  herself  off  the  habit.  It  was  louder 
than  ever  this  morning. 

She  had  told  Mrs.  Ord  all  about  the  gray  dress,  and  they  had 
made  a  pilgrimage  up  to  her  room,  whither  Rotha  had  had  it 
surreptitiously  conveyed. 

"And  you  chose  this  when  I  was  looking  at  the  carpet?" 
repeated  Mary  for  the  third  time. 

"  Yes ;  and  I  was  longing  so  to  get  that  lovely  blue  for  your 
sister,  but  I  dare  not — after — you  know  what  I  mean,"  finished 
Rotha  hurriedly. 

Of  course  Mrs.  Ord  knew  what  she  meant ;  she  could  not 
forget,  nor  Rotha  either,  how  the  soft  nest  of  Cashmere  shawls  had 
been  disturbed. 

"  It  would  be  a  pity  to  go  to  such  expense,  and  then  for  her 
not  to  wear  it,"  she  said  gravely.  She  had  exhausted  a  whole 
string  of  superlatives  over  the  dress — its  wonderful  sheen  and 
richness,  and  the  splendour  of  its  trimmings. 


THE  LITTLE  SISTER.  249 

"  I  have  never  had  such  a  dress  as  that  since  I  was  married/ 
she  said  as  they  went  downstairs  again.  "  I  remember  how  my 
poor  mother  decided  that  I  must  have  two  good  silk  gowns  in  my 
wedding  outfit.  No  wonder  Austin  thinks  the  dove-coloured  one 
rather  old-fashioned ;  do  you  know  it  has  been  turned  twice?" 

"  I  never  noticed  it  was  shabby,"  returned  Rotha ;  "  but  then 
you  look  so  nice  in  everything.  I  am  so  glad  Miss  Evans  has 
finished  it  so  soon.  You  will  be  able  to  wear  it  at  Mrs.  Blake's 
to-morrow." 

"  I  ought  to  save  it  for  your  party,  Rotha,"  said  Mary,  with  a 
smile. 

Somehow  the  beautiful  dress  failed  to  awake  the  enthusiasm 
that  her  husband's  coat  had  done.  She  was  thinking  of  that  and 
the  coal-bill  all  the  time  she  was  fingering  the  real  lace  edging. 
But  Rotha  would  not  hear  of  any  postponement.  She  was  to 
wear  it  first  at  Oakmead,  and  then  at  Miss  Brookes',  and  Bryn 
should  come  third  on  the  list.  For  Rotha  was  being  rather 
universally  feted  just  now ;  Kirkby  and  Blackscar  vied  with  each 
other  in  doing  homage  to  the  young  heiress.  People  were  full  of 
compunction  at  this  time,  and  wondered  at  their  own  blindness. 

The  news  of  the  Vicar's  speech  had  spread  far  and  wide.  Rotha 
was  almost  overwhelmed  by  the  number  of  pressing  invitations. 
The  winter  season  had  just  begun,  and  prodigious  feats  were  under- 
taken in  the  shape  of  tea-parties.  '  Mrs.  Stephen  Knowles  and  Mrs. 
Travers  had  excelled  themselves,  and  Nettie  Underwood  and  the 
Ollivers  rapidly  followed  suit.  The  Vicar  and  his  wife  had  been 
present  on  all  these  occasions ;  and  Rotha  had  overheard  certain 
remarks  on  Mrs.  Ord's  dove-coloured  gown  which  had  made  her 
feel  very  hot  and  angry. 

It  had  been  decided  by  Rotha's  friends  that  there  must  be  a 
return  party  given  at  Bryn.  Mary  had  undertaken  the  manage- 
ment of  the  whole  affair,  and  Rotha  had  already  sent  out  the 
invitations.  The  gray  dress  was  intended  partly  for  this  occasion, 
when  Rotha  played  her  part  of  hostess  to  perfection,  and  the  party 
was  the  greatest  success  of  the  season. 

But  neither  Belle  Clinton  nor  Robert  Ord  was  among  the 
guests ;  but  people  did  not  wonder  at  that — they  knew  Belle  Clin- 
ton was  too  ill. 

They  had  drifted  on  to  the  subject  of  the  party  now,  but  Mary 
was  rather  absent,  and  wondered  why  Deb  had  not  made  her 
appearance.  "  It  is  only  a  very  little  way,  and  she  has  been  gone 
nearly  an  hour,"  she  said  presently,  breaking  in  upon  Rotha's 
humming,  and  then  the  Vicar  came  in. 

Rotha  did  not  know  why,  but  her  heart  began  to  beat  rather 


250  ROBER  T  ORD '5  A  TONEMENT. 

quickly  when  she  saw  him.  He  looked  very  pale,  paler  than  she 
had  ever  seen  him,  a  thing  always  very  noticeable  in  a  florid  man. 
But  it  was  not  the  paleness  that  disturbed  her ;  she  knew  the 
sleepless  nights  would  account  for  that ;  it  was  a  certain  expres- 
sion in  his  face  which  she  had  never  remarked  before — a  likeness 
to  Robert.  She  had  never  noticed  the  marked  similarity  between 
the  two  brothers  until  now.  It  brought  to  her  mind  suddenly 
something  that  Mary  once  said,  "  that  Austin  had  never  been  a 
favourite  with  his  aunt  on  account  of  his  quick  temper ;  but  that 
was  the  family  complaint,"  Mary  had  added,  laughing. 

Could  she  have  been  right  1  Was  it  possible  that  the  Vicar,  as 
a  young  man,  had  had  his  share  of  the  family  inheritance — pride 
and  a  domineering  temper  ?  Garton  was  fiery,  she  knew;  she  had 
noticed  how,  at  a  sneer  from  Robert,  the  blood  would  rush  over  his 
face,  and  he  would  bite  his  lip  to  keep  down  the  angry  word ;  but 
she  had  never  seen  the  Vicar  moved  from  his  gentleness.  Now,  as 
he  sat  opposite  to  her,  there  was  a  weariness  and  sternness  of  look 
about  him  that  she  failed  to  comprehend.  How  did  she  know  that 
he  had  fought  a  battle  with  himself  and  had  conquered  1  His  eyes 
looked  very  gently  at  her  for  all  that. 

"Always  at  work,"  he  said,  stretching  out  his  hand  to  her 
across  the  table.  "  I  suppose  I  am  not  to  know  for  whom  all  that 
beautiful  stitching  is  intended." 

"  Not  just  yet,"  returned  Rotha,  blushing ;  and  then  he  took  a 
paper  from  his  breast-pocket  and  pushed  it  across  to  Mary.  "  Here 
is  your  receipt,  my  dear ;  I  think  you  will  find  it  right,"  he  ob- 
served, very  quietly.  Rotha  looked  up  at  Mary's  exclamation  ;  the 
two  women  exchanged  guilty  glances  full  of  dismay.  What  did  it 
mean — could  he  have  met  Deb  ?  Mary,  who  had  undertaken  to 
break  the  whole  matter  to  her  husband  that  night,  felt  very  con- 
fused by  Rotha's  presence,  and  was  rather  at  her  wit's  end  for  an 
answer. 

"  I  met  Deb,  and  she  said  you  would  find  it  right,"  continued 
the  Vicar  calmly ;  he  was  regarding  the  women's  agitation  with 
the  utmost  sangfroid ;  he  saw  that  Rotha  had  risen  as  though  to 
leave  the  room,  and  had  then  sat  down  again.  "  What  pluck  she 
has;  she  is  determined  to  brave  it  out,"  he  thought.  He  was  quite 
pitiless  to  Mary,  who  was  fumbling  over  the  papers,  and  making 
believe  to  treat  it  as  a  matter  of  course.  "Don't  you  think  you 
ought  to  look  if  it  be  quite  correct  ?"  he  persisted.  "  It  was  a  large 
sum  of  money  to  entrust  to  a  servant." 

"  Oh,  Deb  has  been  with  us  so  many  years,"  returned  Mary 
hurriedly  ;  "  where — where  did  you  meet  her,  Austin  ?"  She  was 
not  in  the  least  prepared  for  such  an  emergency.  If  only  Rotha 


THE  LITTLE  SISTER.  251 

were  not  present,  she  thought  she  could  have  been  quite  eloquent; 
but  Rotha  had  sat  down  again,  and  the  eloquence  was  not  forth- 
coming ;  the  bale  of  gray  flannel  was  upon  her  conscience,  and  then 
there  was  that  carpet  rolled  up  at  Bryn.  Mary  almost  wished  for 
the  moment  that  she  had  never  seen  the  inside  of  Tyler  and  Tyler's. 
But,  though  the  Vicar  knew  all  about  it,  he  was  not  disposed  to 
help  her ;  perhaps  he  meant  to  punish  her  a  little  first  for  her 
secrecy.  He  answered  her  question  in  the  gravest  possible  way. 

"  I  met  Deb  near  the  Grammar  School.  By  the  bye,  how  does 
your  young  protege  get  on,  Miss  Maturin  ?  Arty  was  with  her ; 
the  young  gentleman  does  not  seem  to  have  enjoyed  his  walk  at  all; 
he  would  have  it  that  a  sort  of  Jack-in-the-box  with  dirty  hands 
had  patted  him  on  the  head  in  Mr.  Browning's  office.  Is  your 
receipt  all  right,  my  dear?" 

"  Oh  yes,  Austin,"  answered  Mary,  rather  pettishly — that  is  to 
say,  pettishly  for  her. 

She  began  to  understand  that  she  was  to  be  tormented  for  her 
sins  ;  how  she  longed  to  make  a  clean  breast  of  it  all !  Austin's 
questions  were  like  pins  and  needles,  but,  all  the  same,  the  eloquence 
would  not  be  forthcoming. 

"What's  the  matter,  Mary 3  Surely  I  may  ask  a  question 
about  Browning's  bill?"  and  now  a  little  twinkle  did  come  into 
the  Vicar's  eyes,  but  he  looked  grave  enough  the  next  minute. 
"How  long  have  you  made  Miss 'Maturin  your  banker,  my  dear?" 

Then  Rotha  started  and  changed  colour  again  ;  she  began  to 
wish  now  that  she  had  left  the  room.  Was  he  really  angry  1  He 
had  never  once  looked  at  her. 

Then  Mary  broke  down  altogether,  and  her  eyes  were  very 
piteous  indeed. 

"Oh,  Austin,  I  could  not  help  it;  she  would  do  it,"  she  ex- 
claimed. She  was  deserting  her  friend  very  treacherously,  but  the 
Vicar  would  not  let  her  finish. 

"Answer  for  yourself,  Mary ;  am  I  right  in  supposing  that  you 
drew  this  money  from  Miss  Maturin?"  But  Mary  would  not 
answer  calmly. 

"I  couldn't  help  it,  Austin;  I  could  not  indeed;  she  would 
make  me  tell  her  what  was  troubling  me.  I  think  she  noticed 
how  worried  you  looked,  dear,  and  then  there  was  nothing  for  it 
but  that  she  would  pay  the  whole  bill  I  did  not  like  taking  it  at 
all,  Austin;  but,  indeed,  I  could  not  refuse  her." 

"That  is  because  you  are  so  soft-hearted,  Mary.  It  never 
occurred  to  you,  I  suppose,  that  you  might  tell  your  husband  before 
you  took  upon  yourself  to  pay  his  bills  ?" 

"Yes,  it  did,"  returned  Mary,  who  was  nearly  broken-hearted 


252  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

at  this  unexpected  reproach  ;  she  really  believed  that  Austin  was 
angry  with  her  for  her  want  of  confidence.  "  I  wanted  to  tell  you 
directly,  dear ;  but  she  was  so  afraid  you  would  refuse  to  take  it." 

Now  all  this  was  very  dreadful  to  Rotha,  and  this  time  she 
looked  at  the  door  so  earnestly  that  the  Vicar  interpreted  her 
thoughts  at  once. 

"  No;  don't  go,  Miss  Maturin.  I  have  something  to  say  to  you 
both." 

"  If  you  will  only  hear  me  first,"  pleaded  Mary. 

"  But  I  will  not ;  I  mean  to  punish  you  for  your  silence.  Who 
ever  would  have  believed  you  could  have  been  such  a  little  traitor  ! " 
But  there  was  a  sorrowful  vein  running  through  the  Vicar's  jest 
that  robbed  the  words  of  their  sweetness.  Rotha  was  almost  sure 
now  that  she  had  pained  him ;  tears  sprang  to  her  eyes  at  the 
mere  thought. 

"  I  will  not  ask  you  again,  as  I  did  just  now,  for  whom  you  are 
putting  in  all  those  delicate  stitches,"  he  said,  laying  his  hand 
again  on  her  work.  "  It  may  be  that  I  am  not  so  blind  as  I 
appear.  Shall  I  tell  you  a  few  things  that  have  come  under  my 
notice  1" 

"No,  no;  please  do  not,"  she  pleaded,  lifting  her  eyes  to  him 
for  the  first  time,  but  his  look  soon  sent  her  to  her  work  again.  She 
knew  now  why  naughty  children  never  could  stand  the  Vicar's  eyes. 

"  Last  Sunday  the  boys  showed  me  their  new  boots,  and  Laurie, 
who  was  very  communicative,  told  me  that  he  and  his  brother  had 
gray  flannel  shirts,  the  same  as  Bob  Travers',  that  we  admired  so, 
Mary.  There  was  a  hint  also  of  a  new  suit  for  Arty." 

Mary  gave  a  little  gasp  of  surprise,  but  Rotha  worked  on 
harder  than  ever ;  her  cheeks  were  flaming. 

"  But  that  is  not  all.  The  other  evening,  in  the  twilight,  I 
took  out  my  old  coat  for  Mary  to  repair — she  is  a  neat  hand  at 
binding — but  when  I  got  to  the  light  I  found  that  my  old  coat  was 
transformed  into  a  new  one.  I  was  slightly  surprised,  I  confess, 
but  I  hung  it  up  again,  feeling  that  some  benevolent  fairy  had  been 
at  work — the  same  fairy,  I  supposed,  who  had  put  the  wadded 
dressing-gown  across  my  arm-chair,  and  who,  I  found,  had  visited 
Arty  with  big  brown  parcels  containing  toys,  sweetmeats,  and  other 
heterogeneous  articles  dear  to  childhood.  Arty  is  not  one  to  keep 
a  secret,  mind  you ;  he  does  not  take  after  his  mother  in  that," 
darting  a  look  at  poor  Mary.  Oh,  if  only  Rotha  could  hold  up  her 
head  !  "  And  then  Arty  is  such  a  listener.  I  had  no  idea  before 
that  there  was  so  much  truth  in  the  proverb,  that  '  Little  pitchers 
have  great  ears  ;'  but  he's  a  tremendous  fellow  at  listening.  Some- 
times he  comes  to  me  and  tells  me  his  dreams  ;  though,  by  the  bye. 


THE  LITTLE  SISTER.  253 

he  will  have  it  they  are  true.  He  had  a  wonderful  dream  the 
other  night  of  a  grand  new  carpet,  like  the  softest  moss,  which  he 
declared  was  for  mammie's  room,  and  curtains  with  real  flowers 
running  over  them ;  but  that  was  nothing  to  the  funny  dream 
when  he  saw  Uncle  Gar  and  Mammie  and  Miss  Maturin  all 
covered  with  whitewash,  with  their  arms  full  of  cobwebs  and 
bottles.  And  the  worst  of  it  all  is  the  rogue  evidently  believed  it 
to  be  true." 

"  '  I  call  Miss  Maturin  "  Santa  Glaus,"  father,'  he  said  once, 
'  because  she  rains  sugar-plums  on  my  pillow.  Last  night  I  woke 
up  and  found  a  big  drum — and' — what  is  the  matter,  Mary?" 
For  Mary,  that  mildest  and  softest  of  criminals,  had  crept  up  to 
his  side  quite  abashed. 

"Oh,  Austin!  how  could  you — how  could  you?"  was  all 
she  said.  Then  the  Vicar  took  down  the  little  hand  from  his 
shoulder  and  drew  her  towards  him. 

"  Nay,  Mary,  I  should  rather  say,  how  could  you  *( "  he 
demanded  still  gravely. 

Then  Rotha,  whose  cheeks  had  hung  out  every  possible  sign 
of  distress  over  the  Vicar's  speech,  could  bear  it  no  longer. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Ord,  I  cannot  believe  that  you  are  really  angry 
with  me ! "  she  exclaimed ;  "  but  if  you  would  listen  to  me  a 
moment."  And  as  she  spoke  she  came  a  little  nearer  to  him  and 
looked  appealingly  in  his  face. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  turning  towards  her,  "  it  seems  I  must  put 
both  of  you  on  your  defence.  Mary's  silence  has  pleaded  guilty, 
am  I  to  say  the  same  of  you  ? " 

"  Yes,  if  you  like,"  she  answered  gently ;  "  I  shall  not  deny 
your  charges.  I  suppose  Arty's  dreams  were  all  true." 

"  Well ! "  he  reiterated  for  the  second  time,  and  then  again  that 
appealing  look  came  into  her  eyes ;  she  looked  like  a  child  scarcely 
penitent,  yet  longing  to  be  forgiven. 

"  If  I  have  offended  you,"  she  began  again,  and  then  paused — 
"  if  I  have  offended  you,  I  am  very  sorry.  But  no,  I  will  not 
believe  that  I  have;  it  was  all  so  beautiful,  and  we  were  so 
happy,  that  everything  cannot  be  spoiled  for  us  like  that." 

"No,  indeed,"  ejaculated  Mary.  She  began  to  understand 
dimly  the  workings  of  her  husband's  mind ;  but  Rotha  again  inter- 
rupted her. 

"  Mr.  Ord,  supposing  you  had  a  sister,"  and  then  she  stopped, 
— "  a  little  sister,  and  she  had  all  the  good  things  of  this  world 
given  to  her,  and  you  were  left  out  in  the  cold  ;  and  supposing  " 
—hesitating  again — "all  these  good  things  had  come  to  her  by  a 
dreadful  mistake,  which,  when  she  thought  of  it — which  she  did 


254  ROBERT  ORD^S  A  TONEMENT. 

continually — always  made  her  feel  very  unhappy ; "  and  here  for  a 
moment  Rotha's  voice  grew  troubled. 

"  Well,  my  child  ?"  said  the  Vicar  encouragingly. 

And  she  went  on.  "And  suppose,  in  her  unhappiness — the 
little  sister's,  I  mean — God  put  a  thought  into  her  heart,  which 
took  away  all  her  pain,  and  made  her  feel  quite  warm  and  com- 
forted, and  supposing,"  coming  a  little  nearer,  and  touching  him 
softly  on  the  arm,  "  she — this  little  sister,  I  mean — came  to  you  " 
— "Came  to  me!"  repeated  the  Vicar,  as  she  hesitated  again. 
"Yes;  and,  speaking  in  her  reverence  and  love,  told  you  of  this 
beautiful  thought  that  grew  in  her  heart  day  by  day,  and  prayed 
you  not  to  despise  her  little  gifts  because  they  made  her  so  very, 
very  happy;  and  supposing  that  the  little  sister" — coming  still 
closer,  and  clasping  her  hands  together — "  begged  you,  out  of  your 
great  tender  heart,  never  to  hurt  her  again  as  you  have  hurt  her 
just  now,  but,  if  she  has  made  a  mistake,  put  it  all  down  to  her 
ignorance;  but  to  be  sure  that  she  will  never  offend  so  again." 
And  as  she  bent  her  face  over  the  kind  hand  that  was  stretched 
out  to  her  she  felt  a  light  touch  on  her  hair  that  calmed  and 
hushed  her  in  a  moment. 

"God  bless  the  little  sister,"  finished  the  Vicar  solemnly. 
"Ay,  and  she  shall  be  blessed ;  child,  I  will  not  have  you  cry  like 
that ;  it  is  you  who  have  been  breaking  my  heart  all  this  time 
with  your  love  and  gifts." 

He  talked  to  them  presently  when  Rotha  was  a  little  calmer, 
and,  drawing  his  wife  very  tenderly  to  his  side,  he  told  them  both 
the  bitter  battle  he  had  fought  with  his  pride,  and  how  his  heart 
had  been  very  soft  towards  them  all  the  time  Mary  had  believed 
he  had  been  reproaching  her  with  want  of  confidence. 

"  My  own  Mary,  do  you  think  I  have  not  blessed  the  little 
sister  over  and  over  again  for  making  your  dear  face  grow  so  much 
brighter  day  by  day  % " 

"  You  see  your  name  will  stick  to  you,  Rotha,"  he  said  presently, 
calling  her  for  the  first  time  by  her  Christian  name.  "  Whatever 
you  may  be  to  Mary,  to  me  you  will  always  be  '  the  little  sister ; ' 
I  hope  that  you  like  your  new  title  ?" 

"My  'little  sister'  brought  gifts,"  returned  Rotha  meaningly, 
but  blushing  a  little  over  her  words. 

"  And  so  may  this  little  sister,  but  not  too  often  ;  she  may 
carry  them  now  and  then  to  her  great  big  brother  out  in  the  cold, 
though  it  is  not  nearly  so  cold  as  she  supposes  it  to  be,"  and  he 
looked  fondly  at  the  dear  woman  wThose  love  had  shed  such  sun- 
shine over  his  life.  "  There  are  others  far  more  cold  and  dreary 
than  we  are,  Mary." 


THE  LITTLE  SISTER.  255 

"Ah  !  true,  there  is  poor  Belle,"  said  the  happier  sister. 
"Yes,  poor  Belle,"  echoed  Rotha,  and  the  Vicar  added  rather 
sadly,  "Yes,  and  poor  Robert." 

And  after  that  Rotha  went  home. 

These  were  golden  days  with  Rotha.  "  The  little  sister,"  as 
the  Vicar  often  called  her,  was  never  for  many  hours  absent  from 
the  Vicarage ;  she  and  Mary  were  still  hard  at  their  work,  and 
there  seemed  at  present  no  end  to  their  labour.  Garton  or  the 
Vicar  would  come  and  read  to  them  sometimes,  but  Belle  per- 
severed in  her  unsociable  habits. 

"I  do  wish  you  would  come  and  sit  with  us  downstairs," 
Rotha  said  one  day  when  she  and  Belle  were  together  for  a 
minute ;  "  it  feels  almost  as  though  I  were  separating  you  from 
your  sister" — which  was  partly  true,  as  her  constant  presence 
had  afforded  Belle  an  excuse  for  her  taciturnity. 

"Why  should  I  come?"  Belle  had  answered.  "I  don't  think 
that  either  you  or  Mary  can  want  me."  She  was  in  a  sick  sullen 
humour  this  afternoon ;  but  Rotha,  who  saw  she  was  suffering,  was 
very  patient  to  her. 

"  I  am  quite  sure  that  we  both  want  you,  Miss  Clinton,"  but 
Belle  did  not  answer ;  poor  soul,  she  was  growing  more  warped  and 
diseased  day  by  day. 

"Why  can  we  not  be  friends?"  continued  Rotha  yearningly; 
"  your  sister  loves  me  and  the  Vicar  also — you  are  the  only  one  in 
the  house  who  has  not  a  kind  word  for  me ;  dear  Miss  Clinton, 
it  does  seem  almost  too  hard  sometimes."  Then  Belle  turned  upon 
her  proudly  ;  she  could  not  bear  even  a  word  of  reproach  from  this 
girl,  and  yet  she  knew  it  to  be  true. 

"What  do  you  expect?"  she  said  harshly;  "am  I  so  happy 
that  I  can  forget  the  past?  Why  do  you  taunt  me  with  my 
coldness  ?" 

"I  taunt  you,  Miss  Clinton?" 

"  Yes,  you  and  Mary  too.  What  is  my  own  sister  to  me  now 
when  you  have  come  between  us  ?  Once  I  could  tell  Mary  nearly 
everything  and  be  sure  of  her  sympathy ;  but  now  even  she  and 
Austin  are  changed  to  me." 

"  Is  this  my  doing,  Miss  Clinton  ?" 

"Is  it  not?"  was  the  unjust  answer.  "Look  at  Robert;  is 
he  the  same  man  when  you  are  by?  I  tell  you  this — you  are 
blighting  my  life  and  his,  and  yet  you  come  to  me  and  ask  me  to 
be  friends." 

"I  do,"  returned  Rotha ;  "in  spite  of  your  hard  words  I  ask 
it  still.  Am  I  to  blame  for  your  lover's  bitter  injustice  ?  You  are 


256  ROBERT  ORD^S  ATONEMENT. 

not  yourself  diis  afternoon,  or  you  would  not  speak  like  this.' 
She  did  not  truly  realise  the  truth  of  her  words  till  she  saw  Belle's 
colour  change  to  ashy  white  as  she  tried  to  answer  her.  In 
another  moment  the  generous-hearted  girl  was  by  her  side. 

"  You  are  faint — you  are  in  pain,"  she  said.  "  No,  you  must 
not  speak ;  lean  on  me  a  moment.  Good  Heavens,  to  think  of 
any  one  enduring  this  pain,  and  hiding  it  from  every  one ! " 

Belle  clutched  her  sleeve  nervously. 

"Mary — don't  tell  Mary,"  she  whispered  through  her  white 
lips.  "  I  will  do  anything  you  like,  but  don't  tell  Mary." 

She  was  quite  passive  now.  When  Rotha  placed  her  on  the 
couch  and  covered  her  up,  she  let  her  bring  her  wine  and  chafe  her 
cold  hands  almost  as  though  she  were  grateful  for  it.  And  cer- 
tainly no  sisterly  hands  could  have  more  gently  put  back  the  damp 
hair  from  her  brow ;  as  she  did  so,  tears  no  efforts  could  repress 
gathered  to  her  eyes. 

The  painful  spasm  was  over,  and  then  Belle  looked  wonder- 
ingly  at  her. 

"Are  you  crying  for  me  or  for  yourself?"  she  said,  more  gently 
than  she  had  yet  spoken. 

"  For  you,"  answered  Rotha,  dashing  the  tears  away  half- 
ashamed.  "  I  cannot  bear  to  see  you  suffer  so  ;  it  makes  me  wish 
that  I  could  take  your  place  for  a  little  while." 

"You  are  a  strange  girl  after  all  my  hard  speeches — thank 
you,"  and  Belle  closed  her  eyes  wearily. 

" May  I  stay  with  you *{ "  asked  Rotha  wistfully.  "I  can  see 
the  pain  is  better,  but  still  I  do  not  like  to  leave  you."  And  Belle, 
who  seemed  sinking  into  slumber,  signified  her  assent. 

She  woke  towards  evening,  and  found  Rotha  still  watching 
her. 

"  Have  you  been  here  all  this  time  <\ "  she  asked  curiously. 

Rotha  nodded. 

"  Your  sister  came  up,  and  I  told  her  you  had  not  been  well. 
I  made  light  of  it,  as  you  wished,  and  she  has  gone  out  now. 
She  told  me  to  bring  you  a  cup  of  tea  when  you  woke."  And 
Rotha,  who  had  been  stirring  the  fire  into  a  cheerful  blaze,  busied 
herself  over  a  small  tea-equipage  in  a  brisk  cosy  manner  that  was 
very  pleasant. 

Belle  said  nothing  as  she  drank  the  tea ;  she  looked  very  pale 
and  weary  still ;  but  every  now  and  then  her  dark  eyes  looked 
across  at  Rotha  rather  wistfully. 

Rotha  caught  one  of  these  glances  and  asked  if  she  wanted 
anything. 

''  No,  nothing — only   I  wish  you  would  not  be  so  kind  ;  it 


THE  LITTLE  SISTER.  257 

makes  me  feel  your  words  are  true,  and  that  I  have  been  too  hard 
to  you." 

"  No ;  I  will  not  let  you  say  that." 

"  I  think  you  were  right,  and  I  was  not  quite  myself.  I  think 
I  get  half-crazed  sometimes  with  misery.  I  ought  not  to  have 
reproached  you  with  Robert's  bitter  speeches." 

"  But  if  you  believed  them?"  said  Rotha  timidly. 

"  Well,  sometimes  I  think  I  do.  One  can't  help  one's  thoughts, 
and  it  is  not  like  him  to  be  so  prejudiced ;  and  then  again  there 
are  times  when  I  half  fancy  he  is  wrong.  I  think  the  doubt  and 
struggle  make  me  seem  so  hard  to  you ;  often  and  often  I  do  not 
know  what  to  think." 

"  Don't  think  about  it  at  all ; "  then  with  a  touching  inflection 
of  voice,  "  only  let  me  love  you  and  do  something  for  you." 

"  It  seems  so  dreadful,"  she  continued,  after  a  pause,  "  to  see 
you  so  unhappy,  and  to  know  that  but  for  me  he  would  have  the 
right  to  shield  and  protect  you.  You  said  just  now  that  I  have 
blighted  both  your  lives,  and,  God  knows,  I  feel  you  are  right." 

"I  ought  not  to  have  said  that,"  returned  Belle  remorsefully; 
but  Rotha,  still  with  the  same  touching  sadness,  answered  her : 

"  Why  should  you  not  say  it  1  I  think  I  can  bear  your  re- 
proaches better  than  your  silence.  I  do  not  feel  that  I  shall  ever  be 
afraid  of  you  again.  Yes,  I  have  spoiled  your  life ;  dislike  to  me 
is  changing  his  nature — do  you  think  I  cannot  see  that  1  I  am 
made  the  minister  of  this  unholy  revenge,  and,  in  spite  of  my 
happiness,  I  shall  bear  the  bitterness  of  it  to  my  dying  day." 

How  mournful  the  voice ;  how  sadly  the  mild  eyes  looked  out 
at  the  faint  streaks  of  the  wintry  sunset,  at  the  unchanging  gray- 
ness  of  the  sea,  at  the  bleak  barrenness  of  the  waste  of  sands  ! 
How  the  thin  soft  hands  grasped  each  other  in  a  set  patience  like 
an  act  of  prayer  !  Belle,  lying  back  on  her  couch,  watched  her — 
sorely  troubled.  Her  own  thoughts  were  a  mystery  to  her,  but 
from  that  time  her  conviction  of  Rotha's  innocence  grew  to  be  a 
certainty. 

"  Only  let  me  love  you  ! " — the  words  came  back  to  her  as  she 
lay  that  night  tossing  on  her  sleepless  pillow.  "  Only  let  me  love 
you" — how  meekly  she  had  said  it !  Could  she  of  all  people  afford 
to  throw  away  such  love  1 

There  was  silence  between  them  for  some  time,  and  then  Belle, 
looking  very  sick  and  sorrowful,  stretched  out  her  hands  to  Rotha. 

"  Can  you  forgive  me  my  hardness  1 "  she  said,  almost  in  a 
whisper,  and  Rotha's  only  answer  was  to  stoop  down  and  kiss  her 
brow. 

17 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

DOWN   ON   THE    SANDS. 

"She  has  an  eye  that  can  speak 
Though  her  tongue  were  silent." 

AARON  HILL. 

* '  Sometimes  when  hard  need  has  pressed  me 

To  bow  down  where  I  despise, 
I  have  read  stern  words  of  counsel 
In  those  sad  reproachful  eyes." 

ADELAIDE  ANNE  PROCTOR. 

MEANWHILE  the  shirt-making  progressed  most  satisfactorily ;  but, 
alas,  Belle  was  not  among  the  workers. 

Ever  since  the  day  of  her  hysterical  attack  a  gradual,  and  at 
first  scarcely  perceptible  change  had  come  over  her  ;  the  strange 
wanness  and  shadow  that  Rotha  had  noticed  became  more  marked ; 
day  by  day  she  grew  thinner  and  paler ;  the  pain  in  the  side  was 
almost  constant  now.  Rotha  sometimes  met  her  on  the  stairs 
labouring  as  though  for  breath.  Now  and  then  Mary  started  and 
changed  colour  at  the  sound  of  her  sister's  hard  dry  cough.  She 
and  the  Vicar  were  growing  seriously  uneasy ;  but  still  Belle,  rigid 
in  her  waywardness,  would  have  it  that  nothing  ailed  her. 

"  I  am  only  so  tired — so  very  tired,"  she  would  say  when 
Mary  with  tears  in  her  eyes  implored  her  to  spare  herself.  "  I  think 
I  took  cold  that  night  at  church.  I  shall  have  to  give  up  evening 
service  this  bitter  weather,  that  is  all." 

Poor  Belle  !  Evening  service  was  not  the  only  thing  she  gave 
up.  One  by  one  her  duties  were  laid  aside ;  Rotha  had  her  district 
now ;  she  never  went  among  her  poor  people. 

"  When  the  spring  comes  I  must  take  up  my  work  again,"  she 
said  to  Rotha.  But  she  never  told  her  that  the  day  before  she  had 
tried  to  creep  to  the  nearest  cottage  and  had  failed. 

She  was  more  alone  than  ever  now.  Working  made  the  pain 
in  her  side  worse,  and  after  a  time  she  found  it  impossible  to  con- 
ceal her  sufferings.  She  would  lie  for  hours  on  the  little  square 


DO  WN  ON  THE  SANDS.  259 

couch  in  the  drawing-room,  looking  out  vacantly  at  the  blue  tops 
of  the  Leatham  hills  ;  but  she  never  cared  for  Mary  or  Roth  a  to 
keep  her  company.  The  morbid  reserve  that  seemed  inherent  in 
her  nature  grew  upon  her  with  indulgence.  She  never  seemed  to 
talk  much  to  any  one  but  Robert. 

"  It  only  makes  me  cough,"  she  said  fretfully,  when  Mary's 
affectionate  reproaches  were  unusually  urgent.  "  I  am  so  tired,  and 
I  want  to  be  quiet  and  get  rested  for  the  evening." 

"But  you  are  always  tired,  Belle  !"  Mary  would  reply.  "It 
seems  to  me  you  are  more  tired  every  day.  I  wish  Robert  could 
see  you  now;  he  would  not  think  that  Austin  and  I  were  making 
a  fuss  about  nothing." 

Belle  shivered  slightly  at  the  mention  of  Robert. 

By  what  superhuman  exertions  she  continued  to  blind  him  was 
known  best  to  herself.  He  was  the  only  one  who  was  ignorant  of 
the  real  state  of  the  case.  Mary,  with  all  her  efforts,  failed  to 
enlighten  him. 

"Belle  has  never  been  strong,"  he  would  say,  "and  this  cold 
she  has  caught  hangs  about  her  and  keeps  her  weak  ;"  and  he  would 
go  about  his  daily  work  quite  cheerfully.  "  She  will  be  better 
when  this  damp  raw  weather  is  over,"  he  would  think  as  he  went 
to  and  fro  through  the  slushy  streets.  He  always  believed  Belle's 
version  of  herself. 

"  She  was  better,"  she  would  assure  him,  "  much  better,  only 
she  was  so  tired,  and  her  cough  was  still  troublesome."  He  knew 
nothing  about  those  long  mornings  and  afternoons  on  the  couch. 
She  had  always  a  bright  colour  of  an  evening.  No  matter  how 
ill  she  had  been  that  day,  she  would  creep  down  from  her  room  to 
meet  him,  looking  lovelier  than  ever. 

"  Mary  tells  me  you  have  been  worse  to-day,"  he  would  say 
sometimes,  looking  at  her  anxiously ;  but  she  always  contrived  to 
evade  his  inquiries.  As  she  sat  talking  to  him  he  would  wonder  at 
the  brilliancy  of  her  beauty.  How  was  he  to  know  that  her  eyes 
were  bright  with  repressed  fever,  and  that  it  was  only  his  presence 
that  stimulated  her  to  such  exertion?  How  was  he  to  know1? 
She  was  never  pale  or  silent  with  him. 

She  was  always  so  ready  with  her  excuses  too.  "  Where  is 
your  opal  ringT'  he  asked  her  once,  rather  reproachfully,  and  she 
had  returned  him  an  evasive  answer ;  she  never  told  him  the  ring 
had  dropped  so  repeatedly  from  her  wasted  hand  that  she  feared  to 
lose  it.  Soon  after  she  borrowed  a  certain  old-fashioned  keeper 
that  Mary  wore  on  her  little  finger ;  the  next  day  the  opals  shone 
in  their  accustomed  place. 

With  her  strong  will  she  was  blinding  herself  and  him ;  she 


260  ROBERT  OR&S  ATONEMENT. 

would  go  upstairs  to  her  own  room  when  her  lover  had  said  good- 
night, carefully  closing  the  door  behind  her ;  but  if  any  one  had 
seen  her  holding  on  with  her  frail  strength  to  the  balustrade  and 
coughing  at  every  step  !  The  Vicarage  walls  were  unhappily  thick. 
Belle  never  spoke  of  the  slow  torture  of  those  long  wakeful  nights, 
of  the  restlessness  and  burning  fever  that  consumed  her,  and  so  no 
one  knew  why  nature  took  its  revenge  in  added  prostration  in  the 
morning.  Mary  declared  that  anxiety  about  her  sister  was  aging 
her.  One  day  she  came  down  half  crying  to  the  Vicar  to  avow  her 
belief  that  Belle  was  using  rouge  to  deceive  her  lover.  Rotha,  who 
was  doing  some  copying  work  in  the  study,  quite  started  at  the 
idea. 

"  She  was  as  white  as  that  cloth,  quite  ghastly  ten  minutes 
ago,"  reiterated  Mary;  "and  I  gave  her  some  sal  volatile,  but 
when  Robert  came  in  just  now  she  begged  me  quite  in  a  flurry  to 
go  down  to  him,  and  when  she  came  into  the  room  a  few  minutes 
afterwards  her  cheeks  had  a  fixed  red  in  them,  quite  a  spot  of 
colour,  just  as  though  they  were  painted.  You  know  yourself, 
Austin,  Belle  never  had  a  high  colour." 

"  No,  Mary,  you  were  the  blooming  one,"  returned  the  Vicar 
lightly.  "  Do  you  remember  when  I  used  to  compare  you  to  a 
pink  apple  -  blossom  ?"  and  then  as  she  persisted  in  her  uneasy 
suspicion  he  grew  serious,  and  muttered  something  about  "  hectic" 
and  "  fever."  By  and  by  he  told  Mary  that  he  was  determined  to 
speak  very  firmly  to  Belle,  and  insist  on  her  seeing  a  doctor. 

Rotha  was  obliged  to  leave  early  that  evening,  but  the  next 
morning  she  learnt  from  Mrs.  Ord  that  the  Vicar's  firmness  had 
been  unavailing.  Belle  seemed  to  have  a  rooted  antipathy  to  the 
very  idea.  "Austin  had  been  very  stern,"  Mary  added,  "and 
Belle  had  been  hysterical."  Next  day  the  doctor  had  come  to  the 
house  by  the  Vicar's  express  orders,  and  Belle  had  locked  herself 
up  in  her  room,  and  had  refused  to  see  him,  and  the  Vicar  was 
very  angry. 

Robert  was  angry  too.  He  thought  it  very  childish  of  Belle  ; 
but  he  added  in  the  same  breath  that  in  his  opinion  Mary  and 
Austin  were  teasing  her  unnecessarily.  "  If  she  were  really  ill  she 
would  be  only  too  glad  to  see  a  doctor,"  he  said.  "  Why  not  leave 
her  alone  a  little  1  It  is  this  dreary  weather  that  tries  her.  I 
really  thought  she  looked  much  better  last  evening  till  Austin  up- 
set her ;  he  had  no  right  to  issue  his  commands  like  that." 

Mary,  as  she  heard  him,  could  have  wrung  her  hands  over  his 
blindness  and  her  sister's  obstinacy.  In  her  eyes  it  was  little  short 
of  suicidal ;  but  Rotha,  though  she  would  not  have  hinted  at  it  for 
worlds,  had  a  dim  suspicion  of  the  real  state  of  the  case.  She  was 


DOWN  ON  THE  SANDS.  261 

sure  that  Belle's  refusal  to  see  a  doctor  of  her  brother-in-law's  pro- 
viding was  based  upon  far  different  motives,  and  that  she  knew 
more  about  herself  than  any  one  guessed. 

One  raw  November  day  she  had  come  upon  Belle  within  a 
stone's  throw  of  the  Blackscar  Infirmary,  and  Belle  had  a  little 
white  parcel  in  her  hand  very  much  resembling  a  bottle  of  medi- 
cine. Rotha  had  not  seemed  to  notice,  however;  but  shortly 
after  she  had  questioned  one  of  the  nurses  whom  she  knew,  and 
had  learnt  that  Miss  Clinton  often  visited  the  Infirmary,  and  that 
to  her  knowledge  she  was  more  than  once  closeted  a  long  time  with 
Mr.  Greenock,  the  house-surgeon,  so  that  it  was  very  probable  she 
was  on  the  list  of  out-patients. 

Rotha  would  have  given  worlds  to  have  shared  this  knowledge 
with  her  friends,  but  on  reflection  she  dared  not;  her  quick  intuition 
had  instantly  divined  that  there  was  a  twofold  motive  for  this 
secrecy.  Doubtless,  in  the  first  instance,  Belle's  unselfish  gener- 
osity had  induced  her  to  take  this  step,  fearing  that  her  brother-in- 
law  would  incur  serious  expense  by  her  constant  ill  health;  the 
other  motive,  too,  it  was  not  difficult  to  guess. 

Rotha  was  sure  that  Belle  was  uneasy  about  herself;  at  times 
there  had  been  a  haggardness  and  despondency  about  her  for  which 
there  would  seem  no  adequate  reason.  Rotha  noticed  she  never 
spoke  of  the  future.  There  seemed  no  buoyancy  of  hope  in  her 
life  when  Robert  talked  of  the  summer  and  of  the  pleasant  holiday 
he  hoped  to  have,  and  how  he  meant  to  take  her  and  Mary  for  a 
week  to  ramble  among  the  glens  of  Burnley-upon-Sea.  Burnley- 
upon-Sea,  where  the  cows  walked  over  the  sands  at  evening,  and 
the  long  green  woods  stretched  dimly  down  to  the  shore.  Belle 
would  turn  away  her  head  to  hide  the  tears  in  her  eyes  ;  she  would 
choke  something  down  as  she  tried  to  return  a  cheerful  answer. 

"  Do  sing  something  lively,"  she  would  say  of  an  evening  when 
Mrs.  Carruthers  sat  down  to  play  one  of  her  glorious  symphonies ; 
a  terrible  weariness  would  be  on  her  when  Meg  sung  some  of  her 
old  favourites — "Eve's  Lament"  or  "Angels  ever  bright  and 
fair" — but  no  one  could  get  Meg  to  lay  aside  her  sacred  music  now. 
Rotha  would  take  her  place  sometimes  and  sing  old-fashioned 
ballads  in  her  fresh  young  voice ;  it  came  somewhat  flatly  after 
Meg's  grand  music,  to  be  sure.  "It  is  rather  like  hearing  the 
twittering  of  birds  after  service,"  the  Vicar  would  say  in  his  droll 
way,  but  I  think  they  all  loved  the  girl's  voice.  Belle  would  ask 
faintly  for  "Auld  Robin  Gray"  or  "My  Mother  bids  me  bind  my 
hair;"  the  last  she  was  never  tired  of  hearing.  "Those  are  not 
very  gay  songs,  Bella  darling,"  Robert  would  say  with  a  smile ;  he 
rather  preferred  Meg's  selections.  Rotha  would  go  back  to  the 


262  ROBERT  ORD^S  ATONEMENT. 

music-stool  again  and  again ;  she  knew  why  Meg's  anthems  jarred 
on  the  sick  nerves.  What  if  no  chord  of  Belle's  nature  thrilled  in 
unison  with  their  sublime  lessons  of  faith  and  resignation,  still 
clinging  as  she  was  with  a  breaking  heart  to  the  objects  of  her 
earthly  love  *? 

"Will  any  one  sing?"  It  grew  a  habit  with  her  to  say  this, 
and  so  it  came  to  pass  that  Rotha  no  longer  needed  the  Vicar's 
invitation ;  and  even  Robert  looked  to  her  presence  of  an  evening 
as  a  necessary  ingredient  to  Belle's  pleasure — Belle,  who,  since  the 
day  of  their  reconciliation,  had  never  again  repelled  her  advances. 

Rotha  was  able  to  watch  her  very  closely  therefore,  and  this 
was  the  result  of  her  watching.  She  was  convinced  that  up  to  a 
certain  point  Belle  knew  the  truth  about  herself,  and  that  she  was 
bent  on  concealing  her  knowledge  for  some  purpose  of  her  own. 
Rotha  shuddered  at  the  thought  of  those  dreary  pilgrimages  to  the 
Infirmary ;  she  used  to  wonder  how  Belle  got  there.  Mr.  Greenock 
had  the  reputation  of  being  a  very  clever  man,  but,  as  he  said  him- 
self, he  was  no  alarmist.  It  was  just  possible,  therefore,  he  might 
confirm  Belle  in  her  blindness,  and  that  she  might  scarcely  know 
the  extent  of  her  danger.  But  if  this  were  not  so,  and  Belle  really 
understood  the  grave  nature  of  her  symptoms,  she  might  possibly 
be  deriving  great  benefit  from  the  proper  remedies,  which  the 
surgeon's  skill  would  be  sure  to  devise. 

To  betray  this  secret  of  Belle's  seemed  to  Rotha  perfectly  use- 
less. She  knew  her  quite  well  enough  by  this  time  to  be  sure  that 
such  interference  on  her  part  would  never  be  forgiven.  Not  that 
such  a  motive  alone  would  have  influenced  her;  but  she  knew 
that  if  she  told  Mrs.  Ord,  Mary  would  at  once  inform  the  Vicar  and 
Robert.  Every  one  would  be  up  in  arms ;  Mr.  Greenock  would  be 
consulted  ;  the  real  nature  of  the  mysterious  malady  would  cer- 
tainly be  known ;  but  the  result  would  be  such  a  fit  of  angry 
obstinacy  on  Belle's  part  that  it  would  be  doubtful  where  the 
mischief  would  end.  No,  no ;  she  must  let  things  take  their  course 
a  little  longer  ;  if  matters  grew  worse,  she  might  take  upon  herself 
to  speak. 

Rotha's  intention  was  good,  but  it  was  the  reasoning  of  inex- 
perience. She  was  ignorant  of  the  nature  of  Belle's  disease ;  it  never 
occurred  to  her  that  contact  with  the  sharp  northern  breezes  was 
as  injurious  to  her  physical  frame  as  the  secret  strain  on  her  spirits 
was  to  her  mental  frame.  It  might  be  that  the  doctor's  skill 
would  be  brought  to  bear  in  vain  on  the  overwrought  mind  and 
body,  reacting  on  each  other  so  lamentably.  If  Rotha  had  spoken 
out,  doubtless  the  result  would  have  been  exactly  as  she  prophesied, 
and  there  would  have  been  much  bitter  work  to  go  through  with 


DOWN  ON  THE  SANDS.  263 

Belle,  but  it  would  have  answered  better  in  the  end  ;  a  great  deal 
of  precious  time  would  not  have  been  lost,  and  Robert  Ord  would 
have  been  spared  the  heavy  remorse  that  was  to  embitter  his  life 
for  so  long. 

But,  if  Rotha  made  this  mistake,  she  was  nobly  to  atone  for  it ; 
her  secret  uneasiness  and  a  few  words  that  Mrs.  Ord  had  dropped 
in  her  trouble  led  her  to  form  all  sorts  of  impracticable  and  gener- 
ous projects  for  Belle's  relief;  till  at  last,  one  of  these  appearing 
rather  more  tangible  and  worthy  of  trial  than  the  others,  it  was 
determined  to  put  it  to  the  proof  without  delay. 

"  If  things  are  allowed  to  go  on  like  this,"  Mrs.  Ord  had  said 
to  her,  "I  shall  not  have  a  sister  long;  Belle  will  go  into  a 
decline." 

And  it  was  during  the  long  sorrowful  conversation  that  followed 
these  words  that  Rotha  proposed  that  change  of  scene  and  a 
milder  climate  should  be  tried  for  Belle. 

"  If  I  can  only  get  your  brother-in-law's  consent,"  finished 
Rotha,  "the  thing  can  be  done  without  delay.  She  will  not 
listen  to  such  a  plan  from  us,  I  know,  but  a  word  from  him  will 
do  it." 

"  Yes ;  if  he  will  only  say  the  word,"  sighed  Mary. 

"  He  will  if  you  put  it  before  him  properly ;  could  not  the 
Vicar  speak  to  him,  dear  Mrs.  Ord  1  He  might  tell  him  that  we 
would  go  wherever  he  thought  best — the  Isle  of  Wight,  or  Devon- 
shire, or  even  the  south  of  France,  and  if  you  liked  Laurie  might 
go  with  us  too;"  for  just  now  Mary  chose  to  believe  that  Laurie 
was  delicate. 

"Oh,  Rotha,  how  good  you  are  !"  said  the  mother  gratefully; 
and  then  there  was  an  instant's  silence,  during  which  Mary  turned 
over  the  project  in  her  mind ;  in  her  eyes  it  seemed  without  a 
single  flaw. 

"But  I  shall  never  dare  to  speak  to  Robert,"  she  said,  shaking 
her  head  mournfully.  "  I  have  no  influence  over  him  now.  The 
time  was  when  he  would  listen  to  a  word  from  '  Mother  Mary,'  as 
he  called  me ;  that  was  when  Belle  and  he  were  first  engaged,  and 
I  used  to  think  him  the  dearest  fellow  in  the  world ;  but  now — 
oh,  Rotha,  I  never  saw  a  man  so  altered ;"  and  Mary  looked  so 
sad  and  so  unlike  herself  that  Rotha  hastened  to  console  her. 

"Never  mind  about  speaking  to  him,"  she  said;  "perhaps  it 
would  be  better  for  me  to  do  the  whole  thing  myself;  a  stranger 
can  sometimes  put  a  thing  more  strongly,  and  I  think  he  is  too 
just  to  let  his  personal  dislike  interfere  with  Belle's  good." 

"  But  supposing  he  does  not  consider  it  for  her  good  ? "  inter- 
rupted Mary;  she  was  very  despondent  about  the  whole  affair. 


264  ROBERT  ORD^S  ATONEMENT. 

"  He  is  as  blind  now  as  a  man  in  his  proper  senses  can  be,  and  he 
is  just  as  likely  to  throw  cold  water  on  your  generous  offer  as  not. 
Talk  of  pride — the  proudest  Ord  that  ever  lived  could  not  hold  a 
candle  to  him." 

"  Never  mind,  I  will  try,"  returned  Eotha  bravely ;  she  was 
very  frightened  at  the  thought  of  the  task  she  had  undertaken, 
but  she  would  not  hear  of  cold  water  for  a  moment.  "  I  suppose 
I  would  as  soon  take  a  bull  by  the  horns,"  she  finished,  with  an 
attempt  at  a  smile ;  "  but  I  mean  to  carry  it  through." 

Rotha  spoke  of  her  plan  very  quietly  in  discussing  it  with 
Mrs.  Ord,  but  it  was  the  greatest  sacrifice  she  had  made  in 
her  life.  Kirkby  was  just  now  especially  dear  to  her,  and  the 
thought  of  leaving  it,  perhaps  for  months,  was  very  bitter  ;  it  was 
simply  banishment  from  all  she  loved,  and  that  was  not  all, — the 
charge  she  contemplated  was  in  itself  somewhat  overwhelming ; 
how  was  she  to  nurse  a  person  of  Belle's  unhappy  disposition  1  and 
yet  she  would  be  responsible  for  such  nursing.  Belle  was  at  all 
times  difficult  to  manage,  and  Rotha  had  very  honest  doubts  as  to 
her  own  powers  of  management. 

"Perhaps,  when  we  are  alone  together,  she  might  be  more 
sociable  and  allow  me  to  do  things  for  her,"  she  said  to  herself 
as  she  pondered  over  these  difficulties ;  "  but  anyhow  I  am  the 
only  one  who  can  go  with  her.  I  wish  I  were  more  fit  for  such  a 
responsibility." 

Poor  generous -hearted  Rotha — but  it  was  just  these  things 
which  tested  tLe  girl's  nobleness — the  basis  of  her  whole  nature 
was  self-sacrifice. 

The  woman  who,  if  she  had  had  the  power,  would  most  certainly 
have  had  the  magnanimity  to  beggar  herself  for  her  enemies  would 
assuredly  not  scruple  at  any  personal  self-denial  that  might  benefit 
her  friends.  To  see  a  duty  clearly  and  to  try  and  perform  it  was 
a  natural  sequence  with  Rotha.  It  was  this  singleness  of  aim, 
this  great-heartedness — if  there  be  such  a  word — that  first  won  the 
Vicar's  respect  for  her.  He  told  Mary  one  day  that  she  was  at 
once  the  weakest  and  the  strongest  woman  he  had  ever  seen. 

It  had  come  into  her  heart  to  return  good  for  evil  in  her  deal- 
ings with  Robert  Ord,  and  no  amount  of  ill  usage  upon  his  part 
could  move  her  from  her  purpose.  Robert  Ord's  pride  literally 
shrank  from  the  scorching  of  her  coals  of  fire ;  her  gentleness  was 
pitiless  cruelty  to  him.  It  was  this  recognition  of  her  strength  for 
good  that  brought  out  all  his  latent  obstinacy.  It  grew  to  be  a 
neck-and-neck  race  between  them;  but  as  the  stars  of  heaven 
fought  against  Sisera,  so  circumstances  fought  against  Robert  Ord 
and  forced  him  to  succumb  at  last  to  a  woman's  hand — when  his 


DOWN  ON  THE  SANDS.  265 

will  was  divided  against  itself,  and  the  man  sat  down  in  his  weak- 
ness and  gloried  in  it. 

Rotha  said  nothing  about  her  regrets  to  Mary.  A  little  shrink- 
ing consciousness  kept  her  silent  on  that  point ;  but  she  put  the 
whole  scheme  in  such  a  bright  light  that  Mrs.  Ord  was  quite 
cheered.  The  only  difficulty  was  in  the  impossibility  of  Rotha 
ever  finding  an  opportunity  for  a  private  talk  with  Robert.  He 
never  came  to  the  Vicarage  till  tea  was  over,  and  then  he  went 
straight  into  the  drawing-room,  where  they  were  all  assembled. 
Rotha  could  neither  seek  him  at  his  own  house  nor  ask  him  to 
Bryn. 

"  I  am  sure  I  don't  know  how  we  are  to  manage  it,"  said  Mrs. 
Ord  helplessly,  "unless  you  are  to  waylay  him  in  the  passage;" 
but  Rotha  had  a  better  plan  than  that.  She  knew  he  came  home 
from  Thornborough  on  Saturday  at  an  early  hour  in  the  afternoon, 
and  she  resolved  to  go  and  meet  him. 

"  I  think  the  sea-wall  would  be  a  better  place  of  rendezvous 
than  the  draughty  passage,"  she  said,  trying  to  look  very  brave ; 
but  she  felt  rather  like  a  mouse  trying  on  a  lion's  skin — it  was  such 
a  gigantic  purpose,  and  then  the  skin  was  such  a  tough  one. 

How  she  hated  the  very  thought  of  Saturday ;  but  she  was 
not  going  to  flinch  for  all  that.  Every  time  Belle  coughed  she 
felt  convinced  her  plan  was  a  wise  one. 

"She  wants  sunshine  and  change  of  air,"  she  thought.  "It 
is  so  dreadfully  bleak  up  here." 

At  the  appointed  hour  she  was  pacing  up  and  down  the  sea- 
wall like  a  sentinel  on  duty,  and  looking  not  very  unlike  a  mouse 
— with  plenty  of  soft  fur  outside  and  many  inward  shivers  within. 
She  had  a  fresh  shiver  every  time  she  saw  a  tall  man  in  the  dis- 
tance, and  then  she  chafed  and  grew  hot  because  he  was  late. 
She  knew  that  he  always  came  home  by  the  way  of  the  sea-wall. 
She  had  kept  a  strict  look-out,  but  yet  she  feared  she  had  missed 
him.  No ;  there  he  was,  in  his  brown  overcoat,  looking  straight 
before  him,  as  he  always  did,  as  though  he  were  challenging  some 
distant  object. 

Of  course  he  stopped  to  accost  her,  and  of  course  Rotha  stopped 
too  ;  the  time  had  gone  by  when  he  would  pass  her  with  a  slight 
bow  ;  since  then  there  had  been  much  surface  intercourse  between 
them,  and  Robert  was  always  extremely  civil — he  was  very  civil 
now,  exceedingly  so. 

"  It  is  rather  a  cold  afternoon  for  a  walk,"  he  remarked,  with 
a  smile.  Rotha,  when  she  was  more  than  usually  provoked, 
always  said  Robert  had  a  special  smile  for  her.  When  asked  to 
describe  it,  she  would  turn  round  and  demand  "if  you  had  seen 


266  ROBER  T  ORD  'S  A  TONEMENT. 

an  icicle  trying  to  thaw — and  failing?"  she  would  add  when  par- 
ticularly severe.  This  frosty  smile  was  a  matter  of  course,  but 
that  he  should  add  that  she  looked  pale  and  tired  was  rather  sur- 
prising— it  almost  took  her  breath  away. 

"I  suppose  I  am  somewhat  tired,"  she  returned  hurriedly;  "I 
have  been  waiting  for  you  such  a  long  time."  It  was  his  turn  now 
to  look  astonished. 

"Waiting  for  me!  Is  anything  the  matter?"  as  a  sudden 
thought  turned  him  chill. 

"  Anything  the  matter — no,  not  more  than  usual.  It  is  only 
a  slight  favour  that  I  am  going  to  ask  you.  Do  you  mind  return- 
ing by  the  sands,  there  are  so  many  people  about  here  ?"  She 
spoke  in  a  quick  nervous  manner,  as  she  often  did  to  him,  but  her 
movement  left  him  no  choice.  When  a  lady  tells  a  gentleman 
that  there  are  so  many  people  about,  he  may  be  sure  she  has  some- 
thing very  important  for  his  private  ear ;  and  therefore,  much  as 
he  disliked  having  business  with  Miss  Maturin,  he  could  do  no  less 
than  assist  her  civilly  down  the  sandy  bank  and  wait  for  her  to 
explain  herself;  he  could  not  well  remonstrate  in  words,  whatever 
he  might  do  in  manner. 

"Don't  you  find  this  soft  sand  very  unpleasant?"  he  remarked 
in  a  voice  that  told  Rotha  very  plainly  that  he  did.  He  had  pro- 
mised Belle  an  afternoon's  reading,  and  he  had  brought  a  book  by 
her  favourite  author,  and  this  lengthened  detour  by  the  sea  did 
not  please  him  at  all ;  but  Rotha  pointed  to  a  crisp  line  lying 
apparently  right  out  to  sea.  "  The  sand  is  quite  hard  and  firm 
out  there,  and  the  tide  is  going  out.  I  never  walk  in  these  sandy 
ruts  if  I  can  help  it,"  and  she  began  to  walk  very  quickly  and 
decidedly  towards  a  range  of  salt-water  pools  with  rugged  step- 
ping stones  thrown  in  here  and  there.  Robert  Ord,  as  he  followed 
her,  felt  compelled  to  admire  the  agility  with  which  she  sprang 
over  the  slippery  rocks.  "Now  we  are  on  terra firma,  and  I  can 
talk,"  she  said  as  they  gained  the  slip  of  sand.  They  were  on  a 
long  island  now ;  the  waves  came  lapping  in  with  a  little  splash 
and  gurgle ;  a  gray  line  of  sea  closed  in  everywhere ;  the  sky  over- 
head had  a  faint  red  light  in  it.  In  the  west  a  great  crimson  sun 
hung  like  a  ball  of  fire ;  a  rough  wind  swept  over  the  surface  of 
the  sluggish  pools ;  black  drifts  of  seaweed  lay  everywhere.  Rotha, 
walking  very  swiftly,  turned  her  face  to  him  and  began  : 

"  I  daresay  you  think  it  very  strange  of  me  to  waylay  you  like 
this ;  I  never  can  do  things  as  other  people  do,  however  much  I 
try."  Then  Robert  essayed  another  frosty  smile — a  gentleman 
cannot  always  say  the  truth  to  a  lady ;  nevertheless,  he  thought  it 
very  strange  indeed. 


DO  WN  ON  THE  SANDS.  267 

"  I  had  no  other  opportunity  of  speaking  to  you  alone,  and 
every  day  is  so  important,  and  then  one  cannot  ask  such  a  favour 
as  that  in  a  moment." 

"  I  thought  you  said  it  was  a  slight  one,"  he  retorted.  He 
could  not  resist  the  pleasure  of  taking  up  her  words,  though  he 
knew  it  made  her  nervous — it  made  her  nervous  now. 

"I  suppose  it  is  a  great  one,  after  all,"  she  returned  very 
humbly  \  "  for  I  am  going  to  ask  you  to  entrust  something  very 
precious  to  me,  Mr.  Ord — we  are  all  growing  so  very  anxious 
about  Belle." 

Now,  if  he  had  not  flurried  her  so,  Eotha  would  hardly  have 
constructed  her  sentence  in  that  way ;  one  cannot  pick  and  choose 
one's  words  in  a  flurry.  Of  course  he  took  umbrage  at  her  calling 
Miss  Clinton  Belle,  and  still  more  at  her  using  the  pronoun  "  we." 
"  She  seems  determined  to  make  herself  one  of  the  family,"  was 
his  inward  comment.  "  I  wonder  if  she  thinks  we  are  all  as  blind 
as  he  is  ;"  which  enigmatical  thought  must  be  unriddled  by  and  by. 

"About  Belle!"  he  repeated,  elongating  every  letter  till  it 
seemed  a  separate  syllable,  "anxious  about  B-e-1-l-e  !" 

Kotha,  who  felt  she  had  compromised  herself  in  some  way, 
went  on  hurriedly,  "Is  it  possible,  Mr.  Ord,  that  you  do  not  see 
how  really  ill  she  is  ^  I  know  she  tries  to  conceal  her  sufferings 
from  you,  but  indeed  you  must  not  allow  yourself  to  be  so  blinded." 
Her  tone  was  very  earnest,  almost' solemn,  but  Robert  interrupted 
her  angrily : 

"  Blinded  !  That  is  just  what  Mary  says;  how  one  woman  will 
use  another  woman's  words  !  If  you  listen  to  all  Mary's  exaggera- 
tions you  will  have  enough  to  do,  Miss  Maturin.  I  suppose  she 
has  asked  you  to  come  and  tell  me  this ;  but  I  warn  you  that  I 
am  not  easily  frightened." 

"  I  can  see  that  you  consider  it  a  liberty,"  returned  Rotha  in 
a  low  voice.  "  You  are  always  so  ready  to  misunderstand  me. 
Mrs.  Ord  has  not  sent  me  ;  I  have  come  of  my  own  accord,  be- 
cause I  thought  that  a  stranger  " — laying  an  emphasis  on  the  word 
— "  might  more  easily  open  your  eyes." 

"You  mean  cure  my  blindness  ?"  returned  Robert  sarcastically. 

"  Yes ;  if  you  prefer  that  term,"  and  then  she  hesitated  for  a 
moment,  as  though  at  a  loss  how  to  proceed.  "  You  are  making 
my  task  a  very  difficult  one  for  me,  but  I  expected  that.  I  knew 
you  would  resent  my  interference ;  but  I  have  begun  to  love  Miss 
Clinton  very  dearly,  and  I  have  grown  to  be  so  very,  very  sorry 
for  her  that  I  could  no  longer  keep  silence." 

"  Belle  ought  to  be  very  much  obliged,"  began  Robert  in  the 
but  Rotha  stopped  him. 


268  ROBERT  ORD^S  ATONEMENT. 

II  Belle  understands  me  now.     She  will  know  I  mean  kindly. 
Mr.  Ord,  please  do  me  this  favour.     Try  to  forget  that  it  is  I  who 
am  speaking  to  you,  and  listen  to  me,  if  it  be  only  for  her  sake. 
I  do  fear — I  begin  to  fear  greatly,  that  she  is  more  ill  than  you 
believe  her  to  be." 

"  There  I  differ  from  you,"  he  returned  decidedly.  "  Miss 
Maturin,  I  put  it  to  your  good  sense ;  if  Belle  were  as  ill  as  you 
make  out,  would  she  refuse  to  see  a  doctor  ?" 

Rotha  paused.  What  would  he  say  if  he  knew  that  Belle  was 
an  out-patient  of  the  Blackscar  Infirmary  1 

II 1  don't  think  your  criterion  is  a  good  one,"  she  replied  at 
last.    "  Miss  Clinton  is  one  who  would  endure  a  martyrdom  rather 
than  own  her  sufferings.     I  have  heard  of  certain  animals  who 
always  hide  away  from  their  kind  when  they  are  wounded.     I 
think  Miss  Clinton  would  do  the  same." 

"She  is  not  a  woman  who  complains  if  her  finger  aches," 
returned  Robert  sharply.  Rotha  sighed  at  his  evident  in- 
credulity. 

"  No ;  she  never  complains.  You  are  right  there.  It  is  only 
we  who  have  watched  her  know  that  she  has  sleepless  nights  ;  that 
she  eats  next  to  nothing ;  that  the  pain  in  her  side  is  at  times 
intolerable ;  and  that  she  can  get  no  rest  by  night  and  day, 
from  her  harassing  cough.  Mr.  Ord,  you  say  you  are  not  easily 
frightened ;  I  think  you  would  be  if  you  saw  how  ghastly  she 
looks  sometimes." 

"Mary  has  contrived  to  frighten  you,  that  is  certain,"  he 
returned  somewhat  impatiently.  "  Poor  Belle !  I  don't  think 
she  would  thank  you  for  exaggerating  all  her  little  symptoms  to 
me,  Miss  Maturin.  I  am  sure  you  mean  it  kindly ;  but  you  do 
not  know  Belle  as  well  as  I  do.  She  has  never  been  strong." 

"Never,  Mr.  Ord!" 

"  No,  not  for  many  years.  I  suppose  circumstances  have  some- 
what tried  her ;  but  she  never  lost  her  spirits  so  completely  till 
this  summer.  To  add  to  her  depression  she  has  a  bad  feverish 
cold.  I  think  that  is  about  the  long  and  short  of  it." 

Rotha  shook  her  head. 

"You  have  not  accounted  for  the  pain  in  her  side,  Mr. 
Ord." 

"She  has  had  that  for  years,"  he  returned  eagerly.  "It  is 
only  rather  worse  lately.  You  talk  of  her  sleepless  nights  and 
loss  of  appetite ;  Belle  never  was  a  good  sleeper,  she  is  nervous 
too,  and  her  close  confinement  to  the  house  these  few  last  weeks 
has  destroyed  her  appetite.  Her  malady  is  a  bad  feverish  cold, 
you  may  depend  upon  it." 


DOWN  ON  THE  SANDS.  269 

"Cannot  you  induce  her  to  see  a  doctor?"  pleaded  Rotha. 
Like  Mary,  she  could  have  wrung  her  hands  over  his  blindness. 

"  By  and  by,"  was  the  somewhat  evasive  answer. 

Then,  in  despair,  Rotha  tried  upon  another  tack. 

"I  think  Blackscar  does  not  suit  her,"  she  said  presently; 
"these  northern  winds  are  so  piercing."  And  Rotha  gave  a  little 
shiver. 

"  That  is  because  you  are  not  acclimatised,"  was  the  response. 
"  Belle  has  lived  here  more  than  half  her  life.  She  likes  a  bracing 
atmosphere ;  I  have  often  heard  her  say  so." 

"People  do  not  know  what  is  best  for  them,"  said  Rotha 
quickly.  "One  may  get  uneasy  even  about  a  feverish  cold.  I 
will  not  beat  about  the  bush  any  more,  Mr.  Ord,  for  it  seems  that 
we  can  never  agree.  I  am  not  very  old,  and  I  do  not  understand 
nursing ;  but,  nevertheless,  I  am  going  to  ask  you  to  trust  Miss 
Clinton  to  me  for  a  little  while." 

"To  you!"  he  repeated  in  a  tone  of  displeased  astonish- 
ment. 

"  Yes ;  to  me.  I  wanted  Mrs.  Ord  to  tell  you  all  about  our 
plans,  and  she  would  not ;  she  thought  I  ought  to  speak  to  you 
myself.  We  would  go  anywhere  you  wished,  Mr.  Ord — to  Ventnor 
or  Torquay,  or  to  the  south  of  France ;  it  does  not  matter  where, 
so  that  you  will  let  her  go.  I  promise  you  I  would  care  for  her ; 
I  would  indeed,  as  though  she  we're  my  own  sister." 

"  This  is  a  very  extraordinary  proposal,"  muttered  Robert,  and 
then  he  walked  on  in  displeased  silence.  Would  she  never  under- 
stand that  he  loathed  her  gifts  and  her  kindness  ?  He  knew  all 
about  Tyler  and  Tyler's  now.  She  was  going  to  surfeit  them  with 
her  patronage — them,  the  Ords !  It  would  not  be  too  much  to 
say  that  the  coal-bill  literally  suffocated  him  ;  and  now  she  wanted 
to  extend  her  patronage  to  him  and  Belle.  Belle's  ill  health  was 
to  make  his  life  a  burthen  to  him ;  she  would  take  her  to  the  south 
of  France,  anywhere — to  Madeira,  perhaps,  or  Mentone.  What 
was  money  and  time  to  her  ? 

"Well?"  said  Rotha  wearily.  She  had  only  been  a  short 
half-hour  with  him,  but  her  face  was  utterly  changed,  the  freshness 
and  dimples  all  faded — she  looked,  as  she  felt,  sick  at  heart ;  they 
had  passed  the  chain  of  pools  now  and  were  toiling  up  the  sandy 
ruts  by  the  rabbit-warren.  "  Well  V  she  reiterated,  and  then  he 
forced  himself  to  speak. 

"I  cannot  say  that  I  quite  approve  of  your  plan,"  he  returned 
coldly ;  "but,  all  the  same,  I  feel  I  ought  to  thank  you." 

"  Why  do  you  not  approve  of  it  ?"  she  inquired  ;  then  again  he 
was  silent. 


270  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

"  Is  it  because  you  are  afraid  to  trust  Miss  Clinton  to  my  care 
— that  you  are  unwilling  to  part  with  her  ?  Mr.  Ord,  I  did  not 
think  you  could  be  so  selfish." 

That  stung  him  in  a  moment. 

"  You  have  no  right  to  say  that,"  he  returned  angrily.  "  I  am 
not  thinking  of  myself.  Miss  Clinton  may  go  if  she  please." 

"  Do  you  think  she  will  go  against  your  wishes  T 

"You  must  take  your  chance  of  that,"  he  replied  coldly;  "I 
shall  certainly  not  argue  against  my  conscience.  I  do  not  believe 
Miss  Clinton  to  be  as  ill  as  you  and  Mary  make  out.  I  suppose 
I  have  my  own  opinion,  and  my  opinion  is  that  her  disease  is  partly 
mental.  I  don't  think  a  prolonged  absence  from  those  she  loves 
best,  and  the  society  of  strangers  " — again  a  stress  on  the  word — 
"  will  conduce  materially  to  her  well-being ;  but  I  have  no  objection 
to  her  trying  it." 

"You  have  every  objection,  you  mean,"  exclaimed  Rotha 
indignantly ;  she  could  not  quite  keep  her  temper — never  had  he 
been  so  provoking.  "  Why  do  you  not  say  at  once  that  none  of 
your  belongings  shall  ever  be  entrusted  to  my  care  1  Why  not  speak 
out  plainly  and  tell  me  this  ?" 

"  Because  I  cannot  be  so  churlish  to  a  lady.  Miss  Maturin, 
why  will  you  always  force  me  to  say  unpleasant  things?  You 
know  that  nothing  will  induce  me  to  accept  a  favour  at  your  hands; 
but,  as  you  choose  to  accuse  me  of  selfishness,  I  shall  certainly  not 
stand  in  Belle's  light ;  she  may  go  with  you  if  she  like." 

"Do  you  think  she  will  go  without  a  word  from  you?  One 
word  will  do  it,  remember ;  she  trusts  me  now.  Mr.  Ord,  you 
have  made  me  so  angry  that  I  do  not  know  how  to  entreat  you ; 
yet  for  Belle's  sake  I  would  entreat  you,  if  I  could,  to  say  that 
word." 

"  You  may  spare  your  entreaties,"  he  replied,  still  more  coldly ; 
"for  I  shall  certainly  not  persuade  her.  How  do  I  know  whether 
such  a  course  will  be  for  her  good  ?  Miss  Maturin,  I  cannot  help 
it  if  you  and  Mary  will  misunderstand  my  motives." 

"  I  understand  you,"  she  repeated  sadly.  "  I  feel  as  though  I 
have  known  you  for  a  hundred  years,  and  that  in  all  those  hundred 
years  you  had  never  said  a  kind  word  to  me,  as  you  never  will — 
as  I  feel  you  never  will." 

"Another  home  truth,"  he  replied  bitterly.  Her  reproach 
seemed  to  sting  him  with  sudden  pain ;  his  brow  grew  darker  as 
they  went  toiling  up  among  the  sand-hills  of  the  warren ;  now  and 
then  Rotha  stumbled  wearily  over  the  grassy  ruts. 

"How  tired  I  am !"  she  said  suddenly,  with  a  tremble  of  the 
lip  like  a  child ;  "  but  then  you  always  tire  me  so." 


DOWN  ON  THE  SANDS.  271 

"  I-am  sorry  to  hear  it,"  he  replied  coldly.  "  Pray  allow  me 
to  offer  you  my  arm,"  and  he  extended  it  as  he  spoke,  but  he  was 
not  prepared  for  the  fire  that  flashed  from  her  eyes. 

"  I  would  rather  walk  till  I  dropped — till  I  died,"  she  returned, 
"  than  take  your  arm." 

Her  face  was  crimson  with  shame  when  she  had  said  it ;  she 
was  hot  and  cold  all  over ;  that  she  should  be  betrayed  into  passion 
with  him,  that  she  should  have  spoken  to  one  of  them  in  that  way ! 
Oh,  if  she  could  only  throw  her  arms  round  Mary's  neck  and  confess 
her  sin;  she  was  so  miserable,  so  very  miserable.  Robert  had 
made  her  no  answer ;  he  had  dropped  his  arm  and  was  walking  a 
little  way  apart.  What  would  she  have  said  if  she  had  known 
that  he  liked  her  all  the  better  for  the  speech  1  It  was  as  though 
an  angry  dove  had  suddenly  flown  into  his  face  and  startled  him. 
It  was  her  unchanging  gentleness  that  had  always  goaded  him  so ; 
it  made  him  feel  so  desperately  in  the  wrong.  Yes ;  he  was  sure 
he  liked  her  the  better  for  her  petulance.  When  he  next  spoke  his 
voice  was  quite  gentle. 

"  I  think  you  have  had  your  say,"  he  returned,  with  a  smile 
that  was  not  at  all  frosty ;  "  supposing,  as  you  are  tired,  that  we 
go  home,  it  is  getting  quite  dark  now." 

Then  Rotha  turned  her  hot  face  to  him  very  humbly. 

"  I  think  I  should  ask  you  to  forgive  me,  if  there  were  any 
hope  of  your  doing  so,"  she  said,  with  the  sweet  dignity  that 
belonged  to  her. 

"  There  is  nothing  to  forgive,"  he  returned  quietly ;  "  I  like 
you  all  the  better  for  your  speech ;  I  deserved  it  for  provoking  you. 
You  and  I  never  can  get  on  together,  Miss  Maturin ;  we  are  always 
making  each  other  sore ;  but  I  had  no  right  to  be  so  savage  with 
you  just  now." 

He  wanted  to  hear  her  speak  again,  but  she  only  gave  him  an 
odd  wistful  look  full  of  yearning  pain.  Why  was  it  that,  with  all 
her  happiness,  she  longed  so  intensely  for  this  man  to  be  her  friend  1 
And  he — did  he  really  hate  her  as  much  as  he  thought  he  did  ?  Was 
this  bitter  antagonism,  this  strife  of  words,  bred  only  out  of  his 
hatred  and  his  pride  1 

He  wanted  her  to  speak  again,  and  yet  he  carped  at  her  every 
word ;  in  one  short  half-hour  he  had  run  the  gauntlet  of  his  passion; 
he  was  even  more  fiercely  weary  than  she. 

"  I  will  mention  your  plan  to  Belle  when  I  get  home,"  he  said, 
trying  to  rouse  her  from  her  apathy. 

Her  white  face  and  weary  bearing  seemed  to  reproach  him  more 
every  moment ;  that  cursed  temper  of  his— why  could  he  not  keep 
his  sarcastic  tongue  within  bounds  1  That  very  patronage  that 


272  ROBERT  ORD^S  ATONEMENT. 

irritated  him  so  was  meant  kindly.  She  looked  so  footsore  and 
tired  that  if  he  dared  he  would  have  offered  his  arm  again.  Once 
he  did  put  out  his  hand  to  save  her  from  a  deep  rut,  but  she  shook 
off  his  touch  almost  unconsciously. 

"  Perhaps  Belle  had  better  give  her  answer  herself,"  he  con- 
tinued still  more  gently,  as  he  noticed  the  movement. 

"No,"  answered  Rotha,  looking  hopelessly  across  the  long  dim 
waste  that  lay  before  her ;  "  there  is  no  need  for  any  talk  between 
her  and  me.  I  have  promised  Mrs.  Ord  to  come  up  this  evening, 
and  then  you  can  tell  me  yourself."  The  plan  had  lost  all  its 
interest  to  her  now. 

There  was  very  little  more  talk  between  them,  and  at  the  gates 
of  Bryn  they  parted.  Rotha  told  Meg  she  was  tired  to  death,  and 
shortly  afterwards  went  up  to  her  own  room,  and  Robert  went  to 
the  Vicarage  and  sat  down  beside  Belle,  but  he  did  not  at  once 
open  his  book. 

"  I  have  something  to  tell  you  first,"  he  said,  and  then  and 
there  he  told  her  of  Rotha's  plan. 

"How  kind — how  very  kind  !"  murmured  Belle,  and  a  faint 
colour  came  to  her  faded  cheek — a  touch  of  the  old  lovely  colour ; 
this  new  thoughtfulness  on  Rotha's  part  filled  her  with  astonish- 
ment and  gratitude.  As  Robert  talked,  a  feeling  of  hopefulness 
crept  into  her  heart — might  it  really  be  that  the  disease  could  be 
arrested  ^  She  had  heard  of  wonderful  cures  at  Mentone  ;  it  was 
a  long  way  certainly,  but  if  he  wished  it.  Rotha  was  right  when 
she  told  Robert  Ord  that  one  word  from  him  would  do  it. 

Robert  had  repeated  Rotha's  words  very  correctly,  and  no  one 
could  have  found  fault  with  his  manner,  although  it  might  have 
been  slightly  deficient  in  warmth.  He  put  before  Belle  all  the 
advantages  and  disadvantages  of  the  scheme  as  he  saw  them  him- 
self;  this  thing  was  practicable  and  worthy  of  consideration,  but 
another  would  not  do  for  a  moment. 

"  Now,  I  must  leave  you  to  decide  for  yourself,"  he  said ;  and 
Belle,  waking  up  from  a  rose-coloured  dream,  missed  a  certain 
enthusiasm  in  his  voice. 

"  But  what  do  you  wish,  Robert  1 "  she  asked,  looking  full  at 
him.  "  Of  course  I  shall  not  go  without  your  consent." 

"  You  have  my  consent,  certainly,"  he  returned,  but  his  manner 
was  decidedly  cold. 

"  And  your  approval,  I  suppose  ?  I  mean  that  you  wish  me 
to  go." 

"  Nay,  Belle,  that  is  putting  it  too  strongly,  my  dear.  Of 
course  I  cannot  be  enthusiastic  at  the  thought  of  our  being  sepa- 
rated perhaps  for  months,  but  if  you  think  it  will  be  of  benefit  to 


DO  WN  ON  THE  SANDS.  273 

your  health,  I  am  very  willing  for  you  to  try  it,  and  doubtless  Miss 
Maturin  will  take  good  care  of  you ;  but  it  is  a  long  way." 

His  voice  was  very  affectionate,  but  Belle  understood  him  in  a 
moment. 

"He  does  not  care  about  accepting  such  a  favour  from  her,"  she 
thought;  "but  she  is  kind,  very  kind.  You  are  right,"  she  said 
aloud,  "  it  is  a  long  way ;  and — no,  no — I  cannot  go  !"  Her  eyes 
grew  feverish,  and  for  a  moment  she  held  his  hand  convulsively 
between  her  own. 

"But,  Belle  !"  he  remonstrated. 

"  No,  no ;  I  have  decided.  I  can  see  you  do  not  wish  it  in 
your  heart.  I  never  meant  to  go  away  from  you — never,  Bertie. 
Don't  let  us  talk  of  it  any  more,  dear ;  now  read  to  me  a  little 
because  my  head  aches  so." 

He  could  not  refuse  her,  and  so  he  opened  the  book;  but,  as  he 
read,  the  sentences  were  meaningless  to  him.  Do  what  he  would, 
he  could  not  feel  easy  with  himself.  She  had  told  him  that  one 
word  from  him  would  do  it,  and  he  knew  what  she  meant;  but  he 
also  knew  that  no  such  word  had  been  spoken.  All  the  time  he 
had  been  conscious  that  his  manner  betrayed  him,  and  that  his 
words  lacked  enthusiasm.  What  if  the  time  should  come  when  not 
one  word,  but  a  hundred,  would  hardly  suffice  to  get  her  from  his 
side?  What  if  he  must  loose  her  clinging  arms  with  his  own 
hands  and  pray  her,  for  her  dear  love,  to  leave  him  ? 

What  are  the  shadows  that  darken  Robert  Ord's  face  as  he  sits 
reading  by  the  firelight?  They  are  not  caused  by  the  story  he 
reads,  pathetic  as  it  is.  No — he  is  down  on  the  shore  again. 
There  are  the  gray  salt  pools  stretching  into  watery  chains,  with 
their  tangle  of  slimy  seaweed.  Far  out  to  sea  the  black  rocks  lie 
unhidden  and  bedded  in  slime.  Faint  creeping  shadows  haunt  the 
sand-hills ;  their  green  tops  look  rugged  and  bare ;  a  rough  wind 
rushes  to  meet  them  as  they  plough  their  way  through  the  coarse 
vegetation.  A  slim  tall  figure  by  his  side  goes  swiftly  on.  What 
does  he  hear  1 

"  I  would  rather  walk  till  I  dropped — till  I  died — than  take 
your  arm." 

Were  those  the  words  she  used  ?  How  her  eyes  flashed  with 
brown  fire  !  He  could  see  her  tremble  as  she  said  it. 

"Robert,  how  tired  your  voice  sounds  to-night!"  says  Belle 
tenderly. 

Yes,  he  is  tired ;  there  is  a  terrible  ache  at  his  heart,  which 
he  cannot  understand.  By  and  by,  when  Belle  speaks  again  to  him, 
he  closes  his  book  and  sits  beside  her  moodily.  What's  this  weight 
that  has  suddenly  fallen  upon  him  ? 

18 


274  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

11 1  feel  as  though  I  have  known  you  for  a  hundred  years,  and 
that  in  all  those  hundred  years  you  have  never  spoken  a  kind  word 
to  me." 

With  what  pitiless  sweetness  the  voice  breaks  in  upon  him  ! 
Oh,  darkening  shadows  of  the  coming  years,  how  does  Robert  Ord 
read  them  1  Listen  to  a  w^ord  of  his  said  as  he  sat  alone  in  a 
strange  homestead  in  a  foreign  city  : 

"  Oh,  fool,  fool  that  I  have  been !  Do  men  gather  grapes  of 
thistles  ?  She  is  right ;  I  have  '  sown  the  wind,  to  reap  the  whirl- 
wind,' and  have  richly  deserved  my  harvest." 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

BTJKNLEY-TJPON-SEA. 

"  The  two  walk  till  the  purple  dieth 

And  short  dry  grass  under  foot  is  brown ; 
But  one  little  streak  at  a  distance  lieth 
Green,  like  a  ribbon — to  prank  the  down. 

"  Over  the  grass  we  stepped  unto  it, 

And  God  knoweth  how  blithe  we  were  ! 
Never  a  voice  to  bid  us  eschew  it : 

Hey  the  green  ribbon  that  showed  so  fair. 

"  Tinkle,  tinkle,  sweetly  it  sung  to  us, 

Light  was  our  talk  as  of  faery  bells — 
Faery  wedding  bells,  faintly  rung  to  us, 
Down  in  their  fortunate  parallels. 

"  Hand  in  hand,  while  the  sun  peered  over, 

We  lapped  the  grass  on  that  youngling  spring  ; 
Swept  back  its  rushes,  smoothed  its  clover, 
And  said,  'let  us  follow  it  westering.'  " 

JEAN  INGELOW. 

ROTH  A  never  spoke  to  any  one  about  her  conversation  with  Robert 
Ord. 

"  I  have  tried  my  best,  but  of  course  I  have  failed,"  was  all  the 
explanation  she  ventured  to  Mrs.  Ord ;  but  the  hurt  colour  had 
risen  to  her  face,  and  she  looked  so  troubled  that  Mary,  with  great 
delicacy,  forbore  to  question  her. 

Something  jarred  sadly  just  now  in  Rotha's  sweet  nature  j  since 
that  afternoon  on  the  sands — nearly  a  week — she  had  never  volun- 
tarily mentioned  Robert's  name.  It  was  apparent  even  to  others 
that  she  shunned  him  ;  she  could  not  bear  to  acknowledge  even  to 
herself  that  he  had  wounded  her  past  her  usual  patience,  and  in 
her  heart  she  tried  to  forgive  him,  but  it  had  been  very  hard.  It 
was  therefore  a  strong  proof  of  her  magnanimity  and  the  tenacity 
of  her  will  that  she  was  set  more  than  ever  on  doing  him  good  in 
spite  of  himself,  and  such  was  the  fixity  of  her  purpose  that  the 
man,  with  all  his  pride  and  obstinacy,  had  no  chance  against  her. 


276  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT, 

Experience  was  teaching  her  some  useful  lessons,  however.  He 
would  accept  no  favour  at  her  hands — that  was  what  he  had  told 
her;  well,  and  was  she  not  to  blame1?  She  had  been  too  blunt 
hitherto  in  her  offers  of  help ;  a  little  subtlety  of  stratagem  might 
be  advisable  in  raising  such  a  heavy  weight.  It  might  not  be 
possible  to  be  both  lever  and  fulcrum  at  one  and  the  same  time, 
but  at  least  might  it  not  be  within  her  power  to  set  other  agents 
at  work  ?  Botha's  girlish  wits  were  hard  at  work  again,  and  it 
was  not  long  before  the  opportunity  she  sought  presented  itself. 

Just  about  this  time  Rotha  received  another  invitation  to  Mrs. 
Stephen  Knowles',  to  one  of  her  far-famed  dinners  ct  la  Russe;  and 
Mrs.  Stephen  Knowles,  whose  soul  delighted  to  honour  the  young 
heiress,  intended  to  gather  an  assembly  of  the  choicest  spirits  that 
Blackscar  and  its  neighbourhood  could  afford,  and  it  was  to  be  a 
very  grand  affair  indeed. 

Rotha,  who  was  much  oppressed  by  the  magnitude  of  the  pro- 
ceedings, being,  in  spite  of  her  little  pomposities,  the  humblest 
creature  possible,  was  in  great  trepidation,  and  said  a  great  many 
naughty  things  to  Mrs.  Ord  about  Kirkby  and  Blackscar,  and  Mrs. 
Stephen  Knowles  in  particular,  killing  the  fatted  calf  in  her  behalf ; 
at  which  Mrs.  Ord  laughed  and  scolded  in  a  breath. 

"  If  the  fatted  calf  has  been  killed,  it  must  be  eaten,"  Mrs.  Ord 
affirmed  with  emphasis,  and  therefore  Rotha  must  have  a  new 
dress ;  for  Mary  was  always  lecturing  her  friend  on  the  duty  of 
keeping  up  an  appearance  suitable  to  her  station,  and  Rotha,  who 
knew  that  Mary  only  acted  as  the  Vicar's  mouthpiece,  and  who 
remembered  his  rebuke  as  to  the  lack  of  ornament  on  the  night  of 
the  tea-party,  had  consented  to  lay  aside  much  of  her  enforced 
simplicity. 

On  this  occasion  a  pink  dress  was  the  result  of  Mary's  eloquence 
— actually  a  pink  dress.  But  even  then  Rotha  had  refused  to 
deck  her  pretty  white  neck  and  arms  with  the  Ord  jewels.  "  I 
shall  wear  flowers,"  was  her  sole  answer  to  her  friend's  rebuke.  "  I 
feel  already  something  like  the  ugly  duckling  transformed  into  the 
swan  in  this  gaudy  dress ;  I  don't  believe  I  am  Rotha  Maturin  at 
all.  I  am  almost  glad,  after  all,  that  you  and  the  Vicar  will  not  be 
there  to  see  me."  But  Rotha,  as  she  uttered  this  little  bit  of  girlish 
silliness,  was  glad  that  she  looked  so  young  and  fair  in  the  pink 
dress,  and  went  off  quite  happily  when  Meg  and  Mary  had  admired 
her  to  their  heart's  content ;  and  it  was  certain  that  no  one  at  Mrs. 
Stephen  Knowles'  missed  the  lack  of  jewels. 

Most  of  the  guests  were  strangers  to  Rotha.  The  only  name 
she  recognised,  with  the  exception  of  one  or  two  of  her  Blackscar 
neighbours,  was  Mr.  Ramsay  of  Stretton. 


BURNLEY-UPON-SEA.  277 

Kotha  knew  all  about  Mr.  Ramsay  of  Stretton.  The  wealthy 
ironmaster  was  a  man  of  great  repute  in  the  neighbourhood ;  but 
it  was  not  the  thought  of  his  vast  capital  that  rilled  her  with  such 
interest.  She  knew  it  was  Emma  Ramsay  who  had  been  Belle's 
unsuccessful  rival,  and  how  Robert  Ord  had  refused  to  barter  his 
love  for  any  fabulous  number  of  thousands.  "Noble  fellow!" 
thought  Rotha,  with  a  sudden  warm  impulse ;  but  nevertheless  she 
felt  a  little  surprise  when  she  saw  Emma.  There  was  no  accounting 
for  tastes  certainly,  and  perhaps  at  that  time  Belle  Clinton  had 
been  veiy  beautiful,  and  not  at  all  faded ;  but  she  thought  Emma 
the  brightest-looking  girl  she  had  ever  seen. 

Yes,  Emma  Ramsay  was  there — Lady  Tregarthen  she  was 
now  ;  for  the  ironmaster,  disappointed  in  his  first  choice  of  a  son- 
in-law,  had  married  his  sole  remaining  child  to  a  young  Welsh 
baronet,  Sir  Edgar  Tregarthen,  a  young  man,  very  sturdy  as  to 
pedigree  and  very  small  of  person,  but  a  well-meaning  young  fellow 
on  the  main. 

Rotha  fraternised  with  Lady  Tregarthen  after  dinner.  Emma 
was  a  very  pretty  little  matron  now,  thoroughly  content  with  her- 
self, and  disposed  to  think  her  Edgar  the  very  impersonification  of 
all  that  a  man  ought  to  be.  She  took  a  fancy  to  Rotha,  and  made 
her  promise  to  come  over  to  Stretton,  where  she  was  now  staying 
with  her  father,  and  Mr.  Ramsay  afterwards  endorsed  his  daughter's 
invitation.  Rotha  liked  them  both  very  much  indeed ;  but  she 
liked  the  father  best.  She  admired  the  ironmaster's  strong  hard- 
featured  face ;  his  manners  were  a  little  uncultivated  perhaps,  but 
there  was  a  downright  sterling  honesty  about  the  man  that  capti- 
vated Rotha.  He  had  sat  beside  her  at  dinner,  and  then,  and 
afterwards,  he  had  been  much  disposed  to  talk  about  the  Ords ;  he 
seemed  especially  interested  in  what  she  told  him  about  Robert 
Ord. 

"He  is  a  good  fellow — I  believe  a  thoroughly  good  fellow,"  he 
said,  returning  to  the  subject,  when  he  had  brought  his  cup  of  tea 
to  the  sofa,  where  Lady  Tregarthen  and  she  sat  chatting ;  "  but 
he  is  a  man  who  will  stand  in  his  own  light  all  his  life,  foolish 
fellow.  He  might  have  been  driving  in  his  own  carriage  by  this 
time  if  he  had  consented  to  listen  to  any  one's  advice  but  his  own." 
Lady  Tregarthen,  who  had  been  talking  volubly  up  to  this  moment} 
looked  up  at  her  father  a  little  reproachfully  as  he  said  this,  and, 
whether  intentionally  or  not,  rose  to  join  her  husband,  who  was  at 
that  minute  talking  to  his  hostess ;  but  Mr.  Ramsay  did  not  seem 
to  notice  his  daughter's  slight  hauteur,  he  only  slipped  into  the 
vacant  seat  beside  Rotha  and  went  on  with  the  same  subject. 

"He  was  handsome  enough  then  to  have  married  any  one," 


278  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

he  continued,  as  though  pursuing  a  train  of  thought — "a  fine 
manly  fellow,  every  inch  of  him ;  half  the  girls  were  in  love  with 
him,  I  believe.  And  then  he  had  such  brains ;  they  would  have 
been  a  capital  to  any  other  man.  He  was  just  fit  to  be  the  head 

of  a  large  concern,  as  he  would  have  been  if  he  and  Emma 

By  the  bye,  Miss  Maturin,  did  you  tell  me  he  was  managing  clerk 
to  Broughton  and  Clayton  V 

11  Yes,  Broughton  and  Clayton  of  Thornborough,"  replied  Rotha. 
"  It  is  a  miserable  prospect  for  him  and  Miss  Clinton;  for  I  believe 
he  only  has  a  salary  of  a  little  over  two  hundred  a  year,  and  they 
have  been  engaged  for  nearly  five  years  already."  And  Rotha 
sighed  as  she  thought  of  Robert  Ord's  haggard  looks  and  Belle's 
faded  beauty. 

Mr.  Ramsay  gave  a  grunt  of  displeasure. 

"  Serve  him  right.  What  business  had  he  to  be  so  headstrong, 
and  turn  his  aunt  against  him,  as  he  did  ?  She  was  a  termagant, 
I  grant  you,  but  he  was  her  match.  Good  heavens,  Robert  Ord 
a  managing  clerk  at  Broughton  and  Clayton's — a  trumpery  concern 
like  that !  And  Broughton  has  two  sons  coming  into  the  business, 
I  hear.  That  was  another  of  his  obstinate  tricks,  taking  a  situa- 
tion in  that  way  instead  of  waiting  for  his  friends  to  help  him." 

"  It  is  not  easy  to  help  Mr.  Ord,"  began  Rotha  sorrowfully ; 
but  at  that  moment  Mrs.  Stephen  Knowles  had  come  up  and 
scolded  Mr.  Ramsay  for  his  monopoly  of  Miss  Maturin.  And  after 
that  there  was  no  opportunity  of  renewing  the  conversation ;  but 
at  parting  Mr.  Ramsay  shook  hands  with  her  very  cordially,  and 
begged  her  to  come  and  see  his  daughter  at  Stretton. 

"  It  is  only  a  drive  of  six  or  seven  miles  if  you  take  the  Leatham 
road  ;  and  you  are  obliged  to  air  your  horses,  you  know.  By  the 
bye,  is  poor  old  Sphinx  alive  still — the  bay  mare,  I  mean  V 

"Mrs.  Ord's  carriage  and  horses  were  disposed  of  after  her 
death.  If  I  come  to  Stretton  it  will  be  by  train,  Mr.  Ramsay," 
returned  Rotha  quietly. 

"  Well,  come  any  way,  so  that  you  come,"  was  the  good-natured 
rejoinder;  but  Rotha  saw  that  he  was  a  little  surprised  never- 
theless. 

That  night,  as  she  sat  alone  over  her  fire  reviewing  the  events 
of  the  evening,  she  thought  much  of  her  conversation  with  Mr. 
Ramsay,  and  of  the  strange  interest  he  had  evinced  in  Robert  Ord. 

"  He  has  a  powerful  influence,  if  he  could  only  be  induced  to 
exert  it  in  his  favour,"  she  said  to  herself;  and  there  and  then  she 
determined  to  go  over  to  Stretton  and  plead  Robert  Ord's  cause 
with  the  man  whose  daughter  he  had  refused  to  marry. 

"  Sir  Edgar  Tregarthen  is  a  much  better  match  than  Robert 


BURNLE  Y-  UPON-  SEA.  279 

Ord,"  thought  Rotha,  who  scarcely  knew  how  the  ironmaster  had 
coveted  Robert  Ord's  brains.  "I  daresay  he  was  a  little  sore 
about  it  at  first ;  but  by  this  time  he  must  have  forgiven  him — 
he  looks  so  good-natured,  and  so  does  Lady  Tregarthen."  And 
she  thought  for  a  moment  that  she  would  make  Lady  Tregarthen 
her  confidante. 

Rotha  slept  upon  her  resolve,  and  a  few  days  afterwards  she 
went  over  to  Stretton. 

Mr.  Ramsay  and  his  daughter  received  her  warmly,  and  she 
had  a  very  pleasant  visit. 

"  I  have  listened  to  all  you  have  told  me,"  Mr.  Ramsay  said 
to  her  at  parting,  "and  I  promise  you  that  I  will  think  over  it. 
It  is  easy  to  see  you  are  on  his  side — all  women  are — but  I  tell 
you  this,  that  if  it  had  not  been  for  his  confounded  obstinacy  he 
might  have  been  in  my  dead  boy's  place  by  this  time  :  he  was  so 
like  poor  Bob,  too ;  but  there,  it  is  no  use  fretting  over  spilt  milk. 
He  has  treated  me  very  badly,  but  a  man  will  have  the  choosing 
of  his  own  wife  after  all." 

"  And  you  will  think  over  it,"  repeated  Rotha  timidly. 

"  Yes,  I  will,"  he  returned  decidedly ;  "I  promise  you  as  much 
as  that.  But  I  am  not  the  man  to  do  things  in  a  hurry,  any  more 
than  I  do  them  by  halves ;  it  is  against  my  principles.  I  must 
turn  the  thing  well  over  in  my  mind  first." 

He  considered  a  moment,  and/then  went  on  : 

"What  sort  of  berth  do  you  think  will  suit  Robert  Ord — 
another  place  as  manager  in  a  larger  concern,  say  at  five  hundred 
a  year  1  Carter's  not  dead  yet,  but  he  might  be  superannuated ; 
or  the  same  post,  with  a  still  larger  salary,  in  the  house  of  a  con- 
nection of  ours — Fullagrave  and  Barton's,  who  have  a  large  branch 
house  in  America.  Fullagrave  writes  us  that  they  are  in  great 
want  of  a  man  who  is  honest,  and  long-headed  as  well;  his  Yankee 
manager  has  turned  out  a  failure." 

"  I  think  he  would  rather  stay  in  England,  for  Miss  Clinton's 
sake,"  returned  Rotha  thoughtfully. 

"  Humph  !  that  comes  of  being  tied  to  a  sickly  girl.  In  that 
case  we  cannot  do  so  much  for  him ;  Carter  may  object  to  being 
superannuated.  Well,  I'll  think  the  matter  over.  I  suppose, 
though  you  are  a  woman,  you  can  keep  a  quiet  tongue  in  your  head, 
eh?"  turning  on  her  with  good-humoured  brusqueness.  Rotha 
laughingly  assured  him  that  she  could. 

"Well,  well,  you  look  dependable ;  and  he  is  not  to  know  who 
has  done  him  this  good  turn — very  right,  very  proper,  I  understand. 
Now,  good-bye,  if  you  must  go.  I'll  undertake  that  Emma  shall 
not  forget  you,"  and  the  worthy  ironmaster  shook  hands  with 


280  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

her  till  her  wrist  was  nearly  dislocated.  She  was  too  happy  to 
heed  the  pain,  however;  all  the  way  home  she  assured  herself  that 
her  mission  was  successful,  and  that,  after  all,  Belle  would  get 
better,  and  would  be  married  perhaps  in  the  early  spring. 

Kotha  was  thinking  about  her  visit  to  Stretton  and  about  all 
manner  of  pleasant  things  one  day  when  she  was  in  an  odd  mood 
for  dreaming. 

Botha  was  sitting  on  the  root  of  a  tree  in  one  of  the  glens  of 
Burnley -upon -Sea — the  wild  glen,  as  it  was  called;  she  and 
Garton  and  Reuben  were  doing  an  afternoon's  gipsying  on  their 
own  account,  very  much  to  the  astonishment  and  scandal  of  Black- 
scar  and  Kirkby,  if  they  had  known  it,  and  somewhat  to  Mrs. 
Carruthers'  surprise. 

Rotha  was  very  simple  for  her  age  in  some  things,  in  spite  of  her 
wise  old-fashioned  ways,  and  Garton  was  just  as  ridiculously  inex- 
perienced. Meg  often  called  them  a  couple  of  children ;  and,  as  far  as 
freshness  and  originality  of  idea  and  a  certain  chivalry  of  thought 
were  concerned,  they  were  undoubtedly  an  excellent  match. 

For  they  were  both  fond  of  ridiculing  the  world's  fashions, 
and  they  both  retained  an  implicit  belief  in  the  goodness  of  human 
nature,  which  was  almost  pathetic  to  older  and  wiser  people. 

Garton's  creed  was,  that  man  was  made  in  the  image  of  God, 
and  that  therefore  there  must  be  a  certain  amount  of  goodness  in 
every  man,  if  you  only  knew  where  to  find  it.  Rotha  held  the 
same  creed,  with  a  private  reservation  of  her  own ;  for  she  thought 
the  Divine  Image  must  be  entirely  blotted  out  in  such  men  as  Joe 
Armstrong  and  Jack  Carruthers. 

She  told  Garton  horrible  anecdotes  of  this  latter  bete  noir. 
I  believe  she  regarded  him  as  a  sort  of  fiend  incarnate.  She  drew 
such  touching  pictures  of  Meg's  love  and  gentleness  that  Garton 
ever  afterwards  regarded  that  ungainly  woman  with  the  utmost 
reverence.  Both  the  young  people  always  treated  her  as  though  a 
visible  halo  surrounded  her  pale  sand-coloured  hair.  Reuben,  who 
was  at  a  tender  age  of  boyhood,  and  of  course  believed  in  all 
heroines,  from  Jael,  the  wife  of  Heber  the  Kenite,  down  to  Grace 
Darling  and  Florence  Nightingale,  was  rather  disappointed  that  a 
heroine  like  Mrs.  Carruthers  should  be  short-sighted  and  use 
eye-glasses. 

Rotha  was  Reuben  Armstrong's  heroine,  and  she  knew  it.  The 
boy,  though  he  still  remained  faithful  to  his  old  allegiance,  con- 
trived to  combine  with  it  a  great  deal  of  honest  devotion  to  Rotha ; 
in  his  half-holidays  he  was  often  up  at  the  house  of  his  young 
benefactress  with  Garton,  who  had  begun  to  go  in  and  out  of  Bryn 
very  much  as  his  inclination  prompted  him.  Rotha,  it  is  true, 


BURNLEY-UPON-SEA.  281 

never  invited  them  in  so  many  words,  but  she  would  welcome  them 
very  kindly.  She  used  to  brighten  up  at  these  unexpected  visits ; 
it  gave  her  a  curious  feeling  of  pleasure  to  see  Garton  Ord  making 
himself  at  home  in  that  house. 

Garton  often  made  Rotha  his  confidante.  The  poor  fellow 
would  blunder  out  all  his  troubles  to  her  in  these  morning  visits 
to  Bryn.  He  would  come  up  with  a  message  from  Mary  and  stop 
for  hours.  Meg  was  not  always  present  during  these  interviews. 
Poor  Garton  never  knew  what  real  womanly  sympathy  meant  till 
he  knew  Rotha.  Mary  was  always  very  kind  and  sisterly  with 
him;  but  there  had  been  a  flavour  about  her  kindliness  which 
seemed  to  hint  perpetually  at  that  want  of  ballast  on  his  part. 
Garton  always  took  her  advice  very  dutifully ;  to  do  him  justice, 
he  was  well  aware  of  his  shortcomings,  but  he  liked  Rotha's  sym- 
pathy best. 

Rotha  was  always  ready  to  listen;  she  took  him  under  her 
simple  patronage  in  a  way  that  would  have  astonished  the  Vicar 
if  he  had  known  it.  Garton  told  her  about  all  that  sad  illness  of 
his  that  had  preceded  his  examination,  and  how  he  had  failed  to 
pass  in  consequence ;  he  told  her,  too,  with  a  touch  of  compunction 
in  his  voice,  how  his  brothers  had  been  straining  every  nerve  to 
procure  the  means  of  giving  him  another  chance,  and  how  little 
hope  there  seemed  to  be  of  their  meeting  the  necessary  expenses. 

"  I  ought  to  have  gone  up  to  'the  last  examination,"  he  said  to 
her  one  day;  "  but  I  am  afraid  I  should  have  wanted  an  awful  lot 
of  coaching.  Austin  does  the  best  for  me  that  he  can  under  the 
circumstances,  but  he  has  his  boys  and  the  parish ;  he  is  too  hard- 
worked  as  it  is." 

"  What  will  you  do  1 "  Rotha  asked  him  on  that  occasion,  with 
much  sympathy ;  and  Garton  had  told  her  that  he  was  fast  losing 
all  hope  of  ever  entering  the  Church,  and  that  matters  were  now 
becoming  serious.  Austin's  income,  he  was  sure,  was  barely  suffi- 
cient for  his  own  family,  burdened  as  he  was  with  the  maintenance 
of  his  sister-in-law,  and  he  felt  that  he  could  no  longer  live  at 
Robert's  expense ;  it  was  therefore  a  mooted  question  whether  he 
should  accept  a  stool  in  the  office  of  Mr.  Slithers,  the  attorney  at 
Thornborough,  with  a  small  but  increasing  salary,  or  whether  he 
should  emigrate  to  New  Zealand. 

Rotha  did  not  like  the  idea  of  New  Zealand  at  all,  and  said  so 
frankly,  but  she  saw  that  Garton  himself  rather  inclined  to  the 
latter  proposition,  which  had  been  Robert's  idea. 

"  A  stool  in  that  close  dark  office  for  seven  or  eight  hours  a 
day — how  long  do  attorneys'  clerks  work,  I  wonder  ? — would  kill 
me,"  he  said  impetuously.  "I  suppose  I  am  as  fond  of  good 


282  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

things  as  other  men,  but  I  would  rather  live  on  dry  bread,  with 
plenty  of  fresh  air  and  freedom,  than  fare  as  Dives  did,  and  be 
cooped  up  in  Mr.  Slithers'  office  ;  why,  it  would  kill  me  !  "  And  as 
he  squared  his  shoulders  and  threw  out  his  strong  chest  there  had 
been  a  look  upon  his  face  which  had  compelled  her  to  believe  him. 

Oh,  how  Rotha  sighed  as  she  thought  of  that  surplus  sum 
lying  idle  at  the  bank,  which  caused  such  an  endless  correspond- 
ence between  her  and  Mr.  Tracy  !  Mr.  Tracy  was  always  worrying 
her  to  have  it  invested  in  some  Consolidated  Ironworks  Company, 
which  was  just  now  offering  large  profits  to  the  shareholders ;  but 
Rotha  begged  him  not  to  hurry  about  it,  as  she  thought  she  had 
heard  of  a  better  investment  than  the  Consolidated  Ironworks 
Company,  about  which  she  would  inform  him  presently.  I  don't 
know  whether  she  called  it  "  the  Ord  Fund,"  but  some  of  it  cer- 
tainly went  in  the  coal -bill,  and  in  that  cheque  at  Tyler  and 
Tyler's. 

Rotha  could  not  see  her  way  clearly  to  help  Garton  at  all.  An 
unmarried  young  lady,  however  rich  and  sympathising  she  may  be, 
cannot  offer  to  pay  the  college  expenses  of  a  penniless  young  man. 
Rotha  could  not  very  well  offer  her  purse  to  Gartou,  neither  could 
she  plead  his  cause  with  the  Vicar  as  she  did  in  Reuben's  case ; 
but,  all  the  same,  she  was  very  sorry  for  him. 

Garton  and  Reuben  were  going  over  to  Burnley-upon-Sea,  and 
they  asked  Rotha  to  join  them.  It  was  the  beginning  of  Decem- 
ber now,  and  it  was  their  intention  to  spy  out  the  fatness  of  the 
Burnley  woods  with  regard  to  mistletoe  and  scarlet  berries,  that 
they  might  make  a  descent  on  these  spoils  at  a  future  time,  before 
the  young  rustics  laid  ruthless  hands  on  them.  Rotha,  who  had 
often  heard  of  Burnley  but  had  never  seen  it,  agreed  without  a 
moment's  hesitation.  Something  was  said  as  to  Guy  and  Rufus 
joining  the  party,  but  at  the  last  moment  it  was  found  that  the 
Vicar  had  carried  them  off.  Rotha  had  often  been  out  with  the 
boys  before,  either  with  the  Vicar  or  with  Garton.  Guy  and 
Rufus,  and  now  Reuben,  had  been  anxious  to  show  her  all  their 
favourite  haunts.  She  and  Mrs.  Carruthers  often  joined  their 
shore-parties ;  but  to-day  Meg  had  been  tired,  and  Rotha  proposed 
leaving  her  behind.  If  Mrs.  Carruthers  had  her  doubts  of  the 
propriety  of  the  proceeding,  she  did  not  give  utterance  to  them. 
She  was  rather  too  simple-minded  for  a  chaperone;  and  then 
Rotha  looked  so  happy.  She  wore  a  red  cloak ;  they  wore  red 
cloaks  then — "  Colleen  Bawn,"  they  called  them — fussy  little  cloaks 
done  up  with  rosettes,  and  a  new  gipsy  hat  besides  ;  and  then  she 
would  carry  the  luncheon-basket,  which  she  had  provided  in  case 
they  should  get  hungry. 


BURNLEY-UPON-SEA.  283 

"  I  am  sorry  Guy  is  not  coming,"  she  said,  as  she  nodded  a  good- 
bye to  Meg,  "  for  I  have  put  in  some  of  his  favourite  cheese-cakes." 

She  chatted  away  gaily  to  Reuben  as  they  walked  to  the 
station.  Mattie  O'Brien  met  them  coming  along ;  she  looked  full 
at  Rotha,  at  the  scarlet  cloak  and  the  gipsy  hat  and  the  fresh 
girlish  face  under  it — for  Rotha  was  proving  that  even  a  pale 
complexion  can  look  fresh  sometimes  —  and  afterwards  she  looked 
at  Garton. 

"  What  was  Miss  Mattie  staring  at  ? "  asked  Rotha  merrily, 
when  she  had  passed. 

Garton  looked  at  her  with  a  little  blending  of  fun  and  admira- 
tion in  his  eyes. 

"  I  suppose  she  was  comparing  you  to  a  robin  redbreast  in  her 
own  mind,  Miss  Maturin ;  what  do  you  call  those  cloaks,  '  Colleen 
Bawn "?  I  am  glad  you  have  left  off  those  close  Quaker  bonnets ; 
they  make  you  look  like  a  female  Methuselah." 

"Did  Methuselah  ever  walk  with  Shem?"  asked  Rotha 
roguishly.  "  How  I  confuse  the  ages  of  those  old  antediluvians — 
those  giants  of  long  days  ! "  She  had  told  Garton  once  how  much 
he  resembled  the  wooden  Shems  of  her  childhood,  when  Noah's  ark 
had  been  her  one  Sunday  game ;  "  though  what  there  was  particu- 
larly pious  in  playing  with  diminutive  elephants  and  tigers  and 
Brobdingnagian  cocks  and  hens,"  she  continued  on  that  occasion, 
"  passes  my  comprehension ;  it  only  served  to  confuse  my  young 
mind  with  the  relative  sizes  of  things ;  for  a  long  time  I  believed 
an  ichneumon  to  be  far  larger  than  a  hippopotamus." 

"  What  a  droll  child  you  must  have  been ! "  Garton  replied. 
He  didn't  mind  a  bit  being  compared  to  Shem  when  he  strolled 
down  to  the  schoolhouse  in  his  cassock,  not  half  so  much  as  Rotha 
did  when  he  quizzed  her  little  black  bonnet. 

"I  never  thought  you  noticed  ladies  or  their  dress,"  she  said, 
with  a  little  natural  pique. 

"  No  more  I  do  generally ;  but  I  like  a  cosy  and  comfortable 
thing  like  that,"  pointing  to  the  red  cloak,  and  Rotha  felt  glad  her 
Colleen  Bawn  was  admired. 

Rotha  was  much  pleased  with  Burnley-upon-Sea ;  she  thought 
it  a  little  gem  among  watering-places.  They  had  a  turn  on  the 
pier,  and  Garton  told  her  how  the  cows  walked  over  the  sands  at 
evening,  and  they  looked  at  the  blue  sea,  all  flecked  with  sunshine 
to-day,  and  the  white  cliffs,  and  the  deep  green  ravine,  over  which 
they  presently  walked  on  their  way  to  the  beautiful  gardens  which 
are  laid  out  in  the  glen. 

"  The  glen  is  partly  cultivated,  you  see,"  said  Garton  as  Rotha 
wondered  and  admired  to  her  heart's  content.  "  In  the  season  the 


284  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

bands  play,  and  people  sit  about  on  the  grass  with  their  work  and 
books,  or  go  down  to  the  spring  to  drink  chalybeate  water ;  it  is  a 
perfect  paradise  for  nurses  and  children." 

Rotha  thought  it  must  be  a  perfect  paradise  for  other  people 
too  in  the  summer ;  even  now,  in  its  wintry  aspect,  with  its  leafless 
trees,  it  looked  very  pleasant.  She  would  stop  at  the  gardener's 
ground  to  inspect  the  flowers ;  she  filled  her  luncheon-basket  with 
hothouse  flowers  on  her  way  home.  By  the  gardener's  house  is  a 
turnstile  or  gate  which  leads  to  the  wild  ravine  or  glen ;  here  is 
nature's  cultivation,  aided  but  little  by  the  hand  of  man ;  a  long 
walk  winds  through  the  glen  for  nearly  a  mile ;  benches  and 
rustic  seats  are  placed  at  intervals  for  the  weary  pleasure-seekers. 
The  walk  ascends  slightly,  and  then  bends  downwards ;  on  either 
hand  are  nut-copses  and  blackberry-thickets,  dear  to  boy  and  girl- 
hood ;  everywhere  ferns  and  bracken  spread  their  gigantic  fronds ; 
down  below  a  tiny  rivulet  or  stream  splashes  a  hidden  way  among 
the  trees.  Rotha  longs  to  see  it  in  summer ;  the  winding  walks 
and  steep  descent  are  slippery  with  fallen  leaves  and  miry  clay ;  in 
the  drier  parts  they  crisp  the  brown  bracken  stalks  under  their 
feet ;  the  dead  leaves  lie  in  rotting  heaps  everywhere,  but  it  has 
a  wintry  beauty  of  its  own  nevertheless.  By  and  by  Rotha  grows 
tired ;  they  have  been  scrambling  up  and  down  the  steep  sides  of 
the  glen,  wading  ankle-deep  in  leaf -mould — the  sweet  decaying 
smell  is  everywhere ;  now  and  then  the  black  earth  gets  slippery, 
and  Garton's  strong  arm  is  in  great  request ;  sometimes  he  has  to 
put  back  the  sharp  brambles  for  the  red  cloak  to  escape  unscathed ; 
now  and  then  a  low  hanging  bough  obstructs  their  progress. 
Rotha,  who  is  very  fleet  and  sure-footed,  laughs  at  every  difficulty. 
The  birds  fly  out  from  the  thicket  at  the  sound  of  Garton's  answer- 
ing laugh.  Reuben  whistles  like  a  blackbird  himself  as  he  trudges 
after  them  with  the  luncheon-basket.  They  find  out  a  dry  sunny 
nook  presently,  looking  down  into  the  dell,  and  Garton  praises  the 
cheesecakes,  and  they  are  very  happy. 

A  pair  of  children  truly,  to  listen  to  their  talk  ;  Garton  makes 
believe  that  some  water  Reuben  has  just  fetched  for  them  is  from 
a  well-known  wishing-well  of  fairy  repute,  and  each  one  has  been 
challenged  to  propound  his  or  her  wishes. 

Reuben  states  his,  nothing  loath ;  his  ambition  is  eminently 
boyish,  and  refuses  to  soar  high ;  he  thinks  to  be  top  of  the  upper 
fifth  and  to  be  elected  a  member  of  the  football  club  must  be 
little  short  of  heaven — he  does  not  say  so  exactly,  but  you  can 
divine  it  in  the  brightness  of  his  eyes. 

"  Happy  Rube,"  says  Rotha.  She  gets  a  little  thoughtful  at 
this  juncture,  and  refuses  to  say  exactly  what  she  wishes. 


BURNLEY-UPON-SEA.  285 

"I  don't  think  there  is  much  left  for  you  to  desire,  Miss 
Maturin,"  says  Garton,  with  the  least  possible  approach  to  a  sigh ; 
"you  can  afford  to  set  the  fairies  at  defiance.  It  is  only  such 
unlucky  beggars  as  I  who  ought  to  long  for  the  old  wishing-wells 
back  again.  I  remember  when  I  was  a  boy  I  used  to  believe  in 
them — we  Northerners  are  rather  great  at  superstition,  I  can  tell 
you." 

"  You  have  not  told  us  your  wish  yet,"  said  Rotha  timidly. 
Garton,  who  had  been  pelting  Reuben  with  dead  leaves  all  the 
time  he  had  been  talking,  stretched  himself  lazily  and  looked  up 
at  the  blue  sky. 

"What  is  the  good  of  wishing  anything?"  he  said,  very 
disconsolately.  "Haven't  I  often  told  you  that  I  was  born 
under  an  unlucky  star  ?  It  is  to  be  hoped  there  is  a  place  for 
me  above,  for  I  seem  to  be  in  every  one's  way  down  here." 

"Oh,  Mr.  Garton ! "  says  Rotha,  much  shocked.  Reuben, 
evidently  accustomed  to  such  like  expressions  from  his  friend,  goes 
on  pelting  him;  Garton  puckers  up  his  forehead,  rocks  himself, 
and  finally  brightens  up. 

"  I  will  tell  you  what  I  should  like.  If  I  were  to  choose  my 
place  in  the  world,  I  would  live  all  my  life  at  Kirkby,  and  I  would 
be  Austin's  curate." 

"You  would  be  your  brother's  curate!"  exclaimed  Rotha 
She  was  astonished,  and  perhaps  a  little  disappointed,  though  she 
hardly  knew  why.  She  could  not  understand  a  young  man  being 
so  moderate  in  his  ambition ;  Garten's  simple  unworldliness  was 
almost  a  fault  in  her  eyes.  She  thought  he  ought  to  desire  to  be 
a  rector,  or  at  least  a  vicar.  Who  ever  heard  of  wishing  to  be  a 
curate  1  Mary  was  right.  She  was  afraid  he  wanted  ballast. 

"  Yes,  I  should  like  to  be  with  Austin,"  he  returned  in  answer 
to  her  exclamation ;  "he  and  I  would  pull  on  very  well  together. 
I  should  want  more  than  he  could  give  me,  though.  I  confess  I 
should  like  to  live  on  more  than  bread  and  cheese  all  my  life." 

"I  expect  very  little  would  content  you,"  observed  Rotha, 
wishful  to  draw  him  out. 

"Well,  I  don't  know.  I  should  not  consider  myself,  for 
instance,  'passing  rich  on  forty  pounds  a  year.'  No,  no;  poverty 
is  a  cross-grained  jade,  and  I  should  like  to  shake  hands  with  her 
and  part  for  ever.  A  man  with  a  healthy  appetite  may  live  on 
bread  and  cheese,  but  a  little  meat  is  good  for  him  sometimes  for 
all  that,"  and  Garton  rocked  himself,  and  looked  so  wise  that 
Rotha  stared  at  him. 

"  Bread  and  cheese  1 "  she  repeated.  "  What  nonsense  you  are 
talking!" 


286  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

"  I  don't  think  you  know  the  taste  of  bread  and  cheese  as  well 
as  I  do,"  returned  Garten  solemnly ;  "  and  when  you  do  take  it, 
it  is  not  with  the  rind  on.  Bless  you !  we  often  build  up  our 
castles  together,  don't  we,  Rube  ?  Rube  is  to  live  with  me,  Miss 
Maturin,  and  if  I  can  manage  it,  little  Johnnie  Forbes,  the  lame 
boy,  besides.  And  we  are  to  have  a  cottage  just  a  stone's  throw 
from  the  church,  with  a  garden  all  round  it,  and  a  bow-window  to 
my  study,  looking  towards  the  sea ;  and  Rube  is  to  have  beehives 
and  poultry,  and  I'm  to  have  a  big  telescope  and  a  dog ;  and  we 
are  to  bribe  Deb  to  come  and  keep  house  for  us.  When  Rube 
builds  the  castle,  he  always  puts  in  '  and  plenty  of  marmalade  for 
breakfast.' " 

"  For  shame,  Mr.  Garton ! "  says  Reuben,  with  a  very  red 
face  ;  but  it  is  a  very  favourite  castle,  and  he  chuckles  over  it 
nevertheless.  Rotha  looks  at  them  both  a  little  wistfully.  What 
a  pity,  she  thinks,  that  so  simple  an  ambition  cannot  be  gratified. 
She  goes  off  in  a  dream  presently,  but  Reuben  wakes  her  up. 

"You  might  have  had  the  cottage  over  and  over  again  by 
this  time,"  says  the  boy  reproachfully,  but  his  eyes  are  full  of 
mischief.  Garton  bursts  out  laughing ;  Rotha  looks  at  them  for 
an  explanation. 

"The  bow-window  wouldn't  look  on  the  sea,  though,"  says 
Rube  provokingly,  dodging  behind  a  tree  to  escape  Garton's 
missile ;  "  but  it  is  quite  within  a  stone's  throw  of  the  church ; 
and  you  know  what  Mr.  Robert  and  the  Vicar  said." 

"  Does  he  mean  Nettie  Underwood's  house  ? "  exclaimed  Rotha 
in  surprise,  and  then  again  Garton  burst  out  laughing.  He  was  a 
little  vague  in  his  explanation,  but  Rotha  afterwards  discovered 
that  Reuben's  joke  was  not  without  some  foundation.  Not  many 
months  ago  Nettie  Underwood  had  laid  rather  violent  siege  to  the 
young  sacristan — waylaying  him  -on  his  way  to  and  from  the  church, 
and  otherwise  making  his  life  a  burthen  to  him. 

Garton  had  always  been  indifferent  to  Nettie,  but  now  she 
decidedly  bored  him.  He  turned  sulky,  and  would  not  have 
anything  to  say  to  her  when  she  came  to  the  Vicarage,  bristling 
with  gay-coloured  ribbons,  and  armed  at  all  points  for  conquest. 
As  far  as  he  was  concerned,  Nettie  might  take  her  pink  cheeks 
and  bright  eyes  elsewhere ;  he  told  Robert  so  when  that  young 
gentleman  counselled  him  to  a  more  prudent  course.  "What 
should  I  do  with  a  girl  like  that,  who  chatters  from  morning  till 
night,  and  has  three-and-twenty  bosom  friends  1 "  said  poor  Garton, 
shrugging  his  shoulders.  Nettie's  little  vanities  and  follies  pro- 
voked and  perplexed  him.  "  If  I  marry  at  all,  my  wife  shall  be  a 
lady,"  he  continued,  with  a  dignity  never  seen  before  in  Garton 


BURNLEY-UPON-SEA.  287 

Ord,  "  and  not  a  girl  who  is  ashamed  of  her  own  Christian  name, 
and  who  laughs  and  talks  so  loud  in  the  church-porch  that  the 
churchwarden  had  to  reprove  her ;  and  that's  what  she  and  Miss 
O'Brien  did  last  Sunday,  Robert." 

"Nonsense!"  returned  Robert  sharply;  "your  wife  a  lady, 
indeed.  You  may  think  yourself  lucky  if  you  ever  get  one  at  all, 
Gar.  After  all,  beggars  ought  not  to  be  choosers;  and  a  good 
little  girl  like  that,  with  six  hundred  a  year  of  her  own,  will  not 
go  long  without  having  plenty  of  admirers." 

"  Let  her  have  them,"  answered  Garton  stoically.  "  If  I  am 
a  beggar,  I  won't  sell  my  beggar's  right  of  freedom  for  six  hundred 
a  year — not  if  I  have  to  take  Nettie  Underwood  with  it."  And 
he  made  this  resolve  so  very  potent  to  the  young  lady  herself  that 
Nettie  took  the  hint  and  ceased  her  blandishments ;  but  whether 
Garton's  plain  face  had  really  captivated  her  fancy  or  not,  she 
certainly  turned  a  little  sore  on  the  subject,  and  was  understood  to 
be  very  cutting  and  distant  to  the  young  manhood  of  Kirkby  and 
Blackscar  in  consequence.  Since  then  she  had  been  distinctly 
heard  to  declare  to  about  fifteen  or  sixteen  of  her  most  intimate 
friends  that  it  was  her  intention  to  live  and  die  Nettie  Underwood 
unless  she  could  meet  with  a  gray-haired  widower  of  about  forty- 
five  years  of  age,  of  independent  means,  with  a  soul  for  poetry,  and 
who  would  not  object  to  Aunt  Eliza. 

Rotha  had  not  understood  Reuben's  joke  in  the  least,  but  she 
did  not  forget  it ;  she  was  a  little  silent  over  the  sparring-match 
that  followed  the  lad's  mischief.  By  and  by,  when  they  propose 
walking  to  the  head  of  the  glen,  she  pleads  a  little  fatigue  still, 
and  begs  them  to  leave  her.  "  It  is  so  warm  and  sheltered  here, 
and  this  old  trunk  makes  such  a  comfortable  arm-chair,"  she  says 
in  the  childish  way  that  Garton  already  finds  so  irresistible. 
Somehow,  he  leaves  her  very  unwillingly;  the  sunny  motes  flit 
before  her  eyes  as  she  watches  them  disappear  between  the  slender 
tree-boles — Garton  has  his  arm  round  the  boy's  neck  as  usual. 
"What  a  young  David  for  such  a  Jonathan !"  thinks  Rotha,  and 
she  falls  into  a  dream  again.  She  is  thinking  of  all  the  foolish 
things  they  have  been  telling  her — the  bow-windowed  study,  the 
big  telescope,  the  garden,  and  the  beehives. 

Rotha  is  nearly  two-and-twenty  now,  but  she  has  never  really 
been  in  love ;  she  has  led  a  life  too  much  repressed,  too  prema- 
turely old  for  that. 

In  the  fairy  stories  the  prince  comes  to  the  rescue  of  the 
princess  shut  up  in  her  brazen  tower,  guarded  by  all  manner  of 
hideous  dragons.  What  delicious  old  stories  those  are ! — older  and 
bigger  children  read  them  again  and  again.  One  can  fancy  the 


288  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

stripling  wielding  his  enchanted  sword  till  the  noxious  reptiles  lie 
dead  at  his  feet :  the  little  princess  peeps  through  the  keyhole. 
What  a  golden-haired  blue-eyed  hero  he  is,  she  thinks.  Presently, 
when  the  brazen  doors  roll  back  on  their  well-oiled  hinges,  she 
will  run  into  his  arms  all  smiles  and  tears.  There  is  no  shyness 
or  nonsense  of  that  sort  in  fairy  tales.  The  princess  follows  the 
prince  through  the  world  if  he  holds  up  his  finger  to  beckon  her. 
"  Will  you  marry  me  V1  he  says,  taking  off  his  cap  with  the  ostrich 
feathers,  or  his  golden  helmet,  whichever  it  is.  "  Yes,  that  indeed 
I  will,"  returns  the  princess,  "I  am  so  tired  of  spinning;"  and 
then  he  gives  her  his  hand.  Ah !  there  is  the  white  palfrey, 
ready  saddled  and  bridled,  and  now  they  are  off;  the  wicked  fairy 
godmother  shakes  her  crutch  after  them,  but  she  has  no  power 
now.  Poof,  away,  true  love  for  ever !  Of  course  they  marry  and 
live  happily  ever  after,  in  the  good  old-fashioned  way. 

Nobody  comes  to  the  poor  little  princess  at  Miss  Bulks',  as 
she  sits  in  the  back  parlour  hearing  the  younger  children  strum 
their  eternal  scales  and  exercises.  Little  fragments  of  dreams  mix 
with  the  cracked  chords,  the  wintry  fire  burns  blackly,  the  room  is 
full  of  shadows.  C  minor,  C  major ;  you  must  not  put  the  pedal 
down ;  keep  your  wrist  a  little  more  elevated,  Miss  Carson,  please. 

Rotha  is  back  in  her  dream  again.  Through  the  dim  arcades 
of  her  fancy  comes  the  prince — always  the  prince.  Sometimes  he 
is  on  horseback,  sometimes  on  foot.  He  has  blue  eyes  and  yellow 
hair;  he  is  tall  and  black-bearded.  Sometimes  he  has  a  brown 
moustache,  like  the  stranger  who  was  at  church  yesterday.  He 
comes  up  to  her  and  holds  out  his  hand ;  he  tells  her  a  different 
story  every  time.  He  is  a  wandering  artist,  a  German  student,  a 
nobleman  in  disguise.  He  has  servants  and  carriages  and  horses  ; 
or  he  has  a  cottage  covered  with  perennial  roses.  Of  course  it  is 
the  same  refrain.  They  are  conjugating  the  same  old  verb  to- 
gether :  "I  love,  thou  lovest,  he  loves." 

"  I  can't  see  to  play  any  more,"  says  Miss  Carson,  yawning 
drearily,  and  Molly  brings  in  the  candles. 

Molly  has  her  dreams  too  as  she  blackleads  her  kitchen  stove. 
The  young  ladies  at  Miss  Binks'  confide  to  Molly  that  they  are 
in  love  with  the  slim-waisted  young  drawing-master,  who  has  flaxen 
hair  and  pink  eyes,  and  is  supposed  to  be  in  a  consumption.  One 
of  them,  Miss  Roper,  thinks  she  will  never  get  over  it. 

"  Lor-a-mussy,  Miss  Belinda  ! "  says  Molly,  smearing  the  black- 
lead  from  her  face,  "  when  you  are  older  you  will  know  the  differ- 
ence between  a  white-headed  little  stick  like  that  and  a  man. 
You  should  see  my  Jem." 

"  Do  you  remember  little  Em'ly's  idea  of  a  gentleman's  dress 


B  URNLE  Y-  UPON-  SEA.  289 

in  David  Capperfield?  'The  sky-blue  coat  with  the  diamond 
buttons,  the  nankeen  trousers,  the  red  velvet  waistcoat,  and  the 
cocked  hat,'  and  David  Copperfield's  youthful  fear  that  the  cocked 
hat  would  hardly  be  considered  appropriate  ! " 

Molly's  prince  had  a  wide  mouth  and  a  turn-up  nose  and  sleek 
shining  hair.  On  Sunday,  when  he  came  courting,  he  wore  a 
plush  waistcoat  and  a  blue  neckerchief  with  white  spots  as  big  as 
half-crowns.  How  Molly  gloried  in  that  neckerchief !  It  is  im- 
possible to  say  whether  she  or  the  pupil-governess,  Miss  Maturin, 
despised  the  slim-waisted  drawing-master  the  most. 

Rotha  had  her  dreams  too  in  the  dreary  London  house  where 
she  lived  so  long.  As  she  read  more  they  grew  brighter  and  more 
alluring.  She  would  extemporise  all  sorts  of  marvellous  stories  for 
herself  as  she  sat  gazing  at  the  red-hot  coals,  when  Mrs.  Ord  was 
having  her  nap  in  the  twilight. 

The  fire  burns  very  brightly ;  Rotha's  cheeks  glow  with  the  heat 
as  she  shapes  out  an  ideal  future  for  herself.  Does  she  see  the 
woods  of  Burnley-upon-Sea,  I  wonder?  Does  she  see  herself 
sitting  in  her  red  cloak  on  the  mossy  tree  trunk  ?  Who  is  this 
coming  through  the  dim  vistas  between  the  leafless  trees  ?  If  a 
prince,  a  sorry  one  indeed :  a  tall  figure,  broad  shouldered  and 
deep  chested ;  a  prince,  in  a  shabby  coat,  who  has  seldom  worn 
gloves  in  his  life,  with  a  brown  strong-featured  face,  with  dark 
closely-cropped  hair,  with  white  gleaming  teeth.  A  prince  who 
swings  his  arms  and  laughs  loudly ;  "a  prince  who  looks  like  a 
boyish  ascetic — half  monkish,  half  kingly." 

"  You  look  like  a  picture,  Miss  Maturin,"  says  Garton  Ord  as 
he  comes  up  behind  her.  "What  a  pity  I  am  not  an  artist. 
Rube  will  have  it  you  only  want  the  wolf  to  look  like  a  grown-up 
Bed  Riding  Hood ;  those  saplings  behind  you  make  a  sort  of  frame." 

"  It  is  getting  cold  now,"  says  Rotha.  "  I  thought  you  were 
never  coming."  Her  cheeks  have  a  pretty  colour  in  them  as  she 
rises  sedately. 

Down  they  go  through  the  deepening  twilight.  The  woods 
are  all  gray  now. 

"  We  shall  be  late  for  the  train,"  says  Garton,  looking  at  his 
silver  watch.  "  I  am  afraid  we  shall  have  to  run  for  it." 

He  holds  out  his  hand  to  Rotha — that  is  what  the  prince 
always  does  in  the  fairy  tale,  you  know.  Rotha  hesitates  a 
moment  before  she  takes  it.  I  suppose  it  must  have  looked  rather 
absurd — a  tall  gentleman  and  a  tall  lady  running  hand-in-hand. 

"Oh,  I  am  out  of  breath,"  says  Rotha  presently. 

"  Never  mind,  there  are  the  lights  of  the  station,"  pleaded 
Garton,  "just  one  effort  more." 

19 


290  ROBERT  ORD>S  ATONEMENT. 

"  Have  you  had  a  pleasant  day  ? "  asks  Meg  as  she  comes  out 
to  meet  them. 

"Yes,  very  pleasant,"  answered  Rotha,  with  a  shy  look  at 
Garton ;  "  but  we  nearly  lost  our  train,  though." 

"  Miss  Maturin  has  been  studying  the  picturesque  all  day.  It 
is  a  pity  we  never  met  a  soul,"  says  Garton  mischievously. 

"  How  do  you  know  that  I  had  not  plenty  of  company  when 
you  left  me  1 "  returns  Rotha,  with  a  smile.  "  Either  I  fell  asleep 
and  dreamt  a  little  while,  or  else  the  woods  of  Burnley-upon-Sea 
are  haunted." 

"You  looked  rather  as  though  you  had  been  dreaming,"  says 
stupid  Gar 


CHAPTER    XXV. 

A    STORM    IN   A   TEACUP. 

1 '  M. — They  make  this  thought  too  plain, 

They  wound  me — Oh,  they  cut  me  to  the  heart  ! 
When  have  I  said  to  any  one  of  them, 
I  am  a  blind  and  desolate  man  ? 

F. — Never,  my  brother — no 

You  never  have  ! 
M. — What  could  she  think  of  me 

If  I  forgot  myself  so  far  ?  or  what 

Could  she  reply  ?  " 

JEAN  INGELOW. 

NEITHER  Garton  nor  Rotha  was  likely  to  forget  that  day  in  the 
Burnley  Woods ;  very  serious  consequences  will  sometimes  result 
from  comparatively  simple  causes,  and  "  Be  sure  your  sin  will  find 
you  out "  is  an  adage  that  will  hold  good  to  the  end  of  time,  be 
the  sin  ever  so  venial. 

Rotha  had  no  idea  that  her  pleasant  ramble  afforded  food  for  a 
dozen  gossiping  tongues.  Blackscar  had  got  hold  of  the  whole 
affair  from  beginning  to  end,  and  was  making  the  most  of  it,  after 
its  usual  amiable  fashion ;  and,  quite  in  contradistinction  to  that 
wholesome  proverb  that  "Rolling  stones  gather  no  moss,"  the 
Burnley  story  grew  and  flourished  to  a  fabulous  extent. 

Miss  Mattie  O'Brien  had  met  the  little  party  on  their  way  to 
the  station ;  quite  by  chance  Miss  Mattie  mentioned  this  fact  to  a 
choice  committee  of  ladies  at  that  time  sitting  in  the  Travers' 
drawing-room,  and  Rotha's  red  cloak  and  gipsy  hat  were  dis- 
cussed with  a  zest  and  enjoyment  of  which  the  other  sex  can  form 
no  adequate  idea.  It  was  rather  singular,  therefore,  that  Miss 
O'Brien  should  repeat  the  same  story  at  Mrs.  Stephen  Knowles' 
and  at  Nettie  Underwood's ;  the  most  inveterate  story-teller  is  apt 
to  grow  weary  of  repetition — memory  becomes  treacherous,  a  little 
judicious  touching  up  here  and  there  becomes  absolutely  necessary 
and  heightens  the  interest.  Mystery  is  always  acceptable ;  a  word 


292  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

will  sometimes  imply  so  much.  The  last  person  who  heard  this 
titbit  of  scandal  was  a  deaf  lady,  Mrs.  Effingham,  the  widow  of  a 
half-pay  officer.  The  whole  story  was  shouted  through  her  ear- 
trumpet,  and  she  ever  afterwards  firmly  believed  that  Garton  Ord 
and  Kotha  were  engaged. 

Some  of  these  reports  reached  Kobert  Ord's  ears.  Young  Jack 
Effingham  often  went  by  the  same  train  to  Thornborough.  One 
day  he  formally  congratulated  Robert  on  his  brother's  brilliant 
prospects ;  Robert  was  first  incredulous,  and  treated  the  whole 
thing  as  a  joke — probably  a  hoax  on  Jack's  part,  and  then  he 
waxed  wroth.  Belle  told  him  she  had  heard  the  same  thing  from 
Mrs.  Effingham  and  Amy  Travers  j  she  could  not  understand  what 
had  given  rise  to  such  a  report,  neither  could  Robert ;  but,  all  the 
same,  he  determined  to  give  his  young  brother  a  hint. 

Robert  never  took  any  pains  to  disguise  his  contempt  for 
Garton.  Garton's  thriftless  ways  and  want  of  success  were  very 
sore  points  with  him ;  he  could  not  understand  a  sturdy  young 
fellow,  with  such  thews  and  sinews  as  Garton's,  being  content  to 
eat  another  man's  bread.  He  had  no  patience  with  what  he  chose 
to  consider  his  morbid  views ;  he  had  many  angry  arguments  with 
Austin  on  the  subject.  The  Vicar,  who  was  keenly  alive  to  the 
young  man's  faults,  was  yet  very  tender  over  this  intense  longing 
of  his  to  enter  the  Church,  and  was  always  inculcating  patience  on 
Robert. 

"  I  know  it  is  very  hard  for  you  to  have  this  burden,"  he  said 
once ;  "  but  we  must  be  careful  not  to  press  him  too  closely.  I 
fear  indeed  that  he  must  resign  all  hope  of  entering  the  Church ; 
it  is  more  application  than  ability  that  is  lacking ;  but  what  a 
faithful  priest  he  would  have  made !  Let  us  give  him  a  little  time 
to  get  over  the  disappointment,  and  then  you  can  speak  to  him 
about  Mr.  Slithers ;  but  I  think,  after  all,  the  New  Zealand 
scheme  would  suit  him  best." 

The  Vicar  had  made  the  foregoing  speech  at  the  time  that  he 
was  so  sorely  pressed  about  the  coal-bill,  and  since  then  Robert 
had  spoken  very  seriously  to  Garton  about  the  emigration  plan, 
which  Garton  had  taken  in  very  bad  part ;  and  there  had  been 
some  ill  blood  between  the  brothers  in  consequence.  Garton  had 
promised  to  think  over  it,  however,  which  he  did  every  hour  of  the 
day,  but  as  yet  he  had  arrived  at  no  determination ;  and  Robert 
was  just  getting  impatient  again  when  Jack  Effingham's  unfortu- 
nate speech,  and  the  absurd  reports  that  were  at  present  rife  in 
Blackscar,  made  him  more  than  ever  desirous  of  Garton's  obtaining 
some  useful  post  at  a  distance.  To  do  Robert  justice,  he  took  a 
very  unprejudiced  view  of  the  matter,  and  was  far  more  inclined  to 


A  STORM  IN  A  TEACUP.  293 

blame  Garton  than  Rotha.  "  Gar  has  no  right  to  be  always  up  at 
Bryn,"  he  said  to  himself  as  he  left  his  office  one  evening ;  "  of 
course  people  will  talk  about  it.  It  is  all  thoughtlessness,  for  he 
can't  be  such  a  fool  as  to  think  she  would  have  him.  Besides,  I 
don't  believe  Gar  cares  for  her  a  rap ;  why  couldn't  he  have  mar- 
ried Nettie  and  settled  down  like  a  sensible  man  1  Why,  I  am 
sure  the  girl  was  half  in  love  with  him ;  women  have  droll  tastes 
sometimes.  I'll  speak  to  him  to-night ;  he  has  no  right  to  allow 
Miss  Maturin  to  be  talked  about  like  this.  In  spite  of  his  stupid- 
ity Gar  is  a  gentleman,  and  I  can  touch  his  pride  there ;"  and 
Robert  buttoned  up  his  coat  and  looked  very  resolute  as  he  jumped 
into  the  Blackscar  train. 

About  an  hour  after  this  the  brothers  were  sitting  over  their 
comfortless  meal  in  a  nondescript  sort  of  apartment  upstairs  which 
went  by  the  name  of  the  study. 

The  dining-room,  where  Garton  ate  his  solitary  dinners,  was  a 
dismal  room  on  the  ground-floor,  as  damp  and  almost  as  cheerful 
as  a  vault.  Belle  never  entered  it  without  coughing ;  the  damp 
came  through  the  walls  in  dark  unsightly  patches — the  few  articles 
of  furniture  were  more  for  use  than  ornament.  The  carpet  would 
have  blushed  over  its  patches  if  it  had  any  colour  left ;  traces  of 
Garten's  muddy  boots  left  indelible  marks  here  and  there ;  no  fire 
ever  burnt  in  the  rusty  grate.  While  Garton  ate  his  dinner  he 
would  open  the  door  that  led  into  the  kitchen  for  warmth  and  com- 
pany. The  kitchen  was  the  only  bright  place  in  the  house — a 
long  low  room,  with  a  beam  across,  from  which  an  occasional  side 
of  bacon  or  a  York  ham  dangled  in  company  with  strings  of  onions 
and  bunches  of  sweet  herbs.  The  small  latticed  windows  were 
laced  across  with  vine-leaves,  and  the  door  opened  on  to  the  lawn. 
Garton  liked  to  dangle  his  long  legs  from  the  spotless  table  and 
talk  to  old  Sarah  as  she  shelled  peas  or  sliced  beans  by  the  hearth. 
Sometimes  on  a  cold  winter's  day  he  would  eat  his  dinner  there 
by  preference.  Sarah  and  he  were  great  friends ;  she  spent  hours, 
with  her  iron-rimmed  spectacles  on,  darning  his  dilapidated  socks. 
But  for  her  care  and  providence  he  would  often  have  had  a  scanty 
meal ;  he  would  deny  himself  proper  food  sometimes  to  leave  the 
joint  presentable  for  Robert.  Garton  had  a  healthy  appetite,  and 
used  to  make  up  with  bread  and  cheese.  Sarah  always  baked  a 
pie-crust  cake,  or  some  such  simple  delicacy,  on  these  occasions. 
When  the  old  woman  fell  ill  Garton's  attentions  were  almost  filial. 
In  the  winter  she  suffered  much  from  rheumatism ;  Garton  would 
black  his  and  Robert's  boots,  or  fetch  water  from  the  pump,  and 
do  many  a  menial  office  to  relieve  the  faithful  old  servant.  Per- 
haps the  highest  praise  that  Garton  Ord  ever  won  was  spoken  by 


294  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

old  Sarah.  "  He  mayn't  be  clever,  your  reverence,"  she  said  once 
in  her  droll  way,  "  and  nought  but  a  blind  fool  'ud  call  him  hand- 
some, but  when  it  comes  to  our  taking  our  places  at  the  Supper 
up  above  it  is  the  young  master,  God  bless  him,  that  will  be 
called  to  the  upper  chamber."  And  the  Vicar,  who  heard  these 
words,  drew  his  hand  before  his  eyes  and  said,  "God  grant  it, 
Sarah." 

The  study,  as  it  was  called,  was  a  tolerably  comfortable  apart- 
ment immediately  over  the  dining-room ;  and,  in  spite  of  its  shab- 
biness,  had  a  cosy  well-used  air  about  it. 

The  hangings  were  faded,  it  was  true,  but  there  was  plenty  of 
light ;  the  old  brown-stained  book-shelves  fairly  groaned  with  books. 
Robert  was  a  great  reader,  and  would  go  without  a  meal  to  purchase 
a  book ;  the  old  arm-chairs  were  capital  places  for  a  lounge.  In 
winter  the  kettle  sang  merrily  on  the  old-fashioned  black  hob,  and 
a  bright  fire  was  necessary  for  the  making  of  toast.  Garton,  who 
was  housekeeper,  butler,  and  gardener  in  one,  always  made  exten- 
sive preparations  for  his  brother's  comfort.  In  the  evening  he 
would  begin  his  proceedings  by  clearing  the  table  for  the  tea-tray 
— a  very  simple  process,  which  consisted  of  pitching  a  dozen  books 
into  a  corner  with  a  well-directed  aim;  this  having  tested  his 
muscles,  he  hustled  the  black  cat  off  Robert's  particular  chair,  and, 
turning  up  his  coat-sleeves,  proceeded  to  make  toast.  Amongst 
his  other  accomplishments,  Garton  considered  himself  great  at 
making  tea.  It  was  the  drollest  sight  in  the  world  to  see  him 
presiding  over  the  tea-tray  with  the  gravity  of  a  judge ;  it  always 
excited  Mrs.  Ord's  risibility.  He  would  peer  into  the  teapot  a 
dozen  times,  with  the  fragrant  steam  curling  round  his  nostrils, 
while  he  tenderly  stirred  up  the  brown  liquid ;  he  would  describe 
all  sorts  of  mysterious  circles  with  the  teapot  as  he  filled  the  cup 
— "to  be  shaken  before  taken  "  was  a  standing  joke  in  the  family ; 
he  never  talked  at  such  moments,  but  his  forehead  would  be  a  mass 
of  wrinkles.  He  had  a  knack  of  carving  a  bare  bone  of  mutton, 
too,  and  of  making  a  little  go  a  long  way.  Robert  knew  nothing 
about  the  bread-and-cheese  dinners,  but  he  often  praised  old  Sarah's 
economy,  and  wondered  at  Garten's  appetite :  the  pile  of  toast 
would  disappear  in  a  twinkling ;  Robert  would  look  up  from  his 
book  with  a  joke  at  his  brother's  expense.  Garton  shared  all  his 
choicest  morsels  with  old  Cinders,  the  black  cat.  Cinders  would 
sit  for  hours  on  the  arm  of  his  chair,  purring  softly  if  he  touched 
her.  Garton  would  drink  his  last  cup  of  tea  without  milk  that 
Cinders  might  have  her  saucerful. 

Robert  rarely  made  more  than  one  or  two  remarks  during  the 
course  of  tea ;  he  liked  his  book  better  than  Garten's  conversation  ; 


A  STORM  IN  A  TEACUP.  295 

they  seldom  agreed  on  the  same  point,  and  wrangling  is  apt  to  be 
tiresome.  On  this  occasion,  however,  Robert  seemed  inclined  to 
depart  from  his  usual  rule ;  for,  as  he  passed  his  cup  to  be  refilled, 
he  asked  Garton,  with  some  appearance  of  interest,  what  he  had 
been  doing  all  day. 

Garton,  who  was  peering  into  the  depths  of  the  teapot,  oscil- 
lated it  gently  from  side  to  side  before  he  answered. 

"  Doing  ?  oh,  much  as  usual ;  it  was  Wednesday  morning,  and 
we  had  Litany,  and  a  funeral ;  and  I  dug  up  the  new  onion-bed 
before  dinner,  and  cut  up  some  more  firewood;  and  afterwards 
Rube  and  I  went  up  to  Bryn  and  took  the  ladies  down  to  the  shore. 
It  was  such  a  glorious  afternoon.  I  have  only  just  got  back ;  they 
asked  Rube  to  stay  to  tea."  Garton  might  have  added,  with  per- 
fect truth,  that  he  had  been  much  aggrieved  that  the  invitation 
had  not  been  extended  to  him.  But  Rotha,  who  had  been  a  little 
shy  with  him  ever  since  the  day  in  the  Burnley  Woods,  had 
prudently  refrained  from  such  asking,  as  Mrs.  Carruthers  would  be 
away. 

This  was  the  opportunity  that  Robert  wanted ;  he  had  decided 
to  give  his  brother  this  hint,  and  he  had  determined  also  on  two 
things — he  would  speak  very  plainly  to  Garton,  so  that  there  should 
be  no  misunderstanding  of  his  meaning ;  and  he  would  take  care 
to  preserve  his  good  temper,  that  Garton  should  have  no  excuse  for 
any  sullenness.  He  commence^  the  conversation  therefore  very 
good-humouredly. 

"  Gar,  my  dear  fellow,  I  hope  you  will  not  take  it  amiss,  but 
I  want  to  say  a  word  or  two  to  you  on  that  subject."  Garton, 
who  was  giving  Cinders  her  tea,  looked  up  rather  surprised. 

"About  Rube,  do  you  mean?" 

"  No,  about  Miss  Maturin,  and  I  hope  you  will  not  mind  my 
speaking  very  plainly;  but  you  have  no  idea  how  people  are 
talking." 

"Why  shouldn't  people  talk1?"  returned  Gar  stupidly.  He 
had  not  the  faintest  suspicion  of  his  brother's  meaning.  Robert 
looked  disposed  to  be  annoyed  for  a  moment,  but  he  repressed  his 
impatience  and  went  on  : 

"  No  man — no  gentleman,  I  mean — is  justified  in  allowing  a 
woman  to  be  talked  about  as  people  are  talking  about  Miss  Maturin. 
Do  you  know  what  Jack  Effingham  had  the  impudence  to  say  the 
other  day?" 

"Not  I;  Jack  is  impudent  enough  for  anything,"  returned 
Gar  indifferently. 

"  Jack  is  a  keen  observer,  and  a  man  of  the  world  in  spite  of 
his  youth  ;  which  is  more  than  I  can  say  of  you,"  returned  Robert, 


296  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

exasperated  by  Garten's  unconsciousness  ;  "  and  of  course,  when  he 
congratulated  me  on  my  brother's  brilliant  prospects  in  life,  and 
Mrs.  Effingham  and  Amy  Travers  said  much  the  same  sort  of  thing 
to  Belle,  they  must  have  had  some  ground  for  their  speech." 

"What  did  Jack  mean?"  asked  Garten,  now  thoroughly  be- 
wildered ;  but  he  grew  a  little  hot  nevertheless.  Robert  was  driving 
at  something  certainly. 

"Why,  he  only  repeated  what  other  people  are  saying — his 
mother  and  Amy  Travers,  for  example — that  you  and  Miss  Maturin 
are  on  the  eve  of  an  engagement." 

What  made  Garton  turn  so  suddenly  palel  Did  the  arrow 
shoot  home  ? 

"  Oh,  Bob,  they  never  said  that  surely  !" 

"  Indeed  they  did,  Gar.  I  can  vouch  for  it  that  Jack  believed 
it  too;  he  was  quite  crestfallen  when  I  pooh-poohed  it.  I  had 
some  difficulty  in  persuading  him  that  such  an  idea  had  never 
entered  your  head." 

"  How  dare  people  tell  such  lies  ?"  interrupted  Garton  warmly. 

"  They  think  they  are  speaking  the  truth.  Don't  get  hot  about 
it,  my  dear  boy,  but  let  us  think  how  we  are  to  put  a  stop  to  the 
scandal.  I  don't  mind  telling  you  the  whole  thing  touches  my 
pride  very  closely ;  that  one  of  the  Ords  should  be  accused  of 
fortune-hunting ;  that  a  beggar — forgive  my  speaking  plainly,  Gar 
— should  be  courting  an  heiress,  and  she  Miss  Maturin  !  No ;  it 
cannot  be  borne  for  a  moment.  Don't  you  see  for  yourself  now 
how  wrong  you  have  been  1" 

The  unusual  paleness  still  overspread  Garton's  face;  it  was 
easy  to  see  the  unexpected  accusation  sorely  troubled  and  bewil- 
dered him;  but  at  his  brother's  last  words  he  raised  his  head 
indignantly. 

"  Wrong  !  I  am  always  wrong,  but  I  don't  exactly  know  how. 
Come,  out  with  it,  Bob.  I  can  see  you  think  I  have  been  to 
blame." 

"  You  have  assuredly  been  to  blame,  Garton." 

"  What !  You  dare  to  insinuate  that  this  has  been  the  reason 
of  my  visits  to  Bryn  ¥'  And  Gar's  dark  eyes  flashed  with  a  look 
never  seen  in  them  before.  Robert  liked  this  display  of  pride  in 
his  young  brother ;  it  showed  some  degree  of  manliness.  His  next 
words  were  spoken  most  kindly. 

"  Hush  !  sit  down,  Gar — what  is  the  use  of  losing  your  temper  1 
Of  course  I  don't  accuse  you  of  such  meanness — are  you  not  an 
Ord!" 

"  If  you  had  meant  it "  returned  Gar  more  calmly,  as  he 

reseated  himself. 


A  STORM  IN  A   TEACUP.  297 

"Well,  what  then?"  interrupted  Robert,  with  a  laugh;  for 
Garton  did  not  seem  inclined  to  finish  his  sentence. 

"Oh,  nothing;  but  I  wouldn't  have  broken  bread  with  you 
after  such  an  insult — that  is  all.  I  may  be  a  beggar — thank  you 
for  reminding  me  of  the  fact — but  I  am  not  an  unprincipled 
one.  I  was  always  under  the  impression  that  I  was  a  gentle- 
man." 

"  So  you  are,  Gar,  every  inch  of  one,"  returned  Robert,  anxious 
to  soothe  his  brother's  hurt  pride ;  he  never  respected  Garton  more 
than  during  this  little  ebullition  of  natural  resentment.  It  was 
not  Robert's  words,  but  some  strong  undercurrent  of  feeling  that 
made  Garton  so  sore. 

"  If  I  blame  you,"  went  on  Robert,  "it  is  for  want  of  thought 
and  due  consideration  of  what  is  owing  to  a  woman ;  you  are  so 
unlike  other  men,  and  have  led  so  strange  a  life,  that  I  hardly 
know  how  to  make  you  see  this ;  but  I  can  only  repeat  that  you 
have  quite  forgotten  your  position  with  regard  to  Miss  Maturin. 
May  I  speak  more  plainly  V1 

"  I  think  you  are  sufficiently  plain,  Robert." 

"  All  the  same,  I  cannot  allow  you  to  misunderstand  my  mean- 
ing, Gar.  I  am  eight  years  older  than  you,  and  have  eight  more 
years'  experience — that  ought  to  go  for  something ;  and  I  tell  you 
this,  that  no  one  but  an  accepted  lover  ought  to  be  doing  what 
you  are  doing." 

"  Does  friendship  go  for  nothing,  then  1  I  think  you  forget 
that  Miss  Maturin  and  I  have  been  friends  from  the  first.  Austin 
and  Mary  know  that  I  visit  at  Bryn ;  they  have  never  found  fault 
with  me." 

"Neither  should  I  if  you  were  prudent  in  respect  to  those 
visits.  I  don't  think  either  Austin  or  Mary  knows  how  often  you 
are  at  Bryn — of  those  daily  visits,  daily  walks,  and  long  excursions. 
Do  you  think  Blackscar  and  Kirkby  don't  draw  the  only  natural 
conclusion  from  all  this  1  Of  course  people's  tongues  are  loud  on 
the  subject.  Jack  had  a  good  foundation  for  believing  that  you 
and  Miss  Maturin  were  engaged." 

A  hot  flush  passed  across  Garten's  swarthy  face ;  there  was  a 
tight  pain  at  his  heart  that  nearly  suffocated  him.  Were  all  these 
pleasant  visits,  these  delightful  rambles,  to  be  given  up?  His 
voice  was  changed  and  husky  when  he  next  spoke.  Robert  thought 
his  manner  very  strange. 

"I  am  afraid  you  are  right,  Bob  ;  I  have  been  very  thought- 
less." He  kept  his  face  averted  from  his  brother,  and  went  on, 
"  I  forgot  that  people  are  fond  of  meddling  in  our  business.  I 
thought  an  Ord  would  be  above  such  a  suspicion,  but  I  see  they 


298  ROBERT  OR&S  ATONEMENT. 

have  misjudged  me.     I  think  Miss  Maturin  would  be  grieved  if 
she  knew  of  what  I  was  accused." 

"  Every  one  would  not  consider  you  a  fortune-hunter,"  returned 
Robert  in  a  tone  so  meaning  that  Garton  stared  at  him  in  surprise. 
"  They  might  think — I  am  only  supposing  a  case,  you  know — but 
they  might  think,  Miss  Maturin  being  young  and  not  so  bad  looking 
— at  least  it  would  be  a  more  natural  conclusion — that — that  you, 
in  fact,  had  fallen  in  love  with  her."  And  Robert,  who  had  strong 
suspicions  during  the  last  few  minutes  that  his  brother  was  not 
quite  so  indifferent  as  he  had  at  first  imagined,  looked  steadily  at 
Garton ;  but  Garton  met  his  eyes  almost  fiercely. 

"Well,  what  then?"  he  replied,  clenching  his  hand  rather 
unnecessarily. 

"  Only — only  that  you  would  escape  with  a  scorching,  that  is 
all.  Don't  go  into  a  passion,  Gar ;  I  am  only  guessing  at  othei 
people's  thoughts." 

"  Or  retailing  your  own — which  1 "  replied  Garton  in  the  same 
fiery  tone.  "  Look  here,  Robert ;  you  mean  well,  I  believe.  You 
think  you  are  pulling  me  out  of  the  fire,  eh  ?  and  you  want  to  do 
me  a  good  turn.  But  you  are  not  doing  it  in  the  pleasantest  sort 
of  way.  You  are  insinuating  that  I  am  a  fool,  and  that  I  have 
been  a  fool  all  along.  So  I  have,  but  an  innocent  one.  I  have 
thought  it  no  wrong  to  indulge  a  harmless  friendship — only  a 
friendship,  Robert.  Miss  Maturin  has  been  very  good  to  me  "- 
his  voice  trembled  a  moment — "  and  it  is  my  nature  to  be  grateful 
for  kindness.  If  the  world  chooses  to  misunderstand  it,  it  is  more 
of  a  fool  than  I." 

"  My  dear  fellow,  no  one  but  you  can  afford  to  set  its  opinion 
at  naught.  Depend  upon  it,  '  in  the  multitude  of  counsellors  there 
is  wisdom;'  one  cannot  dispense  with  its  rules." 

"I  have  never  meant  to  dispense  with  them,  Robert.  If  I  did 
not  follow  your  advice  now  I  know  what  I  know,  I  should  be  more 
of  a  knave  than  a  fool.  In  future  you  will  not  have  need  to  com- 
plain of  my  frequent  visits  to  Bryn." 

Robert  looked  pleased.  He  really  had  his  brother's  welfare  at 
heart. 

"That's  right,  old  fellow,  you  have  taken  my  advice  very 
sensibly,  and  it  is  first-rate  of  you."  But  Garton  did  not  respond 
very  cordially. 

"Yes,  it  is  all  right.  I  suppose  I  ought  to  thank  you  for 
making  me  so  uncomfortable,  but  I  will  tell  you  the  honest  truth. 
I  would  snap  my  fingers  at  Blackscar  and  its  old  women's  tales 
if  it  were  not  for  the  fear  that  it  might  do  her  harm,  and  that  per- 
haps in  time  she  might  get  to  believe  it.  No,  I  couldn't  stand 


A  STORM  IN  A  TEACUP.  299 

that.  Besides,  there  is  the  danger  of  scorching,  you  know."  And 
Garton  laughed  a  hard  bitter  laugh,  that  had  more  pain  than  merri- 
ment in  its  sound,  and  which  made  Robert  look  at  him  again ;  and 
then  he  got  up  and  put  his  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"  Gar,  old  fellow,  I  have  not  quite  finished  my  advice." 

"Haven't  you,  Bob?" 

"  No,  the  hardest  part  remains ;  don't  think  me  cruel,  lad.  I 
only  speak  for  your  good.  But  do  think  once  again  of  the  emigra- 
tion business." 

"  I  knew  that  was  coming,  Robert."  His  face  was  paler  than 
ever,  and  he  set  his  teeth  hard. 

"  Gar,  dear  boy,  I  swear  I  only  mean  it  for  your  good ;  you 
are  wasting — rusting  here.  Better  go  away." 

"Why?"  asked  Garton  moodily;  but  Robert  drew  his  arm 
round  his  neck  as  though  they  were  boys  again ;  and  then  he 
stooped  down  to  the  dark  cropped  head  and  whispered  something 
very  low  in  his  ear. 

What  made  Garton  suddenly  look  up  and  wring  his  brother's 
hand? 

"  Too  late  !  God  bless  you,  Robert.  Yes,  I  will  go  anywhere 
— anywhere;  but  she  shall  never  know  why — never,  never  !" 


CHAPTER   XXVI. 

IN    THE   DARK. 

'*  No  backward  path  ;  ah,  no  returning, 

No  second  crossing  that  ripples  flow  : 
'  Come  to  me  now,  for  the  west  is  burning ; 
Come,  ere  it  darkens  :  ah,  no  !  ah,  no  ! ' 

"  Then  cries  of  pain,  and  arms  outstretching — 

The  beck  grows  wider,  and  swift  and  deep — 
Passionate  words  as  of  one  beseeching — 

The  loud  beck  drowns  them  :  we  walk  and  weep. 

"  Farther — farther  :  I  see  it — I  know  it — 

My  eyes  brim  over,  it  melts  away  : 
Only  my  heart  to  my  heart  shall  show  it, 
As  I  walk  desolate  day  by  day. " 

JEAN  INGELOW. 

ROBERT  rather  congratulated  himself  on  having  done  a  good  stroke 
of  business  that  night ;  he  had  struck  when  the  iron  was  hot.  He 
drew  a  long  breath  of  relief  when  his  brother  had  left  the  room. 

"  I  have  brought  him  to  his  senses  about  the  emigration  plan. 
Thank  heaven,  that  bit  of  troublesome  business  is  over  for  good 
and  all,"  he  ejaculated  devoutly.  "Poor  old  Gar  !"  he  continued, 
with  a  pang  of  natural  sympathy ;  "  who  would  have  imagined  that 
he  would  have  been  so  bitten  V 

And  he  thought  with  some  degree  of  bitterness  of  the  hand 
that  had  dealt  this  fresh  blow.  His  heart  was  full  of  pity  as  he 
heard  Garton's  restless  footsteps  overhead.  He  lay  and  listened  to 
them  far  into  the  night ;  a  touch  of  compunction  haunted  him  as 
those  weary  footsteps  passed  to  and  fro.  He  was  glad  to  remember 
now  that  his  words  had  been  wise  and  temperate ;  considering  ail 
things,  he  had  rebuked  Garton's  thoughtlessness  very  mildly ;  the 
poor  fellow's  hot  denials  and  reproaches,  his  indignant  refutations, 
his  irate  defence,  had  been  far  from  displeasing  to  the  elder  brother, 

"  I  did  not  think  he  had  so  much  in  him,"  he  said  to  himself 
over  and  over  again. 


IN  THE  DARK.  301 

Robert's  sympathy  was  very  real ;  but  he  had  no  conception 
of  the  fierce  misery  that  was  making  the  night  a  long  torment  to 
Garton.  The  incessant  movement,  the  long  restless  strides,  the 
hasty  stumbles  in  the  darkness,  when  the  candle  had  guttered  to 
its  feeble  end,  were  so  many  proofs  of  the  intolerable  feelings  of 
the  young  man,  who  took  no  heed  of  the  cold  and  darkness — grop- 
ing from  end  to  end  of  the  narrow  room  in  a  blind  helpless  way. 

Sometimes  he  stood,  with  folded  arms,  looking  blankly  through 
the  darkness,  or  rocking  himself  in  his  old  accustomed  manner.  A 
little  glimmer  of  light  from  a  street  lamp  cut  into  the  darkness 
and  showed  him  like  a  swaying  gray  shadow  on  the  wall.  A  dull 
surging  broke  the  silence.  Under  the  lamp  there  was  a  stretch  of 
white  shining  road ;  a  barrier  of  darkness  seemed  to  close  it  in. 
As  he  stood  and  looked  out  at  it  a  dull  hopeless  gloom  seemed  to 
settle  round  his  heart  and  rob  him  of  all  courage. 

He  wondered  now  how  it  had  come  about.  Robert's  shrewd- 
ness had  brought  this  sudden  revelation  of  his  own  feelings  home 
to  him.  He  was  racking  his  memory  to  discover  when  it  was 
that  he  first  loved  her ;  but  his  mind  was  too  confused,  his  pain 
too  real,  to  follow  out  any  given  clue  of  reasoning.  He  had  called 
his  love  friendship,  and  under  this  disguise  had  tasted  of  her 
sympathy  and  found  it  very  sweet.  He  had  blundered  out  all 
his  troubles  to  her  with  an  eagerness  that  should  have  revealed 
his  own  feelings.  No  other  woman  had  ever  seemed  so  sweet  and 
gracious  to  him.  And  now  all  this  pleasantness  of  intercourse 
.must  be  broken  up.  She  was  the  light  of  his  eyes  and  the  desire 
of  his  heart — ah,  he  knew  this  now.  The  one  woman  whom  he 
could  and  would  have  dared  to  love,  despite  his  beggary,  but  who 
was  never  to  know — never,  never — that  he  had  so  dared  to  love  her. 

He  wondered  with  a  sort  of  terror  how  he  should  bid  her 
good-bye.  A  sudden  anguish  filled  him  as  he  thought  of  her  youth 
and  graciousness.  What  a  simple  kindly  friendship  had  existed 
between  them  !  On  his  side  he  had  always  been  very  loyal,  but 
with  a  sturdy  independence  of  opinion  which  she  had  found  amus- 
ing. What  nonsense  he  had  talked  to  her,  and  how  patient  she 
had  always  been  with  him !  She  had  never  been  weary  of  his 
discontent  and  moodiness.  Her  eyes  would  shine  with  a  tender 
pity  as  he  blurted  out  his  grievances.  She  always  seemed  pleased 
to  see  him,  no  matter  how  troublesome  he  had  been.  She  would 
meet  him  half  a  dozen  times  a  day  with  the  same  shy  bright 
smile ;  a  kind  hand  would  be  put  out  frankly  to  him.  Sometimes 
she  would  indulge  in  a  little  joke  at  his  expense,  but  the  joke  never 
hurt  him. 

He  thought  of  that  day  in  the  Burnley  Woods,  and  the  wonder 


302  ROBERT  ORD^S  ATONEMENT. 

with  which  she  had  regarded  his  simple  castle-building.  She  had 
been  a  little  disappointed  with  his  lack  of  ambition,  he  thought, 
and  no  marvel.  How  paltry  it  all  looked  now — the  little  cottage 
with  the  bow-window,  Reuben,  Johnnie  Forbes,  the  lame  boy,  with 
Deb  to  keep  house.  Ah,  what  a  different  castle  he  would  build 
now !  A  dull  misery  of  longing  took  possession  of  him  as  he 
cherished  the  bitter-sweet  fancy — a  little  room  all  sunshine,  gleam- 
ing white  lilies  outside,  a  tall  slim  girl  with  a  plaintive  face,  with 
sweet  frank  eyes. 

"Oh,  my  God  !"  cried  the  poor  fellow  in  his  anguish.  "And 
I  must  never  tell  her  that  I  shall  love  her  to  my  dying  day." 

It  was  the  hour  of  his  weakness.  By  and  by  a  certain  strength 
of  acquiescence  came  to  him — he  struggled  no  longer ;  in  a  word, 
he  accepted  his  fate. 

One  by  one  he  put  away  his  hopes  from  him.  One  by  one  he 
looked  the  bitter  conditions  in  the  face  \  his  love  was  hopeless — 
unrequited ;  he  must  give  that  up — he  must  renounce  all  hopes  of 
entering  the  Church.  He  had  given  his  word  that  he  would  go 
anywhere ;  he  would  keep  his  promise.  There  should  be  no  delay, 
no  looking  back,  no  undue  dallying  with  regret.  The  stern  asceti- 
cism of  Garton's  nature  came  to  his  assistance  here.  As  soon  as 
possible  he  would  leave  Blackscar  and  England.  The  sacrifice 
might  be  a  cruel  one,  inasmuch  as  it  involved  all  he  held  most 
dear,  but  at  least  it  should  be  complete. 

He  did  not  tell  himself  that  he  should  not  dare  to  trust  him- 
self often  in  Rotha's  presence,  but,  all  the  same,  he  knew  that  such 
was  the  case.  A  few  bitter  drops,  of  which  even  his  manhood  was 
not  ashamed,  were  wrung  from  his  eyes  when  he  thought  of  his 
boy-friend  Reuben,  who  would  fret  after  him  sorely.  The  thought 
was  a  bitter  one,  but  he  put  it  away  from  him  as  soon  as  possible. 

"  He  has  a  friend  in  her — he  belongs  to  her  now,"  he  repeated, 
with  a  vague  pleasure  in  this  mutual  property,  and  a  fresh  dimness 
crossed  his  eyes  as  he  thought  how  Reuben  would  never  allow  her 
to  forget  him. 

There  was  much  painful  work  in  store  for  him.  It  was  nearly 
morning  now,  and  he  was  terribly  jaded,  almost  worn  out ;  but 
with  that  unselfishness  which  was  part  of  his  nature  he  resisted 
the  temptation  to  seek  his  bed,  but  lay  down  for  an  hour  in  his 
clothes  that  he  might  not  over -sleep  himself,  and  so  that  old 
Sarah,  who  was  very  ailing,  might  find  the  fire  lighted  as  usual. 

He  went  through  his  self-imposed  tasks  as  sturdily  as  ever. 
He  smiled  bitterly  once  or  twice  as  he  blacked  his  own  and  his 
brother's  boots.  "What  would  she  say  if  she  saw  me  do  this?" 
he  thought,  with  an  odd  mixture  of  pride  and  pain.  "Fancy  a 


IN  THE  DARK.  303 

hewer  of  wood  and  a  drawer  of  water  daring  to  love  the  mistress 
of  Bryn  !"  He  looked  up  and  nodded  to  his  brother  as  he  came 
whistling  through  the  courtyard  with  his  arms  full  of  faggots. 
The  whistle  was  very  sweet  and  shrill,  but  Garten's  eyes  had 
purple  rings  round  them,  and  the  dark  face  was  as  pale  as  a  girl's. 

"  Good  morning,  Robert,"  he  said,  with  an  attempt  at  cheerful- 
ness. "Sarah  has  the  rheumatism  very  badly  this  morning;  I 
hope  you  are  not  in  a  hurry  for  breakfast." 

"  Pretty  fair ;  I  suppose  I  shall  catch  the  usual  train,"  returned 
Robert  carelessly.  "  Sally  would  do  very  well  if  you  did  not 
spoil  her  so.  I'll  be  bound  you  were  up  at  six  chopping  that 
wood ;  and  I  don't  think  we,  either  of  us,  had  too  much  sleep  last 
night.  I  might  have  had  a  dozen  men  overhead,  to  judge  by  the 
tramping." 

"  Did  I  disturb  you  1  I  am  sorry,"  answered  Gar.  "  I  always 
walk  a  mile  or  two  if  I  am  restless.  If  you  are  waiting  for  break- 
fast I  may  as  well  put  on  my  coat,  for  I  want  to  speak  to  you." 
He  broke  into  whistling  again  as  he  followed  his  brother  upstairs. 

"  What  a  fine  fellow  he  is,  after  all,"  thought  Robert.  He  was 
full  of  pity  at  the  sight  of  the  dark  rings — Garten's  pale  face  and 
puckered  forehead  haunted  him  through  the  day;  once  or  twice 
he  had  twinges  of  remorse.  How  he  had  undervalued  him  !  A 
hundred  instances  of  the  poor  boy's  goodness  of  heart  rushed  to 
his  mind  ;  he  had  nursed  him  in  that  long  illness  of  his  ;  and  he 
remembered  how  Garton  lay  for  hours  parched  with  thirst  rather 
than  wake  him,  when  he  knew  he  was  overtired ;  he  had  broken 
down  under  the  strain  of  that  watching,  and  then  Garton  had 
nursed  him  in  his  turn ;  he  recalled  Garten's  clumsy  attempts, 
his  odd  mistakes,  the  patient  way  in  which  he  set  himself  to 
retrieve  his  queer  blunders.  Those  strong  brown  hands  had  been 
as  gentle  as  a  woman's.  It  made  Robert's  heart  very  soft  to 
remember  these  things ;  it  struck  him  all  at  once  how  he  would 
miss  Garton,  and  how  empty  his  daily  life  would  be  without  him. 
He  looked  up  when  Garten's  whistle  ceased. 

"Did  you  say  you  wanted  to  speak  to  me,  Gar1?" 

"  Yes,  but  begin  your  breakfast,  please,  or  you  will  lose  your 
train.  Of  course,  I  want  to  speak  to  you.  I  did  not  waste  much 
time  in  sleep  last  night,  as  it  happens,  so  I  went  over  everything 
in  my  own  mind ;  and  I  want  you  to  know  that,  as  far  as  I  am 
concerned,  it  is  all  settled." 

"What  is  settled?" 

"That  I  will  go  to  New  Zealand— Timbuctoo— wherever  it 
is ;  and  the  sooner  the  better.  I  will  go  for  my  outfit  to-morrow 
if  you  like." 


304  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

u  It  won't  be  much  of  an  outfit,  I  am  afraid,"  returned  Robert 
ruefully,  "  but  I  have  a  few  pounds  at  your  disposal,  to  which  you 
are  heartily  welcome.  And  you  have  really  made  up  your  mind, 
GaH" 

"Yes,  Bob." 

"  My  dear  boy,  you  are  doing  very  right,  and  I  honour  you  for 
it,  old  fellow ;  you  are  just  the  sort  of  man  to  get  on  over  there. 
I  should  not  wonder  if  you  come  back  with  no  end  of  money." 

"I  don't  much  think  I  shall  come  back,  Robert." 

"  No,  not  for  some  years — eight  or  ten,  perhaps.  It's  a  bit 
of  a  wrench,  Gar — I  know  that;  but  anything  is  better  than 
this  rusting  life  down  here.  It  will  make  a  man  of  you — it  will, 
indeed." 

A  faint  smile  came  to  Garten's  lips.  Robert  was  kind,  very 
kind ;  but  how  could  he  know — how  could  any  one  know — that 
death  would  rather  have  been  preferable  to  him  than  this  lifelong 
separation  from  those  he  loved  c(  Come  back  !  He  would  never 
come  back.  Reuben  might  come  out  to  him  by  and  by;  but 
Blackscar,  and  Kirkby,  and  Bryn  he  should  never  see  again !  A 
profound  sadness  seized  on  the  unfortunate  young  man  as  these 
thoughts  occurred  to  him.  Robert  cleared  his  throat  once  or  twice 
as  he  looked  at  him. 

"  You  must  not  lose  heart  over  it,  Gar." 

"  I  don't  see  that  it  matters  what  I  lose ;  it  will  be  all  the 
same  a  hundred  years  hence.  I  suppose  you  and  Austin  will  write 
sometimes ;  I  shall  tell  Miss  Maturin  " — a  new  strange  falter  over 
the  word — "  to  send  Reuben  out  to  me.  I  forget  if  you  said  it 
was  to  be  New  Zealand,  Robert  ?" 

"  Well,  Mathias  has  offered  you  a  free  passage  there ;  so,  unless 
you  prefer  Canada  or  Melbourne ' 

"  All  places  are  the  same  to  me,"  interrupted  Garton  indiffer- 
ently— "  out  of  England,  I  mean.  Oh  yes,  of  course,  New  Zealand 
will  be  the  best.  What  made  Mathias  offer  me  a  free  passage,  I 
wonder  ?  Have  I  ever  heard  of  him  before  1  I  forget  all  about 
it." 

"  I  was  of  great  service  to  Mathias  once.  It  does  not  matter, 
so  I  need  not  refresh  your  memory,"  returned  Robert  hurriedly. 
It  was  his  way  to  ignore  any  good  deed  he  had  done.  "  A  man  is 
always  grateful  to  the  person  who  happens  to  help  him,  but  few 
men  make  so  much  fuss  over  it.  He  heard  me  talking  about  this 
emigration  business,  and  then  he  offered  me  that  free  passage  for 
you." 

"  I  thought  you  were  too  proud  to  accept  such  a  favour,  Robert?" 

"  One  must  swallow  one's  pride  sometimes — I  am  learning  that. 


IN  THE  DARK.  305 

And  then  I  have  done  Mathias  more  than  one  good  turn.  It  was 
a  great  many  years  ago,  when  we  were  young  fellows.  In  short, 
he  owes  me  money." 

"  Ah  !  that  is  a  very  different  affair." 

"  Anyhow,  it  would  not  do  to  lose  such  a  chance ;  and  then 
Mathias  has  an  influential  friend  or  two  over  there,  to  whom  he 
will  give  you  letters  of  introduction.  The  whole  thing  speaks  for 
itself — it  does  indeed." 

"I  am  quite  of  your  opinion,  Robert,  that  it  will  be  the  best 
possible  thing  for  me  to  do — under  the  circumstances,  I  mean." 

"I  am  so  glad  you  agree  with  me,  Gar." 

"  Of  course  I  felt  you  were  right,  Austin  and  you,  from  the 
first ;  but  now  it  is  doubly  my  duty.  Whatever  happens,  remem- 
ber you  have  nothing  with  which  to  reproach  yourself." 

"  I  hope  not,"  returned  Robert,  somewhat  bewildered  at  the 
solemnity  of  this  address.  Garten's  face  was  haggard  with  want 
of  sleep,  and  his  eyes  were  dim,  with  no  lustre  in  them  ;  and  then 
there  was  that  sternness  of  repressed  feeling  in  his  voice.  Was  he 
cruel  in  thus  driving  him  away  1  But  when  he  thought  of  the 
allurements  of  Bryn  his  heart  hardened  itself. 

"  There  is  nothing  like  putting  a  good  face  on  a  thing,  Gar, 
and  keeping  up  your  courage,"  he  began  in  a  cheery  tone;  but 
Gar  ton  again  solemnly  interrupted  him. 

"  You  will  tell  Austin  what  I  sxay.  I  don't  care  to  go  into  the 
matter  again  with  any  one — least  of  all  with  him."  And  Garton's 
lip  trembled  as  he  thought  how  he  had  hoped  to  work  under  that 
kindly  rule.  "  The  decision  was  for  me,  and  I  have  made  it ;  and 
there  is  no  one  to  blame,  but  only  circumstances.  As  far  as  I  am 
concerned,  as  I  said  before,  I  am  ready  to  get  my  outfit  to-morrow. 
Shall  I  go  up  with  you  to  Thornborough  to-day  and  do  it  ?" 

"  Gently,  gently,  my  dear  fellow ;  we  have  not  spoken  to  Austin 
or  Mathias.  There  is  plenty  of  time,  plenty.  You  need  not  get 
into  a  fever  about  it."  He  was  more  bewildered  than  ever  by  the 
young  man's  sternness  and  vehemence. 

"  Things  have  gone  worse  with  him  than  I  imagined,"  he  said, 
as  he  put  a  stop  to  the  conversation  by  rising  from  the  table. 

Garton  eyed  him  wistfully  as  he  went  out. 

"  I  suppose  he  will  miss  me  when  he  finds  things  are  not  quite 
so  comfortable,"  said  the  poor  boy  sadly  as  he  took  down  his 
cassock  from  the  peg. 

Old  Widow  Larkins  was  cleaning  the  church  when  he  went  in. 
He  nearly  stumbled  over  her  pail  as  he  went  swinging  down  the 
aisle.  He  had  plenty  of  work  to  do  there  that  day.  There  were 
a  village  wedding  and  two  funerals,  and  later  on  a  baptism.  Some 

20 


306  ROBERT  ORB'S  A  TONEMENT. 

strangers  to  the  place  commented  afterwards  on  the  strange  dark 
young  man  who  seemed  to  do  everything  for  everybody.  When 
the  people  had  all  gone  away  he  locked  the  door  on  the  inside 
and  went  up  and  knelt  down  alone  before  the  flower-decked  altar. 
He  was  only  a  young  man,  very  faulty  and  not  over  wise,  not 
much  more  than  the  hewer  of  wood  and  the  drawer  of  water  to 
which  he  had  likened  himself.  But,  as  he  knelt  there,  Garton 
Ord  prayed  the  noblest  prayer  but  one  that  ever  was  prayed — "  Oh 
Lord,  I  am  oppressed;  undertake  for  me!"  And  he  prayed  it 
thrice  with  a  patient  sigh,  as  though  his  heart  were  broken.  Was 
his  manhood  less  strong  when  he  invoked  another  and  a  higher 
Strength?  Surely  such  men  as  Garton  Ord  are  the  little  ones 
of  the  Kingdom? 

Rotha  could  not  understand  what  had  become  of  her  friend. 
She  had  not  seen  him  for  three  whole  days,  and  she  was  as  restless 
and  uneasy  as  a  woman  could  be.  He  had  gone  down  to  the  shore 
with  her  and  the  boys  on  the  afternoon  in  question,  and  she  had 
brought  in  Reuben  and  Guy  to  tea,  not  extending  the  invitation 
to  Guy's  uncle  as  Mrs.  Carruthers  would  be  out.  She  had  noticed, 
or  fancied  she  noticed,  a  shade  of  disappointment  on  Garton's  face 
at  the  omission,  and  he  had  lingered  more  than  a  moment  at  the 
gate,  as  though  unwilling  to  break  up  the  little  party.  Was  he 
hurt  ?  Did  he  think  her  stiff  and  inhospitable  ?  There  had  been 
a  look  of  reproach  in  his  eyes  as  he  had  turned  away,  as  though 
she  had  been  guilty  of  some  breach  of  friendship.  This  had  been 
on  the  Monday  evening,  and  the  next  day  she  had  a  cold  and  did 
not  care  to  stir  from  the  fireside.  As  it  happened,  none  of  the 
Vicarage  party  made  their  appearance,  not  even  Guy  or  Laurie,  her 
most  frequent  visitors.  Garton,  too,  kept  himself  completely  aloof; 
Meg  saw  him  at  church  in  the  evening,  but,  being  short-sighted, 
could  give  Rotha  no  information  of  his  looks ;  and  he  had  only 
bowed  to  Meg  from  a  distance  instead  of  coming  forward  as  usual 
to  shake  hands. 

Rotha  thought  this  very  queer,  but  she  did  not  say  so.  The 
evening  was  a  dull  one,  and  she  went  to  bed  early  and  dreamt  all 
night  that  she  and  Garton  had  a  quarrel.  The  next  day  it  was  no 
better.  Rotha's  cold  was  still  troublesome,  and  the  weather  was 
unusually  inclement.  Rotha,  who  was  an  unwilling  prisoner,  grew 
slightly  ruffled  in  spirits  towards  evening.  To  add  to  her  discom- 
fort Mary  came  in  on  her  way  to  church,  and  was  very  sympathis- 
ing on  the  subject  of  Rotha's  cold,  and  slightly  mysterious  on  every 
other  subject.  Rotha,  with  unusual  querulousness,  wanted  to  kno\v 
what  they  were  all  doing  with  themselves. 


IN  THE  DARK.  307 

"  I  feel  as  though  I  have  been  dead  and  buried  these  two  days," 
said  the  girl,  with  a  little  fretfulness.  She  wanted  Mary  to  give 
up  church  and  stay  and  talk  to  her. 

"  Doing  good  is  better  than  saying  your  prayers,  don't  you  think 
so  1"  said  Rotha,  with  a  droll  inflection  of  voice.  She  liked  to 
shock  Mrs.  Ord  sometimes.  Mary  was  always  so  good  and  serious. 

"Oh,  my  dear,  no,"  said  the  earnest  woman.  "We  must  do 
one  without  leaving  the  other  undone.  And  then  when  one  is  so 
worried " 

"Are  you  worried?"  cried  Rotha  affectionately.  "Is  that  the 
reason  why  you  have  all  left  me  to  myself  so  long  ?  I  did  not  think 
you  would  have  treated  me  so  badly  unless  something  were  the 
matter." 

"  But,  my  dear — 

"  Of  course  something  is  the  matter.  Don't  you  tell  me  all 
your  worries  1  When  persons  have  something  on  their  minds  they 
had  better  always  talk  it  out,"  said  Rotha,  with  a  little  decision. 
"  Saying  one's  prayers  is  all  very  well,  of  course ;  but  a  friend's 
help  and  sympathy  are  not  to  be  slighted." 

"  I  never  slight  yours.  Oh,  my  dear,  what  a  dreadful  notion  ! 
One  may  be  worried  on  other  people's  account,"  finished  Mary,  with 
a  sigh.  She  had  sighed  several  times  very  distinctly.  "And, 
after  all,  talking  will  not  do  any  good  in  this  case." 

"I  have  no  wish  to  interfere  in  other  people's. business,"  said 
Rotha  stiffly.  "You  have  always  treated  me  so  as  one  of  the 
family,  that  I  have  grown  to  consider  myself  as  one  of  you — that 
is  all."  Rotha  was  more  than  ruffled,  she  was  positively  aggrieved 
now ;  the  tears  stood  in  her  eyes.  She  was  certain  now  that  some- 
thing was  the  matter — something  probably  in  which  Robert  or 
Garton  was  concerned,  and  which  she  (the  little  sister)  was  not  to 
know.  She  drew  herself  back  from  Mrs.  Ord's  caressing  arm  with 
a  little  dignity. 

"  The  bell  is  stopping  now.  Don't  you  think  you  had  better 
go?"  she  said  presently.  She  had  her  face  averted  when  Mary 
stooped  and  kissed  her.  She  took  all  her  friend's  affectionate 
exhortations  as  to  her  cold  with  perfect  coolness.  "You  are 
feverish — a  bad  cold  always  makes  one  feverish,"  said  Mary,  with 
a  placid  sigh.  "  You  must  take  care  of  yourself,  and  we  shall  see 
you  about  in  a  few  days."  Rotha  shed  a  few  tears  when  she  was 
left  alone.  A  positive  sense  of  injury  took  possession  of  her.  She 
had  only  been  a  prisoner  two  days,  and  already  something  had 
taken  place  at  the  Vicarage  which  she  was  not  to  know,  and  then 
it  was  so  strange  of  Garton.  She  determined  nothing  should  keep 
her  indoors  on  the  morrow,  but  when  she  awoke  the  next  morning 


308  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

she  was  forced  to  reconsider  her  resolution.  A  damp  drizzle  of 
mist  and  rain  threw  a  metaphorical  wet  blanket  over  everything, 
her  cold  was  still  obstinate,  and  it  would  be  little  short  of  madness 
to  stir  from  the  fireside. 

Rotha  thought  it  the  longest  morning  she  had  ever  spent  in 
her  life.  Mrs.  Carruthers  was  induced  to  agree  with  her  too. 
Rotha  was  a  trifle  contrary ;  she  would  not  open  her  lips  or  be 
interested  in  anything.  Meg  was  quite  relieved  when  it  was  time 
to  go  down  to  the  schools.  When  she  had  gone,  Rotha  drew  her 
chair  to  the  fire  and  was  miserable  to  her  heart's  content.  The 
whole  world  was  against  her,  and  the  weather  too.  What  was 
this  thing  they  were  keeping  from  her  3  Rotha  had  not  long  to 
ask  herself  that  question,  for  just  then,  to  her  surprise,  the  door- 
bell rang  and  Reuben  Armstrong  came  in. 

It  was  not  a  half-holiday,  but  he  had  come  up  to  Bryn  with  a 
message.  As  he  gave  it — standing  cap  in  hand,  as  though  in  haste 
to  be  gone — she  noticed  the  boy's  eyes  were  red  and  swollen,  and 
his  face  was  flushed  with  crying. 

"Why,  Rube,"  she  said  reproachfully,  "you  have  not  got  into 
any  trouble  with  Mr.  Dentry,  surely?" 

Reuben  shook  his  head  and  looked  rather  indignant  at  the 
supposition. 

"Your  father  has  not  been  near  you?"  But  again  the  boy 
shook  his  head. 

"What  is  the  matter,  then1?"  she  continued  impatiently. 
"  Rube,  you  must  tell  me ;  you  look  as  though  you  have  made 
yourself  ill  with  crying." 

Reuben's  eyes  brimmed  over. 

"  Don't  you  know  ?    Haven't  they  told  you  1"  he  began  eagerly. 

"  No  one  has  told  me  anything,"  returned  Rotha,  with  a  touch 
of  the  old  soreness ;  "  there  is  some  mystery — I  am  quite  aware 
of  that ;  but  no  one  has  thought  it  worth  while  to  tell  me  anything." 

"And  you  don't  know  that  they  are  sending  him  away  ?" 

"Sending  whom — do  you  mean  Mr.  Garton?"  Something 
sharp  seemed  to  shoot  through  Rotha's  heart  then.  She  caught 
her  breath  once  or  twice.  "Why  don't  you  speak  out  plainly, 
Reuben  ?  I  think  you  are  under  some  mistake.  If  this  were 
true,  don't  you  think  they  would  have  told  me  themselves?"  said 
the  girl,  with  a  little  natural  impatience. 

"  Perhaps  Mr.  Garton  told  them  not.  Oh,  Miss  Maturin,  he 
is  so  unhappy ;  he  could  hardly  speak  to  me  last  night  when  he 
told  me  about  it.  I  think,  I  do  think,  they  will  break  his  heart 
between  them." 

"  Reuben,  you  are  very  wrong,"  said  Rotha  rebukingly ;  her 


IN  THE  DARK.  309 

face  was  very  pale,  and  she  spoke  hurriedly.  "  My  dear  boy,  I 
don't  think  you  know  what  you  are  saying.  Why  should  they 
send  him  away?" 

"  Of  course,  it  is  his  own  doing ;  he  is  too  noble  to  eat  another 
man's  bread — don't  I  know  that  1 — but,  all  the  same,  they  have 
driven  him  to  it.  He  is  never  to  be  a  clergyman — never ;  and  he 
is  going  away  to  the  very  end  of  the  world." 

"Oh,  Rube,  God  forbid!"  and  a  hot  flush  of  pain  came  to 
Rotha's  cheek.  "  We  must  not  let  him  go,  Rube.  You  are  right ; 
it  will  break  his  heart.  Why  did  you  not  come  to  me  last  night 
and  tell  me  this?" 

"I  thought  you  knew,"  returned  Reuben  mournfully.  "It 
is  no  use ;  they  will  not  let  you  do  anything,  Miss  Maturin — it  is 
all  as  good  as  settled.  One  of  Mr.  Robert's  friends  is  to  give  him 
a  free  passage  to  New  Zealand,  and  he  is  going  to  Thornborough 
to-morrow  to  get  his  outfit." 

"Without  telling  me  !"  exclaimed  Rotha.  She  was  indignant, 
even  in  the  midst  of  her  trouble,  but  Reuben  was  too  miserable  to 
heed  her. 

"It 'is  all  Mr.  Robert's  doing — every  bit;  he  will  try  to  pre- 
vent my  going  out  to  him,  I  suppose,  but  I  will  go  if  I  work  my 
way  for  it ;  in  a  few  years  I  shall  be  a  man."  He  cheered  up  for  a 
moment  at  the  thought,  and  then  in  an  instant  broke  down  again. 
"  He  saved  my  life,"  said  the  boy.  "  I  can't  bear  to  see  him  go 
away.  Oh,  what  shall  I  do  ?  what  shall  I  do  ?"  And  Reuben  laid 
his  head  down  on  the  table  in  a  perfect  agony  of  crying. 

Rotha  could  not  have  cried  for  worlds  :  her  eyes  were  hot  and 
dry,  and  her  throat  ached ;  her  pain  almost  bewildered  her.  He 
was  going  away — her  friend  and  companion,  clumsy  honest  Gar. 
No  more  pleasant  morning  visits ;  no  loitering  on  the  shore ;  no 
more  happy  excursions  to  Burnley  and  Leatham  Woods ;  no  linger- 
ings  under  the  lich-gate  to  look  at  the  stars  ;  no  tall  form  striding 
up  and  down  the  dim  aisles ;  the  dark  face  missing  from  the  choir- 
stall.  Rotha  thinks  stonily  of  these  things;  through  it  all  she 
hears  Reuben  sobbing  with  a  sort  of  impatience,  "  What  shall  I 
do?  what  shall  I  do?" 

Rotha  goes  up  to  him  and  gives  the  lad  a  little  shake. 

"  Reuben,  leave  off  crying.  Can  you  give  a  message  from  me 
to  Mr.  Garton?" 

The  boy  nods  his  head.  Rotha's  hand  is  very  cold,  and  it 
lies  like  lead  on  his  shoulder.  A  dim  hope  creeps  into  his  heart  ; 
perhaps,  after  all,  she  may  do  something. 

Rotha  clears  her  voice ;  it  is  scarcely  so  sweet  as  usual,  but  it 
is  wonderfully  steady. 


310  ROBERT  ORD^S  ATONEMENT. 

"  I  shall  be  at  church  this  evening,  Rube.  When  the  service 
is  over,  tell  Mr.  Garton  that  I  shall  be  waiting  in  the  porch  to 
speak  to  him.  Whether  it  be  wet  or  fine,  remember,  I  shall 
be  there." 

"Is  that  all V 

"  Yes,  that  is  alL  The  little  sister  may  have  lost  her  power, 
but  she  will  try  what  she  can  do,  for  all  that.  You  are  a  good 
boy,  Reuben — a  faithful  friend ;  you  deserve  his  love.  There,  go. 
I  shall  rely  on  you,  Rube,  mind  you  don't  fail  me."  And  then, 
somewhat  to  Reuben's  surprise,  she  bends  down  and  touches  the 
boy's  forehead  with  her  lips. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 
"DON'T  GO,  GAKTON;  i  WANT  YOU/' 

"  '  Silence  ! '  he  exclaimed, 
A.  woman's  pity  sometimes  makes  her  mad — 
A  man's  distraction  must  not  cheat  his  soul 
To  take  advantage  of  it.     Yet  'tis  hard. 
Farewell.   .  .   . 

But  Hove  you.'  ..." 

Aurora  Leigh. 

ROTHA  had  quite  made  up  her  mind  what  to  do. 

As  soon  as  Reuben  had  gone  she  went  to  the  window  and 
took  a  calm  survey  of  the  weather  outside.  The  prospect  was 
not  very  promising.  The  damp  drizzle  had  ceased,  but  a  gray 
sea -fog  was  creeping  over  the  sands.  A  raw  mistiness  pervaded 
everything;  it  was  scarcely  an  evening  for  an  invalid  to  stir 
abroad.  Nevertheless  Rotha  felt  no  doubt  of  the  prudence  of  her 
undertaking. 

She  communicated  her  intention  to  Mrs.  Carruthers  with  ad- 
mirable sangfroid.  She  only  shrugged  her  shoulders  with  pretty 
petulance  at  that  excellent  woman's  dismay.  Meg's  remonstrances 
fell  on  deaf  ears. 

"  When  one  has  a  duty  to  perform,  one  must  fulfil  it  at  all 
risks,"  she  repeated,  with  a  little  dignity.  She  nodded  at  Meg  with 
wide-open  anxious  eyes.  Two  bright  spots  of  colour  were  in  her 
cheeks.  There  was  repressed  impatience  in  her  every  movement. 
She  scarcely  listened  when  Meg  pleaded  a  sick  headache  as  an 
excuse  for  not  accompanying  her. 

"You  had  better  go  to  bed  early,"  Rotha  said  to  her.  "You 
ought  to  speak  to  some  doctor  about  these  headaches."  She  was 
not  indifferent  to  her  friend's  sufferings;  she  was  simply  self- 
absorbed.  She  sat  in  a  fever  of  excitement  while  Meg  sipped  her 
tea;  an  intolerable  mixture  of  pain  and  pity  filled  her  heart  to 
overflowing.  "  What  is  the  good  of  making  friends  if  one  must 
lose  them  1"  she  thought. 


312  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

Meg,  on  her  part,  was  sorely  bewildered  by  the  girl's  impatience 
and  wilfulness.  A  dim  suspicion  of  the  cause  kept  her  in  sympa- 
thising silence.  She  sat  with  throbbing  head  while  Rotha  roamed 
hither  and  thither  in  her  gray  dress.  "  It  must  come  to  her,  as  it 
must  come  to  all  of  us,"  she  thought,  and  a  pitiful  feeling  came 
over  her  as  she  remembered  her  own  miserable  past,  a  longing  to 
take  the  girl  in  her  arms  and  shelter  her  from  all  possible  trouble 
and  disappointment.  She  was  a  little  indignant  at  the  way  things 
had  gone.  "  She  has  seen  no  one  else,  and  she  does  not  know  her 
own  heart,"  thought  Meg  sadly.  The  young  man's  peculiarities 
repelled  and  annoyed  her.  In  common  with  many  other  people  she 
was  inclined  to  undervalue  Garton  Ord. 

Meg,  in  her  wise  experience,  thought  that  she  saw  how  Rotha's 
possible  future  was  shaping  itself,  and  was  rather  inclined  to  be 
angry  at  the  sorry  result.  She  thought  Rotha,  with  her  sweetness 
and  cleverness,  might  marry  any  one.  The  young  people's  pretence 
at  friendship  did  not  blind  her  in  the  least.  "  They  will  go  on 
talking  and  laughing  till  they  find  they  are  necessary  to  each  other, 
and  then  one  or  other  of  them  will  wake  up."  She  did  not  know 
that  the  waking  had  already  come  to  poor  Garton,  and  that  he  was 
finding  it  very  bitter.  She  was  thinking  rather  of  Rotha's  rest- 
lessness these  three  days,  of  her  unusual  pettishness  and  caprice. 
Rotha's  wide-open  eyes,  shining  with  impatience,  her  glowing 
cheeks,  and  hot  hands  were  so  many  signs  to  the  watchful  woman 
of  the  reality  and  truth  of  her  surmises. 

Rotha,  on  hei  side,  knew  nothing  of  her  friend's  suspicions. 
She  was  a  little  chagrined  at  her  scant  sympathy,  that  was  all. 
She  went  up  and  kissed  her,  almost  penitently,  before  she  left  the 
house. 

"  You  must  go  to  bed  before  I  return,"  she  said,  with  some  re- 
morse. "  I  would  rather  have  the  headache  than  the  heartache," 
she  thought  as  she  struggled  through  the  damp  fog. 

She  went  to  her  usual  seat  behind  the  pillar  and  knelt  down 
for  a  long  time.  It  could  hardly  be  said  that  she  prayed,  for  her 
prayer  was  in  some  such  fashion  as  follows,  for  she  said  over  and 
over  again,  only  in  different  words  : — 

"  If  Garton  Ord  refuse  to  take  my  advice,  what  shall  I  do  ? 
and  if  he  refuse  to  accept  my  help,  what  shall  I  do  1  And  then  he 
is  my  friend,  my  very  own  friend,  and  I  cannot  let  him  go  away;" 
and  once,  "God  forbid!"  very  energetically.  I  do  not  know 
whether  Rotha  added  an  "Amen"  to  these  clauses,  but  it  certainly 
struck  her  with  some  degree  of  shame  that  there  had  not  been 
much  reverence  in  her  petitions.  She  sat  and  looked  towards  the 
chancel  very  humbly  at  this  point  of  her  reflections. 


"DON'T  GO,  CARTON;  I  WANT  YOU."  313 

"I  ought  not  to  have  been  here  to-night/'  she  said,  with  a 
sigh  at  her  own  shortcomings ;  "  I  am  as  bad  as  those  who  bought 
merchandise  or  sold  doves."  And  as  these  salutary  thoughts  pre- 
vailed, she  chose  the  longest  hymn  she  could  find  in  her  book  and 
read  it  three  times  over  without  taking  in  a  word  of  its  sense. 
And  why  ?  Merely  because  a  tall  dark  figure  had  brushed  past  her 
as  it  went  down  the  aisle  to  the  vestry,  and  she  had  looked  up  and 
seen  Garton  Ord's  face,  looking  sad  and  pale  and  worn,  as  she  had 
never  seen  it  before. 

And  after  that  it  was  all  no  use. 

Rotha  stood  up  in  her  place  or  knelt ;  she  listened  attentively ; 
she  sang  with  her  usual  heartiness,  but  the  strain  on  her  mind  was 
terrible.  She  could  not  keep  her  attention  from  wandering ;  chill 
doubts  haunted  her ;  she  was  afraid  of  herself  and  him.  Was  she 
right  in  seeking  a  confidence  which  had  been  withheld  from  her  1 
And  then  the  remembrance  of  the  poor  boy's  worn  face  drove  all 
hesitation  from  her  mind,  and  after  that  she  had  a  strange  fancy. 

They  were  singing  that  beautiful  hymn,  "  Thy  will  be  done." 
Rotha  was  singing  it  too  with  tears  in  her  eyes.  She  was  looking 
at  the  altar  and  the  lilies ;  the  dim  white  globes  seemed  blossom- 
ing from  the  frescoes ;  the  tall  painted  windows  were  full  of  blurred 
outline  and  shadow.  Reuben  was  crying  quietly  behind  his  book. 

"  If  Thou  shalt  call  nie  to  resign 
What  most  I  prize — it  ne'er  was  mine." 

"Was  it  fancy,  or  did  Garton  suddenly  look  towards  the  dark 
corner  where  Rotha  was  singing  ?  But  when  she  turned  her  head 
again  he  was  standing  with  his  face  to  the  lilies,  and  his  lips 
pressed  tightly  together  as  though  in  pain. 

Rotha  heard  a  sigh  behind  her,  which  she  knew  came  from 
Mary.  She  was  quite  aware  that  Mrs.  Ord  had  come  in  late  and 
was  sitting  a  little  to  her  left ;  but,  when  service  was  over,  she  did 
not  once  turn  her  head.  She  sat  in  her  place  steadily,  while  Mary 
stood  up  and  fidgeted  with  her  wraps.  By  and  by  she  had  an 
instinct  that  her  friend  was  waiting  for  her  in  the  porch,  but  she 
took  no  heed.  Mrs.  Ord  was  not  quite  easy  in  her  mind  as  she 
went  down  the  churchyard  alone.  She  remembered  Rotha's 
petulance  and  soreness  of  the  previous  evening,  and  was  a  little 
exercised  in  her  mind  in  consequence. 

Rotha  sat  still  and  waited,  not  very  patiently  it  must  be 
owned.  She  saw  Garton  go  into  the  chancel  with  the  wrappers 
for  the  altar,  and  a  moment  afterwards  Reuben  followed  him.  He 
was  giving  him  her  message.  She  could  see  him  start  and  turn 
quickly  to  the  boy.  He  seemed  hesitating,  but  it  was  full  three 


314  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

minutes  before  Reuben  was  dismissed  with  an  assenting  word. 
Reuben  came  down  and  stood  beside  Rotha  for  a  little  while  in 
her  dark  corner. 

"  Wasn't  it  a  beautiful  hymn  V '  he  whispered.  "  He  was  angry 
with  me  because  I  couldn't  sing  it.  He  sang  every  bit,  down  to 
the  last  verse,  and  then  he  broke  down  himself." 

"  We  ought  not  to  think  of  our  own  worries  in  church,"  said 
Rotha  dogmatically.  She  was  a  little  pale  and  cold  sitting  in  that 
dark  corner.  Her  conscience  misgave  her  as  she  thought  of  the 
strange  merchandise  she  had  brought  in  that  evening.  The  sellers 
of  doves  were  nothing  to  her.  She  was  every  bit  as  bad  as  Reuben. 
Reuben  answered  her  very  prettily. 

"  If  we  don't  bring  our  burdens,  how  are  we  to  lay  them  down  1 
That  is  what  the  Vicar  says.  How  can  I  help  being  sorry  for 
him,  loving  him  so  dearly  as  I  do,  and  seeing  him  so  unhappy  1 
Oh,  Miss  Maturin,  he  looks  so  bad,  almost  as  though  he  were  going 
to  be  ill." 

"  There,  that  will  do,"  said  Rotha.  She  pushed  the  boy  from 
her  with  hot  feverish  hands,  though  she  was  so  cold. 

Something  shining  fell  on  Reuben's  sleeve  at  that  moment. 

"  You  must  hurry  home.  Mrs.  Summerson  does  not  like  you 
to  be  late,"  she  said  as  she  rose  hastily.  Her  gown  blew  about 
her  feet  as  she  went  out  into  the  porch.  The  sea -fog  had  cleared 
off,  and  one  or  two  stars  trembled  above  the  blackness.  The  wind 
was  blowing  the  sand  up  among  the  graves.  The  white  crosses 
and  tombstones  gleamed  in  the  dim  haze.  Rotha  coughed  and 
drew  her  cloak  round  her  as  she  drew  back  into  the  church,  nearly 
stumbling  over  some  one  as  she  did  so. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Garton,  with  a  nervous  laugh;  "I 
thought  you  heard  me,  but  I  suppose  the  wind  was  too  boisterous." 

Rotha  scarcely  answered  as  he  put  open  the  door  for  her.  The 
little  surprise  had  agitated  her.  She  went  on,  leaving  Garton  to 
follow.  She  scarcely  took  any  notice  when  the  young  man  came 
up  with  her,  panting  and  breathless  ;  in  reality  a  new  sort  of  shy- 
ness kept  her  lips  closed. 

"  I  had  to  lock  up  the  church,"  he  said.  "  Had  you  forgotten 
that  when  you  walked  so  fast  ?  I  hardly  thought  I  should  have 
overtaken  you  before  you  reached  Bryn." 

"  I  forgot  about  the  keys,"  returned  Rotha  apologetically ; 
"  one  cannot  help  hurrying  in  such  a  wind." 

"  It  was  not  fit  for  you  to  have  come  to  church,"  he  replied 
decidedly.  "  Mary  has  told  us  what  a  cold  you  have.  You  were 
coughing  dreadfully  through  the  service." 

"  It  was  nothing,"  returned  Rotha  indifferently.     The  mention 


"DON'T  GO,  GARTON j  I  WANT  YOU."  315 

of  her  cold  reminded  her  of  the  old  soreness.  He  knew  of  her 
indisposition  then,  and  had  never  cared  to  inquire  after  her.  When 
it  pleased  him  he  could  come  three  or  four  times  in  the  course  of 
one  day,  but  now  this  sad  trouble  of  his  was  turning  even  him 
against  her.  She  held  herself  aloof  as  this  thought  crossed  her  ; 
her  voice  went  out  to  him  rather  tremulously  in  the  darkness. 

"I  thought  you  had  forgotten  me.  You  have  all  been  too 
busy  these  three  days  to  think  much  of  any  one  but  yourselves," 
exclaimed  the  girl  in  a  hurt  voice.  "  Mrs.  Ord  came  to  me  and 
was  dreadfully  mysterious.  I  suppose  I  was  foolish  to  mind  it. 
Of  course  I  have  no  right  to  be  considered." 

"  You  have  every  right,  you  mean,  Miss  Maturin.  Why 
should  you  say  such  a  thing?"  Garton  spoke  vehemently,  but  his 
tone  was  hardly  as  steady  as  usual. 

"  I  suppose  Mrs.  Ord  was  told  not  to  confide  in  me,"  continued 
Rotha  plaintively.  "When  Reuben  came  in  this  afternoon  he 
burst  out  crying,  and  told  me  everything.  I  liked  Reuben's  red 
eyes  better  than  Mrs.  Ord's  mystery." 

"  I  told  Mary  to  say  nothing  about  it,"  continued  Gar.  "  I 
wished — that  is,  I  thought  it  better " 

But  Rotha  broke  in  upon  his  stammering. 

"  You  thought  it  better  that  I  should  not  know.  Why  did  you 
not  give  Reuben  your  orders  too  ?  Mary  and  the  Vicar  tell  the  little 
sister  everything.  Perhaps  you  would  rather  not  come  in  to-night, 
Mr.  Garton  ?  Meg  is  not  very  well.  I  suppose  you  meant  to  have 
come  and  wished  me  good-bye  before  you  sailed  1" 

Rotha  quickened  her  steps,  with  secret  exasperation  and  im- 
patience. Her  voice  trembled  as  she  delivered  herself  of  this  cut- 
ting speech.  Tears  sprang  to  her  eyes  in  the  darkness. 

"  May  I  not  come  in  ?  Why  are  you  so  angry  with  me  to- 
night1?" asked  Garton  humbly.  The  poor  fellow  knew  nothing 
about  women ;  he  could  not  understand  the  girl's  soreness  and  hurt 
feelings.  He  followed  her  up  the  gravel-path  with  his  head  droop- 
ing; he  was  utterly  dejected  and  miserable.  Rotha  gave  a  little 
stamp  with  her  foot  as  she  choked  back  her  tears.  Her  cheeks 
were  burning  again. 

"  He  does  not  care  for  me ;  nobody  cares  for  me,"  she  thought. 

She  went  straight  into  the  parlour  and  laid  aside  her  hat.  She 
refused  Garten's  help  rather  impatiently  when  he  wanted  to  relieve 
her  of  her  damp  cloak.  She  hated  herself  for  her  pettishness  all 
the  time,  but  she  could  not  help  it. 

As  for  Garton,  he  had  betaken  himself  to  the  fireside  after  his 
repulse.  He  held  on  to  the  mantelpiece  tightly  as  he  looked  down 
into  the  red  gleaming  coals,  his  head  resting  on  his  arm.  He  did 


316  ROBERT  ORD^S  ATONEMENT. 

not  alter  his  attitude  nor  move  when  Rotha  swept  past  him  rather 
impetuously  in  her  gray  dress,  though  he  started  slightly  on  hear- 
ing himself  addressed. 

"Will  you  not  sit  down1?"  she  said,  still  more  impatiently,  as 
though  goaded  on  by  his  dejection.  "  Three  days  ago  I  don't  think 
you  needed  to  be  invited  to  take  a  seat." 

He  lifted  his  head  from  the  mantelpiece  at  this. 

"  Why  do  you  say  such  things  to  me  1"  he  said,  almost  fiercely; 
then,  dropping  his  voice,  very  sadly,  "  You  must  not ;  I  cannot 
bear  it." 

Rotha  was  electrified  by  the  sudden  change  of  manner.  Her 
colour  rose,  and  she  said  more  gently : 

"  I  am  afraid  I  was  cross.  I  did  not  mean  to  be,  but  one  can- 
not help  being  vexed  by  such  seeming  unkindness." 

"  What  unkindness  1  I  don't  understand  you.  Do  you  mean 
that  any  of  us  have  treated  you  badly  ?"  he  demanded,  so  vehe- 
mently that  Rotha  was  frightened.  "  Pshaw  !  what  a  fool  I  am, 
as  though  Robert's  persecution  were  not  enough  to  turn  you  against 
us." 

"  I  did  not  mean  that,"  returned  Rotha,  quite  shocked.  "  Hush! 
what  nonsense.  Haven't  I  forgiven  him  ?  Do  I  not  forgive  him 
every  day  of  my  life  1  Mr.  Garton,  you  ought  to  know  me  better 
than  that." 

"Well,  what  then1?"  replied  Garton  gloomily.  "  Do  we  know 
any  one  ?  Are  we  sure  even  of  ourselves  1  If  you  mean  that  I 
have  acted  unkindly  in  keeping  all  this  miserable  business  a  few 
hours  from  you,  and  in  making  Mary  hold  her  tongue  about  it,  you 
have  a  very  poor  idea  of  my  motives  in  doing  so." 

"  I  confess  I  was  hurt.  I  thought  we  were  such  friends,"  re- 
turned Rotha  in  a  voice  that  was  perilously  sweet.  Had  she  any 
idea  how  she  was  torturing  him  1  He  had  drawn  his  chair  to  the 
fire,  and  was  bending  over  it  with  his  hands  propped  heavily  against 
his  knees ;  his  forehead  was  puckered  up  with  pain.  As  he  spoke 
he  scarcely  raised  his  eyes  above  the  gray  hem  of  her  dress.  Was 
there  a  glamour  before  his  sight  1  As  she  sat  there  in  the  radius 
of  the  fire-light  an  ineffable  majesty  seemed  to  surround  the  young 
girl.  Her  youth  and  sweetness  abashed  him.  He  had  always 
seen  beauties  in  her  which  no  one  else  had  seen,  and  now  a  sick- 
ness and  impotence  of  longing  seized  upon  him  when  he  remem- 
bered that  all  this  beauty  and  grace  was  not  for  him. 

As  he  sat  there  with  his  moody  glance  bent  on  the  fire,  he  knew 
every  trick  of  her  countenance,  every  fold  of  her  dress  and  wave  of 
her  hair.  In  the  long  dreary  years  that  were  to  follow,  how  he 
would  remember  this  evening,  when  he  listened  to  her  innocent 


"DON'T  GO,  GARTON;  I  WANT  YOU."  317 

reproaches  with  the  wind  soughing  among  the  garden  trees,  and  the 
dull  lapping  of  the  distant  waves  on  the  shore  ! 

"I  thought  we  were  such  friends,"  repeated  Rotha  softly. 
"  Why  did  you  not  come  and  tell  me  this  yourself  ?  Did  you  not 
know  how  sorry  I  should  be  for  you  1" 

"  Yes,  I  knew,"  returned  the  poor  fellow,  with  a  groan.  He 
could  have  put  out  his  hands  and  prayed  her  to  refrain  from  tortur- 
ing him  so.  What  good  was  it  to  him  for  her  to  recall  their 
innocent  friendship,  who  ha:l  loved  her  and  would  dare  to  love  her 
to  his  latest  breath  ?  He  looked  upon  her  with  sad  deprecating 
eyes. 

"  Yes,  we  have  been  friends ;  but  we  shall  be  so  no  longer. 
What  happy  days  Rube  and  I  have  had  here ;  and  then  that  time 
in  the  Burnley  woods  !  Well,  it's  all  over  now — over  and  gone,  as 
the  children  say.  I  shall  leave  Reuben  as  my  legacy  to  you.  I 
wonder  if  you  will  thank  me." 

"  Don't,"  cried  Rotha,  stung  into  sudden  pain.  "  Mr.  Garton, 
I  hardly  know  you  to-night ;  you  are  so  unlike  yourself,  so  sad  and 
stern.  I  am  almost  afraid  of  you." 

"  Afraid  of  me  V  Gartou  gave  her  one  of  his  sudden  brilliant 
smiles  for  answer,  but  it  soon  died  away.  Another  of  those  frank 
innocent  glances  would  unman  him,  he  felt.  He  must  guard  him- 
self; he  must  be  very  careful.  In  another  half-hour  it  would  be 
time  for  him  to  take  his  leave  ;,  he  breathed  more  freely  when  he 
remembered  this. 

"  Reuben  will  fret  sadly  after  me,"  he  continued,  with  a  sigh ; 
"  the  lad  is  terribly  constant.  I  believe  the  foolish  fellow  will 
break  his  heart  over  it." 

"  He  will  be  right,"  returned  Rotha ;  "  I  mean" — colouring  up 
— "  you  have  been  such  a  good  friend  to  him.  Mr.  Garton,  will 
you  tell  me  once  for  all  why  you  are  going1?" 

"Why?"  repeated  Garton,  somewhat  embarrassed;  he  had 
roused  from  his  apathy  now,  and  was  looking  at  her  in  some  con- 
fusion. "  I  suppose  because  Robert  cannot  afford  to  send  me  to 
college,  or  to  maintain  me  any  longer  in  idleness." 

"Yes,  I  know;  but  is  that  your  only  reason?"  added  Rotha 
impatiently. 

She  was  watching  the  young  man  with  keen  wide-open  eyes ; 
the  evidence  of  his  confusion  was  clear  enough  to  her.  Poor  Gar, 
he  was  clumsy  enough  to  betray  himself  at  any  moment ;  and  then 
the  girl  was  the  cooler  of  the  two.  He  was  more  embarrassed  than 
ever  as  he  answered  her. 

"  It  was  the  reason  why  the  New  Zealand  scheme  was  first 
started,"  he  stammered.  "  I  have  told  you  all  that  over  and  over 


318  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

again.  I  knew  it  was  right  that  I  should  go,  but  I  could  never 
make  up  my  mind  ;  and  lately  Robert  has  been  pressing  me." 

"  Mr.  Garton,  do  you  remember  that  text  about  the  plough  and 
the  looking  back1?" 

"  Yes,  I  do,"  he  returned,  with  an  emphasis  that  startled  her, 
"  and,  God  helping,  I  mean  to  act  upon  it." 

This  was  not  what  Rotha  meant. 

"  I  don't  know  in  what  way  you  are  contriving  to  twist  my 
meaning,"  she  said,  rather  bewildered.  "  I  meant,  of  course,  is  it 
right  for  you  to  renounce  the  desire  and  fixed  purpose  of  your  life 
to  be  ordained?" 

What  made  Garton  suddenly  pass  his  hand  before  his  eyes  ? 

"I  would  rather  be  a  door-keeper  in  the  house  of  my  God." 
How  often  he  had  chanted  those  words  in  the  daily  services,  and 
what  fulness  of  meaning  had  they  not  borne  to  him  !  Had  he  not 
desired  with  pure  hands  to  serve  in  the  sanctuary  ?  Very  slowly 
and  reverently  he  answered  her,  "  Yes,  it  is  right." 

"But  why r  persisted  Rotha. 

"Because  it  has  been  plainly  shown  me  that  my  work  and 
place  are  elsewhere.  I  have  hoped  against  hope.  I  have  waited 
till  I  am  heart-sick.  Miss  Maturin,  do  not  let  us  talk  any  more 
about  this." 

"  But  I  must  talk  about  it.  How  am  I  to  help  you  and  keep 
silence  ?  Mr.  Garton,  if  this  be  your  only  reason  you  need  never 
go  to  New  Zealand;  I  will  make  it  all  right  with  the  Vicar." 

"You,  Miss  Maturin!" 

"  Yes,  I.  Do  you  think  that  I  am  not  to  be  allowed  to  earn 
my  title  of  friend ;  you  forget  I  am  'the  little  sister.'  Mary — 
Mrs.  Ord,  I  mean — calls  me  her  Aladdin's  lamp,  and  her  For- 
tunatus'  cap,  and  all  sorts  of  pleasant  titles.  We  were  talking 
about  wishing-wells  in  Burnley  woods  the  other  day,  Mr.  Garton. 
I  will  not  promise  to  conjure  up  the  little  cottage  with  the  bow- 
window,  and  the  telescope,  and  big  dog ;  but  I  think  I  can  manage 
about  the  college." 

"You!  what  do  you  mean?"  demanded  Garton  huskily.  A 
dark  flush  rose  to  his  face ;  his  hands  worked  nervously.  Was  she 

going  to  help  him;  was  she Ah  !  but  it  was  hard,  terribly 

hard. 

"  It  does  not  matter  what  I  mean,"  returned  Rotha,  with  a  low 
musical  laugh,  but  she  coloured  too  as  she  spoke.  "  The  Vicar  and 
I  will  settle  it  all  between  us.  Do  you  remember  how  we  man- 
aged about  Rube  ?  Mr.  Robert  need  not  know." 

"  Do  you  mean  that  you  propose  to  pay  my  college  expenses, 
and  that  you  are  going  up  to  the  Vicarage  to  tell  Austin  so  T' 


"DON'T  GO,  CARTON;  I  WANT  YOU."  319 

"  There  is  no  reason  to  put  it  in  such  plain  words,"  faltered 
Rotha ;  "  and,  after  all,  you  are  to  know  nothing  about  it — the 
Vicar  and  I  will  settle  it.  You  are  not  too  proud  to  take  such  a 
little  thing  from  me  1"  she  continued  winningly,  as  she  stretched 
out  her  hand  to  him — the  little  soft  thin  hand  whose  touch  he 
knew  so  well.  The  poor  boy  trembled  all  over  as  he  took  it. 

"You  will  not  refuse  such  a  little  thing  to  your  friend?"  she 
continued  pleadingly.  Then  he  shook  his  head. 

"  I  could  refuse  you  nothing,  Miss  Maturin.  Do  you  think  I 
could  be  proud  with  you  ?  It  is  not  that.  No ;  don't  stop  me, 
you  know  I  must  go  away." 

"But  why1?"  she  persisted,  pitiless  in  her  sweetness,  and  her 
eyes  looked  so  softly  at  him. 

Garton  burst  into  something  like  a  groan,  and  then  he  threw 
her  hand  away  from  him  with  a  violence  that  hurt  her. 

"  You  ask  me  that, — you — you — when  you  must  know  how 
people  are  talking !  Do  you  think  I  can  stay  here,"  he  continued 
passionately,  "and  be  accused  of  such  things,  when  perhaps  it 
may  end  in  your  believing  them  1" 

"  What  things  1  Who  is  talking  ? — about  you  and  me,  do  you 
mean  V  A  dim  perception  of  his  meaning  began  to  dawn  on  her. 
"  Look  how  you  have  hurt  me,"  she  said  piteously,  in  the  childish 
way  that  was  so  irresistible  to  him ;  "  are  you  angry  with  me 
because  people  choose  to  say  foolish  things  of  us  ?" 

"But  if  you  come  to  believe  them,"  he  repeated  hoarsely. 
"Forgive  me,  Rotha ;  I  am  half  mad  to-night.  I  would  rather 
die  than  harm  a  hair  of  your  head.  If  I  am  a  beggar,"  cried  poor 
Gar,  "I  am  a  gentleman,  and  noblesse  oblige" 

"  Sit  down  and  tell  me  what  you  mean,  and  why  you  call  me 
Rotha  to-night,  Mr.  Garton?"  She  laid  her  hand  on  his  sleeve 
with  a  soft  persistence  that  compelled  him  to  yield  to  her.  Rotha 
was  very  pale  now,  but  she  was  the  calmer  of  the  two.  To  tell 
the  truth,  she  forgot  herself  at  the  sight  of  his  excessive  agitation, 
which  puzzled  and  frightened  her  at  the  same  time.  "  What  are 
people  saying  about  us,  and  why  do  you  so  assure  me  that  you  are 
a  gentleman1?" 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Garton  vehemently;  "if  I  have 
offended  you,  it  is  for  the  first  time.  No  man  can  bid  good-bye  to 
the  woman  he  loves  and  measure  his  words ;  if  I  say  '  good-bye, 
and  God  bless  you,  Rotha/  you  need  not  be  angry  with  me,  you 
will  only  be  Rotha  in  my  prayers." 

The  woman  he  loved — he — Garton — her  Garton.  Rotha  was 
deadly  white  now,  and  then  she  turned  crimson  to  her  finger-ends ; 
but  he  could  not  see  her  face,  it  was  so  averted  from  him ;  at  his 


320  ROBERT  ORD^S  ATONEMENT. 

next  words  it  drooped  lower  and  lower.  Had  she  dreamed  this  1 
Could  it  indeed  be  true  1  What  was  the  meaning  of  that  strange 
new  happiness  that  set  her  heart  beating  so  wildly?  Not  for 
worlds — not  for  worlds  could  she  have  spoken  then. 

"  Forgive  me,"  said  Gar — he  had  risen  again  to  his  feet,  and 
was  regarding  her  mournfully — "you  know  now  why  I  stayed 
away.  I  ought  not  to  have  come  here  to-night,  and  you  have 
tried  me  so,  beyond  my  strength  even.  They  thought  I  was  a 
fortune-hunter,  and  that  I  dared  to  aspire  to  an  heiress.  They 
little  knew  me.  If  we  never  meet  again  after  to-night — and  we 
never  shall  with  my  consent — look  up  in  my  face  and  tell  me, 
Rotha,  that  you  never  suspected  me  of  such  meanness." 

She  looked  up  quickly  to  the  honest  face  above  her,  and  then 
drooped  her  head  lower  than  ever. 

"Never — never  !"  she  faltered ;  " how  dare  they  say  so  V 

"What  does  it  matter?"  he  continued,  cheered  by  her  manifest 
sympathy ;  "  what  does  anything  matter  so  that  you  think  well  of 
me?  I  can  go  more  happily  now." 

"Why  should  you  go?"  faltered  Rotha.  How  pale  her  face 
was ! 

"  Hush,  you  must  not  tempt  me ;  how  can  you,  knowing  what 
you  know  now  ?  Of  course  I  must  go  away ;  how  can  I  bear  to 
live  on  here,  and  see  you  every  day,  and  know,"  and  his  voice 
trembled,  "  and  know  you  are  not  for  me  ?"  He  paused,  and  then 
went  on,  "  You  must  not  be  sorry  now  I  have  told  you  this.  I 
could  not  help  it.  I  could  not  indeed.  God  bless  you,  dear,  for 
your  noble  thought,  as  I  shall  bid  God  bless  you  in  my  prayers 
when  I  am  far  away." 

The  little  hand  trembled  out  to  him  again  from  the  folds  of 
the  gray  dress;  there  were  tears  in  the  bright  kind  eyes;  the 
sweet  face  was  covered  with  blushes. 

"  Don't  go,  Garton ;  I  want  you."  And  then  in  a  voice  of 
intense  feeling,  "  I  was  a  poor  girl,  without  a  friend  but  Meg  in 
the  world,  till  all  these  good  things  came  to  me ;  but  what  are  they 
worth — what  is  anything  worth — unless  I  may  share  them  with 
those  Hove?" 

Could  he  mistake  those  brave  tender  words  ?  The  strong  man 
trembled  like  a  child  when  he  heard  them. 

"  Rotha,  do  you  mean  me  ?"  he  whispered ;  and  Rotha,  looking 
up  with  a  smile  and  a  blush  said,  "  Yes," 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

A  LOVE  IDYLL. 

"  Moon  of  the  summer  night ! 

Far  down  yon  western  steep 
Sink,  sink  in  silver  light ! 
She  sleeps,  my  lady  sleeps  ! 
Sleeps  ! 

"  Dreams  of  the  summer  night 

Tell  her  her  lover  keeps 
Watch  while  in  slumbers  light ! 
She  sleeps,  my  lady  sleeps  ! 

Sleeps  ! "  LONGFELLOW. 

AND  after  that  neither  of  them  knew  exactly  what  had  happened. 
The  prince  had  come  to  Rotha— the  prince  in  the  shabby  coat ; 
but  this  time  it  was  the  princess  who  had  held  out  her  little  hand 
to  him. 

"  Don't  go,  Garton ;  I  want  you." 

"Do  you  know  what  you  have  said,  Rotha T'  asked  Garton; 
"do  you  understand  what  your  words  imply?" 

"  Oh,  hush  !  yes,  I  know,"  returned  Rotha  hurriedly. 

She  sat  in  her  place  a  little  shy  and  frightened.  She  cast  odd 
wistful  looks  at  Garton,  who  was  standing  beside  her  with  a  face 
transfigured  with  joy.  The  poor  fellow  would  have  liked  to  have 
knelt  down  and  kissed  the  hem  of  her  garment  for  very  reverence 
and  gratitude ;  he  would  have  burst  into  some  fond  worshipping 
phrase  if  he  had  known  how ;  but  Rotha  understood  him.  She 
thought  his  silence  very  eloquent;  the  chiming  of  a  church-bell 
jarred  on  them  like  a  discord,  startling  Rotha  by  the  lateness  of 
the  hour. 

"  How  late  it  is  !     You  must  go  now,"  said  the  girl  softly. 

She  took  away  her  hand  with  a  little  decision.  She  looked  up 
at  him  with  bright  impatient  eyes  as  though  bidding  him  to 
leave  her. 

"  If  I  go  now  I  may  come  again  to-morrow,  may  I  not  1"  said 
21 


322  ROBERT  ORD'S  A  TONE  WENT. 

Garton,  lingering.  "  I  shall  wake  up  and  think  it  is  only  a  dream, 
I  know.  Are  you  sure  that  you  really  meant  it1?"  persisted  the 
foolish  fellow.  "What  am  I  to  tell  my  brothers,  Rotha?  Of 
course  Robert  must  know  if  I  am  not  to  go  away." 

"  Tell  them  what  you  will,"  returned  Rotha,  blushing ;  "  I 
suppose  they  will  understand  that  you  were  unhappy,  and  that  I 
would  not  let  you  go."  She  grew  rather  hot  over  her  lover's 
incredulity.  "  Of  course  I  meant  it  when  I  said  I  wanted  you," 
she  said,  a  little  tremulously ;  she  was  dazed,  and  his  impatience 
bewildered  her. 

"  Come,  Garton,  you  must  go  now." 

She  put  out  a  soft  hand  again,  and  half  led,  half  drew  the  excited 
young  man  to  the  door.  She  let  him  out  herself  into  the  wind 
and  storm.  It  might  have  rained  showers  of  roses  on  them  both. 
A  shy  good-night  followed  him  through  the  darkness.  Garton, 
turning  round  in  the  garden-path,  saw  her  still  standing,  with 
flowing  dress  and  hair,  on  the  doorstep,  with  the  silver  lamp  in  her 
hand.  The  radiant  figure  haunted  him  all  night  long. 

Rotha  went  up  to  Meg  when  she  had  let  out  Garton.  Meg 
was  not  asleep  when  she  entered.  The  elder  woman  knew  at  once 
by  the  girl's  kisses  and  silence  that  something  had  happened.  She 
drew  her  into  her  arms  without  a  word,  and  let  her  cry  softly  to 
herself.  Rotha  shed  a  few  tears  of  wonder,  and  happiness,  and 
excitement  on  Meg's  shoulder.  The  strain  and  flurry  of  the  last 
few  hours  had  worn  her  out.  This  natural  outlet  to  her  pent-up 
feelings  soothed  and  relieved  her.  By  and  by  she  sat  up  and  told 
her  friend  all. 

Meg  was  not  much  surprised;  she  lay  and  listened  with  a 
throbbing  head  to  the  shy  recital.  How  strange  and  yet  how 
familiar  it  all  sounded !  A  hot  quiver  of  pain  darted  through 
Meg's  temples  as  she  thought  how  she  had  known  it  all.  Meg 
lost  herself  once  in  the  midst  of  the  girl's  eager  talk  ;  the  pine  logs 
fell  asunder,  sending  out  a  shower  of  sparkling  fragments.  A 
cricket  came  out  and  chirped  upon  the  hearth ;  the  room  was  full 
of  a  clear  ruddy  light.  Meg  is  back  again  in  the  shabby  parlour 
of  Chatham  Place.  There  she  is,  a  tall  ungainly  figure,  with  faded 
pinks  in  her  belt.  She  is  playing  on  the  cracked  old  piano ;  the 
cool  evening  air  comes  through  the  wire  blinds ;  the  room  is  filled 
with  warm  spicy  smells ;  there  is  a  bowl  of  dull  red  carnations. 
"Encore,  encore  !"  cries  somebody  from  a  distance.  "Play  that 
again,  Maggie,"  says  a  sweet  old  voice.  A  wrinkled  hand  beats  time 
softly.  "  Ay,  do  Madge,  it  is  my  favourite."  A  tall  figure  blocks 
up  the  light.  Handsome  Jack  Carruthers  is  standing  behind  her ; 
a  dark  intent  face  leans  down  to  hers.  Are  those  her  tears  splash- 


A  LOVE  IDYLL.  323 

ing  on  the  ivory  keys  1  "Ay  Jack,  for  better,  for  worse ;  nay,  for 
worse,  worse  only."  Meg  wakes  up  with  a  start  and  shiver,  and 
a  dull  shadow  seems  creeping  over  the  room. 

"Do  you  love  him?  Are  you  sure  you  are  happy?  He  is 
very  good,  but  not  good  enough  for  my  darling,"  says  Meg,  when 
Rotha  had  finished. 

"  Good  !  I  wish  I  were  half  as  good  as  he  is,"  thought  Rotha, 
when  she  went  up  to  her  room.  She  was  a  little  disappointed  at 
Mrs.  Carruthers'  reception  of  her  news.  Meg  had  said  very  little, 
but  she  had  kissed  Rotha  and  wept  over  her. 

"It  is  too  late  to  ask  my  advice  now,"  Meg  had  said  very 
solemnly,  "  and  perhaps,  after  all,  I  should  not  have  cared  to  give 
it.  You  have  accepted  Garton  Ord's  love,  and  I  pray  that  he  may 
be  worthy  of  my  darling's  choice,  but  I  would  have  her  be  very 
sure  of  herself  and  of  him  too." 

Rotha  had  gone  upstairs  with  these  words  ringing  in  her  ears. 
In  spite  of  her  happiness  they  had  a  little  sobered  her.  It  was 
clear  that  Meg  had  been  thinking  of  her  own  unhappy  choice.  To 
her  such  a  subject  must  always  be  more  or  less  invested  with  gloom. 
Nevertheless  the  words  had  been  said,  and  Rotha  had  felt  herself 
somewhat  sobered  by  them. 

"  Do  you  love  him  1  Are  you  sure  you  are  happy  ?"  Meg  had 
asked  her  anxiously,  and  then  she  had  averred  it  as  her  conviction 
that  he  was  hardly  worthy  of  her  friend's  love.  Doubtless  it  was 
rather  chilling  to  the  girl's  enthusiasm  ;  she  sat  down  a  little 
troubled  as  she  pondered  over  Meg's  words. 

"Was  she  sure?"  Of  course  she  was.  Rotha  repelled  the 
doubt  indignantly.  Was  he  not  the  best,  the  noblest,  the  dearest  ? 
Her  breast  heaved,  her  eyes  filled  with  tears,  as  a  hundred  recol- 
lections of  the  young  man's  goodness  crossed  her  mind.  Rotha 
was  right  when  she  felt  that  she  loved  him  dearly.  Nevertheless 
Meg  was  right  too.  Mrs.  Carruthers  had  grasped  the  truth  instinct- 
ively when  she  told  herself  that  Rotha's  affection  for  Garton  Ord 
was  more  a  sentiment  than  a  passion,  and  that  the  imagination  had 
as  much  to  do  with  it  as  the  heart. 

Propinquity  has  much  to  do  with  such  cases.  One  remembers 
the  quaint  old  name  that  Shakspeare  has  given  to  the  pansy — 
"  and  maidens  call  it  Love  in  Idlenesse."  How  many  a  girl  and 
boy  fancy  has  grown  out  of  summer's  wanderings  and  the  dolce  far 
niente  of  holiday-time — youth,  spring-time,  arid  love  joining  hand 
in  hand  !  In  after  years  things  are  different.  Damon  is  not  for 
ever  piping  to  his  Chloe ;  a  little  honey  may  refresh  the  eyes,  but 
too  much  sweetness  may  cloy  a  man's  palate  for  all  that.  Adam, 
as  he  delves  in  the  sweat  of  his  brow,  is  not  always  thinking  of  his 


324  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

future  Eve.  One  who  has  lately  gone  from  us,  and  who  gave  his 
all  of  earthly  love  to  one  woman,  as  child  and  girl  and  wedded 
wife,  once  said,  "  Love  is  the  business,  but  not  the  sole  business  of 
a  man's  life." 

Rotha  had  always  had  a  pleasant  liking  for  Garton ;  his  society 
had  become  a  sort  of  necessity  to  her.  Those  three  days  of  his 
absence  had  seemed  a  break  in  her  life ;  he  had  fallen  out  of  her 
daily  existence,  and  Rotha  had  been  restless.  Garton  was  away 
from  her,  unhappy  and  miserable,  and  all  the  sweetness  had  gone 
out  of  everything  in  consequence. 

And  after  that  it  had  all  come  so  suddenly  on  her,  "and  maidens 
called  it  Love  in  Idlenesse,"  or,  as  Meg  would  have  said,  love  in 
pity  or  out  of  pity.  When  Rotha  questioned  her  heart  in  the 
presence  of  Garton  its  answer  appeared  conclusive.  She  put  out 
her  hand  to  him  with  a  great  throb  of  pity  and  love,  with  genuine 
blushes,  with  a  little  burst  of  honest  frankness.  She  would  make 
him  happy;  it  must  all  come  right,  she  thought.  Poor  Gar's 
passionate  protestations  awoke  responsive  thrills. 

Rotha  was  in  a  great  measure  blind  to  Garten's  failings.  The 
faults  that  provoked  others  were  to  her  but  the  errors  of  circum- 
stance. In  some  degree  he  was  glorified  in  her  eyes.  The  stern 
or  ascetic  side  of  Garton's  nature,  which  Mrs.  Carruthers  found  so 
grievous,  was  simply  admirable  to  the  young  girl,  who  would  have 
gone  through  fire  and  water  for  those  she  loved.  She  looked  at 
Garton  through  the  glamour  of  her  own  imagination.  She  invested 
him  with  a  hundred  imaginary  attributes.  Garton,  with  all  his 
clumsy  honestness  and  his  tender  heart,  would  have  fallen  far  short 
of  this  standard,  for  no  one  knew  his  own  faults  better  than  Gar. 

As  she  thought  about  it  now,  Meg's  doubts  ceased  to  harass 
her.  "  He  will  owe  everything  to  me.  I  shall  make  up  to  him 
for  all  his  disappointments  and  his  wasted  life,"  she  said  to  herself. 
"  I  need  not  fear  that  he  does  not  love  me  for  myself  now.  How 
noble  of  him  to  go  away  without  asking  for  anything,  and  now  he 
will  have  it  all — have  it  all." 

When  Burnley  Woods  are  green  with  summer  sap,  when  the 
red  leaves  of  autumn  flame  deep  in  windy  hollows,  or  when  the 
winter  snows  lie  crisp  and  untrodden  in  the  bosky  dells,  how  will 
Rotha  remember  that  she  has  promised  to  be  Garton  Ord's  wife  ? 


CHAPTER   XXIX. 

BETWIXT   AND    BETWEEN. 

"  En  avant — en  avant !  not  doubting,  nor  fearing, 

Though  clouds  gather  round  thee,  obscuring  the  sun, 
Yet  turn  not  away  from  the  duties  before  thee, 

Give  each  thy  whole  strength  as  they  come  '  one  by  one. ' 

' '  Steadfast  and  strong,  though  the  path  should  be  lonely — 

Never  look  back  though  thy  heart  seem  to  yearn 
To  linger  awhile  with  the  beautiful  day-dreams 

That  come  with  their  brightness  to  tempt  us  to  turn. 

"  Sweet  the  reward  when  the  labour  is  ended, 

To  feel  that  each  day  thou  hast  faithfully  striven  ; 
It  may  be  that  soon  the  great  Master  will  call  thee 
To  render  account  for  the  life  He  has  given. " 

HELEN  MARION  BURNSIDE. 

As  for  Garton,  he  went  home  through  the  wind  and  rain  as  though 
he  were  treading  on  air.  He  came  back  once  and  put  his  lips  to 
the  stone  where  the  silver  lamp  had  been  gleaming.  He  murmured 
a  thousand  blessings  as  he  looked  up  at  the  curtained  window, 
where  the  firelight  was  still  playing  on  the  blind.  He  imagined  her 
still  sitting  there  in  her  gray  dress,  with  downcast  eyes,  thinking 
of  him.  He  would  have  lingered  there,  Heaven  knows  how  long, 
in  the  rain  and  darkness,  keeping  watch  and  ward  over  that  hal- 
lowed threshold,  but  for  Rotha's  little  Skye  terrier  Fidgets,  who 
flew  barking  at  him  round  a  corner.  He  quitted  the  dim  garden- 
walks  with  reluctance.  Rotha  would  have  wondered  if  she  had 
seen  him  pacing  up  and  down  underneath  the  soaking  evergreens. 
Garton  would  have  paced  on  there  quite  happily  for  hours,  entirely 
oblivious  of  his  outer  man,  but  for  Fidgets'  annoying  attentions. 
The  dog  positively  refused  to  recognise  his  friend.  He  growled  at 
Garten's  wet  overcoat,  till  Garton  gave  up  the  contest  and  retired. 
He  performed  a  few  more  acts  of  worship,  however,  in  the  front 
of  the  house,  leaning  on  the  gate  which  Rotha  and  he  had  so  often 
entered.  Was  Rotha  or  he  the  happier  now  ?  "  Oh,  God  bless  her 
for  all  her  dear  love  and  goodness  to  me  !"  cried  Gar,  lifting  his 


326  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

hat  in  his  youthful  chivalry.  How  many  more  delirious  things  he 
would  have  said  and  done  are  doubtful,  but  Fidgets  found  him  out 
again  and  came  grumbling  through  an  aperture  in  the  wall.  Jock 
and  Jasper  from  the  Vicarage  joined  in  the  duet  inside,  and  all  the 
village  dogs  took  up  the  chorus,  while  Garton,  baffled  by  the  canine 
music,  took  himself  and  his  raptures  to  the  sea-wall,  till  he  felt 
sober  enough  to  go  back  to  Robert. 

The  study  looked  very  cosy  when  Garton  entered.  The  fire 
was  blazing,  the  lamp  freshly  trimmed,  and  the  Vicar  sat  in  the 
arm-chair  which  Garton  usually  occupied  opposite  to  Robert,  with 
Cinders  comfortably  curled  up  on  his  knee.  Garton  could  hear 
their  voices  as  he  climbed  up  the  dark  staircase.  The  cheerful 
light  almost  dazzled  him  coming  in  from  the  gloom  outside. 

Robert  broke  off  directly  at  Garten's  entrance.  His  face  looked 
flushed  and  excited,  his  eyes  sparkling,  his  whole  appearance  and 
manner  changed.  The  Vicar  also  looked  beaming.  The  two  con- 
fronted him  with  some  curiosity.  Garton,  with  his  radiant  face, 
his  wet  coat  and  muddy  boots,  presented  a  strange  appearance  to 
his  two  brothers.  Austin  put  his  hand  on  his  wet  shoulder  rather 
anxiously,  and  Robert  exclaimed  in  surprise  : 

"  Why,  where  have  you  been,  Gar  1  It  is  nearly  eleven  o'clock; 
and,  my  dear  fellow,  just  look  at  your  boots." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  returned  Garton,  not  looking  at  them,  however, 
and  shaking  himself  like  a  water-spaniel.  "  I  have  been  with  a 
friend  a  part  of  the  evening,  and  since  then  I  have  been  taking  a 
walk  by  myself  on  the  sea-wall." 

He  did  not  add  that  his  friend  had  been  Rotha,  and  if  Robert 
had  any  suspicion  as  to  the  cause  of  his  radiant  looks  he  did  not 
say  so. 

Austin  was  the  next  to  speak. 

"Making  the  most  of  your  liberty,  ehl  Now  I'll  be  bound 
your  friend  was  Rube  Armstrong,  and  that  you  were  both  making 
a  night  of  it  up  at  Bryn.  Here  have  Robert  and  I  been  wearing 
out  our  patience  waiting  for  you.  Mary  has  sent  in  once  to  know 
when  I  was  coming,  but  I  would  not  go  till  Robert  had  told  you 
the  news." 

"  What  news  ?  It  ought  to  be  pleasant  to  judge  by  Bob's  face," 
replied  Gar  dreamily.  He  wondered  with  a  sort  of  pride  if  they 
could  guess  how  little  their  news  could  affect  him.  It  was  some- 
thing to  see  Robert  look  happy,  however.  "  Is  Belle  better  ?"  he 
asked,  with  a  consciousness  that  this  news  must  be  about  her. 

"Better.  No,  I  cannot  say  that  she  is,"  replied  the  Vicar, 
becoming  a  little  grave  at  the  question.  "  Mary  will  have  it  that 
she  gets  gradually  worse." 


BETWIXT  AND  BETWEEN.  327 

"  Oh,  Mary  is  always  croaking,"  interrupted  Robert  hastily. 

"  It  is  natural  that  she  should  be  anxious  about  her  only  sister," 
returned  the  Vicar  mildly.  "  I  cannot  bear  to  see  her  worry  her- 
self so ;  it  is  making  her  quite  thin.  You  know  you  were  getting 
anxious  yourself,  Robert." 

"  Yes,  but  this  will  make  all  the  difference ;  it  will  put  a  stop 
to  the  unsettled  state  of  things ;  and  then  the  change  of  climate, 
you  know." 

"You  think,  then,  of  arranging  it  before  May?"  inquired  the 
Vicar  significantly. 

Robert  nodded  and  then  looked  at  Garton. 

"  We  have  not  told  him  your  news  yet.  Look  here,  Gar ;  we 
are  talking  in  hieroglyphics,  old  fellow.  What  should  you  say  if 
you  had  not  to  go  to  New  Zealand  after  all?" 

Gar  stared  at  him  stupidly.  Not  to  go  ?  Of  course  he  was 
not  going  now;  but  how  did  they  know?  Robert  took  up  his 
brother's  parable  rather  impatiently. 

"  That  is  not  the  way  to  begin,  Austin.  Gar  will  never  under- 
stand us  like  that.  Listen  to  me,  Gar.  You  recollect  Aunt  Char- 
lotte's oldest  friend,  Mr.  Ramsay  of  Stretton?" 

"Remember  him?  Of  course  I  do.  Emma  Ramsay  was  a 
pretty  girl,  too,"  he  added  mischievously  for  his  brother's  benefit, 
and,  for  a  wonder,  Robert  did  not  resent  the  joke. 

"Well,  she  is  Emma  Tregarthen  now — Lady  Tregarthen,  I 
should  say ;  and  is  prettier  than  she  ever  was,  only  rather  stout. 
Well,  what  should  you  say,  Garton,  at  Mr.  Ramsay  sending  for  me 
early  this  morning  in  quite  a  friendly  way  and  telling  me  that  he 
had  accidentally  heard  that  I  was  managing  clerk  at  Broughton 
and  Clayton's,  and  not  getting  on  so  well  as  I  ought  in  the  world, 
and  then  making  me  the  most  brilliant  offer  you  ever  imagined?" 

"  I  should  say  he  was  a  jolly  old  fellow  and  no  end  of  a  brick," 
cried  Garton  rapturously.  "Is  he  going  to  take  you  into  the 
works  at  Stretton  ?  Bravo,  Bob  !  The  star  of  the  Ords  is  rising 
now,"  and,  boyish  as  ever,  he  clapped  his  brother  gaily  on  the 
shoulder. 

"  No  nonsense,  Gar ;  you  have  not  heard  me  out.  He  can't 
take  me  in  at  Stretton,  though  I  see  he  wants  me,  because  Carter 
refuses  to  be  superannuated,  and  very  sensible  too  of  Carter.  By 
the  bye,  he  told  me,  Austin,  that  he  had  always  hoped  to  see  me 
at  the  head  of  that  concern,  in  poor  Bob  Ramsay's  place,  but  of 
course  the  fates  would  not  have  it,"  moralised  Robert,  looking  very 
handsome  and  sentimental,  as  behoves  a  man  who  had  had  to  choose 
between  two  beautiful  girls. 

"  That  was  when  he  hoped  you  would  be  his  son  in-law,"  re- 


328  ROBER  T  ORD  '5  A  TONE  ME  NT. 

turned  the  Vicar,  smiling.  "It  is  getting  late,  iny  dear  fellow, 
and  you  are  leaving  Garton  a  long  time  in  the  dark." 

"  Not  in  the  dark  now,"  answered  Gar,  with  a  happy  laugh,  but 
of  course  his  brother  misunderstood  him. 

"  What  do  you  guess  ?"  asked  Robert  in  surprise.  "  I  was 
utterly  taken  aback  when  Mr.  Ramsay  told  me  that,  knowing  how 
my  abilities  were  thrown  away,  he  had  taken  the  liberty  to  recom- 
mend me  to  the  house  of  Fullagrave  and  Barton,  old  correspondents 
of  his,  who  had  applied  to  him  for  a  well-qualified  English  manager." 

"  An  American  house  ! "  exclaimed  Garton,  opening  his  eyes. 

"  Yes,  I  should  have  preferred  England,  if  only  for  Belle's  sake. 
Of  course  I  know  she  will  be  willing  to  accompany  me,"  he  con- 
tinued, with  a  smile;  "still  it  is  hard  parting  her  and  Mary.  It 
is  all  arranged ;  .Mr.  Ramsay  has  the  power  to  arm  me  with  full 
credentials.  I  have  given  Broughton  and  Clayton  three  months' 
notice.  My  salary  is  to  be  six  or  seven  hundred  a  year,  and  I 
trust,  before  two  months  are  out,  Belle  will  be  well  enough  to  marry 
me.  Mr.  Ramsay  says  there  can  be  no  objection  to  my  taking  a 
wife  out,  as  we  are  to  have  a  house  rent  free  on  the  premises.  So 
Belle  will  be  quite  a  rich  woman,"  finished  Robert ;  but  his  voice 
was  a  little  husky  as  he  thought  how  late,  how  very  late,  all  these 
good  things  had  come  to  them.  More  than  once  the  fear  had 
crossed  his  mind  that  evening  that  Belle  was  hardly  fit  for  the  new 
duties  she  was  to  take  on  herself. 

"  Have  you  told  her  ?"  asked  Gar  excitedly.  "  My  dear  Bob, 
I  heartily  congratulate  you."  He  was  a  little  absent  now  and  then ; 
he  wondered  when  a  break  in  his  brother's  talk  would  allow  him 
to  bring  out  his  news.  It  was  glorious  to  think  that  Belle  and 
Robert  were  at  last  to  be  married,  and  there  could  be  but  one 
opinion  at  Robert's  good  fortune  ;  but  he  must  be  forgiven  a  little 
natural  egotism  if  he  wished  that  Robert  would  not  be  quite  so 
prolix. 

"  No,  I  have  not  told  Belle  yet ;  Mary  begged  me  to  say 
nothing  to-night.  Garton,  you  don't  look  half  surprised  enough, 
and  you  don't  ask  me  why  you  are  not  to  go  to  New  Zealand." 

" No,"  returned  Garton,  trying  to  suppress  his  impatience ;  "I 
forgot  all  about  that  part  of  it,  Robert." 

"  Well,  I  am  coming  to  it  now.  Mr.  Ramsay  did  not  send  for 
me  this  morning  only  to  tell  me  this  news,  but  because  he  thought 
I  should  be  a  likely  person  to  assist  him  in  a  sudden  difficulty ;  he 
has  no  sons,  as  you  know,  and  his  staff,  though  efficient,  is  some- 
what small,  and  he  wants  a  trustworthy  person  with  a  fair  amount 
of  brains  to  discharge  rather  a  delicate  commission  for  him." 

"  Well ! "  ejaculated  Garton.     Robert  was  decidedly  prosy  in 


BETWIXT  AND  BETWEEN.  329 

his  happiness ;  these  particulars  were  not  at  all  interesting  to 
Garton ;  he  began  to  think  of  Rotha  standing  out  in  the  dark  with 
a  silver  lamp  in  her  hand ;  he  could  hear  the  sweet  good-night  echo- 
ing among  the  trees ;  he  shifted  his  place  and  moved  restlessly, 
somewhat  to  Austin's  amusement,  as  Robert  went  on  with  his 
explanations. 

"  You  see  he  is  rather  in  a  fix  just  now,  as  the  Yankees  say ; 
he  has  just  heard  from  very  reliable  sources  that  the  Vera  Cruz 
mines  in  South  America  are  not  yielding  profits  to  the  shareholders ; 
that,  in  fact,  there  are  rumours  of  immense  losses.  Mr.  Ramsay  is 
not  one  of  the  directors,  but  he  has  dabbled  very  largely  in  shares  ; 
and  the  person  he  has  appointed  to  watch  his  interests  over  there 
has  not  quite  come  up  to  the  mark.  Some  of  the  most  influential 
shareholders  have  been  selling  out,  a  panic  has  been  the  result,  and 
the  directors  want  to  hush  it  up;  in  fact,  Mr.  Ramsay  cannot 
satisfy  himself  whether  there  be  serious  cause  for  alarm  or  not; — 
do  you  follow  me  ?" 

"  Of  course  I  do,"  returned  Garton  impatiently ;  he  could  not 
understand  what  Robert  was  driving  at,  or  why  these  lengthy  par- 
ticulars should  be  interesting  to  him.  The  Vicar,  who  was  watch- 
ing him,  exchanged  a  droll  smile  with  Robert. 

"It  does  not  strike  you  as  particularly  interesting,  does  it? 
Well,  it  will  soon ;  don't  be  in  a  hurry,  Gar ;  it  is  coming  presently. 
Well,  Mr.  Ramsay  would  go  over  himself,  but  he  is  not  as  young 
as  he  was,  and  he  dreads  the  voyage ;  but  he  asked  me  if  I  knew 
of  any  one  tolerably  trusty  who  would  go  over  there,  and  who 
would  watch  the  whole  thing  for  him  and  keep  his  eyes  and  ears 
open.  The  process,  as  Mr.  Ramsay  explained  it,  is  very  simple. 
His  principal  business  would  be  to  seek  out  a  certain  retired 
Spanish  merchant,  of  whom  Mr.  Ramsay  has  lost  sight  for  many 
years ;  this  Don  Gomez  would  give  you — I  mean  the  person  in 
question — every  reliable  information  that  was  to  be  had.  You  see 
it  is  very  simple.  The  only  thing  is,  there's  not  a  moment  to  be 
lost ;  Mr.  Ramsay  wants  immediate  action." 

It  was  evident  Garton  was  getting  very  restive ;  he  understood 
now  at  what  Robert  was  aiming ;  he  would  have  to  bring  out  his 
news  in  a  very  different  way  than  he  intended ;  this  long  business 
talk  was  intolerable. 

"Well,  Gar,"  continued  Robert  good-humouredly,  "I  suppose 
you  know  what  I  am  after  now  ^  Mr.  Ramsay  offered  very  hand- 
some terms,  and  I  owed  him  a  good  turn  for  what  he  had  done  for 
me.  Of  course  I  told  him  that  my  brother  would  be  the  person. 
Aren't  you  glad  it  is  South  America  and  not  New  Zealand,  Gar?" 

"You  told  him  I  would  go!"  burst  out  Gar.     "How  dare 


330  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

you  1 — I  beg  your  pardon — what  right  had  you  to  say  such  a  thing 
without  my  leave,  Robert  1" 

"  Tut !  lad,  don't  lose  your  temper.  Austin,  just  look  at  him. 
Do  you  think  I  would  have  answered  for  you  if  I  had  not  been 
sure  of  your  consent  1  Have  you  not  been  breaking  your  heart 
days  enough  over  the  New  Zealand  scheme  1  and  didn't  you  tell 
me  that  you  would  go  anywhere,  to  Timbuctoo  if  I  liked1?" 

"Circumstances  alter  cases,"  returned  Garton;  his  muscles 
were  quivering,  his  whole  frame  seemed  strung  up  to  the  contest, 
he  looked  every  inch  an  Ord.  "  I  hope  you  have  not  given  your 
word,  Robert ;  for  I  do  not  mean  to  go  to  New  Zealand  or  South 
America  either." 

"  Hear  him,"  returned  Robert  in  calm  exasperation ;  "  did  you 
ever  see  any  one  so  provoking  in  your  life,  Austin  1" 

"  I  thought  you  would  have  been  overjoyed,  Gar,"  said  the 
Vicar  reprovingly.  "  Robert  thought  he  was  doing  the  best  for 
you;  he  knew  how  you  hated  the  thought  of  leaving  England. 
The  whole  thing  would  not  occupy  you  more  than  five  or  six 
months ;  it  would  simply  be  a  pleasant  change,  and  Mr.  Ramsay 
held  out  the  hope  to  Robert  that  if  you  pleased  him  in  the  way 
you  discharged  your  commission  he  would  take  you  into  his  works 
at  Stretton." 

"And,"  put  in  Robert,  with  an  uneasy  glance  at  Garton,  "I 
would  not  have  given  my  word  to  Mr.  Ramsay  if  I  had  had  a 
doubt  of  your  approval ;  but  there  was  not  a  moment  to  be  lost — 
not  a  moment,  Garton.  He  wants  you  to  start  by  the  Phoenix  next 
Wednesday." 

"  And  what  did  you  say,  Robert?"  asked  Garton,  trying  to  keep 
himself  still. 

"  I  told  him  you  would  go,"  returned  Robert  steadily.  "  Why, 
Gar,  what's  the  matter  with  you?" 

"  Oh,  good  heavens !  give  me  patience,"  cried  poor  Gar. 
"  Robert,  you  were  wrong,  very  wrong,  to  pledge  your  word  to 
Mr.  Ramsay.  How  am  I  to  go  now  ?  Indeed  I  cannot.  Miss 
Maturin  and  I  are  engaged  !" 

A  dead  silence  followed  Garten's  hasty  words.  If  a  thunder- 
bolt had  fallen  between  the  three  they  could  scarcely  have  appeared 
more  astonished ;  the  Vicar  especially  could  hardly  believe  his 
ears. 

"Engaged!  You  and  Rotha!"  he  gasped  out;  but  Robert 
interrupted  him. 

"  Do  you  intend  to  tell  us  that  you  have  had  the  meanness  to 
projose  to  her?"  he  almost  thundered.  But  perhaps  it  is  not 
well  to  repeat  the  words  of  a  man  when  he  is  angry ;  forbearance 


BETWIXT  AND  BETWEEN.  331 

and  a  tolerant  estimate  of  other  men's  motives  were  not  among 
Robert  Orel's  virtues.  The  Vicar  too  was  at  first  scarcely  less 
displeased.  Neither  could  rid  himself  of  the  impression  that 
Garton  had  taken  an  ungenerous  advantage  of  the  young  heiress. 

"  Go  on,"  said  Garton,  with  a  little  scorn  ;  "  I  shall  not  defend 
myself." 

He  folded  his  arms  and  listened  with  pale  face  and  fiery  eyes 
to  Robert's  brief  cutting  speeches.  The  Vicar  looked  disturbed, 
as  well  he  might,  at  the  high  words  that  raged  between  the 
brothers.  Oh,  the  Ord  temper  !  Garton  had  his  share  of  it,  with- 
out doubt. 

"  Hush  !  that  will  do,  Robert,"  said  Austin  in  an  authoritative 
manner. 

His  great  calm  voice  seemed  to  have  an  instantaneous  effect  on 
the  excited  young  men.  He  put  his  hand  on  Robert's  shoulder  as 
he  spoke. 

"  I  don't  think  we  ought  to  be  so  hard  on  him,  Bobus,"  using 
unconsciously  the  name  that  belonged  to  their  boyhood.  "  Let  us 
rather  hear  what  the  lad  has  to  say  for  himself." 

"He  ought  to  have  gone  away  like  a  man  without  saying  any- 
thing," returned  Robert  bitterly ;  "  he  told  me  he  would." 

"  I  never  said  that  I  would  go  away  without  bidding  her  good- 
bye," replied  the  other  vehemently.  "  Would  you  have  me  slink 
off  like  a  thief  or  a  coward  ?  Was  it  my  fault  that  I  loved  her," 
burst  out  Gar,  "  when  every  one  in  my  place  must  have  done  the 
samef 

"No,  no,"  broke  in  the  compassionate  Vicar.  He  began  to 
estimate  the  force  of  Garten's  temptation.  He  held  out  his  hand 
to  the  poor  boy  kindly. 

"  We've  been  too  hard  on  you,  Gar.  Tell  us  how  it  all  happened, 
lad." 

That  touch  of  real  sympathy  beat  down  all  Garton 's  stubborn- 
ness in  a  moment.  His  eyes  glistened.  The  sullen  look  passed 
out  of  his  face. 

"  I  will  tell  you,  Austin,"  he  said  eagerly ;  "  but  I  will  have 
nothing  to  do  with  any  of  his  questions.  If  Robert  chooses  to 
insult  me,  he  may  take  the  consequences.  I  never  went  near  Bryn 
at  all  till  she  sent  for  me." 

"  Sent  for  you  !"  echoed  the  Vicar  in  surprise. 

Robert  looked  up  then  with  gloomy  eyes,  but  said  nothing. 

"Yes;  she  sent  me  a  message  by  Rube.  She  had  heard  all 
about  my  going  away,  and  wanted  to  prevent  it ;  you,  who  know 
so  much  about  her  generosity,  Austin,  can  guess  what  she  offered 
me.  She  was  pressing  it  on  me  as  innocently  as  though  she  were 


332  ROBERT  ORD^S  ATONEMENT. 

my  sister,  and  I  got  up  and  flung  her  hand  away.  I  don't  think 
I  quite  knew  what  I  was  about,  Austin,  and  then  it  all  came  out." 

"  Hush  !  don't  say  any  more.  Yes,  I  understand."  He  turned 
his  back  on  Garton,  and  began  to  walk  up  and  down  the  room  as 
though  somewhat  agitated;  understand — of  course  he  did — he 
could  see  it  all  clearly.  The  frank  offer  of  assistance  and  the 
abrupt  refusal,  the  girl's  innocent  reproaches  and  the  poor  fellow's 
sudden  burst  of  anguish ;  he  could  fancy  the  sternness  with  which 
Garton  flung  away  the  little  hand  and  rose  to  depart.  Perhaps 
she  saw  his  look  of  despair,  and — 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  see  how  it  was,"  muttered  the  Vicar.  He  turned 
back  and  put  his  hands  on  Garton's  shoulders,  and  looked  up  in 
the  young  man's  face  with  kind  wistful  eyes. 

"  Do  you  think  you  are  worthy  of  her,  Gar  *\  Oh,  Gar,  you 
are  both  so  young  for  your  age ;  are  you  sure  that  you  know  your 
own  minds?" 

Garton  was  silent  a  moment,  and  an  expression  almost  of  sad- 
ness crossed  his  face.  "  I  shall  try  my  best,  Austin,  you  may 
depend  on  that ;  but  how  can  I  ever  hope  to  come  up  to  her1?" 

The  Vicar  smiled  a  little  sadly ;  he  seemed  about  to  speak  and 
then  checked  himself. 

"You  were  going  to  say  something,  Austin  1" 

"  Yes,  but  I  was  afraid  I  might  hurt  you ;  the  fact  is  the  world 
will  judge  you  somewhat  harshly  in  this,  Garton ;  it  will  say,  and 
justly  too  I  think,  that  a  man  has  no  right  to  owe  everything  to 
his  wife." 

"  That  is  what  I  say,"  muttered  Robert.  Garton  looked  from 
one  to  the  other  rather  doubtfully. 

"  Perhaps  it  might  not  do  in  some  cases,"  he  said  at  last,  very 
slowly.  "  Of  course  I  should  prefer  it  otherwise — any  man  would ; 
but  I  shall  not  be  such  a  fool  as  to  let  my  pride  stand  in  the  way. 
I  think  it  would  be  cowardly  after  what  she  said,"  and  the  dark 
face  worked,  and  softened  as  he  remembered  Rotha's  words — "  I 
was  but  a  poor  girl,  Garton,  without  a  friend  but  Meg  in  the  world, 
till  all  these  good  things  came  to  me ;  but  what  are  they  worth — 
what  is  anything  worth — unless  I  may  share  them  with  those  I 
love?"  She  had  said  this  to  him  in  her  sweet  humility ;  would  he 
ever  forget  those  words?  He  knew  what  she  meant;  with  womanly 
generosity  she  was  stripping  herself  of  all  adventitious  distinctions  ; 
her  wealth  was  to  be  apart  from  herself,  a  mere  adjunct  of  circum- 
stances. In  these  few  words  she  would  have  him  know  that  in 
her  sight  they  were  more  than  equals. 

Rotha's  unworldly  nature  was  likely  to  be  a  great  comfort  to 
Garton ;  it  gave  him  strength  now  to  repel  his  brother's  forcible 


BETWIXT  AND  BETWEEN.  333 

argument;  it  was  not  well  in  some  cases,  perhaps,  but  to  be 
daunted  by  such  a  bugbear  as  this  would  be  unmanly,  he  told 
himself;  but  Austin's  words  were,  nevertheless,  very  grievous  to 
him. 

He  stood  with  a  clouded  face  while  Austin  looked  at  his  watch 
and  exclaimed  abruptly  at  the  lateness  of  the  hour. 

"  If  you  are  going  in  next  door  I  shall  come  with  you,"  he  said 
with  some  decision,  when  the  Vicar  seemed  preparing  for  departure. 
Austin  sighed  wearily,  but  offered  no  objection  to  the  lad's  im- 
patience ;  the  conversation  would  keep,  he  thought,  till  to-morrow, 
but  Garton  was  evidently  not  of  his  opinion.  Robert  watched 
them  out  with  gloomy  eyes ;  he  sighed  bitterly  once  or  twice  when 
he  was  left  alone. 

"  Who  would  have  thought  the  boy  would  have  had  such  good 
taste  ?"  he  said,  half  aloud,  as  he  dragged  his  chair  nearer  to  the 
fire  and  stirred  the  decaying  embers  together.  "  Pshaw  !  if  she 
be  what  they  make  out,  how  could  such  a  woman  care  for  him  V1  he 
continued  disdainfully.  He  struck  the  logs  heavily  with  his  boots 
— a  shower  of  bright  sparks  flew  hither  and  thither.  "  Gar  has 
no  pride,"  he  muttered,  leaning  his  elbows  on  his  knees  and  staring 
at  the  flame.  "  If  I  had  loved  her  ever  so,  I  would  have  gone 
away  without  saying  one  word  to  her,  if  she  looked  at  me  for  ever 
with  her  soft  pitiful  eyes ;  eyes — I  never  saw  any  woman's  like 
them,  they  talk  to  you  almost  }ike  a  dumb  animal's;"  he  shaded 
his  with  his  hand  and  looked  steadily  into  the  lurid  cavern  before 
him.  What  face  wras  that  that  seemed  to  start  up  suddenly  before 
him  1  Not  Belle's,  certainly ;  there  is  no  halo  of  pale  golden  hair, 
no  gray  eyes  brimful  of  unspoken  fondness.  This  is  a  sweet  tired 
face,  with  brown  hair  blowing  softly  over  the  temples,  the  lips 
quiver  sadly,  the  eyes  are  full  of  passionate  brown  fire.  "  I  would 
rather  walk  till  I  dropped — till  I  died — before  I  touched  your  arm;" 
he  wonders  with  a  groan  when  these  bitter  words  will  cease  to 
haunt  him.  Well,  Garton  has  a  strong  arm,  and  she  will  lean  on 
that — on  that — a  strange  smile  wreathes  his  pale  lips  as  he  follows 
out  this  thought — "  Oh,  Robert,  Robert  Ord,  the  time  will  soon 
come  when  you  will  wish  that  you  had  never  been  born  than  that 
you  should  see  such  a  sight  as  that." 

One  can  imagine  what  sort  of  kind  brotherly  counsel  the  Vicar 
gave  when  the  study  door  had  closed  on  him  and  Garton,  and  how 
he  forgot  his  weariness,  and  patiently  listened  to  the  young  man's 
eager  outpourings.  Garton  got  more  than  a  glimpse  of  the  great 
loving  heart  then ;  he  listened  with  tender  reverence  when  Austin 
touched  gently  on  his  failings  and  pointed  out  the  path  of  duty 
that  lay  before  him. 


334  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

"  You  must  go  away,  that  you  may  be  worthy  of  her,"  he  said, 
not  heeding  how  Garton  winced  at  his  words.  "  You  must  work 
bravely  for  her  and  yourself  too  before  you  can  enjoy  your  reward. 
When  you  come  back  you  will  be  in  a  far  different  position,  Garton, 
from  what  you  now  occupy.  Then  you  will  have  earned  something 
towards  your  college  expenses;  your  career  will  be  open  to  you,  and 
the  good  things  will  not  come  into  empty  hands  as  they  do  now." 

"  Enough,  I  will  go,"  said  the  young  man ;  he  held  out  his 
hand  to  his  brother,  and  the  Vicar  was  almost  startled  at  his  pale- 
ness. "  I  hope  you  will  not  have  reason  to  repent  of  your  advice, 
Austin,"  he  added  with  a  wistful  smile,  touching  in  its  sadness  ; 
"  but  it  shall  never  be  said  that  I  shirked  my  duty." 

He  went  back  into  the  next  house  and  walked  up  straight  to 
Robert,  who  was  still  sitting,  brooding  over  the  embers,  with  his 
elbows  on  his  knees. 

"Well,"  said  Robert,  not  looking  up  at  him,  however,  "you 
and  Austin  have  found  plenty  to  talk  about." 

"  You  are  right,"  returned  Garton  sadly.  All  the  brightness 
had  gone  out  of  his  face;  he  looked  weary  and  dull.  "  Robert,  you 
meant  it  for  the  best,  and  I  will  not  say  any  longer  that  you  were 
wrong.  I  will  go  by  the  Phoenix  on  Wednesday."  Robert  looked 
up  quickly,  and  then  in  a  moment  all  his  sullenness  melted,  and 
his  whole  heart  yearned  over  his  brother. 

"  God  bless  you,  lad,  you  have  lifted  a  weight  off  my  mind.  I 
did  give  my  word ;  and,  Gar,  I  really  thought  I  was  doing  it  for 
your  good." 

"  Don't  let's  say  another  word  about  it,  Bob.  I've  got  to  do 
it,  and  that's  all." 

"  Yes ;  but  I  must  say  something.  Look  here,  dear  boy,  I  did 
not  mean  half  of  all  those  hard  things  I  have  been  saying." 

"Did  you  not,  Robert?" 

"  No,  of  course  not ;  but  I  felt  for  the  moment  as  though  you 
had  disgraced  us  all." 

"  I  shall  never  do  anything  to  disgrace  you,"  returned  Garton 
quietly.  "  How  can  I  when  she  cares  for  me  ?  I  am  glad  you 
have  told  me  this,  Bobus.  It  makes  it  easier  for  me  to  go  away. 
If  I  never  come  back" — his  voice  faltered — "  you  will  try  to  think 
the  best  of  me,  will  you  not,  dear  old  Bobus  V1  And  before  his 
brother  could  answer  he  dashed  his  hand  across  his  eyes  aud 
hurriedly  left  the  room. 


CHAPTER   XXX. 

A  WOMAN'S  REASON  : — "  i  LOVE  HIM  BECAUSE  i  LOVE  HIM." 

"  Dear  soul,  not  so  ! 

That  time  doth  keep  for  us  some  happy  years, 
That  God  hath  portion'd  out  our  smiles  and  tears, 
Thou  knowest  and  I  know. 

"  Therefore  I  bear 

This  winter-tide  as  bravely  as  I  may, 
Patiently  waiting  for  the  bright  spring  day, 
That  cometh  with  thee,  Dear. " 

ARNOLD. 

THE  bright  beams  of  a  December  sun  awoke  Rotha  the  next  morn- 
ing, and  a  pleasant  conviction  that  things  were  not  quite  as  they 
were  yesterday,  and  that  something  very  wonderful  had  befallen 
her,  was  the  first  sensation  that  stole  upon  her. 

How  different  everything  was  from  yesterday  ! 

Then  she  had  wakened  to  a  sense  of  weariness  and  discomfort,  a 
cold  sea-fog  had  enveloped  everything ;  Meg  had  come  shivering 
into  her  room,  bringing  a  gust  of  raw  dampness  with  her.  But 
to-day,  when  Rotha  opened  her  eyes,  all  was  glitter  and  light :  a 
fresh  wind  swept  over  the  lawn,  stirring  the  shining  rainpools ;  the 
drops  were  still  glistening  on  the  evergreens,  a  robin  chirped  busily 
in  the  ivy.  Out  beyond  in  the  morning  sun  lay  the  chain  of  low 
grass  hillocks,  long  stretches  of  yellow  sands,  and  then  the  blue 
curve  of  the  bay — Welburn  sloping  in  the  distance  like  a  breadth 
of  dun-coloured  cloud.  Everywhere,  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach, 
were  salt-ponds,  trails  of  black  seaweed,  purple  rocks  uncovered  in 
the  sun,  and  masses  of  hummocky  sand.  Rotha  looked  almost  as 
bright  as  the  morning  itself  as  she  sat  opposite  Meg  at  the  sunny 
breakfast-table ;  upstairs  Prue  and  Catherine  were  singing  over 
their  work ;  the  open  windows  and  clanging  doors  bore  witness  to 
the  fresh  sea-breezes.  Hannah  Farebrothers,  in  her  snowy  sun* 
bonnet,  was  pulling  cabbages  in  the  kitchen-garden.  Peter  came 
in  at  the  green  door  on  the  lawn  with  Jock  and  Jasper  barking  at 


336  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

his  heels ;  Fidgets  flew  down  the  lawn,  his  every  hair  bristling,  to 
repel  the  intruders;  and  Garton's  black  cat,  Cinders,  who  was 
taking  a  constitutional  on  her  neighbour's  wall,  stepped  gingerly 
among  the  broken  bottles,  looking  down  at  them  all  in  sooty 
disdain. 

"  What  a  beautiful  day  !  Oh,  how  happy  I  am  ! "  thought 
Rotha  as,  breakfast  over,  she  stood  by  the  open  glass  door  feeding 
the  robins ;  she  broke  off  to  wave  a  smiling  good-bye  to  Meg,  who 
went  down  the  garden  with  her  music-books  under  her  arm. 

"  I  am  going  to  the  organ  first,  and  then  to  the  school,"  Meg 
had  said  to  her.  Rotha  looked  after  her  with  curious  wistful  eyes. 
"  How  strange  it  must  feel  to  have  lived  one's  life  and  to  have  been 
disappointed  with  it !"  thought  the  girl  sadly.  "Meg  cares  only 
for  her  children  and  her  music ;  she  has  no  world  of  her  own  at 
all ;  she  only  lives  in  other  people's  lives — in  mine  and  in  little 
Stacy  Maurice's,  for  example.  I  fancy,  by  the  way  she  talks  about 
her,  that  Stacy  is  her  favourite.  She  spends  her  whole  life  in  doing 
good  and  praying  for  that  good-for-nothing  husband  of  hers ;  and 
yet,  I  suppose,  when  she  married  him  she  expected  to  be  happy  as 
I  am,"  moralised  Rotha,  with  the  unconscious  superiority  of  one 
who  feels  that  her  own  life  will  be  so  different. 

She  was  rather  absent  when  Hannah  came  in  with  a  budget  of 
domestic  news.  She  gave  all  sorts  of  contradictory  orders  to  the 
astonished  woman,  and  then  laughed  and  scolded  herself  in  a  breath. 
While  Hannah  talked  about  the  miller  and  the  price  of  flour,  and 
the  reasons  why  the  last  batch  of  bread  had  been  so  slack-baked, 
and  how  Prue's  grandmother  would  find  them  in  new-laid  eggs  all 
the  year  round  at  a  cheaper  rate  than  Gammer  Stokes  would, 
Rotha  was  wondering  when  Garton  would  be  round,  and  how  he 
would  look,  and  what  she  would  say  to  him,  and  whether  he  had 
told  the  Vicar — which  latter  point  was  speedily  settled  for  her  by 
the  entrance  of  the  Vicar  himself. 

Rotha  had  not  expected  him,  and  his  visit  took  her  quite  by 
surprise,  and  for  once  in  her  life  she  felt  decidedly  nervous ;  she 
coloured  and  stood  quite  still  by  the  window  till  he  came  up  to  her. 

"  Well,  Rotha?"  he  said.  He  waited  till  Mrs.  Farebrothers  had 
curtsied  and  withdrew,  and  then  he  held  out  his  two  hands  to  the 
girl  almost  fondly.  How  pretty  she  looked  as  she  stood  there 
before  him  with  downcast  eyes,  with  her  dark  lashes  sweeping  her 
cheek  !  The  gray  dress  and  soft  blue  ribbons  seemed  to  lend  her 
colour. 

"Is  it  really  so,  my  child ?"  he  said  earnestly.  "Have  you 
quite  made  up  your  mind  V  And  Rotha's  happy  blush  was  suffi- 
cient answer. 


A  WOMAN'S  REASON.  337 

What  a  long  talk  they  had  walking  up  and  down  the  sunny  old 
garden !  How  wisely,  and  with  what  gentleness  he  talked  to  her  ! 
Rotha  lost  her  shyness  now  as  she  listened  to  him. 

He  told  her  in  grave  uncompromising  words  how  the  world 
would  look  upon  her  choice.  "  If  she  wished  to  marry  Garton," 
he  said,  "  and  had  made  up  her  mind  that  it  was  for  her  happiness, 
it  was  not  for  them  to  interfere.  But  he  would  have  her  consider 
the  thing  in  all  its  bearings,  and  not  gloss  over  its  difficulties." 

He  touched  very  tenderly  too  on  Garten's  failings,  taking  care 
to  do  justice  to  his  nobler  qualities.  "  He  is  very  humble-minded 
— singularly  so,"  the  Vicar  added,  "and  his  faith  is  almost  child- 
like. He  will  love  you  dearly,  Rotha,"  he  continued ;  "  it  is  in 
his  nature  to  be  faithful."  And  then  he  hinted  more  than  once  at 
that  want  of  ballast  which  was  Garton's  most  serious  defect. 

"  Gar  is  such  a  lovable  fellow,  and  is  so  full  of  grand  impulses," 
he  said  regretfully ;  "  but,  Rotha,  I  am  half  afraid  that  you  are 
cleverer  than  he ;  a  woman  ought  not  to  be  cleverer  than  her 
husband." 

"  Goodness  is  better  than  cleverness,"  returned  Rotha,  blushing. 
She  clave  with  a  faith  that  was  almost  touching  to  her  belief  in 
Garton's  goodness,  and  then  she  added  naively,  "  I  do  not  like  to 
be  called  clever." 

"  Goodness  is  not  everything,"  returned  the  Vicar  gravely. 
"  In  marrying,  a  woman  ought  to,  be  able  to  look  up  to  her  husband 
— to  lean  on  him,  so  to  speak.  Do  you  think  you  could  depend 
on  Garton  ?  that  you  could  go  to  him  for  advice  in  all  your  diffi- 
culties and  troubles?  Be  assured,  the  happiest  woman  in  the 
world  needs  such  help  daily.  And  then  if  he  could  not  give  it, 
think,  Rotha,  how  grievous  it  would  be  to  be  disappointed  in  him 
after  all." 

"  I  shall  not  be  disappointed.  He  is  sure  to  be  good  to  me," 
replied  the  girl  innocently.  "I  suppose,  as  he  is  not  much  older, 
that  we  shall  help  each  other ;  and  then  we  can  always  come  to 
you  for  advice,  as  I  do  now,"  she  added  timidly. 

"When  you  have  a  husband  you  will  go  to  him.  Mary  tells 
me  everything."  He  smiled  a  little  over  the  girl's  refreshing 
na'ivete,  though  it  made  him  rather  grave  inwardly.  He  was 
afraid,  as  Mrs.  Carruthers  was,  that  Rotha  was  a  little  misled  by 
her  imagination  in  her  estimate  of  Garton's  character. 

Rotha  in  reality  was  a  good  deal  puzzled  by  the  Vicar's  ques- 
tions; his  solemnity  disturbed  her.  The  sun  was  shining;  the 
birds  were  twittering  around  her.  She  was  happy;  the  world 
was  beautiful. 

"  Oh,  why  will  everybody  be  so  grave  about  it  1  Was  no  one 
22 


338  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

ever  engaged  before?"  thought  Rotha  indignantly.  "What  does 
it  matter,  if  he  be  not  clever,  if  I  love  him  ?"  She  put  on  a  pro- 
voking little  face  as  she  turned  to  the  Vicar.  "  I  shall  tell  Garton 
that  I  shall  always  come  to  you  for  advice,"  she  said,  nodding  at 
him.  She  had  taken  her  handkerchief  in  her  old  way  and  had 
tied  it  gipsy-like  over  her  brown  hair.  Her  eyes  were  full  of  shy 
happiness. 

"  Well,  well,"  he  said,  smiling;  "  if  it  must  be  so,  it  must  be,  I 
suppose.  If  I  were  Gar,  I  would  not  have  you  with  such  a  proviso." 
He  patted  her  hand  thoughtfully,  and  then  relapsed  into  gravity. 

"  Yes,  it  was  a  good  thing,"  he  said,  "  for  both  their  sakes, 
that  Garton  was  going  away ;  it  would  test  the  reality  of  their 
affection  for  each  other,  and  would  make  a  man  of  Gar  by  teaching 
him  to  depend  on  his  own  resources ;  he  would  come  back  worthier 
of  her  than  he  was  now." 

Rotha  looked  up  in  some  alarm  at  this. 

"  Going  away — Garton  going  away  ! "  she  said.  And  just  then 
the  Vicar  espied  Garton  himself  coming  through  the  trees  to  meet 
them. 

Another  time  Rotha  would  have  been  rather  bashful  at  thus 
meeting  her  lover  for  the  first  time  under  the  Vicar's  eye ;  but 
consternation  at  this  sudden  piece  of  news  overbore  this  feeling, 
and  as  Garton  came  up  to  them — rather  sheepishly,  it  must  be  con- 
fessed, at  the  sight  of  his  brother — she  put  out  her  hand  to  him 
with  a  little  impatience  at  his  delay. 

"  What  is  this  1 "  she  said,  rather  peremptorily.  "  What  does 
it  all  mean  ?  The  Vicar  says  you  are  going  away."  She  looked  up 
at  him  with  wide-open  eyes  full  of  distress,  with  a  fall  of  the  lip 
like  a  child's ;  she  actually  believed  that  Garton  was  going  to 
New  Zealand,  after  all. 

Garton  took  the  little  hand  tenderly ;  he  looked  from  one  to  the 
other  rather  doubtfully.  The  Vicar  was  grieved  to  see  how  worn  and 
haggard  Garton's  face  still  was  :  strong  agitation,  sleeplessness,  and 
the  alternation  from  despair  to  sudden  joy,  and  now  the  reluctance 
with  which  he  viewed  his  enforced  absence  for  so  many  months, 
made  sad  ravages  in  the  young  man's  appearance ;  the  radiant  look 
of  last  night  had  almost  disappeared. 

"What  have  you  told  her,  Austin1?"  he  said,  addressing  his 
brother.  "  Robert  has  detained  me,  Rotha ;  I  meant  to  have  told 
you  myself."  He  held  her  hand  in  a  grip  that  was  almost  painful. 

"Don't — you  are  hurting  me;  you  are  always  hurting  me, 
Garton,"  said  the  girl  in  a  droll  voice. 

After  the  Vicar  had  left  them  she  showed  the  red  mark  to 
Garton,  who  looked  grave  over  it. 


A  WOMAN'S  REASON.  339 

"  My  great  hands  are  enough  to  crush  those  little  fingers,"  he 
said,  stroking  them  remorsefully.  "What  a  little  hand  you  have, 
Rotha — such  a  small  thin  hand  !" 

"  Never  mind,  it  is  not  a  pretty  one,"  returned  Rotha  hastily, 
drawing  it  away.  "  Garton,  am  I  to  understand  that  you  are  going 
to  New  Zealand,  after  all  1 " 

"To  New  Zealand!"  laughed  Gar.  "No;  not  unless  you 
have  a  fancy  for  going  there  too.  I  can't  say  that  I  have  any 
desire  just  now  to  pitch  my  tent  among  wigwams." 

"Are  there  wigwams  in  New  Zealand1?  How  funny!"  ex- 
claimed Rotha.  "  I  thought  by  the  Vicar's  laughing  that  I  must 
be  wrong,  after  all;  but  he  certainly  said  that  you  were  going 
away;  and  when — and  where1?"  demanded  Rotha,  somewhat 
puzzled. 

"Rotha,  dear,  I  will  tell  you.  Yes,  I  am  going  away,"  he 
returned  in  a  troubled  voice.  He  began  to  explain  to  her  as  well 
as  he  could  how  it  had  all  come  about,  but  at  the  first  mention  of 
Robert's  name  she  stopped  him. 

"  Robert  thinks  it  necessary  !  What  right  has  he  to  interfere 
between  you  and  me  1  If  he  hates  me,  is  that  any  reason  why  he 
should  send  you  away  1 "  she  exclaimed  indignantly. 

"  Hush,  dear ;  no  one  sends  me  away.  I  am  going  because  it 
is  right  for  me  to  go,"  returned  Gar,  with  a  touch  of  sturdy  inde- 
pendence. "  Sweet  heart" — the 'young  man  used  the  word  in  its 
Saxon  sense,  which  rendered  it  infinitely  touching — "  sweet  heart, 
do  you  think  I  should  be  worthy  of  you  if  I  shirked  my  duty  V 

"No,"  returned  Rotha  in  a  choked  voice;  "if  you  wish  to 
leave  me,  you  must  do  so,  I  suppose." 

"  If  I  wish  to  leave  you  1  Oh,  Rotha,  how  can  you  say  such 
things,"  burst  out  the  poor  fellow,  "  when  you  know  I  worship 
the  ground  you  walk  on?"  How  eloquent  he  could  be — this  great 
clumsy  Garton  !  "Don't  make  it  too  hard  for  me,"  pleaded  Gar; 
"  it  is  bad  enough  to  have  to  go  away  without  leaving  you  sorry 
and  caring  for  it." 

" Would  you  have  me  not  care?  How  cold  it  is  out  here!" 
shivered  the  girl.  Her  kerchief  had  become  untied  and  her  brown 
hair  blew  softly  over  her  neck ;  the  pretty  colour  had  faded  out  of 
her  cheeks ;  she  looked  pale  and  wistful. 

"Perhaps  we  had  better  go  in.  I  thought  that  red  cloak 
would  have  kept  you  warm,"  he  returned;  "but  these  winds  are 
so  treacherous."  He  followed  her  through  the  open  glass  doors ; 
the  robins  were  still  chattering  and  twittering  in  the  ivy.  Rotha 
said  nothing  as  Garton  placed  her  favourite  chair  by  the  fire  and 
brought  her  a  footstool ;  she  sat  with  the  red  cloak  dropping  off 


340  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

from  her  shoulders  and  her  hands  folded  wearily  in  her  lap. 
Garton  stood  and  watched  her  with  that  strange  new  heartache 
of  his  till  he  saw  the  tears  in  her  eyes,  and  then  he  could  bear  it 
no  longer ;  he  was  standing  beside  her  "  mountains  high,"  as  she 
phrased  it  in  her  droll  way,  but  now  he  suddenly  got  on  one  knee 
and  put  his  arm  around  her.  "Don't,  Rotha;  don't,  my  dear 
girl,"  he  said — "just  as  though  he  had  been  used  to  comfort  me 
every  day  of  my  life,"  Rotha  said  afterwards. 

What  were  they  after  all  but  boy  and  girl  in  spite  of  their 
years  ?  No  one  but  Rotha  would  have  thought  much  of  Garten's 
eloquence  or  of  his  clumsy  attempts  to  cheer  her,  and  yet  she  was 
as  honestly  comforted  by  it  all  as  though  he  had  used  the  most 
persuasive  arguments. 

They  got  up  a  figurative  tableau  of  Millais'  "Huguenots" 
after  that,  which  was  very  striking  and  characteristic  in  its  way. 
Rotha  was  for  tying  the  white  scarf  round  her  lover's  arm,  but 
Garton  would  not  hear  of  it  for  a  moment.  Perhaps  in  her  secret 
heart  she  was  only  trying  him — very  young  women  like  to  test 
their  power  sometimes ;  it  did  not  offend  Rotha  one  bit  that  he 
preferred  his  independence  and  his  duty.  Garten's  firmness  and 
loyalty  to  his  brothers  satisfied  that  duty-loving  nature  of  hers. 
"How  can  they  say  he  wants  ballast?"  she  thought  indignantly, 
as  she  remembered  the  Vicar's  grave  warning. 

She  said  something  of  this  to  Garton  afterwards  when  their 
little  scene  had  been  enacted ;  they  were  sitting  now  side  by  side, 
like  sensible  people,  and  Rotha  looked  as  grave  as  a  judge. 

"  I  should  not  have  cared  for  you  half  so  much,  after  all,  if 
you  had  not  been  firm  in  this,"  she  said  to  him.  She  looked  at  the 
young  man  with  sweet  serious  eyes,  in  which  there  was  more 
approval  than  pain.  Garton,  in  spite  of  his  heavy  heart,  thrilled 
at  her  praise. 

"  I  thought  you  would  feel  so ;  I  was  certain  of  it,"  he  replied 
in  a  low  voice. 

"  And  you  must  not  go  and  talk  about  it  as  though  it  were 
six  years,"  continued  Rotha  cheerfully,  who  did  nothing  by  halves, 
and  was  determined  now  to  think  the  best  of  it.  She  was  getting 
quite  brave  and  matter-of-fact  over  it  all;  but  such  is  the  per- 
versity of  human  nature  that  Garton,  though  he  came  out  so 
strong  in  the  character  of  consoler,  relapsed  dismally  at  this 
juncture. 

"  I  don't  know  about  years ;  I  think  it  will  be  an  eternity  to 
me,"  he  rejoined  lugubriously.  "  It  does  seem  so  hard  just  when 
we  were  going  to  be  so  happy,  and  Wednesday  will  be  here  in  no 
time." 


A  WOMAN'S  REASON.  341 

"Why,  it  is  Friday  now.  Oh,"  gasped  Rotha — a  sudden 
cold  water  damped  her  resolution  and  chilled  it  thoroughly — 
"  Wednesday,  how  dreadfully  near !  Could  they  not  spare  us 
another  day?" 

"It  would  not  do;  besides,  what  is  the  good  of  prolonging 
one's  misery  1  Of  course  every  hour  is  worth  its  weight  in  gold," 
returned  Gar  somewhat  contradictorily,  feeling  all  at  once  like  a 
condemned  criminal  waiting  for  a  reprieve. 

"No;  it  would  not  do,"  returned  Rotha  decisively;  "we  had 
better  make  the  most  of  our  time  and  not  spoil  the  little  that 
remains  to  us.  Perhaps  it  will  be  better  for  us  both  when  you  are 
once  gone ;  six  months  is  not  such  a  long  time  after  all,  and  then, 
you  know,  I  shall  expect  plenty  of  letters." 

"I  am  not  a  good  hand  at  that,  I  am  afraid,"  said  Gar,  with 
a  rueful  smile.  "  Robert  is  the  letter-writer  of  the  family.  After 
all,  Rotha,  I  am  afraid  that  you  will  find  out  that  you  are  cleverer 
than  I." 

The  Vicar's  very  words.  Another  dash  of  cold  water  to 
Rotha. 

"  Never  mind  if  I  am,"  she  returned  impatiently.  "  I  do  not 
think  that  sort  of  thing  has  anything  to  do  with  us  two.  You 
can  write  and  tell  me,  I  suppose,  what  you  do  on  board  ship,  and 
what  friends  you  make,  and  all  that ;  and  I  daresay  you  will  con- 
trive a  short  message  or  two  to  Rube,"  she  added  mischievously. 

"  Oh,  I  daresay  I  shall  manage  as  much  as  that,  and  perhaps 
a  little  more.  I  can  tell  you,  for  instance — 

But  it  is  useless  repeating  all  Gar's  words.  Love-making  was 
a  novelty  to  him  as  well  as  to  Rotha,  and  most  likely  he  said 
and  did  a  hundred  extravagant  things.  Robert's  cool  quiet  style 
would  not  have  suited  Gar's  passionate  nature  at  all. 

Rotha  thought  it  all  very  beautiful ;  and  then  they  set  them- 
selves to  plan  out  the  few  days  that  remained  to  them.  The  Vicar 
had  made  Garton  promise  that  he  would  bring  Rotha  round  to  the 
Vicarage  in  the  course  of  the  morning,  and  he  further  stipulated 
that  she  should  remain  there  the  rest  of  the  day.  This  they  both 
considered  charming.  The  next  morning  Garton  was  under  an 
engagement  to  accompany  Robert  to  Stretton,  where  he  was  to 
talk  over  business  and  receive  final  orders  from  Mr.  Ramsay. 
Robert  was  to  stay  at  Stretton  over  Sunday,  but  Garton  promised 
to  take  an  early  train  that  he  might  spend  at  least  an  hour  or  two 
at  Bryn.  "  This  day  was  as  good  as  lost,"  Garton  observed  regret- 
fully ;  but  Rotha  consoled  him  by  telling  him  that  they  would  be 
together  all  Sunday,  and  that  he  was  to  bring  Rube  up  to  tea. 
Likewise  she  yielded  to  his  entreaties  that  Meg  and  she  should  do 


342  ROBERT  ORD^S  ATONEMENT. 

a  morning's  shopping  in  Thornborough  on  Monday,  where  Garton 
would  be  most  of  the  day  getting  together  necessaries  for  his 
voyage.  Robert  had  agreed  to  do  the  greater  share  of  the  busi- 
ness, and  was  hard  at  work  already  in  Garten's  service,  as,  indeed, 
were  Mary  and  old  Sarah ;  and,  though  they  did  not  know  it,  he 
was  at  that  very  moment  planning  how  he  could  stint  himself  to 
lay  out  a  few  more  pounds  on  his  brother's  poor  outfit. 

"  Yes ;  but  we  shall  have  to  be  back  pretty  early,"  observed 
Rotha,  who  was  very  brisk  and  businesslike  over  these  details ; 
"you  have  not  forgotten  the  party  at  the  Rudelsheims' T' 

Now  the  Rudelsheims  were  among  the  naturalised  strangers 
appertaining  to  Blackscar  and  its  environs.  They  were  worthy 
folk  of  German  extraction,  and  were  rather  favourites  with  the 
Vicarage  people;  but  they  followed  Mrs.  Stephen  Knowles'  ex- 
ample in  setting  at  defiance  all  Blackscar  tradition,  and  in  utterly 
abhorring  the  very  name  of  tea-parties. 

The  tide  of  popular  disfavour  had  indeed  been  too  strong  for 
that  latter  lady,  who  had  succumbed  so  far  as  to  tolerate  kettle- 
drums and  to  allow  tea  and  thin  bread-and-butter  to  be  handed 
round  at  an  unwholesome  hour  of  the  afternoon ;  but  Mrs.  Rudel- 
sheim,  or  Madame  Rudelsheim,  as  she  dearly  loved  to  be  called, 
would  have  nothing  to  say  to  such  weak  sophistries.  She  took 
every  opportunity  of  laughing  at  Mrs.  Stephen  Knowles'  "slop 
dawdles,"  as  she  called  them. 

"  When  I  entertain  my  friends,  I  will  entertain  them  properly," 
she  would  say.  "  Dancing  is  good  for  young  people,  and  I  do  not 
see  why  they  should  not  have  it."  And,  in  accordance  with  this 
peremptory  benevolence,  the  Rudelsheims  issued  invitations  for  a 
party. 

Rotha  was  going,  but  not  Mary.  Mrs.  Ord  had  scruples  about 
dancing — theoretical,  but  not  practical  ones ;  but  the  Vicar  had 
promised  to  look  in  during  the  evening,  and  Aunt  Eliza  had 
engaged  to  chaperone  both  Rotha  and  Nettie.  Robert  had  an 
invitation,  and  so  had  Garton,  and  Rotha  was  extorting  from  the 
latter  a  reluctant  promise  to  be  there. 

He  was  not  in  the  mood  for  dancing,  he  said ;  and  then  there 
were  other  objections.  Madame  Rudelsheim's  parties  were  rather 
grand  affairs — at  least  in  Gar's  eyes.  He  could  not  tell  Rotha 
very  well  that  his  dress-coat  was  so  shabby  that  he  was  ashamed 
of  it ;  neither  could  he  explain  that  even  gloves  and  boots  were  a 
consideration  to  him.  Gar  never  felt  his  poverty  quite  so  bitterly 
as  he  did  at  this  moment.  If  Rotha  had  been  as  poor  as  himself 
he  would  have  confessed  his  difficulties  without  hesitation;  but 
their  hours  together  were  numbered,  and  she  had  alleged  all  sorts 


A  WOMAN'S  REASON.  343 

of  pretty  arguments  why  he  should  be  there,  and  Gar  felt  that  in 
this  point  he  was  compelled  to  yield. 

"And  the  next  day — what  shall  we  do  on  the  next  day?" 
exclaimed  Rotha  when  this  was  settled.  She  looked  just  a  little 
grave  and  tearful  when  Garton  told  her  what  they  should  do. 

"  It  will  be  my  last  day,"  said  Gar  sadly,  "  and  I  must  spend 
it  with  you  and  Rube ;  there  will  be  packing  and  all  manner  of 
things  to  settle,  I  suppose,  but  I  think  we  could  manage  to  go 
over  for  a  few  hours  to  Burnley,  you  and  I  and  Rube.  I  think 
that  was  the  happiest  day  I  ever  spent  in  my  life,  and  I  want  to 
see  the  dear  old  spot  once  more." 

"  Yes ;  we  will  go,"  returned  Rotha  dreamily ;  what  strange 
fancies  she  had  had  in  those  dim  old  woods  !  She  thought  it  was 
very  nice  of  Garton  to  propose  it.  By  this  time  it  was  growing 
late,  and  Rotha  reminded  him  that  Mary  would  be  expecting 
them. 

It  was  later  still  when  they  got  to  the  Vicarage,  for  Meg  came 
in,  and  that  detained  them.  Garton  looked  sheepish  again  when 
Mrs.  Carruthers  shook  hands  with  him  and  wished  him  joy ;  but 
he  did  not  look  so  when,  a  few  minutes  afterwards,  Rotha  and  he 
walked  down  to  the  Vicarage.  Mary  was  expecting  them,  and 
met  her  friend  with  open  arms.  "  Oh,  my  dear,  Gar  is  not  good 
enough  for  you,"  said  the  affectionate  creature  in  a  voice  between 
laughing  and  crying.  "  I  don't  care  a  bit  for  your  hearing  me,"  she 
continued,  nodding  at  Garton,  who  was  standing  by  looking  shame- 
faced and  happy ;  "if  you  love  her  you  will  not  mind  being  told 
how  good  she  is.  Rotha,  how  shall  we  manage  to  make  enough  of 
you,  and  to  think  of  it  being  Garton  after  all  ?"  finished  Mary,  who 
was  still  in  a  highly-strung  pitch  of  excitement,  and  had  kept  up  a 
variation  of  this  one  particular  sentence  ever  since  the  news  had 
been  told  her. 

Belle  came  down  presently,  while  Mary  and  Rotha  were  still 
talking.  Both  of  them  absolutely  started  at  her  ghastly  looks. 
She  went  up  and  kissed  Rotha  with  some  show  of  kindness,  but 
without  any  attempt  at  congratulation,  and  then  went  and  sat 
silently  in  her  place. 

Only  once  Rotha  attempted  to  speak  to  her ;  once  when  Garton, 
who  had  been  lingering  by  her  chair  all  the  afternoon,  had  been 
summoned  by  the  Vicar  to  come  down  and  speak  to  a  choir- boy 
who  was  in  disgrace,  and  Mary,  who  had  a  secret  liking  for  the 
culprit,  had  followed  him.  When  they  had  gone  out  Rotha  crossed 
the  room  and  knelt  down  beside  her. 

"  Dear  Belle,"  she  whispered,  "  will  you  not  wish  me  happiness? 
Every  one  has  but  you."  She  repented  the  speech  the  moment 


344  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

she  had  said  it  when  she  saw  the  reproachful  look  with  which  she 
answered  her. 

"  Oh,  Rotha,  how  can  you  1  Do  I  look  as  though  I  could  wish 
any  one  happiness  ?  No,  I  don't  mean  that  •  I  do  wish  it  you, 
dear,  none  the  less  that  you  have  everything,  and  that  my  heart  is 
broken ;  and,  before  Rotha  could  say  a  word,  the  unhappy  girl 
had  thrown  her  arms  round  Rotha's  neck  in  a  burst  of  bitter 
weeping. 


CHAPTER   XXXI. 

IN    HOC    SPERO. 

4 '  Through  my  happy  tears  there  look'd  in  mino 
A  face  as  sweet  as  morning  violets ; 
A  face  alight  with  love  ineffable, 
The  starry  heart  hid  wonder  trembling  through.'' 

MASSEY. 
"To  his  eye 

There  was  but  one  beloved  face  on  earth, 
And  that  was  shining  on  him ;  he  had  look'd 
Upon  it  till  it  could  not  pass  away; 
He  had  no  breath,  no  being,  but  in  hers. 
She  was  his  voice ;  he  did  not  speak  to  her, 
But  trembled  on  her  words  ;  she  was  his  sigh, 
For  his  eye  follow'd  hers,  and  saw  with  hers, 
Which  colour'd  all  his  objects ; — he  had  ceased 
To  live  within  himself ;  she  was  his  life, 
The  ocean  to  the  river  of  his  thoughts, 
Which  terminated  all ;  upon  a  tone, 
A  touch  of  hers,  his  blood  would  ebb  and  flow, 
And  his  cheek  change  tempestuously."  BYRON. 

BELLE'S  fit  of  agitation  lasted  so  long  that  Rotha  was  frightened. 
In  vain  she  caressed  her,  in  vain  she  implored  her,  with  a  hundred 
endearing  expressions,  to  tell  her  what  had  occurred  to  distress  her. 
Belle  would  say  nothing,  and  absolutely  refused  to  be  comforted.  She 
had  a  paroxysm  of  coughing  presently,  and  then  she  allowed  Rotha  to 
assist  her  to  her  own  room  and  do  many  little  womanly  offices  for 
her.  She  lay  quite  still,  with  heaving  breast  and  closed  eyes,  while 
Rotha  loosened  her  hair  and  freshened  her  burning  face.  But,  when 
she  had  finished,  Belle  put  out  her  hand  to  her  and  said  hoarsely : 

"  Do  not  mind  me ;  go  now.     Garton  will  be  wanting  you." 

"  But  I  should  like  to  stay  with  you,"  returned  Rotha  pityingly. 

But  Belle  shook  her  head. 

"  I  would  rather  be  alone  ;  you  know  I  must  be  alone  some- 
times. I  shall  like  to  think  of  you  all  being  happy  downstairs. 
You  are  too  good  to  me,  Rotha.  I  do  not  deserve  it,  and  I  never 
think  of  any  one  but  him." 


346  ROBERT  ORD^S  ATONEMENT. 

She  looked  up  with  quivering  lips  when  Rotha  kissed  her. 

"  Do  not  tell  any  one;  do  not  let  Mary  know  that  I  have  been 
so  silly.  She  would  not  understand.  I  shall  be  punished  for  it, 
for  I  shall  not  be  able  to  come  downstairs  and  see  him  to-night." 

And  a  bitter  sigh  echoed  her  words  as  Rotha  closed  the  door. 

Rotha  had  no  intention  of  obeying  Belle  by  keeping  her  counsel. 
She  found  Mary  alone  when  she  returned  to  the  drawing-room,  and 
at  once  told  her  what  had  occurred,  taking  blame  on  herself  for 
her  inconsiderate  words.  Mrs.  Ord,  who  looked  very  distressed 
over  the  whole  recital,  relieved  her  at  once  by  throwing  quite 
another  light  on  the  matter. 

She  told  Rotha  that  Robert  had  been  in  that  morning,  quite 
contrary  to  his  usual  custom,  and,  finding  Belle  and  her  together, 
had  told  Belle  in  her  presence  about  Garton's  engagement  and  his 
own  appointment. 

"  Robert  had  behaved  beautifully,"  Mrs.  Ord  added,  "  and  had 
broken  the  double  news  very  gently  to  Belle,  who  had,  on  the 
whole,  seemed  to  have  taken  it  very  quietly.  He  put  everything 
in  a  clear  concise  way,  dwelt  a  little  on  the  benefits  of  the  large 
salary,  and  the  comfortable  house  that  awaited  them ;  and  then 
asked  her  in  a  quiet  straightforward  way  whether  she  thought  she 
could  get  ready  for  him  towards  the  end  of  February,  or  if  she 
would  prefer  waiting  till  a  few  days  before  they  sailed,  '  unless, 
indeed,'  he  remarked  with  a  smile,  'you  are  unwilling  to  leave 
Mary  and  come  with  me  so  far.' " 

He  went  on  a  little  more  after  this,  and  then  pressed  gently  for 
her  answer.  Neither  of  them  could  see  Belle's  face,  for  she  had 
kept  her  hand  over  her  eyes  all  the  time  he  had  talked.  Once  or 
twice  she  had  shivered  slightly,  but  for  the  most  part  she  seemed 
keeping  herself  still  by  force.  When  he  had  finished  she  had  un- 
covered her  eyes  and  looked  at  them  so  strangely  that  neither  of 
them  could  understand  it ;  and  there  had  been  a  strained  worn  look 
about  her  face  that  had  gone  to  her  sister's  heart. 

"  You  know  I  am  not  well  enough.  I  don't  think  I  shall  ever 
be  well  enough  to  be  married,"  she  had  said  to  them ;  and  then 
calling  her  sister  to  her,  "  Mary,  tell  him  I  cannot.  Does  he  not 
know  what  is  the  matter  with  me  1" 

"  I  don't  think  any  one  knows  what  is  the  matter  with  you, 
Belle,"  he  returned,  but  Mary  saw  a  flushed  uneasy  look  come  into 
his  face.  Belle  caught  her  breath  with  a  little  sob  of  impatient 
pain  as  he  went  on.  No,  she  was  not  well ;  he  knew  that,  he  re- 
peated, but  she  must  give  him  her  word  to  see  a  doctor  without  delay ; 
and  Belle,  in  a  tone  of  reckless  misery,  promised  that  she  would  ; 
and  then  she  had  surprised  them  both  by  fixing  on  Mr.  Greenock, 


IN  HOC  SPERO.  347 

the  Infirmary  doctor.  She  would  not  hear  of  the  family  practi- 
tioner, Dr.  Chapman. 

"  Very  well,  then,  it  shall  be  Greenock."  Robert  had  returned, 
and,  as  far  as  he  knew,  he  was  quite  as  clever  as  the  Blackscar 
practitioner.  And  then  he  begged  her  smilingly  to  compose  her- 
self, and  to  leave  all  other  arrangements  to  him  and  Mary. 

"And  what  did  Belle  say  ?"  interrupted  Rotha  breathlessly  at 
this  point.  She  had  turned  red  and  pale  over  Mary's  narration. 
She  knew  now  why  Belle  had  shrunk  from  the  look  of  her  happy 
face.  "  Oh,  Mrs.  Ord,"  she  cried,  "  I  am  so  afraid  that  Belle  thinks 
herself  very  ill,  and  that  it  is  preying  on  her  mind." 

"  That  is  what  I  think,"  returned  Mary,  drying  her  eyes.  "  I 
have  told  Austin  so  over  and  over  again.  Oh,  Rotha,  suppose  this 
is  the  beginning  of  decline;  she  looks  so  like  poor  Aunt  Isabel,  who 
had  disease  of  the  lungs  and  died  quite  young.  And  then  to  think 
that  Robert  would  not  let  you  take  her  away." 

"  He  does  not  understand,"  returned  Rotha  in  a  low  voice. 
"  But  I  am  afraid  now  a  milder  climate  ought  to  have  been  tried 
long  ago.  I  do  not  see  myself  how  she  is  to  be  fit  for  a  long  sea 
voyage.  But  Mr.  Greenock  will  tell  you.  Did  she  say  anything 
more  before  she  left  you  ?" 

"  No ;  Austin  came  in,  and  she  let  us  kiss  her,  but  at  the  first 
word  of  congratulation  she  stopped  us.  Robert  wanted  her  to  go 
and  lie  down — he  is  very  gentle  and  considerate  with  her  now — 
and  she  went  away  directly.  But  I  heard  her  tell  Austin  first  that 
she  had  promised  to  see  Mr.  Greenock,  and  that  he  would  tell  us 
what  she  had  tried  so  often  lately  to  tell  us,  only  she  could  not. 
And  as  she  said  this  she  turned  so  white  that  Austin  put  his  arm 
round  her,  thinking  she  felt  faint.  But  it  was  not  faintness,  Rotha, 
it  was  misery.  She  knows  she  is  worse  than  we  think." 

"Why  not  send  for  Mr.  Greenock  at  once1?"  interrupted  Rotha 
hastily;  but  Mary  shook  her  head.  It  was  hard  to  see  Mrs.  Ord's 
fair  face  so  troubled  and  worn. 

"  No ;  it  will  not  do  to  hurry  it.  We  know  Belle  too  well  for 
that.  She  has  promised  to  see  him  on  Tuesday,  and  Robert  will 
not  be  back  from  Stretton  till  then.  Tuesday  will  be  Garten's  last 
evening  too,  and  Wednesday  will  be  Christmas  Eve.  Oh,  Rotha, 
what  a  Christmas  this  will  be  for  us  all,  if  Mr.  Greenock  says  that 
Robert  will  have  to  go  alone  !" 

"  He  cannot  leave  her  surely  ?"  interrupted  Rotha. 

"  He  must.  What  can  he  do  *\  He  will  have  thrown  up  his 
situation  too.  If  she  be  not  well  enough  to  accompany  him,  the 
engagement  will  have  to  be  broken  off  altogether,  and  that  will  kill 
her.  Oh,  Rotha,"  continued  Mrs.  Ord  remorsefully,  "I  did  not 


348  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

mean  to  have  said  all  this  to-day.  I  was  trying  to  forget  it  when 
you  and  Garton  came  in.  Ah,  my  dear,  my  dear,  you  must  not 
cry  to-day  of  all  days,  just  when  we  all  meant  to  be  so  happy  too." 

"  I  cannot  help  it,"  returned  Rotha,  struggling  with  her  tears. 
"  It  seems  so  dreadful  for  her,  and  then  for  him  not  to  see  it." 
She  broke  off  suddenly  as  Garton  re-entered  the  room,  and  after 
that  nothing  more  was  said  between  them. 

This  conversation  damped  the  rest  of  the  evening  to  Rotha. 
Garton,  though  he  sat  near  her  and  talked  to  her,  missed  the  old 
merry  smiles.  Rotha  was  grave  and  abstracted,  almost  sad.  Mary 
was  upstairs  with  her  sister  most  of  the  time,  and  the  Vicar  was 
busy.  Robert  never  made  his  appearance  at  all.  Just  before  she 
went  away  she  stole  for  a  moment  into  Belle's  room  to  wish  her 
good-night ;  but  Belle  seemed  weary,  and  hardly  spoke  to  her,  and 
with  a  heavy  heart  she  crept  away.  The  next  day  things  were 
hardly  more  cheerful  at  the  Vicarage ;  Robert  and  Garton  had 
gone  to  Stretton;  Belle  had  relapsed  into  one  of  her  taciturn  moods; 
and  Mary,  after  a  few  attempts,  hardly  made  an  effort  to  be  cheer- 
ful. She  was  very  sympathetic,  however,  and  had  a  long  confi- 
dential talk  with  Rotha  about  her  own  prospects.  And  in  the 
afternoon  the  Vicar,  seeing  how  things  were,  put  aside  his  own 
business  and  took  them  and  the  four  boys  for  a  country  ramble, 
which  lasted  so  long  that  Garton  had  already  made  his  appearance 
at  Bryn  and  was  harassing  the  soul  of  Mrs.  Carruthers  by  his 
restlessness  and  repeated  expressions  of  wonder  as  to  what  had 
become  of  Rotha. 

The  walk  had  done  its  work  thoroughly,  and  Rotha  came  in 
by  and  by  just  as  Garton  loved  to  see  her,  with  her  brown  hair 
ruffled  and  her  bright  face  freshened  with  the  wind.  She  had 
brought  them  all  in,  in  triumph  with  her,  and  Mary  laughed  and 
looked  like  her  old  self  as  she  helped  Mrs.  Carruthers  to  make 
arrangements  for  so  large  a  party.  Rotha  let  her  do  it ;  she  stood 
talking  to  Garton  in  a  low  voice  till  she  was  summoned  to  her 
place  at  the  head  of  the  table. 

These  sort  of  impromptu  gatherings  were  Rotha's  delight. 
She  had  sent  off  Guy  to  fetch  Reuben,  and  when  he  returned  with 
the  lad  her  pleasure  was  complete.  Garton  indeed  would  have 
preferred  having  Rotha  to  himself — love-making  and  tender 
speeches  were  hardly  possible  before  the  lads.  But  Rotha,  in  her 
unselfishness,  never  thought  of  such  a  thing ;  she  was  quite  con- 
tent to  beam  at  Garton  at  intervals  across  the  boys'  rosy  faces. 
She  talked  more  to  the  Vicar  than  to  him ;  it  made  her  shy  to 
encounter  several  pairs  of  round  curious  eyes  every  time  she 
addressed  him.  Rufus  and  Laurie  were  always  telegraphing  their 


IN  HOC  SPERO.  349 

astonishment  to  each  other,  and  Arty's  audible  remarks  made  her 
desperate ;  she  wished  Garton  would  not  break  off  his  conversation 
every  minute  to  catch  her  faintest  words  ;  he  did  all  sorts  of  things, 
this  clumsy  lover  of  hers,  that  confused  and  put  her  out  of  counte- 
nance. The  Vicar  could  not  help  admiring  the  graceful  tact  with 
which  she  checked  and  kept  him  in  order.  After  tea,  when 
Mary  had  stolen  away  to  look  after  Belle,  she  taught  the  boys 
games,  and  made  them  happy  in  a  dozen  ways.  She  played  and 
sang  to  them,  and  joined  in  some  of  their  favourite  glees ;  but, 
through  it  all,  she  was  always  conscious  that  Garton  was  near  her 
or  following  her  about  with  wistful  eyes. 

She  went  into  the  long  drawing-room  once,  in  the  moonlight, 
to  put  away  some  music,  and  there  she  was  startled  by  seeing 
him  standing  between  the  pillars  like  a  black  shadow.  "  Oh, 
Garton,"  she  said,  "  I  did  not  know  you  were  following  me.  How 
you  startled  me  ! "  And  then,  as  he  did  not  answer,  she  went  up 
to  him  and  touched  him  on  the  arm. 

"  Come,  Garton,  the  boys  are  going.  I  think  the  Vicar  wants 
you." 

"  Let  him  want  me,"  returned  Garton,  detaining  her.  "  Rotha, 
do  you  know  that  you  have  hardly  spoken  to  me  this  evening  ?  I 
have  been  almost  jealous  of  those  boys — Rube  especially." 

"  Rube,  your  favourite  ?     Oh,  for  shame  ! " 

"My  dear,  I  suppose  it  is  only  natural.  I  have  so  few  hours 
left  to  me,  and  they  will  see  you  day  after  day."  He  held  her 
fast  for  a  moment,  as  though  under  some  strange  agitation. 
"Rotha,  put  your  little  hand  here  a  moment,"  and  he  held  it 
firmly  to  his  heart.  "Do  you  know,  dear,  it  aches  so  to-night 
that  I  can  hardly  bear  it  T 

She  looked  up  in  his  face,  almost  frightened.  Was  it  fancy,  or 
did  the  moonlight  make  him  look  so  pale  1 

"  My  dear  Garton — my  poor  boy  !" 

He  smiled  at  that. 

"  I  cannot  help  it,  dear ;  it  is  a  sort  of  feeling — a  presentiment, 
I  suppose.  People  are  always  talking  about  those  sort  of  things, 
and  perhaps  it  has  come  to  me.  I  cannot  get  it  out  of  my  mind 
that  it  would  be  better  for  us  both  if  I  were  not  going  away." 

"Oh,  Garton!" 

"There,  perhaps  I  ought  not  to  have  said  that.  These  things 
are  always  in  God's  hands,  and  I  am  doing  my  duty.  You  re- 
member what  you  said  about  putting  *  the  hand  to  the  plough '  ? 
There  must  be  no  looking  back  in  one's  work,  eh,  Rotha?" 

"  No ;  but  I  do  not  know  how  I  am  to  let  you  go,"  said  Rotha 
remorsefully,  feeling  that  she  had  not  made  enough  of  him.  She 


350  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

heard  the  boys  tramping  out  of  the  front  door,  but  for  once  she 
had  forgotten  her  duties  as  hostess.  "  Oh,  Gar,  if  you  talk  like 
this  I  shall  never  be  able  to  let  you  go." 

"  Yes,  you  will,"  he  returned,  with  that  wonderful  new  gentle- 
ness which  had  come  to  him  in  the  last  few  days,  and  which 
reminded  her  of  the  Vicar.  "  I  do  not  fear  you,  Rotha.  You 
are  the  bravest  girl  I  have  ever  seen.  You  would  let  me  go  if 
you  knew  that  I  should  never  come  back  to  you." 

"  Dear  Garton,  do  you  think  I  would  be  so  hard-hearted  ¥' 

"It  would  not  be  hard-heartedness,  Rotha;  but  perhaps  I 
shall  never  make  you  understand,  any  more  than  you  would  if  I 
told  you  that  I  loved  you  a  hundred  times  more  than  you  loved  me." 

"  No,  indeed,"  returned  Rotha,  rather  indignant  at  this  admission. 

"  Nevertheless  it  would  be  the  truth,"  he  returned  quietly. 
"  I  have  watched  you  so  much  these  two  days,  and  I  know  you  so 
well,  dear — don't  misunderstand  me,"  he  continued,  with  a  touch 
of  his  old  vehemence,  as  Rotha  tried  to  draw  away  her  hand,  "  I 
am  not  complaining — why  should  I 1  It  could  not  be  otherwise. 
The  time  may  come — I  do  not  say  it  will,  Rotha — when  you  will 
give  me  all  that  is  in  you  to  give ;  but  it  will  not  come  to  me  just 
yet.  Hush  !  Is  that  Austin  calling?" 

"  He  is  only  speaking  to  Mrs.  Carruthers.  Garton,  what  makes 
you  talk  so  strangely  to-night?  Have  I  done  anything  to  hurt  you  ?" 

"Hurt  me,  my  darling?"  But  she  need  not  have  asked  the 
question,  for  his  answer  fully  satisfied  her. 

"  What  a  grand  room  this  is,  Rotha  ! "  he  said  presently,  when 
they  were  still  standing  gazing  out  on  the  moonlighted  lawn. 
"  You  look  too  young  to  be  the  mistress  of  this  great  house ;  and 
to  think  that  it  all  belongs  to  you  !" 

"Do  you  mind  it ?"  she  returned  softly.  "  I  am  keeping  it  all 
for  you  and  your  brother." 

"For  me!"  He  absolutely  started.  A  sudden  film  came 
before  his  eyes;  he  had  not  realised  before  that  all  these  good 
things  were  to  come  to  him. 

"  Yes ;  but  we  must  not  forget  Robert,"  said  Rotha,  following 
out  the  unspoken  thought. 

"  Do  you  mean  you  and  I  ?  No,  we  will  not  forget  him.  You 
must  not  think  me  strange  or  ungrateful,  Rotha;  but  it  almost 
oppresses  me  to  think  that  I  may  possibly  share  all  this  some  day ; 
it  does  not  seem  right  or  true.  I  wonder,"  he  paused,  looking 
round  him  with  strange  unseeing  eyes ;  and  then  he  stooped  and 
kissed  her  softly  once  or  twice. 

What  was  that  dull  pain  beating  at  his  heart — that  shadow 
that  darkened  his  face  with  subtle  trouble,  and  which  haunts  him 


IN  HOC  SPERO.  351 

even  now  ?  What  though  he  never  dwell  here,  in  the  presence  of 
the  woman  he  loves?  "In  thy  Father's  house  there  are  many 
mansions  "  for  thee  and  such  as  thee,  Garton  Ord. 

The  next  day  was  Sunday.  It  was  one  of  those  soft  wintry 
days  which  seemed  snatched  from  the  early  spring.  The  robins 
chirped  busily  in  the  ivy ;  here  and  there  a  snowdrop  peeped  out 
from  the  ground.  The  sea  was  all  in  a  glitter  again,  with  a  maze 
of  deep  blue  shadow.  Rotha,  in  soft  blue  dress,  looked  perfectly 
in  unison  with  the  day  itself,  as  Garton  thought,  as  he  came 
through  the  lich-gate  to  join  her  after  service. 

Rotha  long  afterwards  looked  back  on  that  day  as  one  of  the 
most  peaceful  she  had  ever  spent.  Garton  had  lost  that  feverish 
restlessness  which  had  somehow  oppressed  her  in  spite  of  herself. 
He  was  a  little  quieter  than  she  had  ever  known  him,  but  full  of 
thoughtfulness  for  her  and  Reuben.  Reuben  came  up  to  Bryn  by 
Rotha's  express  desire,  and  the  three  spent  the  afternoon  together 
in  the  old  way. 

But  once,  when  Garton  and  she  were  left  alone  together,  he 
said  suddenly : 

"  I  have  been  thinking,  Rotha,  that  I  should  like  to  leave  you 
a  little  keepsake,  and  I  have  nothing  in  the  world  but  my  mother's 
keeper.  It  is  very  old-fashioned,  and  hardly  worthy  of  your 
acceptance;  but  I  should  like  you  to  wear  it,  dear,  when  I  am 
away."  And  Rotha  changed  colour  very  prettily  as  he  slipped  the 
quaint  old  ring  on  her  finger. 

Nothing  more  was  said  for  a  few  minutes,  and  then  Rotha 
asked  Garton  if  he  did  not  like  the  old  German  custom  of  exchang- 
ing rings  at  a  betrothal. 

"  There  is  a  ring  upstairs  among  your  aunt's  treasures  that  I 
should  like  you  to  wear  for  my  sake,"  she  said  quickly;  and 
before  Garton  could  answer  her  she  had  left  the  room,  and  shortly 
after  returned  with  the  little  case  in  her  hand.  She  blushed  a 
little  as  she  held  it  out  to  him.  "  Look  here,  Garton ;  this  ring 
always  reminded  me  of  you  somehow,  and  you  must  wear  it  as  a 
kind  of  talisman  to  preserve  you  from  danger.  When  you  are 
lonely  and  home-sick  you  can  look  at  it  and  think  of  me." 

"  But  it  is  too  beautiful.  Oh,  Rotha,  how  can  you  ? — and  after 
my  poor  old  keeper  too  !"  he  returned  in  a  broken  voice. 

Garton  was  right  as  to  its  beauty,  for  the  ring  was  of  a 
singular  design,  and  almost  unique  of  its  kind.  In  the  centre  was 
a  recumbent  cross  formed  of  tiny  rose  diamonds  set  round  with 
blue  enamel,  and  graven  on  the  broad  gold  band  itself  were  the 
words,  In  hoc  spero  ("In  this  I  hope "). 

Gartou  kissed  the  glittering  cross  reverently  as  Rotha  put  it 


352  ROBERT  ORD^S  ATONEMENT. 

on,  and  there  were  tears  in  his  eyes  as  he  thanked  her.  "In  hoc 
spero"  Rotha  heard  him  whisper,  once  or  twice.  "  I  wish  all 
crosses  were  as  light  to  carry  as  this;"  and  once,  very  solemnly, 
"  Dear,  you  are  right,  and  the  cross  is  the  only  talisman." 

The  next  morning  Garton  was  under  an  appointment  to  meet 
his  brother  at  Thornborough  ;  and,  according  to  promise,  Rotha  and 
Meg  set  out  also  for  a  day's  shopping.  Rotha  was  in  hopes  that 
Mary  would  accompany  her,  but  at  the  last  minute  the  Vicar  came 
round  to  say  that  Mrs.  Ord  was  unwilling  to  leave  her  sister. 
This  damped  the  expedition  a  little ;  but,  as  Rotha  had  a  great 
deal  of  business  to  transact,  she  started  reluctantly  without  her. 
She  got  through  all  her  commissions  before  Garton  was  at  liberty 
to  come  in  search  of  her.  As  they  walked  through  the  smoky 
streets  or  looked  in  at  the  shop-windows  for  the  trifling  gifts  that 
Garton  proposed  to  buy  for  Mary  and  the  boys,  they  met  Robert 
once  or  twice,  evidently  bent  on  more  important  errands  of  his 
own;  but  he  barely  noticed  the  little  party  beyond  lifting  his 
hat  to  the  ladies,  and  Rotha  was  certain  that  he  was  anxious  to 
avoid  coming  into  direct  contact  with  them. 

When  he  had  passed,  however,  Garton  had  plenty  to  say  in 
his  brother's  praise.  He  told  her  that  Robert  was  stinting  himself 
that  he  might  procure  comforts  for  his  journey ;  Robert  had  been 
with  him  to  the  different  shops  and  ordered  things  almost  lavishly ; 
he  had  attempted  to  remonstrate  with  him  once  or  twice,  but 
Robert  only  answered  that  he  meant  to  do  his  best  for  him. 

"  I  don't  think  I  have  ever  had  so  many  things  in  my  life 
before,"  finished  Garton,  who  knew  nothing  about  the  handsome 
travelling  dressing-case  and  writing-case  with  his  initials  stamped 
in  silver  on  the  Russian  leather.  Mary  knew  all  about  it,  and  so 
did  the  Vicar ;  but  Rotha's  desire  was  that  they  should  be  slipped 
into  the  bottom  of  the  box,  and  only  be  brought  to  light  as  a 
pleasant  surprise  on  the  voyage. 

Rotha  went  into  the  Vicarage  on  their  return  and  found  Mary 
already  marking  some  of  Garten's  new  things.  A  heavy  travelling- 
trunk  blocked  up  the  passage ;  Garton  pointed  it  out  rather  sadly 
as  they  went  through  the  hall.  "  Forty-eight  hours  more  and  I 
shall  be  on  my  way,"  he  observed,  with  a  sigh,  which  Rotha  was 
only  too  ready  to  echo. 

It  was  arranged  that  Garton  was  to  come  up  to  Bryn  and  wait 
for  Rotha,  while  the  carriage  went  to  fetch  Aunt  Eliza  and  Nettie ; 
but  Rotha,  who  had  put  off  dressing  for  the  party  till  an  uncon- 
scionably late  hour,  was  not  nearly  ready  when  he  arrived ;  and  to 
beguile  his  impatience  he  sent  up  all  sorts  of  messages  by  Mrs. 
Carruthers,  to  Prue's  and  Catherine's  great  amusement. 


IN  HOC  SPERO.  353 

Meg  gave  ludicrous  accounts  of  Garton  pacing  up  and  down 
like  a  Polar  bear ;  his  hair  was  just  a  quarter  of  an  inch  long, 
Meg  protested  ;  and  she  was  sure  that  Madame  Rudelsheim  would 
take  him  for  an  escaped  convict.  "And  he  has  holes  in  his 
gloves  already  through  fidgeting  them,  Rotha ;  and  he  looks  such 
a  giant  in  his  dress-coat."  Rotha  burst  out  laughing  at  the  flatter- 
ing picture. 

"  There,  give  me  my  fan  and  gloves,  you  ridiculous  woman," 
laughed  Rotha.  "  I  must  go  down  now  and  ask  if  I  shall  do." 

She  went  rustling  into  the  room  in  her  pink  dress — her  white 
neck  and  arms  showing  through  the  folds  of  some  flimsy  scarf. 
She  burst  into  the  presence  of  the  astonished  Garton  radiant  and 
smiling.  Wonderful  pearls  gleamed  on  her  neck.  She  wore  glitter- 
ing armlets  and  serpents  with  brilliant  heads.  She  stood  tapping 
the  ground  before  him  with  her  satin  slipper. 

"  Shall  I  do,  Garton  1"  she  said.  "  I  have  put  on  some  of 
the  old  jewels  in  your  honour  to-night."  She  laughed  at  the  awe 
and  reverence  with  which  the  young  man  seemed  to  regard  her. 
A  hot  flush  crossed  Garton's  face  as  he  answered.  Rotha  spark- 
ling with  jewels  seemed  different  from  the  Rotha  in  the  gray  dress 
and  blue  ribbons.  He  could  not  make  her  understand  this,  but 
in  his  humility  he  seemed  to  be  suddenly  removed  miles  away  from 
her.  What  could  there  be  in  common  between  such  as  he  and 
the  radiant  girl  before  him  1. 

Garton  did  not  say  all  this — he  would  not  have  known  how  to 
speak,  but  he  looked  at  her  with  grave  wistful  eyes. 

"  How  will  you  do  1  Don't  ask  me.  I  do  not  know  you  to- 
night, Rotha.  Are  those  Aunt  Charlotte's  pearls  you  have  on  ?" 
He  glanced  anxiously  at  her  hand  to  see  if  the  old  keeper  was  there, 
but  it  was  half  hidden  under  a  glittering  diamond  hoop. 

"Do  not  you  like  me  to  wear  them  1  Are  you  not  pleased?" 
asked  Rotha.  She  felt  disappointed  and  half  ready  to  cry.  She 
was  a  thorough  woman,  and  wanted  her  lover  to  admire  her. 
She  wished  Garton  would  not  stand  looking  at  her  with  such  big 
solemn  eyes.  Perhaps  he  thought  that  a  future  clergyman's  wife 
had  no  business  to  wear  jewels.  She  moved  her  bracelet  up  and 
down  her  arm  so  restlessly  that  it  unsnapped,  and  Garton  had  to 
come  to  the  rescue  with  bungling  fingers.  He  looked  at  her  in 
a  queer  uncertain  way  when  his  clumsy  hands  had  achieved  the 
clasp. 

"  I  was  half  afraid  that  I  should  be  kept  at  arm's  length  this 
evening.  I  cannot  believe  that  you  belong  to  me  to-night,  dear," 
he  said  wistfully.  It  was  this  humility,  this  self -distrust,  that 
was  Garton's  great  stumbling-block  in  Rotha's  eyes ;  another  time 

23 


354  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

she  would  have  waxed  a  little  impatient  over  it,  but  now  it  only 
pained  her.  She  drew  back  from  him  with  tears  in  her  eyes ;  in 
a  moment  she  felt  both  chilled  and  wounded.  After  what  she 
had  done  for  him — how  could  he — how  could  he  ! 

Rotha  was  too  gentle  to  retaliate,  but  Garton  felt  the  silent 
reproach  instinctively ;  in  another  moment  he  was  beside  her. 

"  Oh,  Rotha,  I  did  not  mean  that.  How  could  you  misunder- 
stand me  1  Sweet  heart,  dear  heart,  how  can  you  be  what  you 
are  and  not  be  deserving  of  my  reverence  ?" 

But  Rotha's  answer  was  right  womanly. 

"  I  would  rather  be  loved,  Garton." 

"  Well,  and  are  you  not  ?"  But  the  rest  of  his  reply  must 
have  been  tolerably  satisfactory  to  Rotha,  to  judge  by  the  happy 
blush  and  smile  with  which  she  answered  him. 

Madame  Rudelsheim's  handsome  rooms  were  in  a  blaze  of 
light,  and  dancing  had  long  commenced  when  Rotha  and  her  party 
entered.  To  Rotha  it  was  a  dazzling  spectacle ;  she  leaned  on 
Garten's  arm,  a  little  confused  and  giddy :  the  whirling  couples, 
the  lights,  the  music,  the  gay  dresses,  the  small  knots  of  chaper- 
ones  and  wallflowers  nodding  like  well-preserved  exotics  against 
the  wall,  the  conservatory  with  its  compound  lights,  a  blending 
of  Chinese  lanterns  and  moonlight,  were  like  the  shifting  of  a 
kaleidoscope  to  Rotha,  whose  sole  notion  of  a  party  was  derived 
from  the  breaking-up  at  Miss  Binks',  where  the  young  ladies  were 
all  dressed  in  a  uniform  of  white  muslin,  and  dancing  was  carried 
on  to  the  limited  hour  of  eleven. 

"  How  beautiful  it  all  is !  Don't  you  like  parties  ?"  asked 
Rotha,  with  little  gasps  of  admiration.  Her  eyes  sparkled,  her 
cheeks  glowed ;  how  pleasant  it  was  to  be  there,  among  all  those 
people,  leaning  on  his  arm  !  She  moved  away  from  him  a  little 
reluctantly  when  her  partner,  Mr.  Effingham,  came  to  claim  her. 
As  for  Garton,  he  might  have  been  in  earnest,  he  glared  at  him 
so ;  Gar  could  not  dance.  He  went  off  rather  sulkily  with  Rotha's 
flowers  in  his  hand.  He  stood  by  Aunt  Eliza's  side,  rearing  him- 
self against  the  wall  in  a  thoroughly  English-like  bad  humour ; 
the  poor  flowers  rather  suffered  for  it.  Rotha  came  up  for  them 
and  her  fan  presently — rather  to  Mr.  Effingham's  surprise.  He 
half  believed  Jack's  account  was  true,  after  all.  Gar  gave  them 
without  a  word ;  as  far  as  that  went,  he  was  quite  content  to  fetch 
and  carry  for  her  all  the  evening.  He  had  her  scarf,  a  scented 
gauzy  thing,  hanging  conspicuously  over  his  arm ;  nay,  under  other 
circumstances  he  would  have  been  quite  happy  to  have  stood  in  a 
corner  all  the.  evening  and  watched  her — his  lady  of  delight ;  but 
he  could  not  help  feeling  hurt  and  sulky  when  one  gay  partner 


; 


IN  HOC  SPERO.  355 

after  another  whirled  her  away.  Eotha  was  much  sought  after, 
and  it  was  only  natural,  but  perhaps  it  was  trying  for  Garton. 
Mr.  Effingham  in  particular  became  abhorrent  to  him — probably 
because  he  was  the  handsomest  man  in  the  room,  and  danced  often 
with  Rotha.  Gar  longed  to  go  after  him  and  tell  him  that  she 
belonged  to  him.  Before  the  evening  was  half  over  the  impulse 
was  strong  upon  him  to  make  his  claims  known  to  the  whole 
room ;  he  leant  against  the  wall  hour  after  hour  buttoning  and 
unbuttoning  his  huge  gloves,  or  pulling  the  fronds  of  maidenhair 
out  of  Rotha's  bouquet.  He  stood  like  a  stony  young  giant  when 
Rotha  innocently  brought  up  her  partners  to  him,  and  frowned 
heavily  over  the  graceful  badinage  as  though  every  joke  were 
treason  to  his  love.  I  think,  after  a  little  while,  Aunt  Eliza  would 
have  gladly  dispensed  with  his  close  attendance — he  trampled  on 
her  rich  silk  dress  and  answered  all  her  cheerful  remarks  with 
monosyllables.  He  burst  into  a  gruff  laugh  when  Aunt  Eliza 
feared  that  he  was  not  enjoying  himself,  and  then  checked  himself 
with  a  twinge  of  remorse. 

"No;  I  am  not,  but  she  is,"  he  said  in  a  tone  that  told  Aunt 
Eliza  everything.  "  Does  not  she  look  beautiful  1 — just  fit  for  this 
sort  of  thing,"  he  burst  out  after  a  moment.  "  Of  course  every 
one  admires  her — no  one  else  in  the  room  can  compare  with  her ; 
and  then  how  gracefully  she  dances  ! " 

"Why  don't  you  take  her  in  to  supper V  said  Aunt  Eliza, 
nodding  at  him  till  her  brown  front  got  slightly  disarranged. 
"  Of  course  I  see  how  it  is :  you  should  not  let  Mr.  Effingham 
monopolise  her.  He  is  handsome,  but  he  is  no  good — more 
whiskers  than  brains ;  there's  Nettie  there  won't  say  a  word  to 
him." 

"He — I  hate  him — that  is —  Confound  his  impertinence  ! 
there  he  is  making  up  to  her  again.  I  beg  your  pardon,  Miss 
Underwood,  but  there  are  some  things  a  fellow  can't  stand."  And 
with  these  obscure  remarks  Garton  threaded  his  wrathful  way 
through  the  dancers  to  where  Rotha  sat  fanning  herself,  with  the 
obnoxious  Mr.  Effingham  leaning  over  her. 

Garton  almost  pushed  against  him  as  he  held  out  his  hand  to 
her. 

"  Come,"  he  said,  "  they  are  going  down  to  supper  now,  and  I 
want  to  get  you  a  good  place." 

"Miss  Maturin  has  accepted  my  escort,  I  believe,"  lisped 
oung  Effingham,  with  a  twirl  of  his  moustache,  and  with  what 
he  intended  to  be  a  fascinating  smile. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Effingham,"  retorted  Gar,  "  Miss  Maturin 
is  engaged  to  me  for  this.  You  promised,  you  remember1?"  with 


356  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

a  change  of  tone  so  meaning  and  tender  that  it  was  not  lost  on  the 
watchful  rival.  Kotha  coloured  a  little  as  she  answered  : 

"Yes,  I  remember;  but  I  thought  you  had  forgotten  me. 
You  seemed  so  engrossed  with  Aunt  Eliza.  You  see  you  must 
excuse  me,  Mr.  Effingham,  but  I  shall  be  ready  for  our  next 
dance." 

"  That  is  if  Mr.  Ord  will  allow  us.  I  had  no  idea  that  I  was 
interfering  with  a  monopoly,"  he  returned,  with  a  perceptible 
sneer.  It  was  lost  on  Garton,  however,  as  he  hurried  Rotha 
away. 

"How  often  have  you  been  dancing  with  that  fellow?"  in- 
quired Garton  hastily.  "  I  hate  him  !  None  of  the  Effinghams 
are  any  good,  I  can  tell  you." 

"  Hush  !  he  is  behind  us — he  will  hear  you.  He  dances  very 
nicely — that  is  all  I  know.  Don't  let  us  talk  about  him.  I  am 
so  glad  to  get  back  to  you."  And  Rotha  looked  so  honest  and 
so  genuinely  happy  as  she  said  this  that  Garton  was  instantly 
mollified,  and  all  his  sulkiness  vanished  under  the  magic  of  her 
smiles. 

That  hour  was  the  one  oasis  of  the  evening  to  Gar,  the  rest 
was  a  splendid  blank ;  and  he  roused  himself  to  such  purpose,  and 
was  so  devoted  and  attentive,  that  it  was  sufficiently  patent  to 
every  one  at  their  end  of  the  table  how  things  stood  between  them. 
Nothing  is  perfect  in  this  world,  and  there  is  always  a  cause  for 
discontent  to  leak  out.  Such  is  the  contradictoriness  of  human 
nature,  and  female  human  nature  in  particular,  that  Rotha  wished 
that  his  manner  to  her  had  not  been  quite  so  empressd,  and  that 
he  would  not  look  at  her  so  often.  How  she  hated  herself  for  this 
feeling  afterwards !  but  it  made  her  a  little  quiet  at  the  time — 
perhaps  because  she  was  aware  that  Mr.  Eflfingham  still  watched 
them  from  a  distance.  How  glad  she  was  that  there  was  no  room 
for  him  at  their  table  ! 

He  came  up  by  and  by  to  claim  her  for  the  Lancers.  Rotha, 
who  was  drawing  on  her  gloves,  was  very  cool  and  dignified  all  of 
a  sudden,  but  she  rose  without  a  word. 

"  Do  put  on  your  scarf ;  it  is  so  cold  and  draughty  in  the  pass- 
ages," said  Garton,  following  her.  Rotha  bit  her  lip  with  some- 
thing like  vexation  at  this  unwelcome  pertinacity. 

"  No,  no,  I  don't  want  it ;  give  it  to  Aunt  Eliza  to  hold  if  you 
are  tired  of  it,"  she  said  impatiently.  How  she  wished  afterwards 
she  had  spared  him  this  rebuff ! 

He  went  off  sadly  enough  after  that.  As  he  passed  through 
the  hall  there  was  a  sudden  loud  ring  at  the  door -bell,  and  a 
moment  afterwards  he  was  shivering  in  a  draught  of  cold  night-air. 


IN  HOC  SPERO.  357 

"  I  suppose  a  carriage  has  arrived  for  some  one ;  I  wish  it  were 
ours,"  muttered  Gar  disconsolately ;  and  half  in  curiosity  he  turned 
back  to  question  the  waiter,  the  very  green-grocer  in  disguise  who 
was  at  all  the  Blackscar  parties,  and  who  rejoiced  in  the  mellifluous 
appellation  of  Gubbins. 

"Gubbins,  was  that  the  carriage  from  BrynT' 

"Carriage,  sir 3  no,  sir  !  I  was  just  coming  to  find  you,  sir, 
Your  brother,  sir  " — motioning  to  a  small  apartment  where  hats 
and  coats  had  been  multiplying  and  dividing  all  the  evening  under 
the  care  of  a  large-headed  youth  in  a  suit  of  tight  livery — "your 
brother,  sir,  wanted  you  fetched  immediately." 

"  All  right,  Gubbins,  that  will  do.  It  is  I,  Garton.  Come 
in  here,  my  dear  fellow ;  I  want  to  speak  to  you."  And  Robert, 
taking  hold  of  Garten's  arm,  gently  led  him  into  the  little  room 
and  shut  the  door. 


CHAPTER    XXXII. 


"GOOD-BYE,  GAR." 

;*  Glitters  the  dew  and  shines  the  river, 

Up  comes  the  lily  and  dries  her  bell  ; 
But  two  are  walking  apart  for  ever, 

And  wave  their  hands  for  a  mute  farewell. 


"  And  yet  I  know,  past  all  doubting,  truly — 
A  knowledge  greater  than  grief  can  dim — 
Know,  as  he  loved,  he  will  love  me  truly — 
Yea,  better — e'en  better  than  I  love  him. 

"  And  as  I  walk  by  the  vast  calm  river, 

The  awful  river  so  dread  to  see, 
I  say,  '  Thy  breadth  and  thy  depth  for  ever 
Are  bridged  by  his  thoughts  that  cross  to  me. ' " 

JEAN  INGELOW. 

MEANWHILE  Rotha  went  through  the  Lancers  somewhat  lan- 
guidly, and  for  once  Mr.  Effingham's  gay  chatter  fell  unheeded 
on  his  partner's  ear.  Rotha  was  absent,  a  little  distraite — she 
was  wondering  what  had  become  of  Garton,  and  why  he  had  not 
followed  her  into  the  room.  Aunt  Eliza  was  still  in  her  old 
corner,  talking  in  a  loud  voice  to  a  very  sulky  young  wallflower, 
who  gave  her  small  cool  answers  in  return.  Nettie  was  carrying 
on  a  violent  flirtation  with  a  stout  bald-headed  widower,  old 
enough  to  be  her  father  and  the  happy  parent  of  nine  children ; 
and  Mat  O'Brien,  in  an  audible  voice,  was  telling  Mrs.  Stephen 
Knowles  that  the  thing  was  as  good  as  settled.  How  flat,  stale, 
and  unprofitable  these  sort  of  affairs  were,  after  all !  Everybody 
was  enjoying  themselves,  it  was  true — except  the  chaperones,  who 
were  just  getting  drowsy.  Rotha  began  to  be  a  little  tired  of  it 
all.  The  lights  were  not  quite  so  bright,  the  flowers  were  faded, 
the  music  had  degenerated  into  a  mere  jig.  Mr.  Effingham's  talk 
was  tedious.  Rotha  looked  wistfully  across  to  the  empty  corner, 
but  no  impatient  young  giant  blocked  it  up,  no  dark  eyes  followed 


"  GOOD-BYE,  GAR."  359 

her  up  and  down  the  room ;  no  wonder  her  dancing  was  spiritless 
and  that  her  unlucky  partner  got  short  answers. 

"  I  wonder  where  he  is  1  How  I  wish  this  dance  were  over  ! 
I  am  afraid  that  he  has  not  enjoyed  the  evening  as  much  as  I 
have,"  thought  Kotha,  with  an  undefinable  feeling  of  remorse  as 
she  remembered  that  she  might  have  given  up  at  least  one  dance 
to  stay  with  him ;  and  then  she  resolved  mentally  that  Mr.  Effing- 
ham  should  not  again  tempt  her.  She  had  been  angry  with  him 
ever  since  his  speech  as  to  Garton's  monopoly ;  and  then  Gar  ton 
did  not  seem  to  like  him. 

"It  is  your  turn  now;  ladies  to  the  centre,"  observed  her 
partner.  "  It  is  a  bore,  you  know,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing  "- 
and  he  shrugs  his  shoulders  slightly  and  walks  to  his  place,  look- 
ing handsome  and  used  up.  "Ah,  there's  our  monopolising  friend," 
he  continues  presently,  with  a  cool  well-bred  stare,  which  Rotha 
immediately  resents ;  but  she  looks  up  very  eagerly  notwith- 


Yes,  he  was  right ;  there  was  Garton  making  his  way  towards 
them,  pushing  through  the  dancers  with  a  pale  determined  face. 
Botha's  flowers  are  all  to  pieces  now,  strewn  hither  and  thither  as 
his  strong  shoulders  part  the  crowd. 

"  I  don't  congratulate  you  on  your  choice  of  a  bouquet-holder, 
Miss  Maturin,"  says  Mr.  Effingham,  caressing  his  whiskers  to  hide 
a  smile.  "  Ladies  to  the  centre  again,  if  you  please." 

Garton  makes  a  hasty  stride  'and  lays  his  hand  on  her  arm, 
her  dress. 

"Rotha,  I  want  you." 

"  Presently,"  she  says,  with  a  smile  ;  and  she  goes  up  and 
makes  strange  fluttering  movements  with  three  other  ladies. 
Garton  watches  the  grave  profound  salaams  with  a  mixture  of 
contempt  and  impatience.  "Hands  across!"  Rotha  is  back  in 
her  place  again,  and  now  the  gentlemen  perform  mysterious 
evolutions  and  turn  their  backs  disdainfully  on  each  other. 

"  Oh,  Rotha,  do  leave  all  this  nonsense.  I  want  you,"  says 
Gar,  trying  to  speak  steadily.  His  face  is  very  pale  indeed  by 
this  time ;  he  looks  like  one  who  has  received  a  shock. 

"  How  can  I  come  in  the  middle  of  a  dance  1  Is  anything 
the  matter1?  Has  our  carriage  come?  How  strange  you  look, 
Garton!" 

"There  is  nothing  the  matter;  at  least  I  shall  have  to  go 
home  alone  if  you  will  not  come.  I  am  wanted  directly,"  says 
Gar  in  an  agitated  manner. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean.  Of  course  I  will  come  if  you 
want  me,"  returned  Rotha,  quite  bewildered.  "I  am  afraid 


360  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

something  is  the  matter,  Mr.  Effingham,  and  I  must  go  home. 
There  is  Annie  Johnson  without  a  partner.  Shall  I  tell  Aunt 
Eliza  we  are  going,  Garton  ?" 

"  No ;  leave  her  alone,  she  will  only  be  in  our  way.  We  can 
send  back  the  carriage  with  a  message  presently.  I  am  so  sorry  to 
disturb  you,  dear,  but  it  could  not  be  helped."  And  Gar  looks  at 
her  with  such  sad  eyes  that  Rotha  feels  quite  frightened. 

"But  what  is  it?  and  why  must  we  go  home?"  she  inquires, 
pressing  his  arm.  The  music  sounds  softly  in  the  distance. 
There  is  a  sweet  overpowering  smell  from  a  daphne  near.  The 
Chinese  lanterns  have  burnt  out  in  the  conservatory,  and  the 
moonlight  pours  in  unchecked.  She  detains  Garton  by  the  door, 
but  he  draws  her  on. 

"  Hush  !  I  can't  tell  you  here,  they  are  all  coming  in.  I  don't 
think  I  quite  understand  how  it  is  myself,  though  he  has  been 
telling  me.  I  only  know  that  I  am  to  leave  you  directly."  Then, 
with  a  sudden  burst  of  despair,  "Oh,  what  shall  I  do  without 
you,  Rotha,  my  darling?" 

"Leave  me  directly?"  cries  Rotha,  with  a  start.  Her  hand 
tightens  insensibly  on  his  arm.  "  Oh,  my  dear  boy,  do  tell  me 
plainly  what  you  mean." 

"  Hush  !  there's  Robert.  It  means  that  I  am  going  now,  this 
morning,  and  not  to-morrow  evening,  as  we  thought.  Ask  Bob  to 
explain  it;  it  is  more  than  I  can."  And  Gar's  face  worked  with 
agitation. 

Rotha  gave  a  little  exclamation  when  she  saw  Robert,  but  he 
did  not  hear  it.  He  looked  a  little  moved  from  his  usual  calm- 
ness when  he  saw  her  coming  in  on  Garten's  arm.  "[Indefinable 
feelings  of  remorse  chilled  him ;  a  nameless  pain  smote  upon  his 
heart  as  he  marked  her  clinging  gesture.  How  young  and  fair  she 
looked  in  her  evening  dress  !  Jewels,  too  !  He  always  knew  how 
well  she  would  look  in  jewels.  How  milky-white  the  pearls  were 
against  her  soft  neck  !  but  the  clear  eyes  looked  up  at  him  sorely 
troubled.  He  saw  quicker  than  Garton,  too,  that  she  was  trem- 
bling. He  came  up  to  her  with  what  Mary  called  "  his  good  look 
on  his  face." 

"  This  is  a  sad  business.  I  am  so  sorry  for  you  and  Garton. 
It  is  all  the  fault  of  those  telegraph  clerks  that  the  mistake  has 
occurred.  Do  sit  down  ; "  for  she  was  trembling  more  than  ever 
at  his  kindness.  "  Garton,  my  dear  fellow,"  with  a  touch  of  im- 
patience at  his  brother's  dilatoriness,  "  why  do  you  not  give  Miss 
Maturin  a  chair  ?" 

"Thank  you.     I  am  very  silly;  but " 

"  But  Gar  was  too  sudden.     Yes,  I  understand ;   that  was 


"  GOOD-B  YE,  GAR."  361 

always  his  fault,  dear  old  boy."  He  sent  Garton  off  with  prompt 
thoughtfulness  for  Rotha's  wraps,  and  then  poured  out  some  wine 
and  brought  it  to  her,  putting  it  to  her  lips  himself.  Tears  came 
to  Rotha's  eyes  at  this.  She  was  a  little  giddy  and  stunned  at 
the  quick  transition  of  events.  She  was  tired,  too ;  and  this  was 
the  first  kindly  office  he  had  ever  rendered  her.  Of  course  Robert 
misunderstood  her  emotion,  but  he  was  not  the  less  kind. 

When  Garton  brought  the  furred  cloak  he  took  it  from  him 
and  wrapped  her  in  it  himself.  In  trying  to  fasten  it  his  hand 
accidentally  touched  hers,  and  with  a  sudden  kindly  impulse  he 
took  it  for  a  moment  in  his  as  though  to  detain  her.  Did  she 
remember,  even  at  that  moment,  that  it  was  the  first  time  their 
hands  had  ever  met  1 

"  There  is  no  hurry — at  least  not  until  you  are  ready.  Was  I 
right  in  thinking  you  would  come  with  us  to  the  Vicarage  ?" 

"Do  they  expect  me?"  asked  Rotha. 

"  Yes,  Mary  does ;  and  so  does  Austin,  I  believe.  If  you  are 
really  ready  there  is  no  time  to  be  lost."  And  Rotha  rose  imme- 
diately. 

"  How  soon  must  he  go  ?"  she  said  presently,  when  they  were 
in  the  carriage.  Garton's  hand  had  already  felt  for  hers  in  the 
darkness,  but  he  had  not  trusted  himself  to  speak,  and  Robert's 
sympathy  kept  him  silent. 

"  In  little  more  than  an  hour,"  he  replied.  "  You  know  we 
have  to  go  to  Stretton  first,  and  then  he  is  to  take  the  six  o'clock 
train  to  London ;  of  course  I  shall  go  with  him  and  see  him  on 
board.  They  expect  to  drop  anchor  about  four." 

"  But  why — what  is  the  reason  of  all  this  hurry  1"  persisted 
Rotha,  with  dry  lips.  She  leant  back  in  the  carriage,  too  confused 
and  giddy  to  follow  the  explanation  that  Robert  gave  her.  She 
never  understood  more  than  that  it  had  been  a  mistake  in  a  tele- 
graphic message  as  to  the  time  the  vessel  was  to  leave  the  docks, 
and  that  it  had  been  rectified  too  late.  Robert  had  arrived  from 
Stretton  a  little  before  midnight,  and  had  found  the  Vicar  and  his 
wife  up.  Mary  was  hard  at  work  at  some  of  Garton's  things,  and 
he  had  stayed  to  explain  matters  and  put  everything  in  train 
before  he  set  off  to  find  Garton.  By  these  means  very  little  time 
had  been  lost,  for  Garton  was  so  bewildered  by  this  sudden  parting 
with  Rotha  that  his  arrangements  were  hardly  to  be  depended  on. 

Yet,  even  though  their  very  minutes  were  numbered,  he  could 
not  bring  himself  to  speak  to  her ;  but  the  convulsive  pressure  of 
the  hand  he  held  spoke  volumes.  Once,  somewhat  alarmed  at  his 
continued  silence,  Rotha  put  up  her  other  hand  and  touched  his 
face  in  the  darkness,  and  then  she  felt  something  very  like  a  tear 


362  ROBERT  ORD^S  ATONEMENT. 

on  his  cheek.  "My  poor  boy — my  own  poor  boy!"  she  whis- 
pered. But  Garton  only  said,  "  Hush  !  don't  be  too  kind  to  me 
to-night — I  cannot  bear  it ;  it  will  unman  me."  And  then  kissed 
the  caressing  hand  humbly  as  though  to  atone  for  his  words. 

It  seemed  a  long  drive  to  all  three  before  they  were  set  down 
at  the  Vicarage.  The  Vicar  was  in  the  dining-room  awaiting 
them ;  a  bright  fire  burned  cheerily ;  breakfast  was  already  laid 
on  the  table,  and  Deb  came  up  with  the  steaming  coffee-pot  soon 
afterwards.  Short  as  was  the  interval  that  had  elapsed  since 
Robert  had  left  them,  Mary  and  Deb  had  already  got  through 
half  the  packing,  and  Gartou's  presence  was  urgently  required  for 
its  completion. 

"  We  have  brought  Miss  Maturin,"  said  Robert,  leading  her 
in.  "I  thought  you  would  take  care  of  her,  Austin,  while  Gar 
and  I  finish  going  through  the  papers.  I  will  bring  him  back  as 
soon  as  possible,"  he  added  gently  as  he  placed  Rotha  by  the  fire. 
Tired  and  sick  as  she  felt,  she  could  not  help  giving  him  a  grateful 
look ;  its  sweetness  lingered  long  with  him  through  the  wretched 
time  that  followed.  He  could  not  fail  to  remember  afterwards 
that  she  had  acquitted  him  of  blame. 

Rotha  sat  quietly  by  the  fire  after  the  brothers  had  left  the 
room.  Gar  had  given  her  one  long  wistful  look  as  he  went  out. 
Highly  as  the  Vicar  esteemed  her,  he  never  fully  realised  her 
gentleness  and  unselfishness  till  this  moment.  Robert's  kindness 
had  roused  her  from  the  bewildered  state  into  which  Garton's 
agitation  had  thrown  her,  and  she  was  now  quite  collected  and  full 
of  thought  for  them  all. 

"  Do  not  mind  me,"  she  said  to  the  Vicar  as  he  hovered  near 
her  anxiously.  "  We  shall  have  plenty  of  time  to  think  of  our- 
selves and  our  own  loss  afterwards.  Do  go  to  Garton.  I  am  sure 
he  wants  all  the  help  you  can  give  him."  And,  as  he  quitted  her 
reluctantly,  she  followed  him  and  begged  him  to  be  sure  and  tell 
Mary  to  put  her  presents  just  inside  the  trunk  that  he  might  see 
them  the  moment  he  opened  it. 

When  she  was  left  alone  she  cast  about  in  her  own  mind  how 
she  might  comfort  him.  She  would  hardly  have  a  minute  to  ex- 
change a  word  with  him  perhaps ;  and  then  the  others  would  be 
with  them.  And  yet  she  longed  to  say  some  such  word  of  comfort 
to  him. 

There  was  a  little  worn  Testament  which  she  always  carried 
about  with  her,  and  which  had  belonged  to  her  mother,  and  her  name 
and  her  mother's  name  had  been  written  in  it.  After  a  moment's 
hesitation  she  thought  that  would  do,  and  sat  down  with  trembling 
fingers  to  pencil  a  few  words  on  the  title-page.  The  effort  made 


"  GOOD-BYE,  GAR:  363 

the  tears  spring  to  her  eyes,  but  she  wiped  them  courageously 
away.  "  It  will  never  do  for  him  to  see  that  I  have  been  crying," 
she  thought;  but,  notwithstanding  the  resolution,  one  or  two  drops 
blurred  the  handwriting.  Garton  afterwards  read  these  few  tender 
words,  the  noblest  farewell  that  any  lover  could  pen  : — "  The  Lord 
watch  between  me  and  thee  when  we  are  absent  one  from  another. 
—Your  faithful  friend,  ROTH  A  MATUBJN."  How  many  Mizpahs 
are  set  up  between  loving  hearts  in  this  earthly  wilderness ! 

After  that  she  sat  herself  down  again  with  the  book  on  her 
lap  and  patiently  awaited  their  return.  Robert  came  in  first  and 
began  arranging  and  sorting  some  papers.  He  looked  up  a  little 
surprised  when  Rotha  rose  suddenly  from  her  seat  and  offered  to 
help  him.  "No,  no;  you  are  too  tired,"  he  began,  but  at  her 
reiterated  request  he  gave  way.  She  stood  beside  him,  following 
his  directions  with  a  quiet  intelligence  that  won  his  good  opinion. 
She  never  asked  after  Garton  or  seemed  the  least  impatient  till  he 
returned.  Robert  gave  her  more  than  one  curious  look  of  mingled 
admiration  and  pity  when  she  was  too  much  engaged  to  notice  it. 
The  white  fur  cloak,  the  starry  flowers  in  her  hair,  and  the  un- 
gloved hands  sparkling  with  rings,  all  came  under  his  notice ;  but, 
most  of  all,  the  wistful  young  face  with  its  quiet  air  of  sadness  and 
its  patient  droop  of  the  head. 

The  Vicar  came  in  next,  and  then  Garton  in  his  dark  tweed 
travelling  suit,  and  afterwards  Mary,  who  came  round  and  kissed 
Rotha  without  a  word,  and  then  began  pouring  out  the  coffee. 
Mary  looked  as  though  she  had  been  crying,  and  there  were  dark 
lines  under  the  pretty  eyes,  but  she  spoke  with  her  old  cheerfulness 
now  and  then.  The  rest  gathered  round  the  table  and  made  some 
pretence  at  a  meal,  as  though  to  set  Garton  an  example ;  but  he 
told  them  he  had  already  supped,  and  only  wanted  a  cup  of  coffee. 
Rotha  made  him  break  bread,  however,  and  then  he  sat  for  a  long 
time  with  his  hand  drawn  silently  over  his  eyes.  He  started  up 
presently  from  his  place  as  though  he  had  forgotten  something. 

"  Rube ;  I  have  not  wished  my  poor  Rube  good-bye." 

"  There  is  no  time  now,"  returned  Robert ;  "  besides,  the  whole 
house  is  asleep." 

"Yes,  I  know ;"  and  Garton  sat  down  again  with  a  heavy  sigh. 
"  No  one  thought  of  rousing  him,  I  suppose  ?  and  now  it  is  too 
late.  Poor  Rube,"  he  went  on  in  an  agitated  voice,  "  how  un- 
happy he  will  be  to  wake  up  to-morrow  and  find  me  gone  !" 

"  No,  no ;  nonsense,  Gar,"  said  Robert,  with  a  touch  of  kind 
peremptoriness  ;  but  Rotha  stopped  him.  She  put  her  hand  gently 
on  the  young  man's  arm. 

"  You  can  trust  him  to  me,  Garton,  can  you  not  ?     I  will  go  to 


364  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

him  to-morrow  myself,  and  if  he  frets  I  will  take  him  home.  You 
know  he  belongs  to  me  now  as  well  as  to  you." 

"Trust  him  to  her?"  Rotha  might  well  treasure  the  smile 
with  which  he  answered  her ;  the  rugged  brown  face  worked  and 
softened  with  conflicting  feelings.  "  Come,  Mary,  I  am  ready  to 
go  up  and  wish  Belle  and  the  boys  good-bye." 

"  Go,  my  dear  fellow ;  we  have  only  seven  minutes,"  called  out 
Robert,  and  Gar  nodded  in  answer.  Rotha  had  slipped  the  little 
Testament  into  his  hand  as  they  sat  at  the  table.  He  had  a  choked 
sort  of  feeling  that  his  good-bye  would  be  as  mute  as  hers  when  it 
came  to  the  point.  He  hardly  understood  himself  what  the  bitter 
ache  at  his  heart  meant,  but  it  almost  suffocated  him. 

Arty  was  fast  asleep  in  his  cot,  and  murmured  drowsily  in 
answer  to  his  uncle's  kiss.  He  had  all  the  contents  of  his  Noah's 
Ark  littered  on  the  coverlet,  and  the  elephant  and  a  cassowary  re- 
posed on  his  pillow.  Gar  leant  over  the  little  fellow  fondly.  The 
other  boys  had  been  roused  at  the  last  moment  by  Deb,  and  sat 
shivering  and  miserable  on  the  respective  edges  of  their  beds, 
especially  Laurie,  who  began  to  cry.  Garton  kissed  them  and  bade 
God  bless  them  one  after  another,  and  sent  his  dear  love  to  Rube ; 
and  then  he  went  to  Belle,  who  was  waiting  up  for  him. 

Belle  had  never  got  on  very  well  with  Garton,  and  Mary  was 
surprised  to  see  how  much  she  seemed  affected  at  saying  good-bye 
to  him.  She  turned  quite  pale  as  he  leant  over  to  kiss  her. 

"  Good-bye,  dear  Belle ;  get  well  soon,  and  marry  Robert." 
And  Belle  folded  her  arms  round  his  neck  just  as  though  he  had 
been  her  brother. 

"  Good-bye,  dear  old  Gar.  Forgive  me  for  having  been  so 
often  cross  with  you.  I  never  meant  to  be  so,  dear.  I  always 
loved  you,  Gar." 

"  And  I  you,  dear.  There — there  is  Robert  calling  me,  and  I 
must  go  to  Rotha.  Don't  come  down  with  me,  Mary ;  better  not, 
better  not.  "Oh,  Mary!" — and  he  leant  against  the  half-closed 
door  with  whitening  face — "  I  feel  as  though  I  shall  never  come 
home  again,  and  as  though  this  were  good-bye  for  ever." 

"  Gar !  Gar !  don't  let  Belle  hear  you,  my  dear  boy.  This 
is  very,  very  wrong."  And  Mary  put  her  hand  tenderly  on  the 
dark  closely-cropped  hair. 

"  I  can't  help  it.  Hark  !  is  that  Austin's  voice  1  Good-bye, 
dear  sister ;  take  care  of  her  for  my  sake." 

"  You  have  only  two  minutes,  Garton.  Robert  is  having  the 
luggage  put  on  the  fly.  Go  to  Rotha,  my  dear  boy."  And  the 
Vicar  put  his  hand  on  his  shoulder  and  led  him  gently  in. 

"  Not  good-bye,"  said  Rotha,  putting  her  soft  hand  over  his 


"  GOOD-BYE,  GAR."  365 

mouth  as  though  to  silence  him ;  "  not  good-bye.  I  like  farewell 
so  much  better." 

"  Farewell,  then,"  returned  Garton,  taking  her  in  his  arms  ; 
"  farewell,  and  God  bless  you.  If  I  kiss  this  dear  face  for  the  last 
time,  His  will  be  done." 

"  My  own  Garton,"  murmured  the  girl,  putting  back  her  head 
that  she  might  look  at  him, — "  my  own  Garton,  you  do  not  fear  to 
go  now,  do  you?  You  would  not  have  it  otherwise  t" 

"  No;  not  otherwise,"  he  repeated ;  and  the  mournful  steadfast- 
ness of  his  look  haunted  her  long  afterwards ;  it  reminded  her 
much  of  a  martyr's  look, — "  not  otherwise,  while  I  have  this  talis- 
man." He  held  up  his  ring  that  she  might  see  the  glittering  cross. 
" In  hoc  spero.  Beloved,  that  must  be  our  motto;"  and  before 
she  could  answer  he  closed  her  fair  face  suddenly  between  his 
hands.  For  a  brief  moment  she  heard  the  beating  of  his  heart 
and  his  whispered  "  God  bless  you ! "  Another  minute  his  hand 
was  within  the  Vicar's  grasp ;  and  then  he  was  gone. 


CHAPTER   XXXIII. 

ROBERT    ORD'S    REPENTANCE. 

"  How  sweet  is  woman's  love,  is  woman's  care  ! 
When  struck  and  shatter 'd  in  a  stormy  hour 
We  droop  forlorn !  and  man,  with  stoic  air, 
Neglects,  or  roughly  aids  ;  then  robed  in  power, 
Then  nature's  angel  seeks  the  mourner's  bower. 
How  blest  her  smile  that  gives  the  soul  repose, 
How  blest  her  voice,  that,  like  the  genial  shower 
Pour'd  on  the  desert,  gladdens  as  it  flows, 
And  cheers  the  smiling  heart  and  conquers  woes." 

GALLY  KNIGHT. 

THE  next  day  was  a  blank  as  far  as  Rotha  was  concerned. 

It  was  daybreak  before  the  Vicar  had  taken  her  home ;  and 
then  she  had  dragged  herself  wearily  to  her  bed,  too  tired  and 
dispirited  with  the  evening's  strain  to  do  more  than  fall  asleep  with 
Garton's  name  on  her  lips.  She  woke  late  the  following  morning, 
and  opened  her  eyes  on  a  wet  cheerless  prospect,  on  dripping  trees, 
sea-fog,  and  all  the  depressing  accompaniments  of  a  hopelessly  rainy 
day.  Her  head  ached  too,  and  she  felt  stiff  and  jaded  with  the 
unaccustomed  exercise  of  the  previous  evening.  She  would  have 
liked  to  have  been  where  she  was  another  hour  or  two,  reviving 
the  bitter-sweet  memories  of  last  night,  their  happy  evening  to- 
gether, the  unlooked-for  interruption,  and  Garton's  fond  farewell. 
But,  mindful  of  her  self-imposed  task,  she  roused  herself  with  a 
strong  effort  and  went  out  in  search  of  Reuben. 

It  was  already  so  late  that  she  met  him  coming  out  of  the 
Grammar  School  with  a  troop  of  boys  at  his  heels,  and  conveyed 
him  off  to  Bryn,  where  she  kept  him  the  whole  afternoon.  She 
had  a  little  trouble  with  him  at  first,  as  Garton  predicted.  Reuben 
burst  into  a  flood  of  indignant  tears  when  he  learnt  that  his  friend 
had  really  gone.  "  He  ought  to  have  come  and  wished  me  good- 
bye," sobbed  the  boy.  "  I  didn't  think  it  of  him ;  he  might  have 
thrown  a  little  gravel  against  my  window,  as  he  did  once,  and  then 
I  should  have  understood  in  an  instant.  It  was  cruel  of  him  to 


ROBERT  ORD'S  REPENTANCE.  367 

forget  me  when  I  never  forget  him ;  and  perhaps  I  shall  not  see 
him  again  for  such  a  long  time,"  finished  Rube,  to  whom  six  months 
seemed  an  interminable  period,  and  South  America  the  very  end  of 
the  world. 

"He  didn't  forget  you,  dear.  Have  I  not  given  you  his 
messages?  You  must  not  IDC  so  hard  on  him,  Rube."  Perhaps 
the  task  of  comforting  Reuben  was  the  best  thing  that  could  have 
happened  to  Rotha.  Gar's  shadow  was  next  to  having  Gar 
himself. 

She  kept  the  boy  with  her  most  of  the  evening,  and  only  sent 
him  away  because  her  head  ached  so  that  she  could  hardly  bear  it. 
It  gave  her  an  excuse  for  dismissing  Meg  too.  In  spite  of  her 
pain  she  felt  it  would  be  a  relief  to  be  allowed  to  sit  quietly  and 
speak  to  no  one.  She  was  glad  that  Mary  sent  round  a  kind  little 
note  instead  of  coming  herself,  for  she  began  to  feel  so  wretched 
that  even  her  friend's  society  would  have  been  irksome. 

Rotha  was  almost  surprised  to  find  how  she  missed  Garton. 
She  had  been  very  brave  all  day,  and  had  succeeded  wonderfully 
in  comforting  Reuben,  and  she  had  even  astonished  Meg  with  her 
cheerfulness.  But  towards  evening  the  effort  had  been  manifest ; 
even  while  she  sat  and  talked  to  Rube  about  his  studies,  a  curious 
sick  longing  took  possession  of  her — vague  feelings  of  remorse  for 
her  neglect  last  night — a  yearning  to  see  him  again  and  hear  his 
voice.  Not  till  he  had  really  gone  did  Rotha  discover  how  much 
she  loved  him,  and  what  a  blank  his  absence  would  leave  in  her 
daily  life. 

Six  months — only  six  or  seven  months !  Rotha  scolded  herself, 
and  cried  shame  on  her  foolish  cowardice  ;  but  the  pain  was  none 
the  less  real  while  it  lasted.  She  was  spent,  too,  with  physical 
exertion ;  and,  though  she  hardly  remembered  it  just  now,  her 
heart  was  very  heavy  about  Belle :  undefinable  fears  haunted  her 
dreams  ;  she  had  cried  herself  to  sleep  like  a  child,  but  even  in 
sleep  an  uneasy  pain  pervaded  her  slumbers — all  sorts  of  misty 
images  chased  each  other  across  her  brain.  Garton's  sad  face 
seemed  always  before  her;  he  seemed  asking  her  for  some  help 
that  she  could  not  give.  Once  she  had  a  terrible  dream,  but  she 
could  not  remember  it  when  she  woke.  Some  haunting  terror 
seemed  upon  her,  and  she  woke  with  a  stifled  scream  to  find  Meg 
bending  over  her,  and  watching  her  uneasy  sleep.  That  soothed 
her ;  and  afterwards  she  fell  into  a  dreamless  slumber,  and  woke 
more  refreshed  this  time  to  find  Mrs.  Ord  by  her  bedside. 

Robert  had  returned  from  London  late  the  previous  night,  and 
had  begged  Mary  of  his  own  accord  to  go  round  to  Rotha  in 
the  morning  and  give  her  the  latest  news  of  Garton  —  a  fresh 


368  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

instance  of  his  new  thoughtfulness  for  her,  which  made  the  colour 
come  into  Rotha's  pale  face. 

Robert  had  seen  Garton  fairly  on  board,  and  had  left  him 
tolerably  comfortable.  Mr.  Ramsay  had  accompanied  them  to 
London,  and  had  expressed  himself  as  much  pleased  with  Garten's 
appearance  and  bearing.  Gar  seemed  to  have  plucked  up  more 
heart  about  the  whole  affair,  Robert  added,  and  had  entrusted  him 
with  loads  of  messages  for  them  all ;  and  among  them  a  precious 
little  scrap  for  Rotha,  evidently  pencilled  on  the  leaf  of  his  pocket- 
book  while  Robert  was  still  on  deck,  and  thrust,  half-crumpled, 
into  his  hand  at  the  last  moment. 

How  strange  it  was  for  Rotha  to  read  that  queer  cramped 
handwriting  for  the  first  time  when  Mary  had  gone  !  She  took  it 
out  of  the  folds  of  her  dress,  where  it  lay  hidden,  and  read  it  over 
and  over  again.  If  only  Garton  could  have  seen  the  way  in  which 
she  kissed  it — though  she  did  not  know  then  that  that  crumpled 
paper  would  be  one  of  her  greatest  treasures. 

"  My  own  Rotha,"  it  began,  "  how  many  hours  have  we  been 
parted  !  and  I  have  been  thinking  of  you  every  minute  since  then. 
I  do  not  think  you  knew  how  full  my  heart  was  when  I  bade  you 
good-bye  this  morning — farewell,  I  mean,  you  like  that  word 
better,  you  said ;  but  perhaps  I  had  better  not  speak  of  that 
now. 

"  I  want  to  tell  you  that  I  have  just  read  your  parting  message 
to  me.  I  found  it  on  the  title-page  of  the  little  Testament,  under- 
neath your  mother's  name.  Oh,  how  I  should  have  loved  her, 
Rotha,  if  I  had  known  her  ! 

"  Dear  little  book  !  all  marked  and  underlined.  I  shall  carry 
it  next  my  heart  till,  God  grant  it  so,  we  meet.  Robert  is  waiting 
— they  are  going  to  drop  anchor  —  the  pilot  has  just  come  on 
board.  God  bless  you,  my  darling  !  Yours,  in  every  sense  of  the 
word,  GARTON." 

These  few  words  from  Garton  made  Rotha  almost  happy. 
She  felt  ashamed  of  the  inactive  misery  of  last  night.  "  If  Garton 
were  here,  he  would  tell  me  that  I  ought  not  to  neglect  my  work," 
she  said  to  herself,  and,  more  because  she  thought  it  would  please 
him  than  even  from  a  sense  of  duty,  she  went  down  to  the  church 
with  Reuben  to  help  with  the  decorations. 

It  was  rather  dreary  work  in  spite  of  her  efforts — the  church 
always  brought  Garton  so  vividly  before  her ;  she  found  herself 
starting  at  every  footstep  in  the  momentary  notion  that  it  was  his. 
On  all  sides  she  heard  whispered  lamentations  and  regrets  among 
the  ladies  concerning  the  absence  of  the  young  sacristan.  The 
Vicar  was  there  and  did  his  best  to  help  and  direct  the  workers  : 


ROBERT  ORD'S  REPENTANCE.  369 

but  Gartou's  taste  and  ready  good  humour  were  not  easily  to  be 
replaced;  he  had  always  been  the  universal  referee  on  these 
occasions,  and  it  gave  Rotha  a  heavy  pang  to  see  Reuben  filling 
the  flower-vases  for  the  altar — a  work  that  had  always  been  his 
delight.  She  heard  Nettie  and  Aunt  Eliza  talking  in  sympathising 
whispers  about  his  lonely  Christmas  on  board,  and  how  he  would 
miss  the  services ;  and  her  eyes  filled  with  tears  as  she  twined 
long  trails  of  holly  and  shining  evergreens  over  the  chancel- 
screen. 

The  Vicar  noticed  her  dejected  look,  and  wanted  her  to  leave 
her  work  to  be  finished  by  Nettie  and  come  home  with  him ;  but 
Rotha  quietly  refused — it  was  not  her  way  to  shirk  any  duty, 
however  painful,  and  she  had  Garton's  work  to  do  as  well  as  her 
own.  So  she  had  a  cup  of  tea  at  Nettie's  and  stayed  on  till 
everything  was  finished,  and  then  joined  in  the  eve  service. 

She  was  glad  afterwards  that  she  had  done  so,  for  it  soothed 
and  refreshed  her,  in  spite  of  the  pain  it  was  to  her  to  see  the  boys 
walk  up  to  their  places  in  the  choir-stalls  without  Garton  at  their 
head.  How  sorely  she  missed  the  dark  earnest  face,  and  the 
clear  deep  voice  that  had  always  led  the  singing !  The  lessons  were 
read  by  a  stranger ;  and  after  the  service  was  over  no  tall  figure 
went  swinging  to  and  fro  across  the  chancel  to  extinguish  the 
lights  and  cover  up  the  altar.  Reuben  performed  these  offices 
very  sadly  and  slowly,  as  though  his  heart  for  once  were  not  in  the 
work. 

Two  things  had  struck  Rotha  during  the  service — the  Vicar  was 
not  in  his  place,  a  very  unusual  thing  on  Christmas  Eve;  and 
the  prayers  of  the  congregation  were  requested  for  one  travelling 
by  sea ;  and  after  they  had  risen  from  their  knees  that  beautiful 
hymn  for  those  at  sea  had  been  sung.  It  was  evident  that  some 
of  the  Vicarage  people  had  intended  to  be  there ;  but,  when  Rotha 
had  summoned  courage  to  look  round,  no  one  was  in  the  Vicar- 
age pew. 

This  puzzled  her  and  made  her  rather  anxious,  and  she  was 
not  the  less  so  when  she  found  Rufus  waiting  for  her  outside  the 
church  with  a  note  from  Mary. 

"  I  have  been  all  the  way  up  to  Bryn,"  exclaimed  the  boy, 
"  because  father  understood  that  you  were  not  going  to  remain  to 
the  service ;  and  Mrs.  Carruthers  sent  me  down  to  wait  for  you 
here.  I  have  been  waiting  for  more  than  half  an  hour.  I  thought 
they  would  never  have  finished  that  last  hymn." 

"  Why  were  you  not  in  the  choir,  Rufus  ?  Yes ;  was  it  not 
beautiful — so  soothing,  too  ?  How  pleased  he  would  be  to  know 
we  had  sung  it ! "  And,  without  waiting  for  the  boy's  answer,  she 

24 


370  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

carried  the  note  down  to  the  lich-gate  and  read  it  by  the  light  of 
the  street-lamp. 

"Dear  Rotha,"  it  said,  "please  come  to  us.  Mr.  Greenock 
has  been  here,  and  we  have  had  a  terrible  scene  with  Belle.  She 
knows  now  what  is  the  matter  with  her ;  but  it  has  broken  her 
down  utterly  to  have  her  fears  verified,  and  I  dare  not  leave  her. 
Austin  has  been  obliged  to  stay  at  home  to  tell  Robert.  He  is  in 
a  dreadful  state,  and  no  wonder.  Do  come  to  me  at  once." 

"  I  ought  to  have  had  this  note  an  hour  ago,"  exclaimed  Rotha; 
and,  without  waiting  for  Rufus  to  follow  her,  she  set  off  for  the 
Vicarage  at  a  run  that  brought  the  boy  panting  after  her.  "  Don't 
knock,"  he  cried,  "  I  have  the  key ;  and  it  would  disturb  Aunt 
Belle.  I  will  go  and  fetch  mother."  And,  almost  before  Rotha 
could  grope  her  way  through  the  dark  hall,  Mary  had  come  to  her 
side  silently,  and,  taking  her  hand,  brought  her  into  her  own  room 
and  closed  the  door  softly. 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Ord,  I  am  so  sorry,"  began  Rotha ;  "  did  Rufus  tell 
you  I  was  at  church  ?" 

"  Hush  !  yes,  I  know.  I  have  been  wanting  you ;  but  it  could 
not  be  helped,  and  she  is  quiet  now.  Oh,  Rotha,  what  a  day  this 
has  been  ! "  And  Mary  began  to  cry,  but  in  a  subdued  patient 
sort  of  way  that  went  to  Rotha's  heart. 

"  Dear  Mrs.  Ord,  and  you  are  so  tired ! "  said  the  girl  in  \ 
sympathising  voice,  at  which  Mary  leant  her  head  against  her 
shoulder  and  cried  more  than  ever.  It  was  some  time  before  she 
could  recover  herself  to  speak  plainly. 

"  I  didn't  mean  to  do  this,"  she  said  at  last  in  answer  to 
Rotha's  silent  kisses ;  "  but  I  think  it  has  done  me  good.  Oh, 
Rotha,  I  hope  I  am  not  rebellious,  and  I  have  Austin  and  the 
boys.  But  still  she  is  my  only  sister."  And  the  tears  coursed  more 
swiftly  down  Mrs.  Ord's  face  as  her  grief  resolved  itself  into  words. 

"  Perhaps  it  is  better  so.  Oh,  my  dear,  to  think  of  her  going 
day  after  day  to  that  Infirmary  without  letting  us  know  how  ill 
she  was — and  all  to  spare  Austin  !  I  cannot  bear  to  think  of  it. 
And  then  for  them  to  say  that  all  this  strain  and  anxiety  has  been 
killing  her!" 

"  Who  are  they  ?  Dear  Mrs.  Ord,  would  it  not  ease  you  to 
tell  me  everything  plainly  out  %  Is  it  Mr.  Greenock  who  has  been 
telling  you  all  this  ?" 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Greenock  and  Dr.  Chapman.  Mr.  Greenock  wished 
a  consultation  when  he  found  how  things  were,  and  then  they  told 
Austin,  and  he  fetched  me.  They  say  one  of  her  lungs  is  quite 
gone,  and  that  she  is  in  a  very  precarious  state.  Mr.  Greenock 
said  he  could  not  understand  how  any  one  could  have  suffered  so 


ROBER  T  ORD '5  REPENTANCE.  37 1 

. 

much  and  have  done  what  she  has  done ;  and  he  declared  if  it 
had  gone  on — this  concealment  and  strain,  I  suppose  he  meant — 
that  she  could  not  have  lasted  three  months." 

"  But  I  don't  understand.  Is  it  as  you  fear — is  it " — decline, 
Rotha  was  going  to  add,  but  she  hesitated.  Mary  shook  her  head 
mournfully. 

"  That  is  what  I  cannot  find  out — neither  of  them  would  speak 
plainly.  Mr.  Greenock  did  not  say  much,  but  I  could  see  he 
dreaded  the  worst.  He  would  not  exactly  say  that  she  was  in  a 
decline,  but  he  owned  that  he  feared  it.  Dr.  Chapman  took  a 
milder  view  of  the  case.  Both  of  them  agreed  that  a  warm  climate 
should  be  tried  without  delay.  But  I  noticed  that,  though  Dr. 
Chapman  spoke  hopefully  of  Torquay  now  and  Mentone  next 
winter,  and  added  his  conviction  that  by  these  means  a  partial  if 
not  a  complete  cure  might  be  effected,  Mr.  Greenock  only  looked 
grave ;  and  it  struck  me  afterwards  that  he  had  recommended  it  as 
a  last  chance,  and  that  he  knew  it  could  only  prolong  her  life  for  a 
few  months ;  and  I  can  see  that  Austin  fears  it  too." 

"  But,  Mrs.  Ord,  would  not  it  be  cruel  to  remove  her  if  they 
know  it  is  of  no  use  T' 

"  That  is  what  Austin  said.  He  wanted  Mr.  Greenock  to  give 
us  leave  to  keep  her  with  us;  but  both  he  and  Dr.  Chapman 
agreed  that  the  March  winds  would  kill  her.  They  want  her  to 
go  to  Torquay  in  about  two  or  three  weeks'  time,  but  she  must 
not  undertake  the  journey  this  weather  in  the  state  she  is  in. 
One  thing,  we  are  not  to  allow  her  to  break  off  her  engagement — 
at  least  not  yet,  or  we  shall  take  away  her  last  chance.  But,  oh, 
Eotha,  I  know  they  think  that  she  will  never  be  well  enough  to 
marry  him." 

Rotha  sighed  heavily.  "  I  am  afraid  not ;  but  they  are  right, 
and  it  would  kill  her  at  once.  Oh,  Mrs.  Ord,  how  dreadful  it  will 
be  for  him  when  he  knows  it ! " 

"  Hush  !  don't  speak  so  loud — he  knows  it  now.  Austin  has 
b'een  with  him  all  the  evening.  We  have  had  hard  work  with  him 
to  get  him  to  believe  it ;  he  fights  against  it  so.  I  don't  think  he 
gives  up  all  hope  yet,  though  he  knows  he  must  go  without  her. 
He  turned  round  quite  fiercely  on  Austin  when  he  said  something 
about  the  engagement  having  to  be  given  up.  He  declares  he  will 
come  over  in  six  months'  time  .and  marry  her.  Oh,  Rotha,  it  is 
plain  to  see  that  he  is  half  beside  himself  with  remorse ;  it  is  more 
that  than  grief  that  is  troubling  him." 

Rotha  leaned  her  head  on  her  hand ;  she  hardly  knew  what  to 
say.  "  He  ought  to  have  sent  her  with  me,"  she  returned  slowly 
at  length  ;  "  he  knows  that  himself  now.  Mrs.  Ord,  I  don't  quite 


372  ROBERT  OR&S  ATONEMENT. 

know  what  to  do,  but  I  think  I  should  like  to  go  to  him.  He 
might  listen  to  me  now.  Hark!  what  is  that1?"  she  continued, 
turning  very  pale.  Everything  startled  her  just  now,  but  it  was 
only  the  dining-room  door  opening  and  the  Vicar  calling  softly 
across  the  hall  for  Mary. 

Mrs.  Ord  went  at  once,  and  Rotha  followed  her;  the  Vicar 
held  out  his  hand  to  her  with  a  little  surprise  when  he  saw  her. 
"  Robert  has  been  asking  for  you,"  he  said.  "  I  did  not  know  you 
were  here ;  I  thought  Rufus  came  in  alone." 

"  I  was  at  church,  but  I  came  directly  afterwards.  Did  you 
say" — turning  paler  than  ever — "that  he  was  asking  for  me1?" 

The  Vicar  nodded.  "  He  is  in  there  ;  he  has  been  asking  for 
you  two  or  three  times  this  evening.  He  wished  me  to  tell  you 
when  you  came  in  that  he  wanted  to  speak  to  you  alone." 

Rotha  looked  bewildered,  as  well  she  might — wanting  to  see 
her,  and  alone ! 

Robert  was  leaning  against  the  mantelpiece  with  his  back 
towards  her ;  but  he  started  at  her  entrance  and  raised  his  head, 
and  then,  after  a  moment's  hesitation,  held  out  his  hand.  It  was 
not  taken  for  an  instant ;  perhaps  Rotha  hardly  perceived  it,  but 
a  bitter  smile  wreathed  his  thin  lips  at  what  he  imagined  was 
her  pride. 

"  You  need  not  to  have  hesitated,"  he  said  sharply — the  sharp- 
ness of  pain,  not  anger.  "  I  meant  to  have  told  you — but  never 
mind,  it  will  keep ;  the  thing  is,  that  I  have  sent  for  you.  I 
suppose  I  ought  to  thank  you  first  for  your  kindness  in  coming  to 
me.  Some  women  would  not  have  acted  as  you  have,  but  I  con- 
fess I  am  in  no  mood  for  mere  courtesy  to-night." 

"  Neither  am  I,"  returned  Rotha  quietly.  His  harsh  words, 
his  pale  face  only  inspired  her  with  pity.  With  an  involuntary 
movement  she  went  up  a  little  closer  and  looked  at  him  with 
straightforward  honest  eyes.  "  You  are  in  trouble,  and  you  have 
sent  for  me,"  she  said  softly ;  "  and  now  what  can  I  do  for  you  1" 

11  Stop,"  he  said  hoarsely.  "  I  don't  want  pity — least  of  all 
from  you.  Pity  her  if  you  will.  Good  heavens,  to  think  how 
she  loves  me,  and  that  I,  blind  fool  that  I  am,  have  as  good  as 
murdered  her ! " 

"  Mr.  Ord !"  She  is  constrained  to  cry  out  his  name,  his 
violence  is  so  terrible  to  her;  and  then,  with  a  sudden  pitiful 
impulse,  she  goes  nearer  and  lays  her  hand  on  his  arm. 

"  Have  you  sent  for  me  to  tell  me  this  ?" 

"  Yes,  to  tell  you  this — this,  and  anything  else  you  like.  Oh, 
you  may  humble  me  at  your  pleasure.  I  am  a  proud  man  if  you 
will,  but  this  is  your  hour  of  triumph.  I  would  rather  have  you 


ROBERT  ORD'S  REPENTANCE.  373 

triumph  over  me  than  pity  me.  Why  do  you  look  at  me  like  this, 
Miss  Maturin  ?  Do  you  think  I  am  mad  to-night  ?" 

"I  think  you  are,"  she  returned  softly.  "God  help  you! 
Mad  with  pain  and  disappointment  and  remorse,  you  are  cruel  to 
yourself,  cruel  to  me,  to  Belle,  to  everybody.  Was  it  your  fault 
that  you  were  so  blindfolded  that  you  could  not  see  the  truth  1" 

"  Yes,"  he  returned,  with  a  dogged  sort  of  honesty ;  "it  was 
my  fault,  I  would  not  allow  myself  to  be  convinced.  Is  your 
memory  so  bad  that  you  have  forgotten  our  conversation  down  on 
the  sands?" 

She  drooped  her  head  sadly;  she  could  not  help  it.  Why 
should  he  recall  those  bitter  moments?  Humiliated — ah,  and 
had  she  not  been  humiliated  then  ! 

"Well,  I  see  you  remember,"  he  continued,  watching  her; 
"  you  tried  to  convince  me  then.  You  would  have  saved  her  for 
me  if  I  had  only  permitted  it ;  and  I  let  her  fade  before  my  eyes, 
brute  that  I  was,  rather  than  owe  her  preservation  to  you.  No, 
do  not  stop  me;  if  I  did  not  know  my  motives  then,  I  do 
now." 

"No,  no,"  she  cried,  putting  out  her  hand  to  stop  him. 
"  Don't  talk  so — you  must  not  talk  so ;  it  was  this  terrible  pre- 
judice against  me  that  hardened  you.  I  came  between  you  and 
your  happiness,  and  made  you  mad." 

"  More  shame  to  me  !"  he  retorted.  But  she  put  out  her  hand 
again  to  stop  him. 

"  Ah,  you  are  more  cruel  to  yourself  than  you  have  been  to  me," 
she  exclaimed.  "  If  you  mean  that  you  have  sinned  against  me, 
have  I  not  forgiven  it  long  ago  1  Mr.  Ord,  you  have  sent  for  me, 
but  it  is  not  Miss  Maturin  who  has  come  to  you  now — it  is  the 
little  sister,  Gar's  future  wife,  who  prays  you  to  be  reconciled 
to  her." 

Her  hands  went  out  to  him  tremblingly  as  she  uttered  his 
name ;  she  had  forgotten  everything  at  the  sight  of  his  terrible 
grief.  If  he  had  wronged  her  she  did  not  remember  it  now. 
"Gar's  brother!  Poor  Robert,"  he  thinks  he  hears  her  say  so 
softly.  As  he  turns  away  and  folds  his  arms  over  his  breast 
something  that  would  have  been  tears  in  other  men  glistened  now 
in  Robert  Ord's  eyes.  Another  moment  and  her  hand  rests  on 
his  outstretched  palm. 

"  Forgive  me  if  you  can,"  he  begins  in  a  broken  voice ;  but 
she  stops  him. 

"  Hush  !  I  understand  you.  There  is  no  need  to  say  anything 
more." 

"  There  is  every  need,  you  mean.     Do  you  think  I  shall  spare 


374  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

myself' \  You  told  me  that  I  must  never  come  and  offer  you  my 
hand  till  I  would  own  that  I  had  wronged  you.  I  own  it 
now." 

"  I  know  it — I  can  see  it.     Please  spare  yourself  this." 

"Spare  myself !"  he  repeated  scornfully.  "Oh,  I  have  been 
so  good  to  you — you  may  well  ask  me  to  do  this.  Because  I 
envied  you  your  possessions  I  must  look  upon  your  every  act  and 
word  with  a  jaundiced  eye.  I  must  even  sacrifice  my  poor  Belle 
to  my  unnatural  rancour.  Oh,  you  were  right  when  you  said  you 
would  rather  die  than  touch  my  hand." 

"  I  am  touching  it  now ;  it  feels  like  the  hand  of  a  friend. 
Mr.  Ord,  these  things  are  all  passed  and  over.  I  have  forgiven 
them  long  ago.  Why  will  you  recall  themT' 

"  To  do  you  a  tardy  justice,"  he  replied  vehemently.  "  Because, 
God  knows,  I  have  done  you  a  bitter  wrong ;  because  you  were  as 
innocent  as  a  little  child,  and  I  was  cruel  to  you." 

"  Not  cruel — only  hard,  and  hardest  of  all  to  yourself.  You 
were  wrong  to  your  better  judgment,  and  now  the  scales  have 
fallen  from  your  eyes.  Indeed  it  is  all  forgiven.  You  know  me 
now,  and  you  know  I  am  your  friend." 

" My  friend  !"  he  muttered,  "my  friend  |"  A  strange  softness 
crept  over  his  face,  and  then  he  turned  it  away  and  leant  heavily 
against  the  mantelpiece ;  but  at  that  moment  something  hard  and 
bitter  passed  out  of  Robert  Ord's  heart  for  ever. 

By  and  by  she  knew  why  he  had  sent  for  her — not  to  tell  her 
this,  as  he  reiterates  again  and  again,  but  to  beg  her  on  his  knees, 
if  needs  be,  to  take  Belle  away.  It  is  her  last  chance — her  only 
chance,  he  affirms  sadly.  And  Rotha  slowly  and  seriously  grants 
the  request.  She  cannot  tell  him  what  she  has  told  Mary,  that 
she  believes  it  has  come  too  late. 

Mary  came  down  presently  to  tell  Robert  that  Belle  was  asking 
for  him.  "  She  is  growing  restless  again  and  wonders  what  has 
become  of  you,  dear.  She  knows  now  that  Austin  has  told  you 
everything." 

Robert  turned  very  pale. 

•  "  I  did  not  mean  to  have  seen  her  to-night,"  he  said.  "  I  am 
half  afraid  of  what  I  may  say.  I  think  you  had  better  come  up 
with  me,  Mary."  And  Rotha  was  left  alone. 

She  might  have  been  alone  about  twenty  minutes  when  she 
heard  Mary  calling  her,  and  went  up  at  once. 

"  Belle  wants  to  bid  you  good-night,"  began  Mary  cheerfully 
as  Rotha  entered ;  but  Belle's  feeble  voice  interrupted  her. 

"  No,  not  good-night.  I  want  to  speak  to  you,  Rotha.  Please 
come  here."  And  Belle  raised  herself  from  Robert's  arm  and  held 


ROBERT  ORB'S  REPENTANCE.  375 

out  her  hot  hands  to  Rotha.  How  beautiful  she  looked  with  that 
hectic  flush  on  her  wasted  cheek  and  her  eyes  burning  with  fever ! 

"  Dear  Rotha,  come  here.  Tell  him — Mary  will  not — that  it 
is  all  no  use,  and  that  he  must  not  send  me  away.  Tell  him  it 
will  kill  me." 

"It  will  kill  you  to  remain  here,  Belle.  Mr.  Greenock  and 
Dr.  Chapman  both  said  so." 

"That  is  what  he  keeps  saying.  Oh,  Rotha,  ask  him  not. 
He  knows  that  he  is  going  in  less  than  three  months,  and  yet  he 
wants  us  to  be  parted.  It  is  not  enough  that  I  am  never  to  be 
his  wife,  but  he  will  not  even  let  me  see  the  last  of  him."  And 
Belle  flung  herself  down  on  the  couch  again  as  though  her  last 
hope  were  taken  from  her. 

"For  your  own  good — only  for  your  good,  Belle;  it  is  your 
last  chance.  You  know  they  said  so." 

"  But  they  did  not  think  so,"  she  returned  in  a  voice  of  despair. 
"  Rotha,  does  he  think  that  I  shall  care  to  live  when  I  am  never 
to  be  his  wife  ?  Tell  him  to  ask  me  anything  but  this." 

"  I  cannot,"  he  returned  in  a  low  voice.  "  Dear  Belle,  why 
will  you  persist  in  speaking  as  though  there  were  no  hope  ?  Did 
not  Dr.  Chapman  say  that  a  winter  or  two  at  Mentone  would  set 
you  up  1  Go  with  Miss  Maturin  in  a  fortnight's  time,  and  I  will 
come  down  to  Devonshire  to  wish  you  good-bye." 

"Good-bye  !"  she  returned  in  a  bewildered  voice;  "it  is  not 
you  who  have  to  say  good-bye  surely  ?" 

"  Yes,  for  a  little  while ;  but  it  will  not  be  long,  I  will  promise 
you.  Only  do  as  the  doctors  tell  you,  and  in  six  months  or  a 
year's  time  I  will  come  over  myself  and  take  you  home  with  me." 

"  Take  me  home !  Only  hear  him,"  she  returned  in  a  faint 
voice.  "He  is  deceiving  himself  still.  Dear  Robert,  why  will 
you  not  understand  that  we  must  give  it  all  up  1  I  am  your  poor 
friend,  dear,  but  I  shall  never  be  anything  more  to  you." 

"Dear  Belle,  do  not  refuse  him;  he  means  it  for  your  good," 
exclaimed  Rotha.  "  Look  at  him ;  you  are  breaking  his  heart." 
For,  overcome  by  her  words,  Robert  had  covered  his  face  with  his 
hands.  In  another  moment  Belle  had  flung  her  thin  arms  round 
his  neck.  Never  to  her  dying  day  did  Rotha  forget  the  look  of 
despairing  love  on  her  face. 

"  Oh,  Robert,  don't ;  anything  but  that.  Dear  Bertie,  put 
down  your  hands,  and  let  me  see  your  face.  Do  you  really  mean 
that  you  wish  me  to  go  ?" 

"  Yes,  really  and  truly ;  for  my  sake — for  the  sake  of  your  own 
love."  He  looked  at  her  eagerly,  almost  hopefully ;  but  there  was 
no  answering  gleam  in  Belle's  eyes. 


376  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

"  For  your  sake  ?  yes,  I  understand.  Kiss  me,  Bertie.  I  will 
go.  No,  not  that  name — that  is  what  I  used  to  call  you ;  it  must 
be  Robert  now." 

"  I  like  the  old  name  and  the  old  ways  best,  Bella." 

"  Do  you,  Bertie  ^  Ah,  there  it  is  again.  Are  we  alone,  or  is 
Rotha  there?" 

"  I  am  here,"  said  Rotha,  coming  gently  to  her  side.  "  I  am 
waiting  to  say  good-night,  Belle." 

"  Good-night,"  returned  Belle  dreamily.  "  I  thought  I  was 
alone  with  Robert,  and  that  I  was,  oh,  so  tired  !  You  will  have  to 
carry  me  upstairs  to-night,  Bertie.  Where  is  Mary?"  But,  before 
her  sister  could  be  summoned  to  the  room,  Belle,  exhausted  by 
her  emotions,  had  fainted  away. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

UNDER    THE   ROD. 

"  To  us, 
The  fools  of  habit,  sweeter  seems 

To  rest  beneath  the  clover  sod, 

That  takes  the  sunshine  and  the  rains, 
Or  where  the  kneeling  hamlet  drains 

The  chalice  of  the  grapes  of  God  ; 

Than  if  with  thee  the  roaring  wells 

Should  gulf  him  fathom-deep  in  brine  ; 
And  hands  so  often  clasp'd  in  mine, 

Should  toss  with  tangle  and  with  shells." 

In  Memoriam. 

IT  was  the  saddest  Christmas  Ddy  that  the  inhabitants  of  the 
Vicarage  had  ever  known.  Uncle  Gar's  absence  was  loudly 
lamented  by  the  boys,  who  could  imagine  no  holiday  without 
their  favourite  playfellow  and  adviser,  while  it  was  felt  as  a  very 
real  loss  by  the  other  members  of  the  family.  Mary  especially 
missed  the  bright  unflagging  spirits  and  helpful  good-nature  which 
had  gone  so  far  to  make  Gar's  influence  with  the  lads ;  she  had 
always  called  him  her  eldest  boy,  and  had  been  very  motherly  and 
watchful  over  him,  claiming  a  right  to  lecture  him  on  all  his  short- 
comings, to  which  Gar  had  submitted  with  a  tolerable  amount  of 
patience.  But  even  Garten's  absence  sunk  into  comparative  insig- 
nificance beside  the  fact  of  Belle's  failing  health,  and  it  was  quite 
sufficient  to  note  the  Vicar's  grave  looks  and  Mary's  troubled  face 
to  see  how  heavily  this  new  blow  had  fallen  on  them. 

If  Belle  had  lacked  somewhat  in  gentleness  and  warmth  to 
those  with  whom  she  lived  \  if  she  had  been  self-absorbed,  reticent, 
and  failing  in  that  large  influence  that  might  have  been  hers,  it 
was  all  forgotten  now ;  and  nothing  was  remembered  of  her  but 
her  sorrow,  her  passionate  devotion  to  Robert,  and  the  fortitude 
with  which  she  had  borne  her  ill  health  ;  or,  if  this  were  not  suffi- 


378  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

cient  to  win  their  forbearance,  was  she  not  Mary's  only  sister — the 
sister  whom  she  had  loved,  and  with  whom  she  had  borne  through 
her  own  happy  married  life,  and  whom  Austin  had  cherished  for 
her  sake  with  more  than  a  brother's  patience  1 

And  as  it  was  with  them,  so  it  was  with  the  boys.  No  need 
to  hush  their  noisy  footsteps  and  merry  voices  now,  as  the  lads 
crept  about  the  house  bating  their  very  breath  for  fear  Aunt  Belle 
should  be  disturbed.  Aunt  Belle,  who  had  never  won  their  boyish 
confidence,  who  had  never  tried  to  win  it,  on  whose  knee  they  had 
rarely  clambered  since  their  babyhood,  and  whom  they  had  always 
held  in  an  awe  and  reverence  which  their  mother  with  her  open 
arms  and  ready  kisses  had  never  inspired. 

It  was  strange  to  see  the  lads  waiting  upon  her ;  Guy  especi- 
ally, who  was  in  reality  her  favourite,  was  very  helpful  and  zealous 
in  her  service.  It  must  have  given  Belle  many  a  pang  to  remem- 
ber how  little  she  had  interested  herself  in  Mary's  boys — their 
very  affection  was  a  reproach  to  her.  Arty  one  day  got  into  her 
lap  and  put  his  arms  round  her  neck.  "  Dear  Aunt  Belle,"  said 
the  affectionate  little  fellow,  "  why  don't  you  get  well  when  we  all 
love  you  so  1  It  makes  mammy  so  unhappy." 

"  I  don't  think  you  can  love  me  much,  Arty,"  replied  Belle, 
fixing  her  hollow  eyes  mournfully  on  the  child.  "  I  have  not  done 
much  for  you ;  I  have  been  very  selfish  and  wicked,  Arty."  And 
then,  before  the  boy  could  answer,  she  pressed  him  to  her  closer 
than  she  had  ever  done  before  and  burst  into  tears. 

Mary,  who  was  working  at  the  other  end  of  the  room,  hurried 
across  and  lifted  her  boy  off  his  aunt's  lap. 

"  Oh,  Arty,"  she  exclaimed  reproachfully,  "  you  must  not  tii-e 
poor  Aunt  Belle  so."  But  Belle,  struggling  vainly  with  her  emo- 
tion, said,  "  No,  it  is  not  that,  dear  Mary ;  let  him  stay — it  is  not 
Arty  that  tires  me,  it  is  only  " — drawing  her  sister's  face  down  to 
hers  and  kissing  it  remorsefully — "  it  is  only  because  it  makes  me 
so  unhappy,  Maiy,  to  think  how  little  I  have  done  for  you  and 
your  boys." 

Poor  Belle  !  Always  self -tormented  and  self-absorbed,  worn 
to  a  shadow  by  consuming  sadness,  shedding  bitter  tears  over  a 
useless  past,  and  fighting  against  the  doom  she  feels  is  irrevocable 
— baffled,  weary,  and  unconvinced — so  did  she  drag  on  her  heavy 
days.  Willingly,  right  willingly,  would  Austin  have  ministered 
to  her  sick  heart  and  soul,  but  Belle  shrank  from  his  loving  counsel. 
"  Ask  Austin  not  to  come  and  read  to  me,"  she  said  more  than 
once  to  her  sister;  "it  looks  so  as  though  I  were  dying.  If  I 
grow  worse  I  will  send  for  him."  And  the  Vicar,  albeit  with  a 
heavy  heart,  forbore  out  of  consideration  for  her  morbid  fancies. 


UNDER  THE  ROD.  379 

"It  seems  wrong,  but  what  can  I  do?"  he  said  once  to  Eotha; 
"  her  mind  is  harassing  her  body,  and  both  are  alike  sick,  poor 
soul !  but  she  will  have  none  of  my  healing."  But  Rotha  only 
murmured  quietly,  "  Leave  her  alone,  Mr.  Ord.  Belle  is  like  no 
one  else ;  she  is  fighting  it  out  with  herself.  By  and  by  her  weak- 
ness will  overcome  her,  and  she  will  cling  to  your  every  word  as 
eagerly  as  she  now  repels  them ;  but  just  now  she  only  remembers 
that  she  is  unhappy." 

Rotha's  unspoken  sympathy,  so  intense  and  so  delicately  mani- 
fested, did  much  to  win  Belle's  wayward  confidence.  Her  soft 
voice  and  quiet  ways  were  very  pleasant  to  the  sick  girl,  whose 
shattered  nerves  could  bear  so  little ;  she  felt  Rotha's  presence  a 
rest,  and  grew  more  than  reconciled  to  her  sister's  brief  absences 
from  her  room  if  Rotha  could  take  her  place.  In  many  ways  she 
suited  her  better  than  Mary.  Mary,  oppressed  with  many  cares, 
had  lost  much  of  her  wonted  cheerfulness  ;  faint  streaks  of  gray 
were  plainly  discernible  in  the  mother's  pretty  hair,  her  smiling 
face  had  grown  worn  and  anxious-looking ;  it  was  not  always  easy 
for  her  to  conceal  her  uneasiness  when  Belle  coughed  or  looked 
more  than  usually  ill ;  and  Belle,  who  disliked  to  be  pitied,  would 
turn  impatiently  from  her  questions  and  caresses.  She  would 
have  deceived  them  all  still,  and  cheated  herself  too,  if  it  had  been 
possible. 

But  Rotha's  face,  grave  only  with  reflected  sadness,  grew  daily 
more  necessary  to  her;  she  would  watch  for  her  coming  every 
morning,  and  brighten  perceptibly  at  the  sound  of  her  footsteps. 
She  could  always  bear  her  to  talk  to  her  when  Mary's  voice  fretted 
her  into  a  fever ;  and  her  reading  was  a  real  refreshment  during 
the  long  twilight,  when  she  lay  and  waited  for  Robert. 

Rotha  did  not  always  go  home  at  these  times.  Robert  always 
looked  for  her,  and  expected  her  to  be  there.  Since  the  day  of 
their  reconciliation,  when  he  had  owned  and  acknowledged  her  as 
a  friend,  Rotha  had  no  reason  to  complain  of  his  manner  to  her. 
As  far  as  she  was  concerned  he  was  an  altered  man. 

He  never  met  her  now  without  a  kind  smile  and  a  hearty 
grasp  of  the  hand ;  if  she  stayed  late  at  the  Vicarage,  however 
tired  and  jaded  he  was,  he  would  always  walk  up  with  her  to  her 
own  door. 

Others  besides  Rotha  noticed  the  almost  deferential  reverence 
with  which  he  addressed  her ;  it  seemed  as  though  he  were  always 
trying  to  make  amends  for  his  past  injustice  to  her.  The  Vicar 
openly  congratulated  her  on  this  happy  condition  of  things,  but 
Rotha  just  now  was  a  little  silent  over  the  whole  matter.  If  the 
truth  must  be  told,  she  felt  somewhat  oppressed  by  it  all ;  in  her 


380  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

humility  it  was  almost  painful  to  feel  herself  so  watched  and 
considered. 

She  was  somewhat  perplexed  too  at  his  sudden  change  of 
opinion,  but  at  her  first  timid  questioning  on  the  subject  Robert 
had  stoutly  denied  that  it  was  sudden. 

"  I  had  my  doubts  a  long  time  before  I  would  own  to  them," 
he  said  to  her,  with  the  rare  honesty  which  had  first  won  her 
esteem  for  him ;  "  but  I  think  it  was  that  talk  down  on  the  sands 
that  first  shook  my  faith  in  my  own  judgment.  I  would  not  give 
in  at  the  time — but  it  somehow  conquered  me ;  and  then  your 
giving  everything  to  Gar :  that  did  not  look  like  covetousness — 
did  it  ?" 

"  I  wish  he  would  come  back  !"  sighed  Rotha,  touched  by  this 
reference  to  her  lover;  "how  many  days  is  it  since  he  went  away 
— hardly  a  week  yet,  Mr.  Robert  ?" — turning  to  him  half  seriously, 
half  playfully — "you  had  as  much  right  to  come  up  to  Bryn  and 
steal  some  of  my  property  as  to  send  away  Gar." 

She  was  afraid  she  had  hurt  him,  for  he  did  not  answer.  But 
a  moment  afterwards  she  saw  his  eyes  fixed  on  her  with  a  strange 
indefinable  expression. 

"  Send  him  away  ?  Yes,  you  are  right.  I  am  afraid  it  was 
my  doing.  Evil  for  good — not  good  for  evil.  Miss  Maturin,  I 
wish  I  could  have  gone  in  his  stead !  Yes,  I  wish  to  heaven  I 
could  have  gone  in  his  stead  ! " 

"  And  left  Belle  1     Oh,  for  shame,  Mr.  Robert ! " 

"  Yes,  and  left  Belle.  What  is  Belle  to  me,  or  I  to  her  now  1 
Shall  we  ever  be  man  and  wife  1  Oh,  my  poor  girl !  How  little  I 
knew  when  I  gave  up  everything  for  her  sake  that  we  should  ever 
come  to  this  !  Miss  Maturin,"  turning  on  her  abruptly,  "  do  you 
believe  in  long  engagements? — I  do  not." 

"  I  don't  know,"  faltered  Rotha.  "  I  think  it  is  a  great  test ; 
it  was  so  in  Jacob's  case.  Seven  years  is  a  long  time,  Mr. 
Ord." 

"Why  will  people  always  quote  Jacob  as  an  example?"  re- 
turned Robert  impatiently.  "  An  exception  is  nothing  to  the  rule. 
Did  Rachel's  beauty  fade,  I  wonder  1  Did  Jacob  eat  out  his  heart 
with  that  long  waiting  ?  Do  you  think  it  well  that  all  freshness 
should  wear  off?  Do  Belle  and  I  love  each  other  the  better  for 
knowing  each  other's  faults  and  learning  painful  lessons  of  forbear- 
ance for  half  a  dozen  years  ?  Does  not  the  heart  grow  old  too 
sometimes?" 

"No,"  replied  Rotha  indignantly.  "If  that  be  your  man's 
sophistry  I  repel  it  entirely.  '  Many  waters  cannot  quench  love,' 
we  read,  and  many  years  ought  not  to  exhaust  it.  Belle  may  try 


UNDER  THE  ROD.  381 

you,  Mr.  Ord — you  see  I  am  speaking  plainly — but  she  never  loved 
you  better  than  she  loves  you  now." 

"  I  do  not  deserve  it,"  he  returned  in  an  agitated  voice.  "  I 
feel  you  are  right — women  always  are.  Never  mind  if  I  meant 
what  I  said  just  now.  Heaven  knows  I  would  cut  off  my  right 
hand  if  I  could  make  amends  to  her  for  what  she  has  gone  through 
for  my  sake ;  and  if  she  may  only  be  spared  to  me  for  a  few  years 
I  will  guarantee  that  I  will  make  her  happier,  poor  child,  than  she 
has  ever  been  before." 

"  I  am  sure  of  it,"  replied  Rotha,  and  then  the  subject  dropped. 
But  she  never  forgot  his  words  :  they  convinced  her  that  her  sus- 
picions were  true — that  Robert  Ord's  remorse  was  greater  than 
his  love;  that,  however  noble  and  faithful  he  had  been  in  his 
allegiance  to  his  betrothed,  the  engagement  had  been  a  hasty 
one  ;  and  that  in  spite  of  his  warm  affection  Belle  was  not  loved, 
never  had  been  loved,  with  the  whole  strength  and  passion  of  his 
nature. 

Rotha  hardly  knew  whether  she  resented  this  for  Belle's  sake ; 
but  it  was  certain  that  this  instinctive  perception  of  his  lukewarm- 
ness  kept  her  a  little  aloof  from  Robert,  and  caused  her  to 
redouble  her  tenderness  and  pity  to  Belle ;  for  she  now  watched 
jealously  for  every  symptom  of  coldness  on  his  part,  but  could  not 
find  the  slightest  fault  with  his  manner.  Never  since  the  days  of 
his  early  love,  when  her  beauty  and  her  too  evident  affection  for  him- 
self had  tempted  him  from  his  prudence,  had  he  been  so  gentle,  so 
devoted  ;  and  less  keen  eyes  than  Rotha's  would  have  judged  that 
his  was  the  deeper  affection  of  the  two. 

But  alas  !  alas  !  though  in  his  remorse  and  pity  he  would  have 
cut  off  his  right  hand  to  have  been  allowed  to  call  her  his  wife, 
her  face  was  not  the  dearest  to  him,  neither  was  her  name  the 
oftenest  on  his  lips.  But  those  who  saw  his  altered  looks  and 
marvelled  at  his  sorrow  never  guessed  Robert  Ord's  secret,  and 
least  of  all  she  who  had  exercised  so  baneful  an  influence  over  his 
life. 

Did  he  know  it  ? 

Ay,  and  battled  with  the  sore  temptation  as  only  a  good  man 
can  battle,  crushing  and  stamping  out  the  unholy  thing  with  his 
strong  proud  will  till  he  believed  he  had  trodden  it  under  foot. 

Was  it  his  fault  that  his  oppression  had  begotten  this  ;  that 
out  of  his  hatred  and  her  exceeding  patience  had  sprung  the 
mad  infatuation  which  was  to  make  him  gray  before  his  time  and 
embitter  so  many  of  his  future  years ;  when  his  memory  could 
recall  to  him  nothing  but  the  tears  he  had  caused  her  to  shed, 
and  the  hopes  that  through  his  means  had  been  broken  ;  when 


382  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

the  knowledge  of  her  forgiveness  and  sisterly  affection  were  no 
consolation  to  him,  and  he  fed  on  the  ashes  of  his  unhappy 
passion  ? 

Did  he  love  or  did  he  hate  her  1  It  was  long  since  Robert 
Ord  had  asked  himself  that  question.  The  little  stab  that  her  re- 
proachful words  had  given  him  that  day  when  they  had  walked  side 
by  side  on  the  sands  had  first  awakened  him  to  the  sense  of  his 
danger.  How  her  face  had  haunted  him  ! — it  haunted  him  still ; 
but  not  till  the  hour  when  he  heard  that  she  was  to  be  his  brother's 
wife — when  he  saw  her  clinging  to  Gar's  arm — thinking  of  Gar, 
sorrowing  for  Gar — not  till  then  did  he  know-  that  Belle's  dying 
beauty  was  nothing  to  him  compared  to  Rotha's  wistful  eyes  and 
the  sweet  pale  face  which  was  henceforth  to  be  his  torment  and 
his  delight. 

Oh,  inexplicable  workings  of  human  nature,  entangled  and 
involved  and  interwoven  with  all  manner  of  devious  threads  ! 
Was  it  Rotha's  womanly  instincts  or  the  mere  prompting  of  her 
generous  love  for  Gar  which  made  her  shrink  more  from  Robert  in 
his  strange  new  amity  than  ever  she  had  done  in  the  days  of  his 
bitter  warfare  ? 

It  was  almost  a  week  since  Garton  had  left — a  long  week,  as 
it  seemed  to  Rotha,  sitting  so  patiently  in  Belle's  sick  room  day 
after  day. 

Rotha  flagged  a  little  in  the  heavy  atmosphere,  as  was  natural, 
but  she  never  complained  of  its  dullness.  It  seemed  a  dreary 
exchange  for  the  free  happy  life  of  the  last  few  months,  when 
Mary  and  she  sang  and  laughed  over  their  work,  and  Garton  and 
the  boys  came  and  teased  them  out  of  all  propriety  ;  how  she 
missed  their  boating  excursions  and  their  happy  rambles,  and  the 
grand  teas  which  Meg  prepared  to  surprise  them  on  their  return  ! 
Now  hour  after  hour  she  sat  listening  to  the  faint  click  of  her  own 
and  Mary's  needles,  broken  now  and  then  by  low- voiced  conversation 
while  Belle  dozed.  Here  was  daily  suffering  to  be  witnessed — 
suffering  borne  .patiently  indeed,  but  without  the  cheerfulness  of 
real  submission.  Here  was  the  languid  body  and  unquiet  mind 
acting  and  reacting  lamentably  on  each  other — suffering  which 
Rotha  strove  to  lighten,  but  without  success.  Still  it  was  some- 
thing that  Belle  liked  to  have  her,  though  it  did  seem  a  little 
hard  for  Mary  that  Rotha's  were  the  only  absences  ever  noticed. 
Not  that  Mary's  unselfishness  ever  wasted  a  sigh  on  this  ;  she 
would  sigh  a  little  sadly  over  this  new  infatuation  of  Belle's,  but 
only  remonstrated  when  her  exactions  were  likely  to  be  injurious 
to  Rotha. 

"Has  not  Rotha  come  yet?     How  long  she  is!"  was  often 


UNDER  THE  ROD.  383 

the  querulous  complaint  of  a  morning.  Rotha  would  come  up 
presently  with  all  sorts  of  pretty  excuses  for  her  delay,  in  the  shape 
of  tiny  baskets  embedded  with  moss,  with  rare  hothouse  flowers 
or  choice  fruit  daintily  nestled  in  the  greenery.  Sometimes  it 
would  be  a  picture,  or  a  new  book,  or  a  portfolio  of  engravings 
from  Bryn — all  sorts  of  little  surprises  to  cheat  the  invalid's  new 
day  into  brightness.  It  was  a  sign  of  changed  feelings  on  Belle's 
part  that  the  Cashmere  shawls  were  in  their  old  place.  One  day 
she  made  some  sort  of  mention  of  them  in  a  shamefaced  way,  and 
the  next  afternoon  she  woke  up  to  find  them  covering  her.  Belle 
drew  them  over  her  face  and  shed  a  few  silent  tears  underneath 
their  soft  folds.  It  was  so  like  Rotha's  magnanimity. 

One  afternoon  Rotha  had  left  her  somewhat  unexpectedly,  in 
obedience  to  a  summons  from  Meg.  Mrs.  Carruthers  wanted  her 
up  at  Bryn  on  some  domestic  business.  Belle  was  a  great  deal 
better,  and  she  could  leave  her  comfortably,  especially  as  Guy 
promised  to  be  on  guard  when  his  mother  was  not  there.  It  was 
a  lovely  afternoon,  and  even  these  few  steps  were  a  refreshment  to 
Rotha,  and  so  was  her  quiet  talk  with  Meg. 

She  had  promised  to  be  back  again  as  soon  as  possible,  but  by 
the  time  her  letters  were  written  and  tea  was  over  it  was  get- 
ting late — almost  time  for  Robert  to  be  back  from  Thornborough, 
and  then  she  would  no  longer  be  wanted.  She  said  something  of 
this  to  Meg  as  she  put  on  her  hat. 

"  I  shall  just  say  '  good-night  ''to  Belle  and  see  she  is  comfort- 
able, and  then  I  shall  come  away.  You  shall  not  have  another 
lonely  evening,  Meg,  if  I  can  help  it.  We  will  have  one  of  our 
regular  home-evenings — music  and  a  little  reading.  How  delicious 
it  will  be  !"  And  Rotha  ran  off  with  one  of  her  sunny  smiles. 

It  was  moonlight,  and  the  sea  looked  just  as  she  loved  to  see 
it — all  black  shadow,  save  for  one  broad  pathway  of  silver  ripples. 
Down  by  the  bridge  lay  a  stretch  of  shining  sands.  The  whole 
scene,  so  full  of  fixed  shadow  and  gleaming  light,  the  white  road, 
the  dark  wintry  sky,  sown  here  and  there  with  stars,  seemed  full 
of  a  new  beauty  to  her,  and  a  sense  of  her  unworthiness  and  little- 
ness suddenly  smote  upon  her  as  she  remembered  the  pleasant 
lines  that  had  been  appointed  to  her,  and  how  from  "If  needs  be  " 
she  had  learnt  to  say,  "  It  is  well." 

"  God  is  very  good,"  said  the  girl  softly  to  herself,  "  and  I  am, 
oh,  so  happy  !"  And  as  she  looked  over  the  moonlight  haze  she 
thought  of  Garton,  sailing  farther  and  farther  from  her,  but  with- 
out any  mournfulness.  "What  is,  is  right,"  she  thought. 

It  was  about  the  time  when  the  family  were  generally  gathered 
round  the  tea-table — the  most  sociable  hour  of  the  day,  as  the 


384  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

mother  called  it — but,  to  Rotha's  surprise,  the  meal  remained 
uutasted  on  the  table,  and  only  Laurie  and  Arty  were  in  the  room 
— Arty  sitting  disconsolately  on  Laurie's  knee  with  his  finger  in 
his  mouth,  and  his  small  round  eyes  fixed  on  the  cake ;  both  were 
rather  incoherent  in  their  answers  to  Rotha's  questions.  Arty 
opined  that  somebody  was  cross,  Deb  was  for  one,  and  they  weren't 
going  to  have  any  tea  at  all,  at  all. 

"Do  be  quiet,  Arty,"  interrupted  Laurie,  giving  him  a  shake; 
"here  I  have  been  telling  you  Jack  the  Giant-Killer  for  the  last 
half-hour  and  it  is  all  no  use." 

"  I  don't  want  Jack  Anybody.  I  want  my  tea,"  returned 
Arty,  beginning  to  whimper.  "  If  nobody's  cross,  why  can't  we 
have  some,  Laurie  ?" 

"Where  is  every  one?"  asked  Rotha,  bewildered  by  the 
children's  disconsolate  condition,  so  unlike  the  mother's  ordinary- 
care.  Arty's  hair  was  rough  and  his  collar  tumbled,  and  Laurie's 
hands  were  covered  with  ink. 

"Where's  everybody?"  repeated  Laurie  slowly.  He  always 
meditated  over  his  words.  "  Oh,  I  don't  know.  Guy's  up  with 
Aunt  Belle,  and  Rufus  has  gone  to  the  telegraph  office,  and  mother 
is  shut  up  with  father  in  the  study,  and  Uncle  Robert  is  there  too, 
and — do  be  quiet,  Arty  !  Deb  has  just  been  in,  and  is  going  to 
bring  us  our  tea ;  and  it  is  so  dull  all  alone,"  finished  Laurie, 
running  his  blackened  fingers  through  Arty's  hair,  at  which  Arty, 
being  cross  enough  already,  fairly  roared. 

Rotha  could  learn  nothing  from  Laurie's  drawled-out  sentences, 
so  she  betook  herself  to  Belle's  room,  but  Belle  had  fallen  asleep, 
and  at  first  sight  she  thought  Guy  was  asleep  too,  for  he  was 
curled  up  on  the  easy-chair  with  his  head  on  his  arms,  but  he 
started  at  her  light  footstep  and  held  up  his  hand. 

"  Hush  !  Aunt  Belle  is  asleep,  and  mother  says  we  must  be 
very  careful  not  to  wake  her;  she  had  such  a  bad  night."  And 
Guy,  having  delivered  his  message,  seemed  inclined  to  put  down 
his  head  again,  but  Rotha  knelt  down  and  put  her  lips  close  to 
his  ear. 

"  What's  become  of  the  mother,  Guy  ?  Is  she  busy  ?  Why, 
Guy,  you  have  been  crying." 

"Oh,  hush!"  implored  the  boy.  He  sat  up  quite  straight 
now,  and  looked  very  frightened.  "  If  you  wake  her  what  am  I 
to  do,  and  mother  not  here  1  Don't  ask  me  any  questions,"  he 
continued,  with  quivering  lips,  and  trying  hard  not  to  burst  out 
crying.  "I  must  not  tell  you  anything;  they  told  me  I  must 
not." 

*'  Not  tell  me  ?     Is  anything  the  matter  1     Oh,  Guy,  if  you 


UNDER  THE  ROD.  385 

love  me  don't  keep  me  in  suspense.     There  is  not  anything  the 
matter,  is  there,  dear  ?     You  have  only  tried  to  frighten  me." 

"  I  haven't,"  returned  Guy  indignantly.  "  I  wouldn't  be  so 
wicked.  Oh,  dear  Eotha,  do  go  downstairs ;  I  can't  bear  it," 
cried  the  boy,  trying  to  swallow  his  sobs, — "  I  can't  bear  it,  when 
we  all  love  you  so,  to  see  you  looking  at  me  like  this." 

"  Oh,  Guy,  don't."  The  lad's  rosy  face  was  quite  pale  now, 
but  it  was  not  so  white  as  Rotha's  as  she  rose  stiffly  from  her 
knees.  Why  does  she  put  her  hand  to  her  side  as  though  she  had 
been  struck  there  ?  why  do  her  thoughts  fly  to  Garton  instantly  ? 
"  That  it  may  please  Thee  to  preserve  all  that  travel  by  land  or  by 
water."  "We  beseech  Thee  to  hear  us,  good  Lord."  Why  do 
these  clauses  rise  unbidden  to  her  mind  as  she  leans  for  a  moment 
over  the  sobbing  child  ?  Guy,  who  never  cried — who,  his  mother 
said,  had  never  cried  since  his  babyhood — and  Guy  loved  Garton ; 
she  remembers  that. 

"  Do  go  down,  Rotha ;  they  are  all  in  the  study,"  groans  out 
poor  Guy.  Rotha  makes  a  gesture  of  assent  and  goes  slowly 
down,  not  hurriedly,  but  dragging  one  foot  heavily  after  another, 
as  though  they  were  suddenly  weighted  with  lead.  When  she  had 
.got  there  she  paused  in  the  dark  hall  and  said  two  things  to  her- 
self— or  rather  the  two  things  got  themselves  spoken  unconsciously 
in  her  mind.  "Whatever  happens,  God  is  good,  and  I  must 
remember  that.  And  if  anything  be  .wrong  with  Gar — my  Gar — 
I  would  like  to  lie  down  and  die  before  life  is  a  long  misery  to 
me."  But  she  never  knew  she  spoke  thus  within  herself ;  she  had 
a  notion  instead  that  she  was  standing  for  nearly  half  an  hour  try- 
ing to  turn  the  handle  of  the  study-door  with  her  nerveless  hand, 
and  listening  to  Mary's  low  sobbing  inside,  and  yet  five  minutes 
had  hardly  elapsed  since  she  had  left  Guy. 

If  she  had  gone  in  quite  unprepared  she  would  have  known  at 
once  that  something  had  happened.  The  Vicar  was  sitting  in  his 
usual  place  at  his  writing-table,  just  opposite  the  picture  of  the 
Good  Shepherd,  with  his  head  bowed  down  on  his  hands,  and 
Mary  was  kneeling  beside  him  with  her  arms  round  his  neck,  and 
Robert — but  Rotha  saw  nothing  beyond  the  Vicar's  motionless 
figure  and  Mary's  tear-stained  face. 

"  Oh,  Austin,  here  is  Rotha !  Why,  my  dear,  my  dear,  who 
has  sent  you  in  here  just  now  V 

"Nobody  sent  me.  I  came  of  my  own  accord."  How 
strangely  her  voice  sounds  !  Her  lips  have  become  suddenly  dry ; 
her  strength  fails,  and  she  leans  heavily  on  Mary's  shoulder  to 
support  herself.  There  is  a  deep-drawn  sigh  behind  her,  and  then 
some  one,  she  fancies  it  is  Robert,  places  her  silently  in  a  chair. 

25 


386  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

"Mary,  I  was  not  prepared  for  this.  Robert — Mary,  what 
shall  we  do  1  I  am  becoming  weak  with  all  this  suddenness.  I 
must  have  time."  Was  that  the  Vicar's  tone,  so  broken,  so  irrit- 
able 1  Who  was  it  that  said  Garton  was  his  favourite  brother, 

his  pupil,  his No  matter,  the  strongest  man  will  give  way 

under  a  sudden  shock. 

"  Some  one  must  tell  her,  Mary ;  this  is  a  woman's  work," 
says  Robert,  still  from  the  background.  Through  it  all  Rotha 
fancies  his  voice  comes  from  a  distance — miles  away — muffled — 
sepulchral.  She  shudders  away  from  it. 

"  Yes,  Austin,  I  will  tell  her ;  dear  husband,  dear  husband,  as 
though  I  would  not  spare  you  this  ten  times  over."  When  did 
Mary  Ord  consider  herself  when  Austin  was  in  trouble  ?  But,  with 
a  sudden  terror,  Rotha  puts  out  her  hands  as  though  to  ward  off 
her  approach  ;  she  would  stop  up  her  ears  if  she  could,  she  knows 
it  all ;  why  need  they  trouble  her  with  words  ?  But  Mary,  press- 
ing the  cold  hands  to  her  bosom,  falters  out  "  that  she  loves  her, 
she  loves  her,  and  that  she  must  be  very  patient,  for  their  heavenly 
Father  had  afflicted  them  all.  Do  not  look  at  Austin,  my 
dear,  do  not  look  at  my  husband,  he  is  not  himself  just  now,  he 
cannot  help  us.  Look  at  Robert,  Rotha  darling ;  he  is  so  brave 
and  thoughtful  for  us  all."  But  Rotha,  moving  her  dry  lips, 
shakes  her  head  and  fixes  her  eyes  still  on  Mary. 

"  When  our  dear  boy  left  us  only  a  week  ago " 

"Only  a  week  ago!"  repeated  Rotha;  then  suddenly,  "Oh 
Gar,  Gar  !" 

"  When  our  poor  boy,  our  dear  Gar,  sailed  last  Tuesday  night, 
Heaven  knows  how  little  we  expected  such  bitter  tidings,  how 
much  need  there  would  be  for  our  prayers — '  That  it  may  please 
Thee  to  preserve  all  that  travel  by  land  or  by  water.'  'We  be- 
seech Thee  to  hear  us,  good  Lord.'" — The  two  little  hands  locked 
together  on  Mary's  bosom  struggle  hard  to  be  free. — "  'We  beseech 
Thee,  we  beseech  Thee,  good  Lord.' " 

"  Oh,  Mary,  the  cruel  sea,  the  cruel  hungry  sea !  Oh  Gar, 
Gar!" 

"  Robert,  what  shall  we  do  1  She  guesses,  but  she  does  not 
hear  me.  She  looks  blind  and  deaf — stupefied  almost,  poor 
darling  ! "  But  Rotha  only  repeats  again  and  again  slowly,  "  Oh 
Gar,  Gar!" 

"When  our  poor  Gar,"  began  Mary  again,  this  time  very 
slowly, — "when  our  poor  Gar  left  us  never  to  return  again — 

"Never  to  return  again  !"  repeated  Rotha,  and  then  stopped 
suddenly  with  a  low  moan. 

"  He  little  thought  what  would  happen  so  near  home. 


UNDER  THE  ROD.  387 

were  fog-bound,  Rotha ;  and  on  Sunday  night,"  said  Mary,  speak- 
ing as  though  to  a  little  child,  "when  they  were  quite  near  home, 
and  all  but  the  helmsman  were  asleep,  a  great  vessel  ran  on  to 
them  and  sank  the  ship,  and  they  were  all — oh,  pitiful  God ! — all 
lost  but  a  few  men  and  two  or  three  women." 

"  And  Gar  was  not  among  them — speak  louder,  Mary,  louder ; 
the  waves  seem  to  drown  your  voice  !  The  waves  !  Oh,  my  poor 
boy,  my  poor  boy  ! " 

In  the  many  mansions  she  knows  it  now — no  need  to  tell  her 
more.  Somebody  behind  her  says,  "That  will  do.  Open  the 
door,  Austin,  and  give  her  air."  Cold  fragrant  waters  splash  on 
her  forehead.  She  has  a  notion  that  Mary  has  taken  her  in  her 
arms  and  is  crying  softly  over  her.  The  Vicar's  massive  figure 
seems  to  block  up  her  vision,  but  he  does  not  say  much.  She 
tries  to  tell  him  that  she  is  not  faint,  that  he  must  not  be  so 
sorry  for  her,  because  it  is  his  loss  too ;  but  breaks  down  at  her 
first  word  and  hides  her  head  in  Mary's  bosom. 

"  The  Lord  gave,  and  the  Lord  hath  taken  away,"  said  the 
Vicar  solemnly.  His  voice  reaches  Rotha.  She  can  hear  him, 
oh,  so  clearly  !  "  Dear  wife,  I  have  been  very  weak.  I  ought 
not  to  have  left  this  to  you.  It  is  not  poor  Gar,  it  is  happy  Gar 
now,  and  she  will  think  so  by  and  by."  And  as  he  lays  his  hands 
on  her  head  pitifully,  yet  in  silent  blessing,  Rotha  suddenly  looks 
up  at  him  with  wild  eyes  and  prays  him  to  take  her  home. 

But  it  is  not  the  Vicar — it  is  Robert  who  takes  her;  but  she 
hardly  knows  it,  for  she  is  looking  up  at  the  starlit  sky,  where  her 
saint  is — her  lover,  her  Garton.  She  has  no  idea  of  the  strong 
arm  that  is  supporting  her  all  the  way,  or  of  the  looks  of  anguish 
that  he  casts  on  her  pale  uplifted  face.  She  scarcely  knows  what 
he  says  as  she  totters  into  Meg's  arms,  but  she  wonders  with  a 
dreary  wonder  why  Meg  cries  so.  Mary  cried  too,  and  Guy ;  but 
she  has  no  tears,  only  a  hot  choking  pain.  By  and  by,  when  she 
lies  down  on  her  little  white  bed,  and  Meg  extinguishes  the  light 
and  leaves  her,  by  her  own  desire,  to  the  friendly  darkness,  Rotha 
turns  her  face  to  the  wall  with  an  exceeding  bitter  cry,  "Oh  Gar, 
Gar,  I  loved  you  so  !  Come  back  to  me,  Gar  !" 


CHAPTER   XXXV. 

AN   ERRAND    OF    MERCY. 

"  I  hold  it  true,  whate'er  befall ; 

I  feel  it,  when  I  sorrow  most ; 
'Tis  better  to  have  loved  and  lost 
Than  never  to  have  loved  at  all." 

In  Memoriam. 

'    Oh  !  blest  be  thine  unbroken  light ! 

That  watch'd  me  as  a  seraph's  eye, 
And  stood  between  me  and  the  night 
For  ever  shining  sweetly  nigh. 

"  And  when  the  cloud  upon  us  came, 

Which  strove  to  blacken  o'er  thy  ray 
Then  purer  spread  thy  gentle  flame, 
And  dash'd  the  blackness  all  away." 

BYRON. 

NEVER  till  she  had  lost  him  did  Rotha  know  what  G-arton  had 
been  to  her,  and  how  their  brief  engagement  and  the  loss  of  his 
great  love  would  influence  and  sadden  her  life.  For  a  little  while 
she  seemed  utterly  broken. 

It  was  not  that  she  rebelled  against  his  cruel  fate — cut  off  in 
such  an  awful  way  in  the  midst  of  his  youth ;  it  was  not  that  she 
failed  in  meekness  and  submission,  or  complained  that  her  lot  was 
unduly  hard.  She  was  far  too  humbly  and  sincerely  a  Christian 
for  that.  It  was  only  that  the  spring  of  her  energy  and  life 
seemed  broken  by  the  suddenness  of  the  shock,  and  that  for  a  little 
time  she  seemed  so  crushed  that  it  was  difficult  to  rouse  her. 

All  the  next  day  she  lay  on  the  couch  in  her  own  room,  with 
her  face  hidden  from  the  light,  as  she  had  hidden  it  on  the  pre- 
vious night ;  just  ill  enough  to  be  soothed  by  Meg's  attentions,  but 
neither  asking  for  nor  needing  sympathy,  and  keeping  perfect 
silence  in  the  midst  of  her  grief. 

But,  as  hour  after  hour  passed  on,  Heaven  only  knew  the  bitter- 
ness of  that  girlish  heart  as  the  tide  of  recollection  swept  over  it, 
recalling  Gar's  tenderness  and  sad  farewell.  Once,  towards  even- 


AN  ERRAND  OF  MERCY.  389 

ing,  when  the  tide  was  rising,  the  low  surging  of  the  waves  seemed 
to  break  the  stillness  of  the  room.  Meg  never  knew  why  she 
suddenly  buried  her  face  in  the  cushions  and  tried  to  stifle  her 
sobs.  Many  and  many  a  night  for  long  afterwards  she  dreaded  to 
go  to  sleep  for  fear  that  sound  should  mingle  with  her  thoughts, 
and  so  the  awful  scene  be  reproduced  in  her  dreams.  Often  she 
started  in  affright,  thinking  she  heard  the  crash  of  the  broken 
timbers,  the  angry  rush  of  the  water,  the  despairing  cries  of  drown- 
ing men,  and  amongst  them  one  dark  figure,  steadfast,  yet  with 
the  look  of  mortal  agony  on  his  young  face,  calling  on  his  God  as 
he  went  down  into  his  yawning  grave. 

Oh,  no  marvel  if  she  brooded  silently  over  her  trouble,  and 
shrunk  from  the  least  mention  of  any  of  the  facts ;  not  for  many 
a  long  week  did  she  learn  any  of  the  distressing  details,  though 
she  must  have  known  that  the  papers  were  full  of  them,  and  that 
the  country  was  ringing  from  end  to  end  with  news  of  the  sad 
disaster.  Meg  put  them  all  carefully  aside  in  case  she  should  ask 
for  them,  but  she  never  did ;  by  and  by  she  heard  all  the  particu- 
lars from  another  quarter,  when  she  was  better  fitted  to  bear  it. 

From  the  moment  they  brought  Rube  to  her  they  ceased  to 
be  seriously  uneasy,  for  at  the  sight  of  her  favourite  the  white 
strain  on  Rotha's  face  relaxed ;  and  though  she  wept  bitterly,  any- 
thing was  better  than  the  numbness  and  apathy  of  the  last  few 
hours,  and  tears,  as  they  knew,  would  ease  the  overburdened  heart. 

Rotha  was  more  herself  when  she  had  seen  Rube :  the  boy's 
sorrow  seemed  to  arouse  her  to  the  conviction  that  others  were 
suffering  as  well  as  herself.  She  did  not  try  to  comfort  the  poor 
child — that  would  have  been  impossible;  but  she  stroked  his 
curly  head  as  he  knelt  beside  her,  and  whispered  to  him  that  he 
was  her  boy  now,  and  she  would  love  him — oh !  so  dearly — for 
Gar's  sake.  And  then  she  called  to  Meg  faintly  to  take  him  away, 
for  he  would  make  himself  ill  with  crying  and  she  could  do  nothing 
to  help  him. 

But  the  next  day  she  had  him  again,  and  the  next  day  after 
that ;  and  Meg  found  that  she  would  do  anything  that  Rube  asked 
her,  and  that  she  seemed  always  more  restless  and  unhappy  when 
the  boy  was  away.  After  his  second  visit  she  roused  herself  to 
inquire  after  her  friends  at  the  Vicarage,  and  found  that,  to  her 
surprise,  Robert  had  been  every  morning  and  evening  to  inquire 
after  her. 

He  looked  very  ill,  Meg  added,  and  he  had  told  her  that  the 
Vicar  had  been  far  from  well  too.  Mrs.  Ord  had  sent  all  sorts  of 
affectionate  messages  to  Rotha ;  but  she  had  not  come  round  her- 
self, as  Belle  was  fretting  so  sadly  that  she  could  not  leave  her. 


390  ROBERT  ORD>S  ATONEMENT. 

Rotha  was  greatly  disturbed  when  she  heard  this.  She  felt  as 
though  it  were  selfish  for  her  to  be  sitting  alone  and  feeding  on  her 
grief  while  Mary  had  her  own  and  her  husband's  trouble  to  bear, 
and  was  worn  out  besides  with  attending  on  her  sister.  She 
thought  how  Gar  would  have  acted  in  her  place,  and  wept  and 
prayed  that  she  might  have  strength  to  do  what  he  would  have 
done. 

She  tried,  and  not  ineffectually,  to  make  some  sort  of  beginning 
that  same  evening,  and  sent  Meg  round,  laden  with  good  things, 
and  with  a  little  pencilled  line  to  Belle,  in  which  she  told  her  that 
she  had  not  forgotten  her,  that  she  was  thinking  of  them  all  from 
morning  to  night,  that  she  sent  them  her  dear  love,  and  that  she 
would  come  round  very  soon,  when  she  felt  she  could  help  and  not 
distress  them. 

It  so  happened  that  as  Meg  left  the  house,  charged  with  Rotha's 
commissions,  she  met  the  Vicar  coming  slowly  towards  Bryn,  bound 
on  much  the  same  errand  as  herself.  Meg  turned  back  and  let'him 
in  with  her  own  key,  so  that  he  went  in,  as  he  wished  it,  quietly 
and  unannounced.  Rotha  was  sitting  by  the  fire  in  her  black  dress, 
looking  white  and  weak,  as  though  she  had  had  an  illness,  but 
trying  to  interest  herself  in  some  work  Meg  had  wished  her  to  do. 
She  started  up  when  she  saw  the  Vicar ;  her  composure  visibly  left 
her,  and  she  trembled  violently.  But  he  sat  down  beside  her  with 
his  old  kind  smile — a  little  graver,  perhaps — and  questioned  her  so 
tenderly  about  her  health,  and  what  she  had  been  doing  with  her- 
self, that  her  agitation  soon  subsided,  and  she  found  herself  talking 
to  him,  soothed  in  spite  of  herself  by  his  calmness  and  sympathy. 

And  yet  the  Vicar  looked  worn  and  ill,  and  there  were  dark 
lines  under  his  eyes  which  betokened  sleeplessness  and  pain.  He 
looked  like  a  man  who  had  battled  through  some  great  sorrow  and 
had  attained  peace.  He  could  think  now  for  others  besides  him- 
self, and  very  tenderly  and  skilfully  he  set  about  performing  the 
work  which  he  had  in  hand — which  was  not  only  Rotha's  consola- 
tion, as  she  found  out  afterwards. 

But  just  now  he  seemed  to  have  no  thought  but  for  her,  and 
indeed  the  weary  young  face  smote  him  with  strange  feelings  of 
compassion. 

"  I  have  been  thinking  of  you  so  often,  Rotha,"  he  said.  "  I 
have  thought  of  the  little  sister  as  one  whom  He  hath  loved  and 
chastened,  and  who  will  always  be  dearer  to  us  than  ever  now, 
because  Gar  loved  her." 

Ah  !  she  has  not  heard  the  name  since,  and  her  tears  fall  fast. 

"  Do  you  remember  what  I  said  that  night  about  our  dear  boy — 
that  he  was  not  poor  Gar,  but  happy  Gar  now  1  Ah !  Rotha,  think 


AN  ERRAND  OF  MERCY.  391 

of  it  literally,  not  figuratively,  '  drawn  out  of  many  waters,'  and  so 
brought  into  the  haven  where  he  would  be." 

"  I  know,"  she  returned  ;  "  but  so  young,  and  to  die  so  terrible 
a  death!" 

"Is  it  terrible,  I  wonder?"  mused  the  Vicar.  "  They  mount 
up  to  the  heavens,  they  go  down  again  to  the  depths,  it  may  be 
their  soul  is  melted  because  of  trouble.  Let  us  hope  that  bitter 
baptism,  that  weary  chrism,  were  less  terrible  than  our  imagination 
paints  them.  Oh,  Rotha,  never  forget  '  man's  extremity  is  God's 
opportunity/  What  if  the  angel  of  healing  went  down  with  him 
into  the  troubled  waters  ?  Are  not  the  darkness  and  the  light  both 
alike  to  him  1" 

"  He  was  fit  to  die,"  said  the  girl,  weeping ;  "  none  more  so — I 
know  it." 

"  He  would  not  like  to  hear  us  say  so,  and  yet  we  may  console 
ourselves  that  '  this  our  brother  rests  in  sure  and  certain  hope.' 
When  I  speak  of  Garton  I  always  think  of  some  trusty  young 
soldier  of  the  Cross.  If  any  one  loved  his  Lord,  he  did.  It  seemed 
to  me,"  continued  the  Vicar  solemnly,  "at  least  in  my  poor  human 
judgment,  as  though  he  always  strove  to  follow  the  advice  of  the 
Wise  Man,  '  Let  thy  garment  be  always  white,  and  thy  head  lack 
no  ointment.'  He  was  not  worldly  wise,  Rotha,  hardly  as  clever  as 
most  men ;  but  it  may  be  that  of  such  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven." 

Rotha  still  wept,  but  more  silently.  These  praises  of  her  lost 
love  were  like  a  sweet  solemn  dir^fe.  "  Oh,  if  we  could  only  be 
like  him  !"  she  murmured  out  of  a  full  heart. 

"Yes,  indeed,"  returned  the  Vicar;  "he  has  taught  me  many 
a  lesson,  has  my  poor  boy,  when  he  only  thought  he  was  learning 
from  me.  Once,  when  he  was  a  very  little  child,  Rotha,  a  mere 
infant  at  his  mother's  knee,  he  asked  if  he  might  not  pray  to  die 
young;  and  only  a  few  years  ago  he  told  me  that  he  always 
missed  out  that  clause  in  the  Litany,  '  From  sudden  death,  good 
Lord,  deliver  us.'  I  had  some  difficulty  in  persuading  him  that  it 
merely  meant  'sudden  unprepared  death.'  Oh  Rotha,  when  I 
think  of  his  hidden  life  among  us,  a  life  so  different  from  other 
men's,  I  feel  sure  that  the  Lord's  mark  was  on  him." 

"  I  always  said  he  was  good,"  faltered  Rotha.  "  When  all  were 
against  me,  he  was  kind  to  me.  Even  that  dreadful  evening  at 
Nettie's  he  came  up  to  me  and  wished  me  good-night.  Do  you 
think  I  shall  ever  forget  it  1  He  was  my  best  friend,  the  kindest, 
the  truest,  and  he  loved  me.  Oh  Mr.  Ord,  what  shall  I  do,  what 
shall  I  do?" 

He  waited  quietly  until  the  pent-up  feelings  had  had  their  vent, 
and  then  he  took  her  hand  and  told  her — what  she  knew  already, 


392  ROBER  T  ORD  '5  A  TONE  ME  NT. 

and  yet  what  it  was  always  good  to  hear — how  the  sinless  One  had 
wept  beside  an  open  grave,  and  how  since  then  the  tears  of  all 
mourners  had  been  hallowed.  He  told  her  that  she  was  right  to 
weep  for  Garton,  for  a  nobler  and  a  braver  heart  had  never  gone  to 
its  rest.  And  then  when  he  had  said  this  he  asked  her  to  listen  to 
him,  for  he  wanted  to  tell  her  about  some  one  who  was  more  un- 
happy than  she,  and  when  she  looked  at  him  inquiringly  he  told 
her  that  it  was  Robert. 

"  Robert !"  repeated  Rotha  doubtfully.  She  was  a  little  con- 
fused as  to  the  Vicar's  meaning.  "  Robert  more  unhappy  than 
she  ?"  Her  sad  face  seemed  to  add  "  impossible." 

"  Yes,  Robert;  my  brother,  Rotha.  When  I  saw  him  just  now 
I  was  almost  shocked  at  his  appearance.  He  looked  as  though  he 
had  gone  without  food  or  rest  for  days ;  his  eyes  were  bloodshot, 
his  face  quite  haggard,  and  his  hand  felt  almost  as  weak  as  yours. 
I  could  hardly  speak  to  him,  he  startled  me  so." 

"  But  why  ?"  asked  Rotha,  quite  bewildered.  She  began  to 
feel  rather  frightened  at  the  Vicar's  description.  "  Surely  it  could 
not  be  Gar's  loss  only  1  I  did  not  know  he  loved  him  so,"  she 
said,  with  quivering  lips.  "I  thought  he  could  not  understand 
him ;  that  he  made  him  impatient  VJ 

11  Perhaps  so,"  returned  the  Vicar ;  "  but,  Rotha,  do  not  your 
very  words  give  the  clue  to  Robert's  misery  ?  If  he  felt  he  had 
always  been  kind  and  patient  to  the  poor  boy,  do  you  think  his 
grief  would  be  so  unbearable  ?  You  know  the  tenacity  with  which 
Robert  clings  to  one  idea.  Well,  he  has  got  it  into  his  head  that 
it  is  all  his  fault  that  this  has  happened — that,  but  for  him,  Gar 
would  never  have  gone  away.  He  tells  me  that  you  said  so,  and 
he  says  that  he  never  means  to  see  you  again." 

"What!"  exclaimed  Rotha,  sorely  troubled,  "not  see  me — 
Robert !  Mr.  Ord,  surely  you  misunderstood  him,  he  could  not 
have  said  that?" 

"  He  not  only  said  it,  but  I  am  afraid  he  meant  it,"  replied 
Austin.  "  He  says  he  has  injured  you  past  all  hope  of  forgiveness, 
and  that  you  will  not  care  to  see  his  face  again.  He  was  terribly 
vehement  over  it.  You  know  Robert's  way.  What  with  this 
hopeless  engagement  of  his  and  Gar's  death,  and  all  his  morbid 
feeling,  I  am  afraid  he  will  torment  himself  into  a  fever.  He  looks 
ripe  for  anything  to-night,  and,  Rotha,  we  can  hardly  bear  any 
more  trouble  just  now.  My  dear  child,  where  are  you  going  ?" 

"  I  am  going  to  Robert,  of  course.     Come,  Mr.  Ord." 

" But  now,  at  this  late  hour  of  the  evening?" 

"  Why  not  1  There  is  no  time  to  be  lost.  Did  you  not  mean 
me  to  go  and  see  him  ?" 


AN  ERRAND  OF  MERCY.  393 

"Yes,  certainly,  when  you  are  stronger.  I  only  hoped  you 
would  volunteer,  but  not  to-night.  You  are  not  fit;  and  it  is  so 
cold  and  damp  outside,  snowing  hard  too." 

"  Do  you  think  the  snow  ought  to  prevent  my  going  to  Gar's 
brother  1  Oh,  Mr.  Ord,  how  can  you  think  such  a  thing  1  Would 
not  Gar  have  gone  V  And  the  Vicar,  secretly  overjoyed  at  this 
unlooked-for  success,  offered  no  further  objections. 

It  was  a  bitter  night.  The  wind  had  subsided,  but  the  air  was 
full  of  the  driving  snow.  The  roads  were  already  covered  with  it, 
and  Rotha  shivered  and  clung  closer  to  the  Vicar's  arm,  for  it 
seemed  to  her  excited  fancy  as  though  the  whole  place  was  one 
great  winding-sheet,  and  she  was  being  pelted  by  frozen  tears.  She 
had  no  idea  she  was  so  weak  till  she  stood  at  the  Vicarage  gate 
with  trembling  limbs  waiting  for  him  to  go  in. 

"Not  there!"  exclaimed  the  Vicar.  "Robert  is  in  his  own 
house.  He  never  stops  long  with  us  of  an  evening  now."  And, 
opening  the  door,  he  looked  back  and  beckoned  her  to  follow. 

Rotha  was  a  little  staggered  when  she  found  it  was  Robert's 
house  that  she  was  to  enter,  but  she  took  courage  when  she  remem- 
bered it  had  been  Garten's  home  too.  She  followed  the  Vicar 
through  the  dark  hall  and  up  the  narrow  staircase,  wondering  how 
she  was  to  account  for  her  intrusion,  but  perfectly  convinced  she 
was  doing  the  right  thing  all  the  same.  She  waited  while  the 
Vicar  tapped  at  the  study-door,  and  followed  him  closely  when  the 
impatient  "  Come  in"  gave  them  a  right  to  enter. 

"  I  have  brought  a  friend  to  see  you,  Robert,"  began  the  Vicar 
cheerfully.  "  Rotha  heard  you  were  far  from  well,  and  she  wished 
to  accompany  me  and  judge  for  herself.  Well,  my  dear  fellow, 
what's  the  matter?" 

"  Miss  Maturin  here — in  this  house  ! "  burst  out  Robert.  But 
Rotha  stepped  forward  and  laid  her  hand  lightly  on  his  shoulder. 

"  Yes,  I  have  come  to  see  you,  Robert,"  speaking  his  Christian 
name  for  the  first  time  so  naturally.  "  I  could  not  bear  to  think 
that  Gar's  brother  was  ill,  and  I  might  do  him  good,  and  yet  keep 
away.  I  am  very  weak.  May  I  sit  down?"  she  said  softly, 
taking  the  seat  next  him. 

Ah  !  there  was  no  need  to  question  the  Vicar's  account  when 
she  saw  his  face. 

He  had  been  sitting,  or  rather  crouching,  over  the  fire  when 
they  had  entered,  and  had  hardly  raised  his  head  till  Rotha's  name 
was  mentioned ;  a  more  desolate  figure,  amid  more  desolate  sur- 
roundings, it  was  scarcely  possible  to  see.  The  fire  had  burnt  low, 
and  was  merely  a  mass  of  reddened  embers ;  a  candle  guttered  on 
the  table  by  the  side  of  a  smoky  reading-lamp,  and  a  solitary  meal, 


394  ROBERT  OR&S  ATONEMENT. 

untempting  and  untouched,  was  spread  amidst  a  mass  of  books, 
inkstands,  and  heterogeneous  rubbish.  Cinders  lay  curled  up  on 
Garten's  empty  chair,  and  beside  her  was  his  old  felt  hat,  still  left 
as  he  had  last  flung  it  down.  How  tenderly  the  Vicar  took  it  up, 
and  lifted  the  favourite  cat  on  his  knee  ! 

"Don't  touch  it,"  said  Eobert  savagely;  "he  left  it  there." 
He  had  made  no  sort  of  response  to  Rotha's  friendly  pressure — 
unless  the  weary  stare  he  gave  her  may  be  called  one ;  only,  when 
she  took  that  seat  beside  him,  he  turned  away  his  face  with  a  sort 
of  groan.  If  this  had  come  to  him,  if  her  reproachful  face  were  to 
haunt  him,  let  him  die,  for  what  good  was  his  life  to  him  ? 

"  Will  you  speak  to  me  ?  I  am  not  very  well,  and  I  have  come 
to  see  you.  Dear  Mr.  Ord,  ask  him  not  to  turn  from  me  when  I 
am  so  sorry  for  him — so  very  sorry  for  him." 

"  Do  not  waste  your  sorrow  upon  me,"  returned  Robert  hoarsely, 
addressing  her  for  the  first  time.  "Austin,  why  did  you  bring  her 
when  you  knew  that  I  never  intended  to  see  her  again  1  Have  I 
not  darkened  her  life  sufficiently  without  bringing  her  here  ?" 

"  He  did  not  bring  me ;  I  came  of  my  own  accord,"  returned 
Rotha,  trying  bravely  to  restrain  her  tears.  "  I  heard  that  you 
were  ill  and  unhappy,  and  tormenting  yourself;  and  I  said,  'If 
Gar's  brother  wants  me,  he  will  never  send  for  me ;  I  must  go  and 
tell  him  that  it  is  all  right — that  it  will  never  be  wrong  again 
between  him  and  me.' " 

"Rotha,  are  you  mad?  Do  you  hear  her,  Austin  1  Right 
between  her  and  me,  when  she  knows  that  but  for  me  that  poor 
boy  would  never  have  gone  away — would  be  happy  now — yes, 
happy,  and  sitting  where  you  are  !" 

"  God  would  have  it  otherwise,"  replied  the  weeping  girl.  "  Do 
not  make  it  too  hard  for  me  to  say,  '  His  will  be  done.'  I  will  not 
blame  you — no,  not  for  worlds ;  because  you  had  pledged  your 
word,  and  thought  it  right  for  him  to  go.  Could  you  know  that 
he  would  never  come  back  again — that  we  should  see  his  face  no 
more  ?" 

"  If  I  thought  you  could  forgive  me "  he  began ;  but  she 

interrupted  him. 

"There  is  nothing  to  forgive — nothing,"  she  said  hurriedly. 
"  To  think  I  could  cherish  bitterness  against  his  brother  when  he 
loved  me  so  dearly,  and  wanted  me  to  be  his  wife  !  Oh,  put  away 
these  terrible  fancies ;  they  are  not  worthy  of  you.  Dear  Mr. 
Ord,  tell  him  that  I  will  love  him  and  be  his  sister  if  he  will  only 
let  me." 

But  the  Vicar,  making  her  a  sign,  moved  quietly  away;  he 
thought  it  well  that,  for  a  moment  at  least,  he  should  leave  him  to 


AN  ERRAND  OF  MERCY.  395 

her  woman's  tenderness.  It  was  well  he  did  so,  for  he  had  scarcely 
left  the  room  a  minute  before  Robert,  overwhelmed  by  his  conflict- 
ing emotions,  and  worn  out  by  sleeplessness,  broke  into  those  con- 
vulsive tearless  sobs  which  are  so  terrible  to  hear — a  man's  agony 
finding  sudden  vent,  but  giving  no  relief,  and  tearing  his  frame  to 
pieces  with  useless  throes. 

Rotha  lost  her  courage  when  she  heard  those  terrible  sobs. 

"  Do  not ;  I  cannot  bear  it.  You  are  hurting  me.  Do  not 
make  me  sorry  that  I  came.  Oh  Gar,  Gar,  if  you  were  only 
here  to  help  me  !  What  would  you  say  to  see  him  like  this?" 

"  Have  I  frightened  you,  Rotha  ?  Give  me  your  hand  a 
moment — there,  it  will  pass  directly.  Oh,  forgive  me !  I  know 
you  do — I  feel  you  do ;  but  if  you  knew  what  I  have  suffered  ! 
There,  say  something  more  to  me ;  call  me  Robert  again  ;  it  may 
exorcise  the  demon  within  me." 

"  Poor  Robert !  There — you  are  better  now.  You  were  ill ; 
you  could  not  help  it.  You  have  not  slept  for  nights,  perhaps,  and 
that  has  shattered  your  nerves." 

"I  think  I  prayed  not  to  sleep,"  he  returned,  shuddering. 
"Have  you  not  seen  it  all,  Rotha?  I  have,  over  and  over  again. 
I  dare  not  shut  my  eyes,  for  fear  that  poor  boy's  face  should  haunt 
me.  Last  night  I  saw  him  clearly  :  he  had  his  hands  clasped  on 
his  breast,  and  his  dead  eyes  seemed  to  look  me  through  and 
through." 

"Hush!"  said  the  girl,  trembling;  "it  was  only  a  dream. 
When  I  see  him  I  always  fancy  there  is  a  halo  round  his  head." 

"  I  cannot  get  his  voice  out  of  my  ears.  How  long  ago  is  it  ? 
hardly  a  fortnight,  since  he  said,  '  Good-bye,  Robert ;  I  hope  you 
will  not  miss  me  much.  Take  care  of  yourself.' " 

"Are  you  doing  as  he  said?"  returned  Rotha  gently;  "the 
Vicar  tells  me  that  you  eat  nothing.  I  can  see  you  have  not  tasted 
anything  this  evening.  No  wonder  your  nerves  are  unstrung  if 
you  neglect  yourself  like  this." 

"  What  does  that  matter  1  What  good  am  I  to  any  one  ?  Oh, 
if  these  three  months  were  but  over,  and  I  could  get  away  some- 
where— anywhere,  out  of  this  place." 

His  agitation  began  to  return,  but  she  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm 
and  called  him  brother  softly,  and  then  put  aside  her  cloak,  and 
told  the  Vicar,  when  he  came  back,  that  she  was  not  going  to  leave 
him  just  yet ;  and  begged  him  to  help  her  to  put  things  a  little 
comfortable  for  him. 

Did  she  guess  what  she  was  doing  for  him  when  she  laid  aside 
her  own  trouble  and  weakness  to  minister  to  the  stricken  man 
who  a  little  while  ago  had  been  her  greatest  enemy  ?  Years  after- 


396  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

wards  lie  told  her  that  she  had  saved  him  from  brain  fever,  for 
sleeplessness  and  want  of  food,  and  the  morbid  dwelling  on  one 
diseased  idea,  had  driven  him  well-nigh  mad.  "  A  few  hours  more, 
another  night  of  that  terrible  solitude,  would  have  done  for  me," 
he  said ;  and  Rotha,  as  she  recalled  the  fierce  fire  of  his  eyes  and 
the  strangeness  of  his  manner,  felt  within  herself  that  he  was 
right. 

Some  one  besides  Robert  blessed  Rotha  as  she  moved  softly 
about  the  comfortless  room.  In  a  little  while  she  had  coaxed  the 
sullen  embers  into  a  cheerful  blaze,  the  smoky  lamp  was  re-trimmed, 
and  the  little  black  kettle  sang  merrily  on  the  hob,  the  cricket 
came  out  with  a  premonitory  chirp,  and  Cinders,  rousing  herself 
in  the  belief  that  something  was  going  on,  jumped  uninvited  on 
Robert's  knee  and  purred  loudly  as  she  whisked  her  tail  in  his  face. 

The  Vicar  knew  how  to  be  useful,  and  had  the  table  cleared  in 
a  trice.  Old  Sarah  toddled  up  with  more  tempting-looking  viands ; 
and  then  he  and  Rotha  sat  down  to  break  bread  at  Robert's  table. 

When  had  Robert  ever  failed  in  his  duty  as  host  before  1  But 
he  failed  now.  He  let  Rotha  bring  his  cup  to  him,  and,  though  he 
loathed  the  very  sight  of  food,  he  ate  and  drank  to  please  her. 
The  Vicar  told  Mary  afterwards  that  he  almost  shuddered  at  the 
haggardness  and  beauty  of  Robert's  face ;  and  that,  as  Rotha  sat 
beside  him  in  her  black  dress,  she  looked,  but  for  her  uncovered 
hair,  like  a  young  sister  of  mercy. 

Rotha  did  not  say  much  till  tea  was  over.  She  began  to  look 
somewhat  spent,  and  the  Vicar  told  Robert  that  he  must  take  her 
away ;  but  before  she  left  she  told  him  that  she  should  be  at  the 
Vicarage  to-morrow,  and  that  she  hoped  he  would  be  there.  And 
then  she  whispered  to  him  a  few  words,  that  he  must  never  hurt 
her  so  again,  for  that  it  was  all  right  between  them — that  she 
prayed  for  him  every  night,  and  pitied  him  from  her  heart. 

Later  on,  just  as  Robert  was  beginning  to  relapse  into  his 
dreary  brooding,  and  the  cricket  had  gone  in,  and  the  fire  had 
begun  to  burn  very  low,  the  door  opened,  and  a  round  boyish  face, 
very  sleepy,  and  no  longer  rosy,  thrust  itself  into  the  room. 

"  Please,  Uncle  Robert,  it's  nearly  eleven  !  aren't  you  going  to 
bed  ?  There's  such  a  jolly  fire  in  your  room,  and  mother's  mulled 
some  wine,  and  it's  all  so  comfortable.  Do  come  and  see." 

"A  fire  in  my  room  !  Am  I  ill?  Good  gracious,  Guy,  what- 
ever brings  you  here  at  this  time  of  night  ?  Go  home,  lad,  and  go 
to  bed,  do." 

"  I  am  not  going  to  bed  till  you  do,"  maintained  Guy  sturdily, 
"  I've  come  to  keep  you  company,  Uncle  Robert,  and  to  see  that 
your  fire  does  not  go  out,  and  that  you  have  proper  food  to  eat, 


AN  ERRAND  OF  MERCY.  397 

and  that  Cinders  does  not  drink  up  all  the  cream.  Holloa,  Cinders, 
come  here." 

"  But,  Guy,"  remonstrated  his  uncle  feebly,  but  cheered  uncon- 
sciously by  the  lad's  sleepy  face,  "  this  is  all  nonsense.  I  am  not 
ill — at  least,  not  very.  Who  sent  you  to  me  1" 

"Who  sent  me?  Oh,  father  and  Eotha.  I  was  asleep  when 
they  came  in ;  but  it  was  so  jolly  getting  up.  I  heard  Rotha  tell 
him  that  you  must  not  be  left  alone  to  feed  on  your  own  thoughts. 
Mother  came  in,  and  got  all  comfortable ;  but  she  is  gone  now. 
Come  along  to  bed,  Uncle  Bob,  there's  a  good  fellow ;  for  I  am 
awfully  sleepy,  and  I  won't  budge  an  inch  till  you  do." 

Rotha  knew  what  she  was  about  when  she  persuaded  the  Vicar 
to  wake  up  Guy,  for  the  boy  dearly  loved  his  uncle,  and  for  his 
sake  would  be  ready  to  sacrifice  anything.  He  sat  on  the  bed  and 
chatted  till  the  mulled  wine,  and  the  warmth,  and  the  company  had 
made  Robert  drowsy.  Half  a  dozen  times  in  the  night  he  turned 
out  of  his  warm  bed,  roused  by  Robert's  restless  mutterings  : 

"  Is  that  you,  Gar  ?  I  didn't  mean  it,  Gar.  I  wouldn't  have 
sent  you  away  for  worlds." 

"  No,  of  course  not.     Go  to  sleep,  Uncle  Bob ;  it's  only  Guy." 

"  Only  Guy  !  My  dear  lad,  are  you  sure  of  it  ?  I  thought  it 
was  Gar ;  give  me  your  hand,  boy — there."  And  Robert,  turning 
over  on  his  side,  and  muttering  still,  would  fall  into  another  short 
moaning  sleep,  and  so  on,  until  with  the  dawning  day  he  slept 
soundly  for  a  few  hours. 


CHAPTER   XXXVI. 

A   MESSAGE   FROM   THE   SEA, 

'*  I  watch  the  clouds  flit  over  the  moon 

And  wonder  if  it  can  be, 
That  her  tremulous  eye  looks  tenderly  down 
On  those  graves  in  the  deep  lone  sea. 

"  Are  they  safe  from  thy  furious  blast,  0  Wind, 

In  the  haven  where  they  would  be  : 
Hast  thou  wafted  them  on  to  the  stormless  shore. 
Where  there  shall  be  '  no  more  sea  ? ' 

"  Was  their  prayer  on  their  lips  when  the  Master's  voice 

Bang  over  the  deep  that  day, 
And  the  gallant  ship  with  its  freight  of  souls 
Sailed  into  the  « far  away  ?'  " 

HELEN  MARION  BURNSIDE 

"  Hold  it  up  before  me,  Father,  Father  ! 

Hold  it  up  before  my  closing  eyes  ; 
Dimly  o'er  my  sight  the  death  mists  gather, 
And  my  way  looks  lonely  through  the  skies. 
Loose  the  silver  cord, 
*  In  hoc  spero,'  Lord, 
Only  this  can  lend  me  wings  to  rise."  Ibid. 

ROTH  A  had  not  failed  in  her  errand  of  mercy,  and  although  at  one 
time  Robert  had  been  very  near  it,  he  was  saved  from  an  attack  of 
brain  fever. 

But  for  some  time  his  nerves  seemed  completely  shattered.  He 
could  make  no  pretence  at  cheerfulness  now  as  he  sat  by  Belle's 
side ;  nay,  more,  he  could  hardly  rouse  himself  sufficiently  to  talk 
to  her.  He  was  ill  himself — irritable  and  restless.  The  whole 
atmosphere  of  the  place  was  oppressive  to  him ;  and,  seeing  how 
things  were  with  him,  he  was  almost  feverishly  anxious  that  there 
should  be  no  unnecessary  delay  in  the  Torquay  plans,  and  that 
Belle  should  be  removed  as  soon  as  possible  from  the  saddening 
influences  that  surrounded  her. 

Rotha  was  of  the  same  opinion — Rotha,  who  had  long  ago 


A  MESSAGE  FROM  THE  SEA.  399 

taken  up  her  old  duties  at  the  Vicarage,  and  was  fulfilling  them 
as  heartily  and  unselfishly  as  ever. 

Save  that  she  was  graver  and  paler,  that  her  words  were  few, 
and  her  smiles  sweeter  and  sadder  than  of  old,  no  one  would  have 
guessed  that  she  had  gone  through  a  great  trouble.  Even  Mary 
marvelled  at  her  sometimes,  and  wondered  what  Austin  meant  by 
saying  that  Rotha  was  growing  older.  Perhaps  the  Vicar  knew 
that  the  brief  summer  beauty  of  freshness  and  colour  had  died  out 
of  the  girl's  face,  never  to  return.  It  was  a  careworn  young  face 
now,  too  grave  by  half,  when  she  came  in  wearily  of  an  evening, 
and  there  was  no  need  to  force  her  cheerfulness  any  longer.  Too 
grave,  oh !  far,  far  too  sorrowful,  when  she  crept  to  her  window 
in  the  winter's  night  to  look  up  at  the  stars  and  wonder  what 
Gar  was  doing ;  and  to  tell  him,  as  though  she  felt  him  very  near 
her,  that  she  was  doing  all  she  could  for  Robert  and  for  them  all ; 
but  that  she  was  so  tired,  so  very,  very  tired. 

Nobly  as  she  had  worked  for  them  all,  she  had  never  so  denied 
herself,  so  forgotten  everything  but  their  interest,  as  she  had  done 
now.  It  was  almost  heroic,  the  way  in  which  she  put  aside  her 
own  grief  to  bear  with  Belle,  to  cheer  Belle  in  what  seemed  to  the 
others  a  tedious  convalescence ;  for  she  was  better  now,  wonderfully 
better,  as  Robert  said,  and  the  doctors  had  given  permission  for 
her  to  be  removed  at  once.  The  weather  had  become  unusually 
mild;  there  was  no  time  to  be  lost,  and  Rotha,  acting  by  her 
friend's  advice,  had  sent  Meg,  with  little  more  than  a  day's  delay, 
off  to  Torquay  to  secure  the  most  commodious  lodgings  that  could 
be  found,  so  that  everything  might  be  ready  for  an  immediate 
start,  while  Mary,  with  many  secret  tears,  set  about  the  prepara- 
tions for  her  sister's  journey. 

It  was  decided  between  Robert  and  the  Vicar  that  the  leave- 
takings  were  to  be  made  as  brief  as  possible — the  doctors  had  laid 
a  great  stress  on  that ;  anything  like  agitation  or  excitement  was 
to  be  warded  off  as  much  as  possible,  and,  after  many  consultations, 
it  was  arranged  that  Belle  was  not  to  know  of  it  till  the  day  before 
that  appointed  to  start.  It  was  no  use  prolonging  her  misery,  and 
she  had  promised  him  to  go  whenever  he  wanted  her,  as  Robert 
very  justly  remarked  ;  and  as  soon  as  Rotha  could  tell  him  that 
her  arrangements  were  completed,  he  would  break  it  to  Belle  as 
quietly  as  possible. 

So  one  morning  Rotha  came  round  to  the  Vicarage  very  early. 
There  was  no  time  to  talk  it  over,  for  Robert  had  to  leave  by  the 
next  train  to  Thornborough,  but  he  promised  to  be  back  in  time 
to  tell  Belle  that  same  afternoon. 

It  so  happened  that  Belle  was  unusually  well  and  cheerful  that 


400  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

day ;  she  had  coughed  very  little,  and  walked  up  and  down  the 
room  frequently  on  Guy's  arm  without  seeming  tired.  Poor  Mary 
— who  knew  she  was  so  soon  to  lose  her — hardly  dared  to  come 
near  her  all  day  for  fear  her  tell-tale  face  should  betray  her,  and 
yet  could  hardly  bear  her  out  of  her  sight  a  moment. 

"She  looks  so  pretty  and  so  good,  and  she  has  got  her  old 
lovely  smile,"  cried  poor  Mary,  coming  as  usual  for  consolation  to 
her  husband ;  "  and  she  has  actually  laughed  once  at  something 
G-uy  said.  Oh,  Austin,  it  does  seem  so  hard  that  I  cannot  go 
with  her !" 

"  My  darling  Mary,  you  know  Kotha  has  offered  you  over  and 
over  again  to  go." 

"  Yes,  I  know;  but  how  could  I  leave  you  and  the  boys'?  I 
could  not  do  it,  Austin ;  and  then  there  is  Eobert  looking  so  ill, 
and  Deb  laid  by,  and  Arty,  and  the  parish !"  And  Mary  put  down 
her  tired  head  on  the  Vicar's  shoulder  as  though  it  were  her  only 
resting-place.  It  was  well  she  did  not  see  the  look  of  pain  that 
crossed  her  husband's  face  as  he  drew  her  tenderly  within  the 
shelter  of  his  strong  arm  and  comforted  her. 

Robert  came  in  presently,  tired  and  harassed,  and  went  up  to 
Belle  ;  he  was  with  her  alone  for  a  long  time,  and  then  came  down 
looking  pale  and  utterly  spent. 

"Thank  heaven,  that  is  over !"  he  said  to  Mary;  "I  do  not 
think  you  will  have  any  difficulty  with  her  now.  I  have  tried  to 
be  as  gentle  as  I  could  with  her,  but  I  was  obliged  to  be  very  firm 
too.  But  I  am  afraid  it  goes  very  hardly  with  her,  poor  girl." 

Mary  was  afraid  so  too  when  she  saw  Belle.  Belle  was  lying 
quite  still — so  motionless,  indeed,  that  Mary  fancied  she  was  asleep 
till  she  saw  a  tear  rolling  down  the  white  sunken  cheek  and  stooped 
to  kiss  it  away,  and  then  Belle  opened  her  eyes. 

"Is  that  you,  MaryT'  she  cried;  and  then  she  suddenly 
stretched  out  her  arms  to  her  sister.  "  Oh,  Mary,  he  is  going  to 
separate  us ;  he  is  going  to  send  me  away,  and  I  shall  never  see 
your  dear  face  again !" 

But  Mrs.  Ord  could  not  answer  her,  and  for  a  little  time  the 
sisters  mingled  their  tears  together. 

"  You  must  get  well  and  come  back  to  me,  Belle ;  I  shall  want 
you  so  much — oh,  so  much,  my  pet,"  cried  poor  Mary,  kissing 
Belle's  fair  hair,  her  hands — even  her  dress.  "  I  cannot  bear  to 
think  you  are  going  so  far  from  me,  and  that  Rotha  will  do  every- 
thing for  you  and  not  I." 

Belle  shook  her  head,  and  then  began  stroking  Mary's  face 
half  dreamily. 

"Do  you  remember,  when  we  were  little  children  together, 


A  MESSAGE  FROM  THE  SEA.  401 

Mary,  when  we  slept  in  the  great  sloping  attic  that  looked  out  on 
the  apple  trees,  and  how  I,  the  younger  and  weaker  little  sister, 
would  never  go  to  sleep  till  you  had  put  your  arm  round  me  and 
said,  'Good -night,  God  bless  you,  Belle'?  Do  you  remember 
it,  Mary  V 

"Remember  it,  darling!  too  well,  too  well;  but  why  do  you 
ask?"  sobbed  Mary,  melted  by  this  tender  recollection. 

"  Because  I  was  thinking — don't  cry,  Mary ;  I  can't  bear  to 
see  you  cry — I  was  thinking  how,  when  that  comes,  I  should  like 
you  to  put  your  arm  round  me  and  say  that  over  again.  It  would 
make  it  feel  less  terrible,  and  more  like  going  to  sleep  if  you  will 
only  say  'Good-night,  God  bless  you,  Belle!'  as  you  did  then." 
And  drawing  Mary's  face  down  on  the  pillow,  she  told  her  not  to 
fret ;  for  she  did  not  mean  to  make  her  unhappy,  for  if  God  heard 
her  prayers  she  would  surely  come  back,  if  only  to  lay  her  head 
once  more  on  that  faithful  breast. 

A  more  beautiful  morning  had  rarely  dawned  than  that  on 
which  Belle  took  her  sorrowful  departure  from  Blackscar.  Robert 
was  to  go  with  her  to  the  station,  and  Guy  had  also  pleaded  to  be 
allowed  to  accompany  his  uncle;  but  the  rest  of  the  boys  and 
Austin  and  Mary  came  no  farther  than  the  Vicarage  gate.  Mary 
had  hardly  slept  all  night,  and  her  red  and  swollen  eyes  bore  wit- 
ness to  the  tears  she  had  shed.  It  went  to  the  Vicar's  heart  to 
see  how  the  sisters  clung  to  each  other  at  the  last  moment. 

"Good-bye,  Mary;  one  more  Idss,  Mary.  Good-bye — good- 
bye, my  darling  sister." 

"  Dear  Mary,  let  her  go.  Robert  is  waiting  to  lift  her  into  the 
carriage." 

"  You  hear  what  Austin  says,  Belle,  darling  ;  you  must  go  now. 
Good-bye,  my  precious,  and  God  Almighty  bless  you." 

And  Robert,  gently  disengaging  Belle  from  her  sister's  arms, 
lifted  her  into  the  carriage  and  placed  her  by  Rotha's  side. 

But  even  then,  while  Austin  was  giving  her  his  brotherly  fare- 
well and  blessing,  Belle  leant  across  him  and  held  out  her  arms 
again  to  her  weeping  sister. 

"  One  more  kiss,  Mary  darling— one  more  kiss,  my  own  Mary," 
and  hung  about  her  neck  till  Austin  gently,  but  firmly,  put  his 
arm  round  his  wife  and  drew  her  away. 

She  scarcely  spoke  a  word  after  that  till  Robert  took  leave  of 
her  in  the  railway  carriage ;  but  she  was  as  white  as  death  and 
trembling  all  over  when  he  took  her  in  his  arms. 

"It  is  not  good-bye,  Belle,  you  know.  I  am  coming  very 
soon." 

"  Yes,  yes ;  the  sooner  the  better,  Bertie  ;  but  it  will  be  good- 
26 


402  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

bye  then."  And,  as  he  stooped  over  and  kissed  her  with  some 
emotion,  she  only  looked  at  him  with  strange  wistful  eyes.  "It 
will  be  good-bye  then,  Bertie,  will  it  noH" 

It  was  a  long  desolate  journey,  and  scarcely  less  so  to  Rotha 
than  Belle,  and  a  heavy  responsibility  to  the  young  nurse ;  and  it 
was  a  greater  relief  than  she  could  have  imagined  to  see  Meg's 
friendly  face  awaiting  them  at  the  station :  it  seemed  to  give  a 
home -look  to  the  strange  surroundings,  and  even  Belle,  though 
sadly  exhausted,  smiled  faintly  when  she  saw  Mrs.  Carruthers,  and 
held  out  her  hand  with  a  feeble  welcome. 

Rotha  wrote  a  tolerable  account  to  Mary  the  next  day ;  she 
said,  of  course  Belle  was  suffering  from  the  reaction  of  excitement 
and  unusual  exertion,  but  that  in  other  ways  she  seemed  much  the 
same ;  and  a  few  days  after  that  she  was  able  to  give  even  a  better 
report.  Belle  had  recovered  from  the  fatigue  of  her  journey  and 
was  able  to  sit  up  and  look  about  her  a  little.  They  liked  what 
they  could  see  of  Torquay,  though  of  course  Belle  had  not  yet  gone 
out;  but  they  had  very  pleasant  apartments,  in  the  house  of  a 
widow  lady.  The  rooms  were  all  on  the  first  floor,  and  opened  into 
each  other,  and  Belle's  sitting-room  was  especially  pleasant,  as  it 
looked  over  a  lovely  old  garden,  with  a  patch  of  sunny  road  beyond, 
planted  with  rows  of  trees.  Rotha  said  the  place  where  their 
house  was  situated  was  called  "  Torquay  within  the  Hills,"  and  she 
described  the  air  as  perfectly  delicious.  Mary  had  been  guided  in 
her  choice  by  the  advice  of  Dr.  Vivian,  who  had  recommended  this 
locality  as  singularly  adapted  to  all  pulmonary  complaints. 

Dr.  Vivian  had  been  to  call  on  Belle  once  or  twice,  and  Rotha 
told  Mary  that  he  seemed  to  understand  Belle's  complaint  thor- 
oughly; he  had  spoken  most  cheerfully  to  his  patient,  and  had 
recommended  them  a  great  many  pleasant  walks  and  drives.  Belle 
was  to  see  Bishopstowe,  and  Babbicombe  Bay,  and  Warren  Hill, 
and  Daddy  Hole  Common.  She  was  to  go  out  every  fine  morning 
and  see  all  the  objects  of  interest  in  Torquay.  Rotha  wrote  amus- 
ing accounts  of  the  trawling  with  long  nets  in  Torbay,  the  walks 
they  had  in  the  Torwood  Road,  and  their  visit  to  the  quaint  little 
fishing-town  of  Brixham.  Belle  had  a  little  pony-carriage,  Rotha 
added,  and  was  greatly  interested  by  the  novelty  of  everything 
around  her. 

Mary  used  to  read  those  letters  to  the  Vicar  with  tears  in  her 
eyes.  "  Do  you  think  she  will  get  better,  Austin  1  I  have  heard 
of  people  living  for  years  and  years  with  only  one  lung;  and 
perhaps  the  other  is  not  so  much  diseased  as  Mr.  Greenock  thought.7' 
But  the  Vicar  only  shook  his  head ;  he  noticed  how  Rotha's  letters 
were  filled  with  descriptions  of  scenery,  and  how  little  she  said 


A  MESSAGE  FROM  THE  SEA.  403 

about  Belle  herself.  The  doctor's  visits  were  touched  on  very 
lightly ;  she  always  spoke  of  Belle  as  being  happier  or  brighter,  but 
never  once  said  that  she  was  really  better.  One  day  the  Vicar 
shut  himself  up  in  his  study  and  wrote  a  long  letter  to  Rotha, 
which  she  answered  by  return  of  post.  But  he  never  showed  either 
the  letter  or  the  answer  to  Mary ;  but  for  a  long  time  afterwards 
he  was  very  grave,  and  went  about  as  though  he  had  something 
heavy  in  his  thoughts. 

Robert  was  in  London  just  then  on  business  connected  with  his 
firm,  and  it  so  happened  that  something  very  strange  befell  him 
there,  of  which  Rotha  was  to  hear  shortly.  One  day,  when  they 
had  been  about  three  weeks  at  Torquay,  and  Rotha,  in  spite  of  the 
doctor's  prognostications,  was  beginning  to  cheat  herself  into  the 
belief  that  Belle  was  better,  she  was  sitting  in  her  own  room,  while 
Belle  was  having  her  noonday  rest,  when  a  large  official-looking 
document  in  Robert's  handwriting  and  the  postmark  London  was 
put  into  her  hands. 

She  had  not  an  idea  what  it  contained,  and  was  opening  it 
listlessly  enough,  when  she  caught  sight  of  a  never-to-be-forgotten 
cramped  handwriting,  and  a  moment  afterwards  something  lay 
sparkling  at  her  feet.  With  a  low  cry  she  snatched  it  from  the 
ground,  and  sank  back  half  fainting  into  her  seat. 

What  is  it  that  she  devours  with  such  hungry  tears  and  kisses 
— which  she  presses  alternately  to  jier  bosom  and  her  lips  ? 

There  is  the  ring  that  she  placed  on  Garton's  ringer,  with  the 
diamond  cross  that  he  kissed  so  reverentially,  and  the  words  "  In 
hoc  spero  "  traced  round  on  the  blue  enamel ;  and  there  on  her  lap 
lies  the  "message  from  the  sea." 

Not  for  a  long  time — not  until  she  has  read  it  over  and  over 
through  her  blinding  tears,  not  until  she  has  found  Robert's  note 
and  mastered  its  contents,  is  the  bewildering  mystery  cleared  up ; 
not  until  Meg  has  come  to  her  aid  and  read  it  slowly  and  patiently 
again  and  again  can  she  understand  how  it  has  come  to  her — out 
of  the  very  shadow  and  blackness  of  death. 

And  yet  how  clearly  Robert  explained  it  all ! 

"I  am  sending  you  something  very  precious,"  he  wrote. 
"  Heaven  grant  you  may  receive  it  safely.  I  am  sending  the  very 
letter  he  was  writing  to  you  just  before  the  terrible  concussion  took 
place — the  very  ink  was  wet,  you  can  see,  as  he  thrust  it  hurriedly 
into  his  bosom ;  you  can  tell  that  by  the  half-obliterated  words  at 
the  end. 

"  How  he  gave  the  ring  and  letter  with  his  last  dying  love,  you 
must  read  in  another  man's  words ;  I  have  taken  it  down  myself 
from  his  lips,  just  as  he  told  it  me,  and  remember  he  was  the  very 


404  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

man  who  saw  our  Gar  die.  Another  time,  when  we  meet,  perhaps 
I  will  tell  you  by  what  strange  chance  I  lighted  on  him  in  this 
great  city ;  and  how,  in  a  lonely  coffee-house  under  the  shadow  of 
the  mighty  dome  of  St.  Paul's,  I  heard  word  for  word,  as  you  have 
it  here,  how  our  poor  Gar  perished  like  the  hero  he  was." 

Will  she  ever  weary  of  the  sweet  perusal?  She  spreads  the 
crumpled  paper  out  again — blotted,  half  defaced  with  ink,  and  in 
some  parts  scarcely  legible.  She  reads  once  and  yet  once  again  her 
"  message  from  the  sea." 

"  My  darling  Rotha,"  it  began,  "  I  am  sitting  down  in  my  cabin 
to  write  to  you  by  the  light  of  a  very  smoky  lamp ;  the  rest  of  the 
passengers  are  just  thinking  of  retiring  to  rest,  and  only  the  watch 
is  on  deck.  Just  now  I  went  up  to  see  what  chance  there  was  of 
our  beating  down  the  Channel  to-morrow — for  you  will  be  surprised 
to  hear  that,  though  it  is  Sunday,  we  are  only  now  anchored  off 
Dungeness — but  the  pilot  tells  me  that  the  wind  is  still  ahead. 
We  have  had  ill  luck  enough  already  to  begin  with  :  to  think  we 
are  still  here  on  anchorage,  and  it  is  Sunday  evening. 

"  But  I  have  not  sat  down  to  complain,  but  just  to  let  you 
know  how  things  are  going.  I  told  you  once  that  I  was  a  bad 
hand  at  a  letter,  and  I  am  afraid  you  will  agree  with  me,  for  I  do 
not  think  I  have  made  much  of  a  beginning,  though  I  mean  to 
send  a  little  more  than  a  message  to  Rube. 

"  It  is  not  more  than  five  days  since  I  said  good-bye,  but  I  feel 
as  heavy-hearted  as  though  it  were  five  months.  I  know  now 
what  people  mean  by  home-sickness,  for  I  am  just  sickening  for 
the  sight  of  one  dear  face  that  is  all  the  world  to  me.  It  is  not 
always  easy  for  a  man  to  express  what  he  feels.  I  have  tried  over 
and  over  again  to  tell  you  how  much  I  loved  you,  but  I  never 
could ;  and  now  I  think  that  I  shall  die  before  you  know  what 
you  are  to  me. 

"  That  is  a  strange  sentence,  and  I  do  not  know  why  I  have 
written  it;  but  it  is  Sunday  evening,  and  my  heart  is  just  as 
heavy  as  lead.  I  cannot  help  feeling  as  though  some  great  gulf  lies 
between  us.  It  may  be  because  I  have  never  been  far  away  from 
home  before  that  I  am  so  low  and  miserable. 

"  I  have  been  thinking  of  you  so  much,  my  darling.  I  do  not 
think  you  are  ever  out  of  my  mind  for  a  single  minute.  You  do 
not  know  what  a  man's  love  is  when  he  gives  it  all  to  one  woman, 
as  I  have  given  it  to  you.  I  have  often  said  to  myself,  '  She  will 
never  understand  it,  but  if  God  grant  that  I  ever  make  her  my 
wife  I  think  she  will  feel  it  then.' 

"  Do  you  remember,  sweet  heart,  my  telling  you  that  I  was 
not  clever,  and  how  indignantly  you  assured  me  that  such  a  thing 


A  MESSAGE  FROM  THE  SEA.  405 

should  never  be  mentioned  in  connection  with  you  and  me?  I 
have  blessed  you  for  those  words  over  and  over  again ;  and  yet,  all 
the  same,  I  am  rejoiced  to  think  that  you  are  cleverer  and  better 
and  wiser  than  I.  Do  you  think  I  would  have  it  otherwise  1 
Only  put  your  little  hand  in  mine,  E-otha — the  little  soft  hand 
whose  touch  I  remember  still — and  I  think  I  can  follow  those  dear 
feet  wherever  they  climb. 

"Do  you  remember,  too,  my  telling  you  that  your  love  was 
not  to  be  compared  to  mine,  and  that  perhaps  some  day  you  might 
give  me  all  you  have  in  you  to  give  ?  Not  for  worlds  would  I 
have  even  that  otherwise ;  how  could  you  misunderstand  me  so  1 
The  very  thought  of  the  treasures  that  yet  are  unwon  only  nerves 
me  to  yet  stronger  efforts.  How  could  you,  being  what  you  are, 
Rotha,  give  all  at  once  to  such  a  one  as  I  ?  No ;  dearly  as  you 
love  me,  you  could  not  give  me  all.  One  day  you  shall  tell  me 
your  thoughts,  and  I  will  try  and  understand  them,  and  then  per- 
haps I  shall  be  able  to  tell  you  what  I  mean. 

"  There  is  a  little  deaf-and-dumb  boy  on  board,  Rotha,  that 
somehow  reminds  me  of  you.  I  suppose  the  eyes  of  most  mutes 
are  eloquent,  but  I  have  never  seen  any  like  this  boy's.  They  are 
brown  and  soft,  and  have  strange  appealing  looks  in  them,  like  a 
dumb  animal's  in  pain. 

"  You  know  my  fancy  for  boys.  This  one  has  taken  my  fancy 
strongly.  He  is  such  an  afflicted  little  creature,  and  without 
parents,  and  he  and  his  mulatto  nurse  are  bound  like  myself  for 
Buenos  Ayres  ;  on  such  a  long  journey  we  are  sure  to  become  well 
acquainted "  (Ah,  Gar !  on  such  a  long  journey ;  ay,  along  the 
Valley  of  the  Shadow  of  Death). 

"He  takes  to  me  already.  You  must  tell  Rube  not  to  be 
jealous.  Dear  old  Rube  !  he  must  not  have  a  boyish  rival  in  my 
heart.  To-day  he  sat  beside  me  on  the  poop  for  hours,  holding 
the  lapel  of  my  coat,  and  looking  quite  contented.  Tell  Rube  his 
name  is  David ;  but  he  will  not  be  like  the  first  David  to  me — 
who  was,  as  one  may  say,  the  captive  of  my  own  bow  and  spear, 
for  I  suppose,  humanly  speaking,  I  saved  his  life.  Dear  lad !  he 
has  rewarded  me  for  it  over  and  over  again. 

"  And  tell  him,  with  my  love,  that  I  hope  he  has  forgiven  me 
for  not  bidding  him  good-bye,  and  tell  him  to  remember  me  in  his 
prayers  every  night.  There's  a  word,  too,  I  might  say  to  my 
torments,  Guy  and  Rufus,  but  it  is  getting  late,  and  I  suppose  I 
must  turn  in. 

"  I  shall  finish  this  to-morrow ;  but  now  God  bless  you,  my 
own  dear  love — and —  Then  came  some  blurred  unintelligible 

words,  and  then  Death  wrote  Finis. 


406  ROBERT  OR&S  ATONEMENT. 

Oh,  how  the  girl  wept  and  smiled  over  her  treasure,  and  then, 
hiding  it  in  her  bosom,  read  in  Robert's  handwriting,  traced  boldly 
on  the  thin  foreign  paper,  the  sad  particulars  of  Garton's  death ! 

And  this  is  what  it  said,  taken  down  from  the  lips  of  the 
sailor,  Richard  Martin  : — 

"  I  was  seaman  on  that  unfortunate  Phoenix,  sir,  and  have  served 
under  Captain  Murray  for,  I  should  say,  nigh  upon  five  years,  and, 
though  I  say  it,  a  finer  captain  never  commanded  a  finer  vessel. 

"  Well,  the  vessel  that  we  left  off  Dungeness,  with  nothing 
but  the  masts  standing  up  out  of  the  water,  left  the  London  Docks 
about  nine  o'clock  on  Wednesday  morning,  bound  for  Buenos 
Ayres,  and  with,  I  should  say,  about  three  hundred  souls  on  board, 
some  of  them  belonging  to  a  gang  of  navvies  that  were  going  out 
to  work  some  contract,  the  rest  of  them  saloon  passengers  and  the 
crew. 

"But  you  don't  want  to  put  down  a  lot  of  sailor's  yarn ;  but 
just  to  tell  that  lady  about  the  unfortunate  man  who  put  the  letter 
and  the  ring  in  my  hands  when  we  had  climbed  up  upon  the  pile 
of  boats  and  were  holding  on  together  for  dear  life.  Yes,  sir,  I 
quite  understand  you ,  and  I  hope  you'll  cut  me  short  if  I  spin  it 
out ;  for,  as  sure  as  my  name's  Richard  Martin,  I'll  tell  that  poor 
young  lady  all  I  know. 

"  I  recollect  his  coming  on  board  with  you,  sir,  for  I  was  just 
hauling  that  coil  of  rope  when  he  stepped  across  the  gangway — a 
tall  dark  sort  of  a  chap,  with  the  cut  of  a  parson  about  him,  but 
a  fine  figure  of  a  man  too. 

"  He  was  a  civil  sort  of  person — none  of  your  fine  gentlemen, 
who  won't  give  a  word  to  a  rough  seaman.  He  used  always  to 
say  '  Good  morning,  mate,'  and  sometimes  he  would  stop  and  have 
a  bit  of  chat  with  me ;  it  seemed  to  cheer  him  up,  for  at  other 
times  he  looked  so  down-hearted  that  I  often  said  to  myself  *  that 
young  man  has  left  his  sweetheart,'  for  I  kind  of  know  how  a  man 
will  carry  on  when  he  leaves  a  woman  behind  him. 

"  I  remember,  too,  that  I  got  it  into  my  head  that  he  was  going 
to  be  a  parson.  I  thought  so  when  he  reproved  two  of  my  chums 
for  swearing.  I  recollect  him  sitting  down  and  talking  to  them 
in  a  simple  hearty  sort  of  way,  and  how  when  Joe  Greene — he 
who  had  a  widowed  mother — slunk  away  fairly  ashamed  of  himself 
he  followed  him  and  shook  hands  with  him,  and  told  him  that  he 
would  be  a  fine  fellow  if  he  would  break  himself  of  that  evil  habit. 
That's  Joe  Greene,  sir,  that  you  saw  alongside  of  me  in  the  bar, 
and  a  more  sobered  chap  I  never  set  eyes  on;  as  he  should  be, 
when  he  was  saved  out  of  all  those  poor  drowning  wretches. 

"  There  was  a  deaf-and-dumb  child  on  board,  under  charge  of 


A  MESSAGE  FROM  THE  SEA.  407 

a  mulatto  nurse,  going  out  to  some  relations  who  lived  in  Buenos 
Ayres ;  and  it  was  odd  what  a  curious  fancy  that  afflicted  little 
creature  seemed  to  take  to  that  young  gentleman.  Joe  Greene 
was  pointing  them  both  out  to  me  that  same  day — it  was  Sunday, 
I  remember — '  That's  a  simple  sort  of  chap,  Martin,'  he  says,  '  to 
let  that  child  sit  alongside  of  him  for  hours  like  that.'  I  remem- 
ber his  saying  that  now,  though  I  made  no  sort  of  observation  at 
the  time. 

"  But  I  am  taking  up  your  time,  you  will  say,  and  I  have  not 
told  you  how  it  came  about  that  we  were  lying  at  anchor  so  snugly 
on  Sunday  evening,  when  we  had  left  the  London  Docks  early  on 
Wednesday  morning. 

"  Well,  we  ran  down  to  Gravesend  all  right ;  and  then  we  found 
the  wind  dead  against  us,  and  had  to  lay  by  till  Friday.  On 
Friday  we  had  middling  weather,  but  the  wind  was  still  rising,  so 
we  towed  down  the  Channel ;  but  the  pilot  passing  word,  we  cast 
anchor  off  Dungeness. 

"  Here  we  were  snug  enough,  and,  the  watch  being  set,  the  rest 
of  us  turned  in  to  our  hammocks,  and  I  for  one  was  soon  fast 
asleep. 

"  Well,  sir,  all  at  once  I  was  wakened  by  an  awful  crash,  just  as 
though  it  were  the  Day  of  Judgment,  and  every  rock  that  was  on 
the  earth  was  rent  to  pieces  ;  and  immediately  afterwards  I  heard 
the  captain  sing  out,  '  All  hands  to  the  boats.' 

"  Well,  sir,  I  heard  it  afterwards  from  one  of  my  mates,  who 
saw  it  all  from  first  to  last,  a  great  lubberly  steamer  had  cut  the 
Phoenix  asunder  amidships,  and  there  was  a  big  hole  in  the  ship's 
quarter,  which  was  letting  in  the  English  Channel  on  us. 

"  It  is  all  in  the  papers,  and  you  don't  want  me  to  go  over  it 
again ;  but  I  wish  to  say  that  nothing  that  the  papers  can  say  will 
give  you  an  idea  of  the  horrors  of  the  scene.  When  I  rushed  up 
on  deck  it  wasn't  only  the  women  who  came  swarming  up  the 
ladders  shrieking  fit  to  tear  your  heart  to  pieces,  it  was  the  men 
too,  half-maddened  by  mortal  terror,  who  crowded  round  the  boats 
fighting  for  their  very  lives. 

"Well,  sir,  you've  read  it  all;  you  know  how  that  vessel 
sheered  off  regardless  of  our  cries ;  how  the  cannon  would  not  go 
off,  and  we  sent  up  rockets  for  no  manner  of  good;  and  you 
know  how  our  captain  stood  by  the  boats  and  tried  to  save  the 
women. 

"  Bless  your  life,  sir,  I  did  what  I  could,  but  it  was  like  fight- 
ing with  savages,  and  in  the  dark  too :  the  wrong  people  got  into 
the  boats  and  could  not  be  made  to  leave  them;  the  men,  the 
navvies  especially,  were  like  mad,  and  wouldn't  obey  orders.  I 


408  ROBERT  ORD^S  ATONEMENT. 

could  see  we  were  doomed,  and  the  captain,  he  says  to  me,  '  Martin, 
save  yourself — you've  got  a  wife  and  seven  children  ashore,  but 
my  place  is  here.'  I  wish  the  papers  had  said  a  little  more  about 
the  captain,  for  if  any  one  ever  died  at  his  post  our  captain 
did. 

"  Well,  Joe  Greene  and  I  were  struggling  at  the  boats  between 
the  main  and  mizzen  masts,  but  bless  your  heart  it  was  no  manner 
of  use,  for  we  couldn't  move  them,  and  up  comes  that  young 
gentleman  you  say  was  your  brother,  sir.  '  The  ship's  going  down 
very  fast,'  says  he,  and,  seeing  nothing  for  it,  we  three  jumped  on 
to  the  pile  of  boats. 

"  Joe  Greene,  he  splutters  out,  'I  wish  some  one  would  tell 
my  poor  old  mother  I  was  thinking  of  her  now ;'  and  the  gentleman, 
he  says,  holding  out  his  hand,  '  Martin,'  he  says,  '  if  you  live  to  get 
on  shore,  and  I  hope  with  all  my  heart  that  you  will,  will  you  send 
this  letter  and  this  ring  to  the  young  lady  %  You'll  see  the  direc- 
tion written  inside;'  but  lor,  sir,  there  was  no  direction  at  all. 
'  And  tell  her/  says  he,  with  a  sort  of  sob,  '  that  the  thought  of 
her  is  making  me  strong  to  die,  and  that  even  at  this  minute  I 
am  thinking  of  her  and  bidding  God  bless  her  with  my  latest 
breath.' 

"  And  I  said,  '  All  right,  mate,  but  hold  on  if  you're  a  man, 
and  we  may  be  picked  up  after  all ;'  for  he  was  a  plucky  sort  of 
chap,  and  did  not  seem  to  be  holding  on  at  all. 

"  Well,  sir,  he  might  have  been  saved  like  the  rest  of  us,  and 
that's  the  hardest  part  I  am  coming  to,  but  that  negro  woman  I 
told  you  of  began  howling  and  screaming,  as  indeed  most  of  the 
other  poor  creatures  were,  and  begging  us  to  save  the  child.  So 
the  gentleman,  he  says,  'I  can't  stand  this,  Martin;  give  me  a 
hand,  my  good  fellow,  I  must  go  and  fetch  the  child ;'  and  I  said, 
*  Not  for  worlds,  mate.  Don't  leave  these  ere  boats.'  But  he  did 
not  hear  me,  and  just  swung  himself  down,  and  I  saw  him  lift  the 
boy  in  his  arms  and  try  to  get  back  to  us. 

"  You'll  excuse  me  a  moment,  sir,  but  it  makes  even  a  rough 
seaman  feel  soft  to  think  of  a  brave  man  caught  in  the  net  like 
that.  '  Joe  Greene,'  he  screamed  out,  and  then  I  saw  the  sea  rise 
to  the  level  of  the  poop,  and  then  the  white  foam  seemed  to  sweep 
him  away,  with  the  child  still  clinging  round  his  neck  ;  and  I  can't 
help  thinking,  sir,  that  somehow  that  little  child  will  just  lead 
him  by  the  hand  into  the  kingdom  of  heaven. 

"  You  don't  want  to  know  any  more ;  or  how  Joe  Greene  and  I 
got  hold  of  some  rigging,  and  how  we  were  picked  off  it  by  the 
lugger  Betsy  Jane  ;  or  how  I  got  up  to  London  and  saw  you,  sir, 
in  this  same  coffee-house.  But  I  hope  you'll  tell  that  young  lady 


A  MESSAGE  FROM  THE  SEA.  409 

that  I've  done  my  best  by  her,  as  sure  as  my  name  is  Richard 
Martin." 

A  postscript  by  Robert  added,  "  I  have  seen  Joe  Greene,  and 
he  has  confirmed  Martin's  account ;  but  I  think  it  needs  no  com- 
ment on  my  part,  save  to  say  that  to  our  brave  Gar  the  words 
may  surely  be  applied,  *  Inasmuch  as  ye  did  it  even  unto  one  of 
the  least  of  these  my  brethren,  ye  have  done  it  unto  me.'  And 
once  more,  c  And  a  little  child  shall  lead  them.' " 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

ON   THE   DARK   MOUNTAINS 

"  For  me,  my  heart  that  erst  did  go, 
Most  like  a  tired  child  at  a  show 
That  sees  through  tears  the  mummers  leap, 
Would  now  its  wearied  vision  close, 
Would  childlike  on  his  love  repose 
Who  giveth  His  beloved  sleep. 

<(  And  friends,  dear  friends,  when  it  shall  be, 
That  this  low  breath  is  gone  from  me, 
And  round  my  bier  ye  come  to  weep, 
Let  one,  most  loving  of  you  all, 
Say,  '  Not  a  tear  o'er  her  must  fall, 
He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep.'" 

E.  B.  BROWNING 

THREE  weeks  passed  very  quietly  and  smoothly  with  Botha  and 
her  charge.  Belle  had  grown  more  reconciled  to  her  banishment, 
and  seemed  to  take  interest  in  her  new  surroundings.  The  deli- 
cious balmy  air,  the  pleasant  drives,  could  not  fail  to  soothe  the 
poor  invalid  after  her  long  and  tedious  confinement  to  the  four 
walls  of  the  Vicarage.  There  she  had  been  afraid  to  pass  even 
from  one  room  to  the  other ;  but  here  the  sunshine  and  soft  air 
tempted  her  to  many  a  short  stroll  on  Botha's  supporting  arm, 
while  the  very  sight  of  the  wild  flowers,  which  even  at  this  season 
of  the  year  nestled  in  sheltered  hollows,  the  long  green  lanes,  the 
enchanting  views,  were  sources  of  enjoyment  to  the  weary  eyes 
from  which  they  had  been  so  long  debarred. 

True,  her  spirits  were  still  variable,  and  there  were  times  when 
the  old  sullen  depression  seemed  to  return  with  tenfold  power,  but 
these  moods  were  rare.  In  general  she  was  very  patient,  deeply 
grateful  for  any  little  attentions  on  Botha's  part,  and  touched 
sometimes  almost  to  emotion  with  the  unfailing  kindness  with 
which  Meg  and  she  nursed  her. 

But  as  it  is  with  the  flame  of  a  candle  as  it  gutters  to  its  close 
before  the  feeble  spark  is  extinguished,  so  was  it  with  the  treach- 


ON  THE  DARK  MOUNTAINS.  411 

erous  disease  to  which  Belle  was  slowly  succumbing.  From  the 
first  Dr.  Vivian  had  held  out  no  definite  hopes  of  recovery,  though 
he  had  once  declared  that  Belle's  youth  and  constitution  were  in 
her  favour ;  but  since  his  second  visit  he  had  never  repeated  this. 
He  had  spoken  very  cheerfully  to  his  patient,  and  even  to  Rotha, 
but  it  had  struck  the  latter  that  his  cheerfulness  was  forced,  and 
that  he  kept  his  real  opinion  to  himself;  and  very  soon  she  was 
strengthened  in  this  conviction,  when  she  was  sure  that  he  looked 
upon  Belle's  case  as  entirely  hopeless,  and  that  his  skill  was  merely 
directed  to  soothe  and  alleviate  the  few  short  weeks  or  months 
that  still  remained  to  her.  It  was  very  difficult  to  realise  this 
sometimes  when  she  looked  at  Belle.  Never  had  Belle  looked 
more  lovely  than  now,  when  her  cheeks  were  glowing  with  diseased 
colour,  and  her  eyes  brilliant  with  the  fever  that  was  wasting  her 
so  imperceptibly.  But  this  condition  of  things  could  not  last. 

On  the  day  after  Rotha  had  received  her  precious  letter  a  sud- 
den and  alarming  change  was  apparent  in  the  sick  girl.  All  at 
once  there  was  a  decay  of  the  vital  powers ;  the  deep  tight  cough 
returned  with  increased  violence,  and  emaciation  set  in ;  exertion 
became  impossible ;  every  moment  brought  on  the  laboured  breath, 
the  rapid  pant ;  a  fainting-fit  of  long  duration  added  to  her  nurse's 
anxiety.  In  a  day  or  two  Meg  was  obliged  to  lift  her  in  her  strong 
arms  from  her  bed  to  her  couch  in  the  adjoining  room ;  at  night 
her  restlessness  and  suffering  were  so  great  that  one  or  other 
remained  in  close  attendance  by  Her  side.  After  three  or  foui 
days  of  suspense  and  watching,  Dr.  Vivian  told  Rotha  that  every 
symptom  of  the  most  rapid  decline  had  set  in,  and  that  it  was 
impossible  to  say  how  long  or  how  short  a  time  she  might  linger. 

Under  these  circumstances  Rotha  wrote  off  to  the  Vicar  and 
implored  him  to  send  Mary  at  once  to  her  dying  sister,  and  to 
communicate  the  bitter  tidings  to  Robert ;  but  great  was  her  con- 
sternation at  receiving  the  Vicar's  reply.  In  it  he  told  her — and 
with  what  grief  she  might  imagine  for  herself — that  his  dear  wife 
was  ill  with  an  attack  of  pleurisy.  She  had  caught  cold  one  bitter 
day  in  going  about  her  district,  and  had  neglected  to  take  proper 
precautions,  and  fretting  about  her  sister  had  retarded  her  recovery. 
She  had  been  confined  to  her  bed  some  days  when  he  wrote,  but 
they  had  neither  of  them  let  Rotha  know  for  fear  of  adding  to  her 
anxiety.  Under  these  circumstances  he  had  decided  in  keeping 
from  Mary  the  knowledge  of  her  sister's  dangerous  condition,  at 
least  for  the  present.  He  told  Rotha,  to  her  further  grief,  that 
Robert  had  been  despatched  to  Glasgow  on  important  business, 
which  would  detain  him  for  the  next  four  or  five  days,  and  that 
unless  there  were  any  immediate  danger  it  would  be  extremely 


412  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

difficult  to  recall  him ;  but  he  charged  Rotha  to  telegraph  if  any 
alarming  change  should  take  place. 

"  It  seems  as  though  in  becoming  one  of  us,"  he  concluded, 
"you  have  come  into  a  larger  share  of  trouble  than  of  joy ;  we  are 
walking  among  the  shadows  now,  Rotha,  or  it  may  be  in  the  very 
fire  of  the  furnace,  and  that  seven  times  heated.  Ah,  well  for  us, 
my  child,  if  amid  its  exceeding  fierceness  we  may  discern  the  form 
of  One  who  walked  before  us  in  the  fiery  way,  and  know  it  as  the 
form  of  the  Son  of  God." 

The  Vicar's  letters,  always  so  wise  and  tender,  were  Rotha's 
great  comforts,  and  just  now  she  needed  something  especially 
bracing  to  nerve  her  to  the  bitter  duty  that  lay  before  her — that 
of  acquainting  Belle  with  her  hopeless  condition. 

She  was  only  waiting  for  an  opportunity,  but  it  came  soon. 

"  Does  Dr.  Vivian  say  I  am  better,  Rotha  ?"  asked  Belle  one 
day  when  the  doctor  had  just  been  paying  his  morning  visit. 

"Why  do  you  ask,  dear  Belle?"  returned  Rotha,  quickly 
averting  her  face  from  the  invalid. 

"  Because  I  think  I  feel  so,"  replied  the  sick  girl.  "  I  have 
not  coughed  half  so  much  this  morning,  and  the  pain  has  left  me. 
You  do  not  answer,  Rotha ;  you  do  not  look  at  me.  Does  he — 
does  he  think  me  worse?"  And  Belle  raised  herself  on  her  elbow 
and  looked  at  Rotha  anxiously. 

"He  does  not  think  you  better,"  returned  Rotha  in  a  low 
voice. 

"Not  better! — that  means  worse,  of  course.  Come  here, 
Rotha.  Has  Dr.  Vivian  said  anything — anything  that  I  ought 
to  know  1  Oh,  Rotha,"  with  a  sort  of  despair  as  she  saw  her  face, 
"it  is  not  that — it  is  not  dying,  is  it  T'  And,  as  Rotha  knelt  down 
and  folded  her  silently  in  her  arms,  she  repeated  in  a  frightened 
voice,  "  Do  not  tell  me — I  cannot  bear  it — that  I  have  got  to  die 
yet." 

"Dear  Belle,  try  and  say  'His  will  be  done;'  it  is  the  only 
thing  that  can  make  it  easy." 

"  I  cannot,"  repeated  Belle  in  a  choked  voice,  "  I  cannot — it 
would  be  a  falsehood  to  say  it.  What  have  I  done  that  it  should 
all  be  made  so  hard  for  me  ?  Just  as  I  was  beginning  to  hope  too 
that  I  was  getting  better,  and  it  was  only  those  dreadful  winds 
that  were  killing  me." 

"I  thought  you  knew  it,"  returned  Rotha  gently.  "You 
seemed  as  though  you  did  when  you  said  good-bye  to  them  all." 

"  Knew  it !  Of  course  I  always  knew  it.  Did  I  not  always 
say  I  was  doomed  ?  But  it  does  not  make  it  easier  when  it  comes. 
I  wanted  a  little  longer  time  to  get  used  to  the  idea — to —  Oh, 


ON  THE  DARK  MOUNTAINS.  413 

Rotha,  it  is  not  the  knowing  of  it — that  was  long  ago ;  it  is  the 
terror,  the  awfulness  of  approaching  dissolution — the — the — oh,  I 
cannot  talk  of  it."  And,  overwhelmed  by  her  emotion,  the  un- 
happy girl  clasped  her  wasted  arms  round  Rotha  and  held  her 
fast. 

"  Oh,  Belle,  this  is  dreadful !  Heavenly  Father,  what  am  I 
to  say  to  her?  Help  me  to  comfort  her,"  prayed  Rotha,  with 
streaming  eyes.  Then  aloud,  "  Oh,  if  the  Vicar  were  only  here — 
if  you  would  see  a  clergyman  !"  But  Belle  shook  her  head. 

"  It  would  be  no  use,  Rotha  j  it  is  not  that.  I  suppose  I  have 
gone  to  church  oftener  than  most  people.  You  forget  I  have  Jived 
in  a  clergyman's  house  many  years,  and  that  Austin  has  often  talked 
to  me,  but  I  never  would  open  my  heart  to  any  of  them,  it  is  not 
in  me.  You  may  send  any  one  you  choose,  but  you  must  not  ask 
me  to  confide  in  a  stranger."  And  Rotha,  knowing  her  strange 
wayward  nature,  dared  not  press  the  point. 

"  If  Robert  were  only  here,"  began  Belle  presently,  in  calmer 
tones,  "  I  think  he  would  do  me  good.  No  clergyman  could  be 
better  than  Robert ;  you  have  no  idea  how  beautifully  he  talks. 
Oh,  Rotha,  there  it  is — the  sin  and  the  stumbling-block.  I  have 
made  Robert  my  idol,  and  now  God  is  punishing  me  for  it." 

"  '  Whom  the  Lord  loveth  He  chasteneth,' "  returned  Rotha, 
using  unconsciously  the  Vicar's  words. 

"  Whom  He  leveth,  yes ;  but  is  it  not  idolatry  all  through  the 
Bible  that  He  condemns  1  Listen  £o  me,  Rotha.  You  shall  hear 
what  I  have  never  told  any  one  before — not  even  him.  For  six 
years — it  is  nearly  six,  is  it  not,  since  he  first  saw  me  at  the 
Vicarage  ? — all  that  time  I  have  never  had  a  thought  apart  from 
him — never  once — never  once." 

"  Dear  Belle,  you  could  not  help  it,  I  suppose." 

"  No,  I  could  not  help  it ;  you  would  have  said  so  if  you  had 
seen  him  then.  You  can  hardly  judge  now,  he  is  so  different,  and 
he  has  shown  you  nothing  but  his  faults.  But  if  you  had  seen 
him  as  I  have,  admired,  beloved,  sunny-hearted  and  radiant  with 
happiness,  I  think  you  would  not  recognise  my  Bertie  in  the  care- 
worn Robert  you  know." 

"I  can  believe  it ;  there  are  traces  of  it  still.  I  think  you 
will  bear  me  witness  that  I  have  always  done  justice  to  his  nobler 
qualities." 

"Ah,  he  was  always  noble,  but  he  is  not  what  he  was — poor 
Robert ! — when  he  gave  it  all  up  for  me — for  me  " — and  for  a 
moment  a  mournful  smile  passed  over  the  sunken  face — "  when  he 
told  me  he  would  rather  have  me  than  all  his  aunt's  riches.  But 
my  beauty  faded,  Rotha,  and  he  grew  warped  and  weary,  and  then 


414  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

he  began  to  misunderstand  me  and  doubt  my  love ;  and  at  last  it 
was  all  doubt  and  wretchedness." 

"  My  poor  girl !  But  hush,  this  is  doing  you  harm."  For  the 
hard  heavy  pants  interrupted  her  every  word.  But  Belle  per- 
sisted. 

"Let  me,  I  cannot  often  talk,  and  anything  is  better  than 
thinking — even  this,"  as  the  distressing  cough  rung  its  hollow 
knell.  "  I  sometimes  think  I  am  not  so  much  to  blame  after  all ; 
for  if  he  had  let  me  do  what  I  wished — earn  my  own  living,  I  mean 
— I  should  not  have  lived  all  those  years  dwelling  on  one  idea,  and 
growing  morbid  over  my  very  love ;  and  then  I  began  to  be  afraid 
I  should  tire  him." 

"Belle,  dear,  it  is  all  over  now." 

"  Ah,  it  was  all  over  for  me  a  long  time  ago — what  I  have 
gone  through  since  I  knew  first  that  I  should  never  be  his  wife, 

never  make  him  happy — that  I  was  doomed — doomed "  And 

Belle  covered  her  face  with  her  hands  and  wept  bitterly. 

It  was  a  terrible  trial  to  Rotha,  and  one  which  the  girl  with 
her  lifelong  habits  of  submission  and  her  simple  faith  could  hardly 
understand.  "  Oh,  Belle  !  it  is  not  like  that — it  is  like  going 
home,"  she  said  presently,  when  Belle,  exhausted  but  unconvinced, 
had  required  comparative  calmness ;  "  when  the  Master  calls, 
Belle,  it  is  hard  the  children  are  not  ready." 

"  I  am  not  ready,"  returned  Belle,  with  a  shiver.  "  From  a 
child  I  have  dreaded  death — and  I  dread  it  now.  Oh,  Rotha, 
what  can  you  say  to  comfort  me  when  you  know  you  would  not 
be  in  my  place  for  worlds  1 " 

It  was  the  first  time  that  she  had  seen  Rotha  break  down,  but 
she  broke  down  utterly  now.  "  Oh,  would  I  not  ?  Gar  !  would 
I  not  1  Oh,  the  pain  and  trouble  of  life,"  she  moaned ;  "the  pain, 
and  the  loss,  and  the  trouble."  And  for  a  little  while  she  could 
only  hide  her  face  in  Belle's  pillow. 

This  was  the  beginning  of  many  a  sad  hour,  and  many  a 
terrible  conflict,  before  the  tormenting  spirit  had  been  cast  out, 
and  Belle  lay  upon  her  bed,  white  and  weary,  worn  to  a  shadow, 
but  peaceful  as  a  little  child ;  and  it  came  to  her  in  this  wise. 

One  night  when  she  was  unusually  restless,  and  her  few  words 
only  testified  to  the  sore  disquietude  of  her  mind,  Rotha  sat  down 
by  her  side  and  read  to  her  the  last  two  chapters  of  Revelations, 
thinking  the  glowing  descriptions  of  the  city  with  its  golden 
streets  and  gates  of  pearl  might  soothe  the  tortured  imagination  of 
the  poor  sufferer ;  but  Belle  only  listened  with  contracted  brow, 
and,  when  Rotha  had  finished,  she  said  : 

"  It  does  me  no  good — it  makes  me  worse.     All  the  time  you 


ON  THE  DARK  MOUNTAINS.  415 

have  been  reading  I  have  been  thinking  of  the  shining  streets,  and 
the  white-robed  multitude  that  no  man  can  number  walking  up 
and  down  them.  But  I  don't  see  myself  there,  Rotha."  She 
paused,  and  then,  impeded  by  her  broken  breath,  went  on  :  "  That 
is  all  glory,  but  unattainable  glory,  it  seems  to  me.  There  are  the 
river  and  the  dark  mountains  to  pass  first — and  oh,"  panted  the 
dying  girl,  "  why  have  the  greatest  saints  prayed  so  earnestly  for 
the  gift  of  final  perseverance  if  there  be  no  conflict,  no  terrible 
struggle  at  the  last  ? " 

"  Oh,  Belle,"  cried  Rotha,  with  a  pity  that  amounted  almost  to 
agony,  "what  is  the  meaning  of  faith  if  we  cannot  trust  Him 
then  ? "  For  it  seemed  to  her  as  though  Belle's  stern  and  mystical 
religion  had  become  strongly  imbued  with  the  gloomy  notions  of 
the  Calvinists.  "These  doubts  and  terrors  are  infirmities,  not 
sins;  nay,  did  not  even  He,  the  Sinless  One,  in  His  human 
nature,  shrink  from  the  mysterious  hour  of  His  dissolution?" 
And  then,  turning  to  another  page,  she  read  the  story  of  Geth- 
semane,  and  how,  under  the  gray  olive  trees,  the  God-Man  wrestled 
in  the  bloody  sweat  of  His  most  bitter  passion ;  how  He  drank 
even  to  the  dregs  all  the  concentrated  pain  and  terror  that 
humanity  could  feel.  "  The  cup  that  my  Father  hath  given  me, 
shall  I  not  drink  it  ? "  Then  she  closed  the  sacred  volume  and 
laid  it  aside. 

But  long  after  Belle  had  fallen,  into  an  uneasy  slumber  did 
Rotha,  on  her  bended  knees,  pray  that  the  dark  hour  might 
cease,  and  the  weary  heart  find  its  true  rest.  Never  had  she 
prayed  so  passionately,  so  urgently;  and,  when  she  rose  at  last 
from  her  knees,  it  was  with  the  peaceful  assurance  that  she  would 
be  heard  and  answered. 

Belle  slept  at  intervals  through  the  night,  but  nothing  passed 
between  them  till  the  following  afternoon.  Belle  was  very  quiet, 
and  unusually  silent,  but  every  now  and  then  her  eyes  rested  on 
Rotha  with  a  strange  wistful  expression,  and  when  Meg  left  them 
together  once  she  beckoned  her  to  come  close. 

"Closer,  dear  Rotha.  I  am  very  weak  to-day,  and  I  think 
the  end  is  not  so  very  far  off.  Rotha,  I  want  to  ask  you  something. 
Were  you  praying  for  me  last  night  ? " 

Rotha  pressed  her  hand,  but  did  not  answer. 

"I  knew  you  were,  dear — I  felt  it.  Ah,  Rotha,  it  is  all 
gone." 

"  What  is  gone,  dear  Belle  1 " 

"  The  fear  of  death,  the  trouble  and  the  misery.  I  can  see 
clearly — oh,  so  clearly  ! — and  I  know  now  that  He  is  good.  It 
came  to  me  in  a  dream — nay,  a  vision  rather.  You  do  not  mind 


416  ROBERT  OR&S  ATONEMENT. 

my  speaking  so  slowly  and  painfully,  do  you,  dear  1  But  I  want 
to  tell  you  what  I  saw  when  you  were  praying  for  me  last  night." 

"  Dear  Belle,  I  am  listening." 

"  I  think  I  must  have  been  asleep,  for  I  woke  and  saw  you 
kneeling  by  the  bed ;  the  candle  was  shining  full  on  your  hair, 
and  I  remember  I  tried  to  put  out  my  hand  and  touch  it,  like 
this.  And  then  all  at  once  I  fainted,  or  seemed  to  faint,  and 
when  I  came  to  myself  I  was  standing  in  a  narrow  place  shut  in 
by  rocks,  and  before  me  was  a  deep  sullen  river,  black  and 
full  of  hideous  shadows,  and  lapping  to  my  very  feet ;  and  all  on 
the  other  side  was  hidden  by  a  gray  cloud,  luminous  as  though  the 
light  were  shining  through  it — like  a  wall  of  mist,  only  clearer. 
And  I  thought  that  I  was  obliged  to  cross  the  river,  and  that  I 
was  standing  on  the  brink  crying  and  wringing  my  hands,  and 
shuddering  in  the  icy  blast  that  seemed  to  sweep  over  the  waters ; 
and  all  behind  me  were  dark  mountains  and  rocks  that  seemed  to 
shut  out  the  very  sky,  and  a  horror  of  great  darkness  fell  upon 
me. 

"  And  as  I  stood  weeping  there,  the  cloud  suddenly  became 
more  luminous,  and  a  voice  behind  it  said,  'When  thou  passest 
through  the  waters  I  will  be  with  thee,  and  through  the  rivers, 
they  shall  not  overflow  thee.'  And  I  seemed  to  answer  the  voice, 
'  But  what  if  the  sullen  waters  sweep  me  away,  within  sight  of  the 
luminous  cloud  V  And  it  said  again,  <  Fear  not,  for  I  am  with 
thee.  I  have  holden  thee  by  the  right  hand :  thou  art  mine.' 
And  suddenly  the  scales  seemed  to  fall  from  my  eyes,  and  I  could 
see  that  multitudes  besides  myself  were  crossing  the  river  every 
minute,  but  that  nearly  every  one  had  a  small  raft  in  the  form  of 
a  cross.  And  immediately  I  seemed  to  hear  the  words,  '  There- 
fore do  men  commit  their  lives  unto  a  small  piece  of  wood,  and 
passing  through  the  rough  sea  on  a  frail  vessel,  are  saved.'  And 
as  I  listened  I  found  myself  launched  on  the  small  bark  with  the 
others  ;  and  immediately  the  winds  seemed  to  subside,  and  the 
waves  ceased  their  roaring,  and  the  light  grew  stronger  and  clearer, 
and  my  little  raft  floated  nearer  to  the  far-off  shore.  And  out  of 
the  cloud  I  seemed  to  hear  voices  like  the  sound  of  many  waters, 
and  this  is  what  they  said  : — '  He  maketh  the  storm  a  calm,  so 
that  the  waves  thereof  are  still.  Then  are  they  glad,  because  they 
be  quiet ;  and  so  He  bringeth  them  to  their  desired  haven.'  And 
immediately  I  awoke." 

"  Oh,  Belle,  what  a  beautiful  dream  ! "  intervened  Rotha.  But 
Belle,  looking  up  and  pressing  her  wasted  hands  reverently  to- 
gether, said : 

"  No,  not  a  dream ;  but  true — all  true.     I  know  now  that 


ON  THE  DARK  MOUNTAINS.  417 

'His  grace  is  sufficient,  that  His  strength  is  made  perfect  in 
weakness.' " 

A  few  hours  after  this  Robert  was  returning  to  his  house, 
jaded  from  a  long  hurried  journey,  when  he  found  the  following 
telegram  awaiting  him — 

"  Sinking  fast.  Come  at  once.  No  time  to  lose  if  you  wish 
to  see  her  alive." 

Half  an  hour  afterwards  he  was  travelling  as  fast  as  steam 
would  carry  him  to  Devonshire. 

"  Rotha,  do  you  think  he  will  be  here  in  time  1 "  murmured 
the  dying  girl.  And  Rotha  stooped  over  and  wiped  the  clammy 
brow.  Those  who  were  standing  round  her  knew  that  it  was  the 
beginning  of  the  end. 

"  I  hope  so.     I  pray  to  heaven  that  it  may  be  so,  dear  Belle." 

"  I  should  like  to  see  him  again,"  returned  Belle  faintly.  The 
breathing  was  growing  more  laboured  every  moment,  and  the 
sharpened  face  was  gray  with  approaching  death. 

"  I  do  not  want  to  die  till  he  comes,  if  it  be  His  will.  Read 
that  once  again,  dear  Rotha."  And  Rotha,  struggling  for  calm- 
ness, repeated  again  Keble's  glorious  Evening  Hymn — or  Hymn 
for  the  Dying,  as  it  might  be  called — "  Abide  with  me  " — 

"Hold  Thou  Thy  cross  before  my  closing  eyes, 
Shine  through  the  mist,  and  guide  me  through  the  skies. " 

"  Rotha,  I  can  hear  a  step.  Open  the  door,  quick  ! "  Ah,  she 
has  heard  it.  Faithful  to  the  last,  she  hears  Robert's  footstep, 
and  knows  it  to  be  his.  As  he  enters  the  room  and  falls  down  on 
his  knees  beside  her  couch,  she  nestles  into  his  arms  with  a  low 
cry  of  content — "  Oh,  Bertie,  Bertie,  I  shall  die  happy  now  ! " 
"  My  darling  Belle — my  poor  girl — my  own,  own  Belle  !" 
"Dear  Bertie,  you  must  not  grieve  like  this.  It  is  better  so. 
I  am  so  tired,  and  He  is  giving  me  rest — rest — rest."  The 
laboured  breath  became  more  difficult,  the  words  fainter  and 
more  broken.  "  Where  is  Rotha  ?  I  have  bidden  her  good-bye, 
and  blessed  her  long  ago ;  but  now  it  is  getting  dark. 

'  Hold  Thou  Thy  cross  before  my  closing  eyes — 
The  cross ' " 

Her  eyes  were  fast  glazing  now.  He  puts  his  ear  to  her  lips 
that  he  may  catch  the  last  dying  sounds.  What  is  it  that  she 


"It  is  growing  late,  Mary — cold  too.  Put  your  arm  closer 
round  me.  There,  good-night.  God  bless  you,  dear  !  Who  says 
Bertie  is  here  ? "  And  as  he  held  her  closer,  and  called  her  by 
her  name,  those  who  were  near  saw  that  she  tried  to  kiss  him  with 

27 


418  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

her  dying  lips,  and  failed.     One  moment,  and  Rotha  gently  lifted 
her  from  his  arms  and  laid  her  down. 

"  And  I  heard  a  voice  say,  Blessed  are  the  dead  which  die  in  the 
Lord.  Yea,  saith  the  Spirit,  for  they  shall  rest  from  their  labours." 

It  was  over — the  brief  life,  the  weary  restlessness,  the  suffering; 
those  who  loved  her  best  said,  weeping,  it  was  better  so,  for  the 
feverishness  and  the  weariness  were  over,  and  she  rested  at  last,  and 
rested  well. 

They  took  the  poor  remains  back  to  Kirkby ;  that  was  Rotha's 
doing,  for  they  knew  it  was  the  spot  where  she  would  most  love  to  lie. 

"If  it  be  possible,  let  me  be  taken  back,"  she  had  said  to 
Rotha  some  hours  before  the  fatal  change  came  on,  "  and  let  them 
carry  me  under  the  old  lich-gate,  where  I  have  often  walked  with 
him."  And  on  Rotha  making  her  a  solemn  promise  that  her  wish 
should  be  fulfilled  in  this,  she  pressed  her  hand  gratefully,  and 
went  on : 

"I  have  always  wished  to  be  there  when  my  time  came. 
There  is  a  corner  by  the  west  door  where  I  have  often  stood  of  an 
evening  looking  over  at  the  distant  furnaces,  and  listening  to  the 
waves  rippling  low  down  on  the  shore.  You  will  know  the  place ; 
it  is  where  Ned  Blake  was  buried,  the  boy  who  was  my  favourite 
Sunday  scholar,  and  who  was  drowned  last  year ;  it  feels  so  high 
and  breezy  up  there,  and  the  wind  sweeps  so  freshly  over  the 
graves,  and  it  is  just  by  the  little  path  where  the  choir-boys  go  to 
and  fro.  And,  Rotha,  if  you  and  the  lads  ever  come  to  visit  me 
there,  don't  forget  to  pull  the  nettles  off  Ned's  grave,  for  I've 
always  kept  it  tidy,  and  his  poor  mother  is  blind." 

"  Dear  Belle,  it  shall  be  done.  Is  there  any  other  wish  that 

you  have  concerning  that — that "  But  Rotha,  greatly  moved, 

could  not  go  on. 

"  No,  none.  All  the  rest  must  be  as  you  and  Robert  like, 
only  let  it  be  green  like  the  humbler  graves  round  it,  and,  if  Robert 
would  not  mind,  just  my  name  and  *  Jesu,  mercy'  underneath  it. 
Don't  let  them  put  any  grand  text,  nothing  but  that,  or  '  Resur- 
gam  ;'  they  put  'Resurgam'  over  our  father's  grave." 

Rotha  gave  her  word  that  it  should  be  so ;  and  when  all  was 
over  she  wrote  to  the  Vicar.  And  so  they  took  her  back,  and 
one  wild  March  morning,  when  the  dust  was  whirling  down  the 
white  roads,  and  the  wind  swept  the  long  grasses  of  the  church- 
yard, and  the  gray  clouds  scudded  over  the  sunless  skies,  the  Vicar 
went  down  bareheaded  to  the  gate,  and  under  the  old  lich-gate 
they  carried  her,  and  laid  her  close  to  the  dead  boy's  grave,  and 
under  the  shadow  of  the  west  door. 


ON  THE  DARK  MOUNTAINS.  419 

And  in  time  the  green  grass  grew  over  it,  and  the  sun  shone 
down,  and  the  dews  and  rains  of  heaven  swept  sadly  over  it,  and 
the  swallows  that  built  their  nests  under  the  church  eaves  twittered 
and  chirped  endlessly  about  it ;  and  there,  in  process  of  time,  was 
placed  a  fair  marble  cross  at  the  head,  with  but  few  words  graven 
upon  it : — 

"ISABEL  FELICIA  CLINTON, 

Died  February  29,  186— 

Aged  25. 

JESU,   MERCY." 

But  the  cross  had  not  yet  been  erected,  and  the  sods  were 
hardly  green,  when  Robert  Ord  went  up  to  Bryn  to  wish  Rotha 
good-bye.  She  was  sitting  alone  in  the  sunny  parlour,  and  put 
down  her  work  hastily,  as  though  she  suspected  his  errand. 

"You  are  going?  you  have  come  to  say  good-bye1?"  she  said, 
looking  in  his  pale  face  anxiously.  He  had  been  walking  up 
and  down  for  hours  trying  to  school  himself  to  calmness,  and  yet 
he  could  hardly  meet  her  eyes  as  he  answered  her. 

"  Yes,  it  is  good-bye  now,  and  for  long  enough,  Heaven  knows. 
I  suppose  it  will  be  four  or  five  years  at  least  before  I  get  a  chance 
of  seeing  any  of  you  again." 

"  So  long  as  that  ?     Oh,  Robert !" 

"Yes,  unless "  He  stopped,  and  then  completed  his 

sentence  recklessly  enough — "  Unless  I  am  dead  and  buried,  I 
ought  to  say." 

She  sighed  heavily,  then  put  her  hand  in  his,  as  a  sister  might 
have  done. 

"  Poor  Robert !  and  going  alone  too.  It  seems  hard,  very  hard, 
and  yet  it  is  better  than  staying  behind  and  missing  it  all  daily," 
she  finished  in  the  patient  tired  voice  that  was  habitual  to  her 
now. 

His  heart  smote  him  for  his  selfishness.  Had  she  not  suffered 
too  ?  How  white  her  young  face  had  grown !  how  thin,  how 
anxious-looking  !  Some  joy  had  passed  out  of  her  life,  some  hope 
that  would  never  be  renewed.  A  painful  consciousness  that  this 
was  so,  that  she  would  be  very  faithful  to  Gar,  seized  upon  him  as 
he  looked  at  her.  How  could  he  ever  ask  her  to  come  to  him  and 
comfort  him  for  the  loss  of  Belle  if  this  shadow  of  her  dead  love 
were  to  be  for  ever  between  them  ?  Even  now,  when  he  had  come 
to  wish  her  good-bye,  that  look  of  pain  on  her  face  was  not  for  him, 
it  was  for  Gar — always  Gar. 

"You  will  write  to  me  sometimes,  Rotha  1 — you  will  not 
forget  me  ?" 


420  ROBERT  ORD^S  ATONEMENT. 

"Forget  my  brother!"  answered  the  girl  reproachfully.  Oh, 
how  often  she  called  him  that  now  !  How  innocently  she  clung  to 
the  conviction  that  Gar's  brother  must  be  hers  too — that  the  name 
must  be  as  soothing  to  him  as  it  was  to  her  ! 

He  turned  pale  at  that,  even  to  his  lips.  Ah,  the  sods  were 
not  green  over  Belle's  grave,  and  yet  the  mad  infatuation  for  the 
living  was  blending  with  his  sorrow  for  the  dead.  Eotha — his 
sister — impossible!  His  face  was  stern  enough,  but  he  had 
schooled  himself  to  patience — he  bore  even  that. 

"  No ;  I  knew  you  would  not.  I  ought  to  know  your  kindness 
of  heart  by  this  time,  Rotha.  When  I  ask  you  to  write  to  me, 
remember  that  I  shall  be  interested  in  anything,  everything  that 
you  do." 

"  It  is  good  of  you  to  say  so "  she  replied  gratefully.     But 

he  interrupted  her. 

"  Never  mind  how  trivial  it  is — it  will  be  sure  to  please  me. 
Sometimes  you  may  tell  me  about  my  godson,  G-uy,  he  has  grown 
very  dear  to  me  lately,  and  about  Rube — poor  Rube  ! — and  then 
there  is  Mary ;  I  do  not  like  to  go  away  and  leave  her  looking  as 
she  does." 

"  She  will  be  better  soon,"  returned  Rotha  hurriedly.  "  You 
know  we  are  all  going  away,  and  for  her  sake  principally." 

"  Have  you  any  idea  where  ?" 

"  Yes ;  the  Vicar  and  I  have  been  talking  it  over.  It  is  to  be 
Lucerne  or  Zermatt,  and  the  boys,  even  Arty,  are  to  go  with  us. 
You  know  who  is  going  to  take  the  Vicar's  duty  for  a  couple  of 
months  ?" 

"  The  clergyman  who  came  to  poor  Belle  at  the  last." 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Hilly er ;  he  has  resigned  his  curacy,  and  is  waiting 
for  another.  We  shall  be  away  quite  two  months,  all  June  and 
July,  and  we  are  going  to  Filey  for  a  few  weeks  first." 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  it,  for  your  sake  as  well  as  hers.  You  look 
pale  and  worn,  almost  as  though  you  had  been  ill  yourself." 

She  smiled  at  that,  as  though  the  subject  did  not  interest  her. 

"You  must  take  care  of  yourself,  for — for  all  our  sakes." 

"It  is  nothing,"  she  replied  in  a  low  voice;  "only  my  nerves 
are  out  of  order,  and  I  cannot  sleep — that  is  the  excuse  I  am 
obliged  to  make  to  Mary  to  get  her  away.  She  has  only  agreed 
to  go  because  she  thinks  I  need  a  change." 

"  Poor  Mary  !  she  never  likes  to  leave  Austin ;  Belle  would 
have  been  just  like  her.  Oh,  Rotha,  no  other  woman  will  ever 
love  me  as  she  did." 

Rotha  shook  her  head ;  she  thought  so  too.  And  then  her 
eyes  fell  on  the  glittering  cross  which  she  wore  now  night  and  day 


ON  THE  DARK  MOUNTAINS.  421 

on  the  same  finger  on  which  he  had  placed  his  mother's  old  keeper. 
Some  one  would  have  loved  her  as  well,  if  he  had  lived,  as  ever 
Belle  had  loved  Robert — faithful  even  in  death,  blessing  her  with 
his  last  dying  breath. 

"  Well,  I  must  go  now,"  exclaimed  Robert  hurriedly,  as  though 
the  action  moved  him ;  "  there  is  nothing  more  to  say,  and  I  have 
all  my  packing  to  do." 

"Nothing ;  but  God  bless  you,  and  grant  you  a  safe  voyage," 
said  Rotha,  rising ;  but  now  the  tears  were  in  her  eyes.  She  was 
thinking  of  what  had  befallen  his  brother ;  she  was  sorry — yes,  she 
was  sorry  even  for  him. 

"If  I  do  not  say  anything  it  is  because  I  cannot,"  he  said, 
pressing  her  hands  hard.  "  The  only  thing  I  dare  say  is,  God  love 
you  and  bless  you  for  all  you  have  done  for  me  and  mine." 

"  And  you  too,  dear  Robert."  And  then  she  put  up  her  face 
and  kissed  him,  and  called  him  brother  once  more.  And  he  went. 

But  that  night,  an  hour  before  he  was  to  start  by  the  night 
mail  to  Liverpool,  he  left  his  brother  and  Mary,  and  went  secretly 
and  alone  to  the  churchyard. 

It  was  quite  dark  now ;  the  wind  was  still  abroad,  and  howled 
drearily  round  the  church,  and  the  rain  splashed  sullenly  on  the 
tombstones,  or  dripped  silently  into  tiny  pools.  But  Robert,  as  he 
stood  bare-headed  and  with  folded  arms,  heeded  it  not,  for  the  fierce 
fever  and  pain  that  burnt  in  his  veins. 

But  once,  as  he  stooped  and  plucked  a  few  blades  of  grass  from 
the  grave  and  hid  them  in  his  breast,  a  sudden  overwhelming 
sense  of  his  loneliness  came  over  him.  "  Good-bye,  Belle,"  he  cried, 
pressing  his  lips  to  the  dripping  sod,  and  stretching  out  his  arms 
over  it  in  the  darkness.  "  Good-bye,  my  darling.  Never  woman 
loved  as  you  would  have  loved  me."  Then  whispering  low,  as 
though  he  would  hide  his  secret  in  her  very  grave,  "  You  know  it 
now,  dear,  do  you  not  1  But  you  are  not  angry  with  me  1  Oh, 
Belle,  to  think  that  my  heart  is  broken  with  all  this,  and  that  you 
are  not  here  to  comfort  me  !" 

Three-quarters  of  an  hour  after  this  Robert  had  bidden  good- 
bye to  Kirkby  and  Blackscar,  and  had  taken  his  place  by  the  night 
mail  for  Liverpool. 


CHAPTER   XXXVIII. 

THE  CHILDREN'S  HOME. 

"  I  pray  you  hear  my  song  of  a  nest, 

For  it  is  not  long  : — 
You  shall  never  light  in  a  summer  quest, 

The  bushes  among — 
Shall  never  light  on  a  prouder  sitter, 

A  fairer  nestful,  nor  ever  know 
A  softer  sound  than  their  tender  twitter, 
That  wind-like  did  come  and  go. " 

JEAN  INGELOVV. 

"A  maid  of  fullest  heart  she  was, 

Her  spirit's  lovely  flame 
Nor  dazzled  nor  surprised,  because 

It  always  burned  the  same. 
And  in  the  heavenward  path  she  trod, 

Fair  was  the  wife  fore-shown  ; 
A  Mary  in  the  house  of  God, 
A  Martha  in  her  own. " 

PATMORE. 

THERE  are  pauses  in  life,  strange  pauses,  every  now  and  then. 

The  tide  of  human  circumstance  sometimes  flows  sluggishly 
and  sometimes  swiftly.  There  is  a  turn,  a  slight  ebbing  or  flowing ; 
uncovered  rocks  glisten  in  the  sun ;  there  are  coloured  sparkles, 
light  frothings  ;  the  foam  and  bubbles  burst  in  the  sunlight ;  snow- 
white  sails  gleam  on  the  horizon.  The  children  build  up  their  sand- 
castles,  and  deck  them  proudly  with  sea-weed  and  shells.  In  the 
evening  the  golden  tide  silvers  and  breaks  into  dark  blue  shadows 
— how  fair  it  is,  how  grand !  In  the  morning  the  children  rise 
early  and  go  down  to  the  shore  to  seek  their  treasures,  but,  alas ! 
everything  is  changed :  a  sullen  wind  sweeps  over  the  sands,  the 
sea  is  all  gray,  the  sky  hangs  low,  the  waves  break  into  foaming 
heaps,  terrible  rolling  avalanches  of  gray  froth  ;  the  gulls  fly  inland ; 
there  are  rumours  of  wrecks ;  the  fishermen's  wives  grope  wearily 
to  and  fro.  So  it  is  with  the  tide  of  life  ;  so  does  it  ebb  and  flow 
in  calm  and  storm.  Now  and  then  there  is  a  break  of  summer 


THE  CHILDREN'S  HOME.  423 

monotony — changeless,  unvarying,  almost  colourless ;  the  tints  are 
pallid — all  grays  or  misty  blues. 

And  then  conies  a  long  waiting,  as  the  children  wait  for  some 
ship  that  never  comes  after  all.  And  just  as,  weary  of  play,  and 
weary  of  constructing  battlements  of  sand  for  the  waves  to  demolish, 
they  watch  for  the  dim  white  sail  which  flutters  for  a  moment  on 
the  horizon,  so  do  their  elders  sit  afar  off,  listening,  sometimes  for 
months,  sometimes  for  years,  and  waiting  for  what  the  tide  shall 
bring  them. 

Such  a  pause  had  come  to  Rotha — a  break,  when  the  strange 
tide  of  events  that  for  the  last  ten  months  had  swept  her  on  so 
hurriedly  from  one  transition  to  another  had  at  length  rolled  away, 
leaving  her  bruised  and  battered  indeed,  but  with  much  soundness 
in  her ;  when  months  and  even  years  sped  on  in  a  calm  unvarying 
round  of  duty  not  unmixed  with  pleasure ;  when  Time,  that  great 
healer,  did  its  salutary  work,  and  Garton  became  but  a  beautiful 
memory,  a  link  onward  and  heavenward. 

Five  years,  five  whole  years,  and  Rotha  is  Rotha  Maturin  still. 

Brief  must  be  the  record  of  these  years,  during  which  Rotha 
strove  more  and  more  in  her  honest  woman's  endeavour  to  follow 
out  the  Divine  precept,  "  Whatsoever  thy  hand  findeth  to  do,  do 
it  with  thy  might ; "  when  she  took  up  new  work  and  found  it 
rich  with  blessings ;  when  "  full  measure  meted  out  was  pressed 
into  her  bosom,"  and  she  reaped  her  woman's  harvest  of  pure 
unselfish  joys. 

Five  years,  five  long  years,  and  the  Vicar  looks  proudly  round 
at  his  growing  lads,  Guy — almost  a  man  now — and  Rufus,  half  a 
head  taller  than  himself;  and  the  mother's  hair  is  quite  gray,  but 
her  face  is  sweeter  in  its  chastened  gravity  than  it  has  ever  been 
before ;  and  Robert  is  working  still,  uncomplaining,  but  sad,  in  his 
far-off  home ;  and  the  swallows  fly  down  on  the  marble  cross,  and 
the  daisies  grow  up  among  the  grass  on  the  dead  boy's  grave  and 
on  Belle's ;  and  in  the  church,  just  opposite  to  where  Rotha  sits, 
is  a  noble  painted  window,  with  the  Man  of  Sorrows  bearing  His 
cross  along  the  bitter  way ;  and  under  it  is  written  : — 

"In  memory  of 

GARTON   ORD, 

Who  died  December  29,  186— 

Aged  23. 
IN  HOC  SPERO." 

It  was  soon  after  the  anniversary  of  his  death  that  something 
very  unexpected  befell  Rotha.  Mr.  Effingham  made  her  an  offer. 


424  ROBERT  ORD^S  ATONEMENT. 

He  had  come  up  very  boldly  to  Bryn  to  prefer  his  request,  and 
bore  himself  in  a  way  sufficiently  manly ;  but  Rotha  shrank  back, 
feeling  herself  wounded,  she  hardly  knew  why. 

"  I  never  gave  you  any  encouragement — any  right  to  speak  to 
me  like  this,  Mr.  Effingham,"  she  said,  turning  pale  and  trembling 
at  this  strange  story  of  love.  Her  tone  was  repellent,  almost 
indignant. 

"I  never  said  that  you  did,"  he  returned  sullenly  •  "but  when 
a  man  loves  a  girl  I  think  he  has  a  right  to  tell  her  so." 

Poor  George  Effingham  !  He  had  a  heart  somewhere  in  spite 
of  his  shallowness,  and,  to  do  him  justice,  he  was  smitten  by  the 
woman  as  well  as  the  heiress.  Kotha  relented  at  the  sight  of  his 
crestfallen  looks.  He  had  not  much  to  say  for  himself;  but  he  was 
tolerably  honest,  and  then  there  were  tears  of  positive  disappoint- 
ment in  the  poor  fellow's  eyes.  Her  next  words  were  more  gentle. 

"  Perhaps  I  ought  to  thank  you,  Mr.  Effingham.  Many  girls 
would  feel  themselves  honoured  by  what  you  have  told  me.  If  I 
have  been  impatient  or  ungrateful,  you  must  forgive  me ;  it  is  not 
my  fault  that  I  cannot  forget  him,"  continued  the  girl,  bursting 
into  tears.  "  I  don't  think  that  I  shall  ever  be  able  to  listen  to 
any  one  after  Gar." 

But,  as  he  turned  to  go,  she  held  out  her  hand  to  him  with  a 
little  contrition  for  her  hardness. 

"You  must  not  be  hurt  or  angry  because  I  cannot  forget  my 
trouble.  I  do  not  want  to  be  any  one's  wife  now  that  poor  Gar  is 
gone.  I  do  not  mean  to  marry — never — never,"  cried  the  girl, 
with  a  flush.  "  But  I  hope  I  shall  be  your  friend  always,"  smiling 
in  the  face  of  the  discomfited  young  man.  "  There,  go,  Mr.  Effing- 
ham, and  God  bless  you  !" 

Rotha  kept  her  word,  for  Nettie  did  not  marry  the  widower 
after  all ;  but  fifteen  months  afterwards  she  married  George  Effing- 
ham, and  made  him  the  best  little  wife  possible.  George  told  his 
wife  everything,  like  a  man.  But  he  was  hardly  prepared  for  the 
confidence  she  gave  him  in  return ;  he  found  that  Nettie  had  loved 
Gar  really  and  truly,  and  that  many  of  her  reckless  and  fantastic 
ways  had  grown  out  of  her  disappointment. 

She  never  told  Rotha,  though  Rotha  guessed  it ;  but  they  all 
three  became  excellent  friends.  Nettie  gave  up  fifteen  out  of  her 
three-and-twenty  bosom  friends  when  she  married,  and  consoled  her- 
self instead  with  her  babies.  But  if  any  one  had  asked  who  was 
the  most  notable  housekeeper  and  the  most  domesticated  little 
matron  in  the  whole  of  Blackscar,  they  would  tell  you  that  it  was 
Mrs.  Effingham. 

This  was  the  first  little  episode  that  disturbed  Rotha's  mono- 


THE  CHILDREN'S  HOME.  425 

tony ;  but  by  and  by  there  was  another,  when  a  great  work  grew 
out  of  a  little  speech  of  the  Vicar's. 

Rotha  was  still  insisting  on  being  Lady  Bountiful  at  the  Vicar- 
age ;  but  at  last  the  Vicar — that  most  enduring  of  men — became 
restive,  and  told  her  that  it  would  not  do  at  all ;  on  which  occasion 
he  addressed  her  in  the  following  words  : — 

"  It  will  not  do,  Rotha,  and  I  really  mean  it.  And  now  I  am 
quite  determined  that  we  shall  come  to  an  understanding  with  one 
another,  for  this  sort  of  thing  must  not  go  on." 

"  What  sort  of  thing,  Mr.  Ord  ?" 

"  Now,  Rotha,  I  can  tell  by  that  quiet  curl  of  the  lip  that  you 
are  going  to  be  troublesome ;  but  I  beg  to  inform  you  that  I  am 
quite  serious." 

"So  am  I — painfully  so,  I  assure  you.  Now,  Mr.  Ord,  what 
sort  of  thing  V 

"  Do  you  want  me  to  publish  a  list  of  your  iniquities  ?  You 
are  growing  too  barefaced  a  sinner  for  me  to  deal  with.  Never 
mind.  I  will  serve  you  up  a  resume,  hot  and  strong.  First,  there 
was  taking  Mary  away  to  Filey — a  piece  of  generous  forethought 
that  prevented  a  relapse  after  Belle's  death ;  then  there  were  the 
travelling  expenses  to  Zermatt,  and  maintaining  an  establishment 
there  for  two  months,  when  Mary  and  the  boys  and  Reuben  were 
your  visitors." 

"  And  you  would  not  be.  Oh,  do  you  think  I  have  ever  for- 
given you  that?" 

"  Forgiven,  forsooth  !  because  I  had  a  little  bit  of  manly  inde- 
pendence left.  I  like  that.  But  that  was  nothing  to  my  feelings 
when  I  got  home.  The  Vicarage  papered  and  painted  from  garret 
to  basement — my  servants  bribed  and  made  accessories  to  the  plot 
— new  carpets  and  curtains  all  over  the  house — fresh  chintz  in  the 
drawing-room — a  new  easy-chair  in  the  mother's  room — a  new- 
fangled writing-table  and  a  lot  of  oak  furniture  in  the  study! 
When  I  think  of  it  now,"  finished  the  Vicar,  passing  his  hand  over 
his  face  to  conceal  his  smile,  "  I  almost  wonder  that  I  can  have 
anything  to  do  with  such  a  criminal." 

"  Now,  Mr.  Ord,  we  have  heard  this  almost  twenty  times.  You 
forget  that  I  heard  you  tell  Nettie  the  other  day  that  it  did  your 
heart  good  to  see  dear  Mary's  face  light  up  at  the  sight  of  her 
renovated  house.  I  am  sure  you  never  liked  any  writing-table  so 
well  as  this." 

"  Bless  her  ! "  very  nearly  said  the  Vicar,  but  he  checked  him- 
self in  time  and  went  on  sternly  with  the  list. 

"  I  don't  think  perhaps  I  ought  to  mention  the  marble  cross 
and  the  memorial  window  in  the  same  category?" 


426  ROBER  T  ORD  >S  A  TONEMENT. 

"  No — oh  no,"  faltered  Rotha,  with  quivering  lip,  and  the 
Vicar,  clearing  his  throat  several  times,  went  on  in  the  same  serio- 
comic manner. 

"  But  I  do  not  think  that  a  clergyman's  wife  ought  to  dress  as 
Mary  does.  I  do  not  understand  it  myself,  of  course,"  continued 
the  Vicar,  somewhat  puzzled ;  "  and,  except  that  her  dresses  are 
black  and  shiny,  I  do  not  know  much  about  it.  But  I  do  not  think 
Mrs.  Stephen  Knowles  ought  to  say,  as  she  does,  that  Mrs.  Ord 
wears  the  most  expensive  stuffs  that  are  to  be  got.  I  heard  her 
say  so  myself  the  other  day."  But  to  his  surprise,  Rotha,  after 
vainly  trying  to  answer  him  in  the  same  vein,  suddenly  burst 
into  tears.  "  Nay,  my  dear  child,  I  am  only  in  jest.  What  is 
this  V 

"I  did  not  mean — I  tried  not.  But,  Mr.  Ord,  you  must  let 
me  do  this  for  Mary ;  you  don't  know  how  I  love  to  do  it,  and  I 
never  had  a  sister.  And  now  she  is  everything  to  me,  and  I  want 
to  feel  that  I  am  a  sister  to  her  in  Belle's  place." 

"  Dear  Rotha,  you  are  a  better  sister  to  her  than  ever  Belle 
has  been." 

"  No — no — don't  say  so  ;  almost  her  last  words  were  for  Mary; 
and,  if  it  were  true,  she  would  never  think  so." 

"  My  faithful-hearted  Mary,  no — nothing  could  ever  shake  her 
belief  in  Belle's  goodness  and  affection  to  herself.  Dear  Rotha,  we 
are  ending  our  conversation  rather  sadly.  Don't  fear  for  one 
moment  that  I  shall  ever  call  you  to  account  for  what  you  do  for 
her.  Be  sisters  in  heart  and  deed  if  you  will,  but,  Rotha,  you  have 
done  enough  for  us  now — let  it  rest  here." 

Rotha  was  silent  for  a  moment,  and  then  she  said  very  gravely, 
"  Do  you  really  wish  it  ?" 

"Yes,"  he  returned,  without  hesitation;  "my  circumstances 
are  better  now,  since  the  burden  of  poor  Belle's  maintenance  is 
withdrawn,  and  I  have  no  longer  to  help  Robert  in  supporting 
Gar.  Robert  is  quite  rich  too,  and  he  talked  in  his  last  letter  of 
having  his  godson  sent  out  to  him." 

" No,  no,"  interrupted  Rotha  hastily  ;  "let  it  be  Rufus — Rufe 
has  no  taste  for  learning,  and  Guy  has.  I  will  accede  to  all  your 
conditions  if  you  will  only  let  me  provide  for  Guy." 

The  Vicar  shook  his  head  doubtfully,  but  Rotha  laid  her  hand 
on  his  arm  persuasively  and  went  on : 

"  He  is  more  than  sixteen  now,  and  is  getting  a  great  fellow— 
too  big  to  be  idle,  and  be  a  burden  to  his  father.  In  another  year 
or  two  my  boy" — Rotha  always  called  Reuben  her  adopted  son — 
"  is  going  to  Oxford.  I  am  glad  and  thankful  the  dear  boy  is 
anxious  to  be  a  clergyman.  Let  Guy,  Robert's  godson,  go  with 


THE  CHILDREN'S  HOME.  427 

him ;  and  let  me  feel,"  whispered  Rotha,  laying  her  cheek  against 
the  kind  hand,  "  as  though  this  were  my  monument  to  Gar  ;  and 
that  the  two  boys  he  loved  so  fondly  may  become  faithful  priests, 
as  he  would  have  been  if  he  had  been  spared."  And,  deeply 
touched,  the  Vicar,  after  a  little  hesitation,  granted  her  request  for 
his  eldest  born. 

It  was  some  words  of  his  dropped  shortly  afterwards  that  gave 
Rotha  the  idea  which  she  was  so  ready  to  carry  out. 

She  was  complaining  to  him  that,  in  spite  of  her  lavish  gifts, 
her  money  seemed  to  accumulate  rather  than  otherwise. 

"  We  want  so  little,  Meg  and  I,  and  we  prefer  to  live  simply," 
added  Rotha.  "  And  there  seems  so  little  chance  of  its  finding  its 
way,  after  all,  into  Robert's  hands,  or  his  children's  either ;  for  I 
fancy,  after  what  has  happened,  that  he  will  not  marry  any  more 
than  I  shall." 

"  And  it  is  my  opinion  that  both  will  marry ;  but  all  in  good 
time,"  prophesied  the  Vicar,  who  was  the  only  one  who  had  a 
glimmering  of  Robert's  secret. 

Rotha  looked  surprised  and  a  little  hurt,  for  it  was  only  six 
months  since  she  had  refused  George  Effingham ;  and  Mary,  her 
sole  confidante,  knew  she  had  refused  him,  and  Mary  told  every- 
thing to  her  husband.  After  such  a  proof  of  faithfulness  to  Garton's 
memory,  she  scarcely  liked  to  be  told  that  it  was  possible,  nay,  very 
probable,  that  she  would  marry  after  all ;  and  Robert,  too,  who 
had  cared  for  one  woman  for  five  years. 

The  Vicar  saw  the  girl's  hot  flush,  but  he  took  no  notice.  His 
knowledge  of  the  world  told  him  that  Rotha  would  think  very 
differently  presently.  "  If  I  were  you,  I  would  seek  some  interest 
or  object  in  which  you  might  invest  your  surplus  money.  I  don't 
know  whether  you  have  ever  thought  of  such  a  thing,  or  whether 
it  would  exactly  suit  your  views,  but  the  surgeon  of  the  Cottage 
Hospital  at  Thornborough  told  me  that  he  wished  it  were  possible 
to  have  a  small  branch  establishment  at  Blackscar,  or  even  Kirkby, 
that  some  of  the  convalescent  children  might  have  a  month  or  two 
of  pure  sea  air  before  returning  to  the  wretched  alleys  and  dens 
where  they  lived." 

Rotha  almost  clapped  her  hands  when  she  heard  the  Vicar's 
words.  "The  very  thing  !"  she  exclaimed;  "the  very  thing  that 
Meg  has  been  longing  for — work  among  children,  and  I  think,"  she 
added,  with  a  quaint  sadness,  "  that  it  will  just  suit  me  too." 

And  so  it  came  about  that  the  "  Children's  Home,"  as  it  was 
called,  was  established  in  Kirkby. 

Rotha  and  Meg  thought  over  the  matter  deeply  before  they 
matured  their  plans  and  laid  them  before  the  Vicar.  Meg  was 


428  ROBERT  ORD'S  A  TONEMENT. 

even  more  enthusiastic  than  Rotha,  although  Rotha  threw  herself 
heart  and  soul  into  the  undertaking. 

By  the  Vicar's  advice  it  was  only  begun  on  a  small  scale  at 
first.  Two  or  three  of  the  whitewashed  cottages  adjoining  the 
Vicarage  were  taken  and  thrown  into  one,  and  furnished  in  the 
simplest  manner.  A  young  woman,  whose  sad  history  had  brought 
her  under  Rotha's  notice,  was  to  be  the  nurse  in  charge,  and  an 
orphan,  who  had  been  trained  under  Mrs.  Ord's  own  eye,  would  be 
sufficient  for  the  cooking  and  cleaning.  The  "Little  Sister,"  as 
she  now  began  to  style  herself,  was  to  be  head  matron  and  house- 
keeper, with  Meg  under  her. 

Perhaps  the  happiest  hours  that  Rotha  had  ever  spent  since 
Garten's  death  were  in  fitting  up  and  arranging  her  Children's 
Home.  Mary  found  her  often  singing  over  her  work  as  she  sewed 
carpets  or  stitched  blinds — nothing  seemed  to  come  amiss  to  her 
nimble  fingers.  The  boys,  Reuben  and  Guy  especially — her  two 
devoted  knights,  as  the  Vicar  dubbed  them — worked  hard  in  their 
leisure  hours.  The  three  gardens  had  been  thrown  into  one,  and 
made  a  tolerably  large  enclosure.  Guy  and  Reuben  laid  down  the 
new  grass  sods,  and  planted  the  privet -hedge  to  shut  out  the 
palings ;  while  Laurie  and  even  Arty  were  never  weary  of  rolling 
the  fresh  gravel.  And  Rufus,  who  was  no  mean  carpenter,  put  up 
shelves,  fitted  up  the  cupboards  with  pegs,  knocked  his  head 
valiantly  against  the  low  cottage  ceiling  in  hanging  the  clean 
dimity  curtains,  and  was  the  most  good-natured  aide-de-camp  to 
the  two  women  that  could  be  found. 

His  last  duty  was  to  put  up  the  huge  board  over  the  entrance, 
on  which  Reuben  had  been  bestowing  infinite  care,  and  paint  on 
it  "  The  Children's  Home."  It  was  put  up  at  the  High  Street 
entrance,  facing  the  church,  and  deeply  affected  Rotha  when  she 
went  down  to  the  bottom  of  the  garden  with  the  boys  to  read  it. 

"  How  big  it  is  ! — I  can  read  it  from  here,"  said  Arty,  con- 
templating it  with  feelings  of  awe. 

"It  really  looks  like  a  beginning,  Meg,"  whispered  Rotha; 
and  Meg,  always  chary  of  words,  dropped  her  eye-glass  with  a 
satisfied  nod. 

The  next  day  was  a  perfect  fete  to  the  young  workers,  for  the 
Vicar  and  his  wife  and  the  new  curate,  Mr.  Tregarthen,  a  distant 
relation  of  Sir  Edgar's,  were  to  come  on  a  tour  of  inspection ;  and 
Nettie  and  Aunt  Eliza  were  to  be  of  the  party ;  and  in  the  after- 
noon the  first  patient,  a  crippled  boy  afflicted  with  abscesses,  was 
to  come  over  from  Thornborough. 

Rotha  had  come  very  early  in  the  morning ;  but,  early  as  it 
was,  Rufus  and  Laurie  had  rolled  the  paths  freshly  and  watered 


THE  CHILDREN'S  HOME.  429 

the  grass,  while  Reuben  was  nailing  up  the  last  beautiful  illuminated 
text  that  Rotha  had  finished  late  last  night,  just  fronting  the 
entrance — "  Suffer  the  little  children  to  come  unto  Me,  for  of  such 
is  the  kingdom  of  heaven."  Every  room  and  nearly  every  cot  was 
furnished  with  the  same  illuminated  texts,  all  appropriate  to  the 
sick  and  suffering  little  ones  who  were  to  be  received  under  that 
roof. 

The  visitors  arrived  punctually  at  the  appointed  hour,  and  the 
boys  formed  already  a  sort  of  guard  of  honour  to  receive  them ; 
but  neither  the  Vicar  nor  Mary  could  forbear  a  smile  when  they 
saw  the  little  sister.  Rotha  and  Meg  had  arranged  that,  for  con- 
venience sake  as  well  as  decorum,  they  would  wear  a  simple  uniform 
of  gray  during  their  working  hours  at  the  Home ;  and  Rotha  wore 
a  little  cap  over  her  bright  hair,  which  suited  her  infinitely  better 
than  it  did  Meg;  for,  if  possible,  Mrs.  Carruthers  looked  more 
gauche  than  usual  in  the  homely  gray  dress  and  linen  collar  and 
cuffs  that  looked  so  natty  on  Rotha,  who  came  bustling  up  with 
her  keys  dangling  from  her  trim  waistband  to  receive  her 
friends. 

"Peace  be  to  this  house!"  said  the  Vicar,  taking  off  his 
broad -brimmed  hat;  but  one  cannot  repeat  the  whole  of  that 
solemn  beautiful  blessing,  which  thrilled  those  who  heard  it.  And 
then,  stepping  over  the  threshold,  he  spoke  a  few  forcible  words  on 
that  text — "  I  was  a  stranger,  and  ye  took  me  in  :  naked,  and  ye 
clothed  me.  I  was  sick,  and  ye  visited  me;"  and  then,  kneeling 
down,  he  invoked  a  blessing  on  the  house  and  the  work  that  was 
to  be  that  day  undertaken  for  the  glory  of  God,  and  for  the  relief 
of  His  suffering  children.  "And  oh,"  prayed  the  Vicar,  "may 
He  who  took  the  little  ones  in  His  gracious  arms  and  blessed 
them,  enter  with  us  this  day,  and  stretch  out  His  hands  in  blessing 
over  this  house  !  May  He  strengthen  the  heart  and  hands  of  this 
ministering  woman,  that  it  may  be  said  of  her  and  of  all  who 
follow  her  in  this  work,  in  that  day  of  days,  '  She  hath  done  what 
she  could.'" 

There  was  a  brief  silence,  hushed  and  full  of  feeling.  "  And 
now,"  said  the  Vicar,  rising,  and  giving  his  hand  to  Rotha,  "  We 
are  ready  to  follow  you,  and  to  see  and  admire  all  that  is  to  be 
seen.  And  first,  what  room  are  we  in  V1 

"  They  are  all  written  up  over  the  doors,"  returned  Rotha  in 
a  low  voice ;  for  she  was  somewhat  overcome  by  the  solemnity  of 
the  Vicar's  address. 

"This  is  called  the  'The  Mother's  Room,'"  interrupted  Rube 
eagerly,  who  had  kept  as  near  to  his  adopted  mother  as  pos- 
sible. 


430  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

"  I  want  to  feel  as  though  I  am  their  mother,"  returned  Rotha 
bashfully,  "  and  as  though  they  were  all  my  children  for  the  time 
being.  It  will  help  me  to  be  more  patient  and  loving  with  them 
than  I  might  otherwise  be.  This  is  where  I  shall  write  and  keep 
my  accounts,  and  receive  visitors,  and  where  Meg  will  sit  too.  I 
shall  always  be  here  from  ten  to  one  on  every  day  in  the  week,  and 
Meg  from  two  to  five  in  the  afternoon.  One  or  other  of  us  will 
always  be  here." 

"  I  see  you  mean  to  work  it  thoroughly,"  returned  the  Vicar, 
smiling.  "A  very  good  arrangement;  don't  you  think  so,  Tre- 
garthenT'  And  then  he  looked  round  approvingly  on  the  snug 
cottage  parlour,  with  its  cool  summer  matting  and  white  curtains, 
and  the  fresh  flowers  on  the  little  round  table,  and  a  beautiful 
engraving  of  "  Christ  Blessing  Little  Children  "  over  the  mantel- 
piece. The  illumination  for  this  room  was  Rotha's  favourite  one — 
"  Whatsoever  thy  hand  findeth  to  do,  do  it  with  thy  might."  And 
on  the  table,  as  though  willing  to  put  the  precept  into  practice, 
was  a  visitors'  book,  in  which  the  Vicar  wrote  the  first  entry,  and 
a  newly -lined  account -book,  with  a  formidable  array  of  pens 
bristling  in  a  very  large  inkstand. 

From  this  room  they  proceeded  to  the  kitchen,  where  they  were 
received  by  the  smiling  orphan,  clad  in  a  new  print  dress  of 
alarming  stiffness,  over  which  she  wore  a  snow-white  bib-apron. 
"  Come,  show  your  cupboards,  Emma,"  said  the  Vicar.  And  the 
girl,  curtseying  and  rosy  with  pleasure,  showed  the  shelves,  with 
their  rows  of  shining  pewter  and  china  mugs  ;  while  Caroline,  the 
nurse,  a  pleasant-looking  young  woman,  slightly  marked  with  the 
smallpox,  led  them  into  the  storeroom,  where  Rotha's  linen-press 
was,  and  where  she  was  to  keep  her  stores  of  groceries  and  jams 
and  the  simple  medicines  and  salves  that  they  were  likely  to 
need. 

Leading  out  of  this  was  the  long  low  room  where  the  children 
were  to  dine  or  have  their  lessons,  and  where  they  could  also  play 
on  rainy  days.  There  was  no  furniture  but  one  long  table  and  a 
few  chairs  and  stools ;  but  several  beautiful  prints,  all  sacred 
subjects,  hung  on  the  walls ;  and  Mary  noticed  there  were  flowers 
tastefully  arranged  in  this  room,  while  a  canary  sang  shrilly  in  a 
green  cage,  and  a  fine  tabby  cat  and  kittens  reposed  in  a  cushioned 
basket. 

"  Carrying  out  your  theories,  Rotha  ?"  said  her  friend,  with  a 
smile. 

"Yes,"  returned  Rotha  softly.  "I  cannot  imagine  children 
without  pets  and  flowers  ;  to  me  it  seems  a  part  of  their  education. 
My  children  will  delight  in  those  kittens.  If  you  open  those  cup- 


THE  CHILDREN'S  HOME.  431 

boards,  Nettie,  you  will  find  them  full  of  picture-books  and  toys. 
You  see  the  school-books  are  all  bound  neatly  for  use." 

"I  don't  believe  you  have  forgotten  a  single  thing,"  cried 
Nettie,  with  a  sigh,  half  admiring,  half  envious.  "Just  look  at 
those  little  work-boxes  for  the  girls,  Mr.  Tregarthen,  and  the 
patterns  of  wool-work  for  the  boys.  Why,  Rotha,  you  could  have 
done  nothing  else  for  months." 

"You  forget  I  have  had  Meg  to  help  me;  that  is  Meg's 
department,"  returned  Rotha,  blushing ;  and  then  they  went  up  to 
the  dormitories.  They  were  only  four  neat  little  rooms,  with  three 
or  four  beds  or  cots  apiece,  all  fitted  up  with  the  same  pretty 
summer  matting,  and  with  white  dimity  curtains,  blowing  in  the 
fresh  sea-breeze ;  over  every  bed  was  a  picture,  and  a  text  under- 
neath ;  and  a  white  plaster  angel  on  a  bracket  in  every  room 
seemed  to  keep  guard  over  the  little  sufferers. 

"  Oh,  Austin,  is  it  not  lovely  ?"  whispered  Mary,  with  tears  in 
her  eyes.  "  If  only  our  darling  Belle  had  been  here  to  see  it." 

"  She  sees  it  now,  perhaps,"  he  returned ;  "  and  our  Gar  too." 
And  Rotha,  catching  the  words,  looked  out  on  the  sunny  waves, 
and  thought  how  he  would  have  liked  it. 

Rotha  was  greatly  tired  by  all  the  excitement ;  she  had  worked 
early  and  late  too,  and,  when  all  her  visitors  except  Reuben  had 
departed,  she  merely  stayed  to  welcome  her  little  patient — a  perfect 
"Tiny  Tim"  of  a  child,  rejoicing  in  the  extraordinary  name  of 
"  Shirtle  Pearl ;"  and,  leaving  Meg  to  undress  him  and  lay  him  in 
his  little  cot,  she  went  slowly  home,  leaving  Reuben  to  have  tea  at 
the  Vicarage  with  Guy,  who  was  now  his  great  chum. 

When  she  got  home  she  found  a  letter  awaiting  her  from 
Robert,  for  they  had  kept  up  a  steady  correspondence  now  for  more 
than  two  years.  Robert  wrote  extremely  well,  and  one  of  his  long 
letters  was  always  a  treat  to  Rotha.  She  had  just  written  him  a 
full  account  of  her  plans  for  her  Children's  Home,  and  doubtless 
this  was  in  answer ;  so,  asking  Prue  to  bring  her  a  cup  of  tea  in 
her  own  room,  she  sat  down  by  the  open  window  to  enjoy  that  and 
her  letter  together. 

But  the  tea  cooled,  and  Rotha's  cheek  grew  white  before  she 
had  read  many  lines ;  but  long  before  she  had  finished  it  her  face 
was  burning,  and,  as  it  dropped  from  her  hands,  she  put  her  head 
down  on  the  window-sill  and  cried  long  and  bitterly.  But  all  she 
said  was,  "Poor  Robert!  poor  Robert!"  And  then,  "Oh,  Gar, 
what  would  you  say?  Oh,  Gar,  never — never!"  and  kissed  the 
gold  keeper  that  guarded  the  glittering  cross. 

And  yet  it  was  more  than  two  years  since  she  had  lost  him — 
and  it  had  been  but  a  nine  days'  wonder  after  all — and  Robert  had 


432  ROBERT  ORD'S  A  TONEMENT. 

written  a  letter  such  as  few  women  could  have  resisted,  and  had 
shown  her  his  heart  with  such  a  depth  of  passionate  love  in  it  that 
she  might  well  weep  and  wring  her  hands,  knowing  that  it  was  in 
vain. 

What  it  had  cost  him  to  write  it !  and  yet  every  line  was 
tinged  with  hopelessness  akin  to  despair.  It  was  as  though  he 
knew  that  he  tried  his  fate  in  vain,  and  still  could  not  resist  the 
attempt. 

"  What  you  will  say,  or  what  you  will  think,  I  dare  not  pause 
to  ask  myself,  or  I  should  never  send  this ;  but  something  within 
me  forces  me  to  speak,  and  demands  to  be  heard.  If  I  cannot 
wring  an  answer  from  you  now,  perhaps  the  coming  years  may  do 
something  for  me ;  not  that  I  can  afford  to  wait,  God  knows,  for 
I  am  growing  old  and  gray  before  my  time  with  all  this  misery, 
but  because  I  love  you  so,  Rotha,  with  every  fibre  of  my  being, 
with  every  thought  of  my  heart,  as  I  have  never — dear  Belle, 
sweet  saint,  you  know  it  now — loved  or  could  love  any  other 
woman." 

Well  may  she  tremble  and  cover  up  her  face  with  her  hands, 
and  cry  out  that  it  must  be  a  mistake — Robert !  Gar's  brother  ! — 
and  then  calm  herself  with  saying  the  dear  name  over  and  over 
again.  Does  she  feel  now,  as  she  must  have  done,  that  Gar  was 
but  a  boy  compared  to  this  man  *{  She  reads  on,  page  after  page. 
Ah  !  he  does  not  spare  himself.  She  can  hardly  bear  to  read  the 
generous  self-accusing — the  many  acts  of  his  past  cruelty  which  he 
brings  back  to  her  recollection;  it  was  as  though  he  strove  to 
humiliate  himself  even  in  her  sight.  Never,  he  tells  her,  has 
he  forgiven  himself — never  is  her  face,  so  sweet  and  reproachful, 
absent  from  his  mind  for  one  moment ;  and  then  he  speaks  of  the 
long  atonement,  of  the  dreary  evenings  when  he  and  his  remorse 
are  brought  face  to  face,  and  how  little  by  little  he  feels  himself 
purified  by  suffering,  and  more  worthy  to  address  her. 

"  Not  that  my  pride  would  even  now  tell  you  this,"  he  finished, 
"  if  I  did  not  know  that  I  might  any  day  command  an  independent 
position  in  England.  But,  Rotha,  unless  I  grow  weak — which  I 
may,  Heaven  knows,  seeing  to  what  I  have  come — I  have  almost 
sworn  that  nothing  but  you  can  ever  recall  me ;  but  speak  that 
word,  Rotha,  and  I  come. 

"Yours,  through  and  through,  however  you  may  scorn  my 
love — ROBEET  ORD." 

Ah,  well  may  she  make  herself  nearly  ill  with  weeping,  and 
creep  to  her  bed  that  her  faithful  Meg  may  not  guess  the  cause  of 
her  grief.  Not  for  days — days  during  which  her  white  weary  looks 
move  the  Vicar  and  his  wife  to  compassion,  not  unmixed  with 


THE  CHILDREN'S  HOME.  433 

curiosity — does  she  write  her  answer.  "  She  is  in  trouble,"  she 
tells  them ;  but  begs  them  earnestly  not  to  ask  her  why,  and  then 
goes  and  sits  among  her  children  till  her  sweet  face  grows  calm 
and  serene  again.  But  that  is  not  until  she  has  written  to  him, 
not  until  she  has  penned  a  few  lines  with  many  tears,  in  which 
she  tells  him  that  she  loves  him  dearly,  dearly;  that  she  will 
pray  for  him,  and  think  of  him  day  and  night,  but  that  she  cannot 
forget  Gar.  No,  she  cannot,  she  cannot !  And  then  bids  God 
bless  him  for  his  faithful  friend  and  sister — ROTH  A. 


28 


CHAPTER   XXXIX. 

THE   BROKEN    CLAUSE. 

"Come,  lest  this  heart  should,  cold  and  cast  away, 

Die  ere  the  guest  adored  she  entertain  ; 
Lest  eyes  which  never  saw  Thine  earthly  day, 
Should  miss  thy  heavenly  reign. 

"  Come  weary-eyed  from  seeking  in  the  night, 

Thy  wanderers  strayed  upon  the  pathless  wold, 
Who  wounded,  dying,  cry  to  Thee  for  light, 
And  cannot  find  their  fold. " 

JEAN  INGELOW. 

BUT  another  episode  occurred  shortly  which  disturbed  Rotha  not  a 
little,  and  which  for  a  short  time  broke  up  the  tranquillity  of  Bryn. 

It  was  about  four  or  five  months  after  the  Children's  Home 
had  been  established.  So  far  the  trial  had  been  a  success.  Nine 
children  had  been  received  as  patients,  and  Rotha  was  now  at  work 
in  earnest. 

Every  one  who  saw  it — and  visitors  were  numerous  during  the 
first  few  weeks — said  that  the  home  was  admirably  managed,  as 
indeed  it  was. 

Rotha  was  there  every  morning,  and  never  left  till  Meg  took 
her  place.  Rotha's  part  was  to  give  out  stores,  write  orders  for 
the  tradesmen,  keep  the  accounts,  and  receive  visitors.  She  also 
looked  after  Caroline  and  saw  that  the  dormitories  were  kept  tidy 
and  ventilated. 

Meg's  duties  were  different ;  she  presided  over  the  children's 
meals,  gave  short  lessons  to  those  who  were  well  enough  to  receive 
them,  taught  the  little  girls  work,  and  sang  hymns  with  them,  and 
when  the  weather  was  fine  took  them  down  to  the  shore,  where 
she  might  be  seen  any  lovely  afternoon  among  the  sand-hills  with  a 
crippled  baby  in  her  arms,  pushing  Shirtle  Pearl's  perambulator 
before  her,  and  surrounded  by  a  crew  of  sickly  or  limping  little 
ones.  This  was  Meg's  own  work,  and  she  dearly  loved  it. 

Of  course  Rotha's  time  was  greatly  taken  up,  and  an  afternoon 


THE  BROKEN  CLA  USE.  435 

or  an  evening  at  the  Vicarage  became  a  rare  treat.  In  general  it 
was  understood  that  Meg  and  she  were  to  have  their  evenings  free, 
and  to  spend  them  together  in  the  old  way,  but  often  Meg  stopped 
till  the  little  ones  were  safely  tucked  up  in  their  dormitories,  and 
Shirtle  had  left  off  moaning  himself  to  sleep.  Meg  used  to  sing 
the  Evening  Hymn  with  the  children,  and  then  come  out  through 
the  sweet  summer  air  to  meet  Rotha  going  to  or  from  church. 
Rotha  used  to  smile,  but  she  never  reproached  Meg  for  her  delay. 
She  knew  that  Meg  began  to  centre  all  her  happiness  within  those 
cottage  walls.  The  children  loved  Meg  almost  more  than  they  did 
Rotha.  She  told  them  quaint  stories  when  they  sat  among  the 
sand-hills,  and  she  could  carry  two  or  three  together  in  her  strong 
arms  when  they  were  tired.  When  the  children  were  sick  they 
always  asked  Meg  to  come  and  sing  to  them.  Meg  could  sing 
them  "  Ye  faire  one  with  ye  goldene  locks"  as  well  as  she  could 
"The  Three  Kings"  and  the  Manger  songs.  Rotha,  returning  for 
her  afternoon,  would  peep  in  sometimes  into  the  refectory,  as  it 
was  called,  and  find  Meg  sitting  on  the  floor  with  the  children 
swarming  round  her,  telling  the  story  of  "Henny  Penny,"  or 
"  Goody  Two  Shoes,"  or  the  "  Little  Tiny,  Tiny  Woman"— kittens 
and  children  and  Meg,  and  sometimes  Rotha's  little  gray  skye 
Fidgets,  all  in  a  chaotic  mass  together.  The  youngest  child  there, 
a  mere  baby,  would  clap  her  hands  and  say  "  Meg"  if  asked  whom 
she  loved,  though  she  always  finished  with  "  Meg,  and  little  mother 
too,  and  Meg  loves  Annie." 

It  would  have  been  no  wonder  if  Rotha  grew  absorbed  in  her 
sweet  work ;  but  she  did  not  forget  the  duties  that  her  position 
entailed,  and,  though  she  told  all  her  friends  frankly  that  she  had 
no  time  for  either  paying  or  receiving  mere  calls  of  ceremony,  she 
still  accepted  invitations  for  a  quiet  evening,  and  now  and  then 
dispensed  hospitality  by  throwing  open  her  pretty  rooms  and  mak- 
ing all  her  friends  heartily  welcome. 

These  evenings  were  much  sought  after,  for  Rotha  was  an 
admirable  hostess  under  Mrs.  Ord's  chaperonage,  and  among  her 
most  frequent  visitors  were  Lady  Tregarthen  and  Mr.  Ramsay,  who 
were  both  liberal  subscribers  to  the  Home. 

Rotha  had  taken  the  Vicar's  advice,  and  received  all  voluntary 
donations  and  subscriptions,  and  after  the  first  year  it  was  found 
necessary  to  form  a  ladies'  committee,  when  Rotha  was  unanimously 
elected  as  secretary  and  treasurer,  and  in  a  little  while  another 
cottage  was  added,  and  then  another,  as  the  applications  became 
more  numerous,  until  at  last  Rotha  acceded  to  Mr.  Ramsay's 
generous  proposition  to  unite  with  her  in  building  new  and  more 
spacious  premises;  and  when  this  was  done,  which  was  not  for 


436  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

some  years  after  this  story  closes,  Meg  was  elected  as  resident 
lady-superintendent,  and  spent  the  last  years  of  a  long  and  useful 
life  among  the  children  whom  she  so  dearly  loved. 

One  cloudy  afternoon  late  in  October  Meg  had  occasion  to  go 
into  Blackscar  on  some  business  connected  with  the  Home.  Roth  a, 
remaining  on  duty  during  her  absence,  was  sitting  writing  in  the 
mother's  room,  with  baby  Annie  fast  asleep  at  her  feet,  when 
there  was  a  quick  light  tap  at  the  door,  and  the  Vicar  entered. 

"  I  thought  Mrs.  Carruthers  was  here,  Rotha,"  he  said  rather 
anxiously.  "  Is  she  up  at  Bryn  then  ?" 

"  No,  she  has  just  gone  into  Blackscar,  and  I  do  not  expect 
her  back  till  nearly  five.  Why,  did  you  want  her?"  she  asked, 
struck  by  something  grave  in  the  Vicar's  tone. 

In  reply  he  went  to  the  door  and  shut  it  carefully,  and  then, 
taking  a  seat,  stirred  the  fire  thoughtfully  and  warmed  his  hands 
over  it,  for  the  afternoons  were  growing  decidedly  chilly. 

"Do  you  think  you  could  find  her?"  he  asked  after  a  pause, 
during  which  Rotha's  curiosity  had  been  strongly  roused  by  his 
unusual  gravity. 

"  Well,  I  am  not  quite  sure  that  I  can.  She  has  gone  to  the 
infirmary,  and  to  the  bank,  and  to  several  shops.  Is  anything  the 
matter,  Mr.  Ord?" 

"  There  is  no  time  to  be  lost,"  continued  the  Vicar  musingly, 
and  rubbing  his  hands  slowly  over  each  other.  "  The  Rector  said 
so,  and  I  suppose  he  knew.  Rotha,  who  do  you  think  is  lying  ill, 
apparently  dying,  only  two  or  three  miles  from  here?" 

Rotha  looked  at  him  earnestly  for  a  moment,  and  then  the 
truth  flashed  on  her. 

"  Do  you  mean  Jack  Carruthers,  poor  Meg's  husband?"  and 
the  Vicar  nodded. 

"I  have  just  come  from  the  Rector's,  Rotha.  I  hurried  on 
here  thinking  I  could  find  her  before  I  took  the  train  to  Thorn- 
borough.  You  know  I  have  to  preach  a  charity  sermon  at  St. 
Luke's?" 

"Well !"  exclaimed  Rotha  breathlessly. 

"I  must  tell  you  what  he  said.  But  you  must  find  Mrs. 
Carruthers,  for  there  is  no  time  to  be  lost.  Mr.  Hodgson  sent  for 
me  directly  he  found  out  the  truth. 

"  Early  this  morning  he  was  sent  for  by  the  landlady  of  the 
'Pig  and  Whistle,'  a  little  public-house  on  the  Leatham  road, 
just  before  you  turn  off  by  the  path  that  leads  to  the  Leatham 
woods.  I  daresay  you  have  often  passed  it ;  there  is  an  old  stone 
drinking- trough  placed  under  a  very  fine  elm  tree,  with  a  small 
green  before  it,  always  full  of  geese." 


THE  BROKEN  CLAUSE.  437 

"  Yes,  yes,"  returned  Rotha  eagerly ;  "  I  went  in  once  with 
Meg  to  ask  my  way." 

"Well,  the  landlady  is  a  very  tidy  body,  and  she  told  Mr. 
Hodgson  when  he  got  there  that  she  was  greatly  troubled  about  a 
poor  man  who  had  come  in  for  a  night's  lodging  about  ten  days 
ago,  and  had  lain  there  ever  since,  growing  from  bad  to  worse,  till 
at  last  the  doctor  said  that  he  had  not  many  hours  to  live,  and  she 
thought  she  had  better  fetch  a  clergyman  to  him.  She  described 
him  when  he  came  in  as  very  emaciated  and  miserable  looking, 
almost  as  though  he  had  been  half-starved,  with  a  driven  hunted 
look  in  his  eyes,  as  though  he  was  not  quite  in  his  right  mind;  and 
she  described  to  the  Rector  his  moaning  and  restless  picking  at  the 
clothes  as  a  sign  that  the  end  was  not  far  off." 

"  Oh,  my  poor  Meg !"  sighed  Rotha;  but  the  Vicar  went  on. 

"  I  must  tell  you  exactly  what  happened,  and  then  leave  it  in 
your  hands.  Mr.  Hodgson  went  up,  of  course,  and  found  the  poor 
creature  just  as  she  described,  and  a  more  forlorn  object  the  Rector 
said  he  had  never  seen.  He  had  evidently  once  been  a  fine- 
looking  man,  the  Rector  said,  but  a  more  hollow  wasted  face  he 
had  never  seen,  rendered  more  intensely  death-like  by  the  ragged 
black  whiskers  and  beard,  and  eyes  unnaturally  large.  He  seemed 
pleased  to  see  Mr.  Hodgson,  and  told  him  scraps  of  his  history  as 
well  as  he  could.  He  had  been  a  sheep-farmer  in  Australia,  and 
had  afterwards  gone  to  the  diggings ;  had  then  lost  all,  and  worked 
his  way  home  again;  and  in  some  drunken  fray  had  broken  a  blood- 
vessel, and  had  lain  in  a  hospital  for  months  at  the  point  of  death. 
He  gave  his  name  as  Jack  Carruthers,  and  told  Mr.  Hodgson  that 
he  had  a  wife  living,  he  supposed,  near  London ;  that  he  had  made 
some  attempts  to  find  her,  but  had  never  succeeded.  But  his 
description  of  her  to  Mr.  Hodgson  so  exactly  resembled  our  Mrs. 
Carruthers,  whom  he  had  met  several  times  at  my  house,  that, 
without  saying  anything  to  the  poor  fellow,  he  brought  back  a 
scrap  of  his  handwriting  with  him  and  sent  for  me  at  once." 

"  There  can  be  no  doubt  that  it  is  her  husband,  I  suppose," 
interrupted  Rotha  at  this  point. 

"  None,  I  think ;  but  of  course  she  will  recognise  his  hand- 
writing. Now,  Rotha,  I  can  do  nothing  more  in  the  business  my- 
self, and  I  must  leave  it,  as  I  said  before,  in  your  hands.  Will 
you  undertake  to  find  Mrs.  Carruthers  for  me,  for  I  am  afraid,  from 
the  Rector's  account,  that  this  is  the  poor  fellow's  last  night  on 
earth  ?  Mr.  Hodgson  has  promised  to  go  again  to-morrow  in  case 
he  should  be  alive.  But  he  could  make  very  little  impression  on 
him.  All  the  time  he  was  praying  he  was  moaning  out  to  '  Madge' 
— I  suppose  that  was  his  wife — to  come  to  him." 


438  ROBER  T  ORD  'S  A  TONEMENT. 

"  I  will  go  at  once,"  returned  Rotha,  lifting  up  the  sleeping 
child  in  her  arms. 

"  And  I  will  wait  and  go  with  you  as  far  as  the  station,"  ob- 
served the  Vicar.  And  in  another  five  minutes  Rotha  and  he  had 
left  the  house  together. 

The  bank  was  already  closed,  but  Rotha  went  to  the  infirmary 
and  to  several  of  the  principal  shops  before  she  found  Meg  in  the 
chemist's  dark  little  back  parlour  waiting  till  sundry  prescriptions 
had  been  made  up.  Rotha  made  some  excuse  to  the  druggist  and 
took  her  out,  and  then,  linking  her  arm  in  hers,  led  the  way  down 
one  of  the  side  streets  which  led  to  old  Blackscar  church  and  to 
the  Leatham  road. 

It  was  a  cloudy  afternoon,  and  already  it  was  growing  dusk, 
and  one  or  two  drops,  forerunners  of  a  wet  evening,  splashed  down 
on  Rotha's  mantle. 

"  Meg,  darling,  can  you  bear  a  shock  1  Will  you  promise  me 
not  to  be  too  much  upset  at  what  I  am  going  to  tell  you  1"  began 
Rotha  very  tenderly,  all  the  more  as  she  felt  the  sudden  close 
grip  of  her  arm. 

"  Something  is  the  matter  !  You  have  heard  of  Jack  !  He  is 
dead  ! "  exclaimed  Meg  in  a  wild  pitiful  sort  of  way,  as  she  caught 
sight  of  Rotha's  grave  face. 

"  No ;  not  so  bad  as  that.  Meg,  dear,  look  at  this  writing ;  is 
it  his  ? "  She  need  not  have  asked  when  she  saw  Meg  kissing  it 
and  crying  over  it. 

"  My  own  Jack's  handwriting  !  Oh,  Rotha,  for  pity's  sake 
tell  me  where  you  have  got  it.  Is  he  alive?  Can  I  go  to 
him  ?" 

"  We  are  going  to  him,  and  I  trust  to  Heaven  that  we  may 
find  him  alive.  But  he  is  very  ill,  Meg — desperately  so ;  dying, 
they  say."  And  then  as  they  hurried  on,  regardless  of  the  fast 
pattering  drops,  she  told  Meg  all  that  she  had  heard  from  the 
Vicar,  and  begged  her  to  prepare  herself  and  be  calm  for  Jack's 
sake,  as  well  as  her  own,  for  he  was  very  ill,  so  very  ill,  and 
so  on. 

Meg  made  no  answer  but  to  wring  her  hands  and  walk  on 
faster;  once  she  broke  out  into  bitter  weeping  when  she  heard 
he  had  asked  for  "Madge." 

"  He  never  called  me  anything  but  that  when  he  was  in  a  good 
humour,"  she  said.  "  Oh,  Jack,  Jack,  just  to  hear  you  call  me 
that  once  more,"  and  then  quickened  her  pace  till  Rotha  could 
hardly  keep  up  with  her.  It  was  a  wet  evening  and  still  early, 
and  there  were  few  loungers  around  the  door  of  the  'Pig  and 
Whistle';  and  they  took  very  little  notice  of  the  two  ladies, 


THE  BROKEN  CLAUSE.  439 

who,  they  supposed,  wished  to  take  shelter  from  the  approaching 
storm. 

"It  is  going  to  be  a  dirty  night,  ladies,"  said  one  who  looked 
like  the  ostler. 

Eotha  said,  "  Yes,  a  very  unpleasant  evening,"  and  pushed  past 
into  the  little  dark  entry,  where  a  bright  glow  shone  from  the  bar, 
in  which  a  rosy-faced  landlady  was  sitting  alone  at  a  little  round 
table  drinking  tea. 

Even  under  these  painful  circumstances  Rotha  noticed  how 
cosy  it  looked,  and  what  a  bright  fire  it  was,  before  the  landlady 
started  up  at  the  sight  of  the  two  ladies,  and  came  bustling  up. 

"  You  have  a  Mr.  Carruthers  here,"  began  Rotha  with  diffi- 
culty, and  in  an  instant  a  shade  came  over  the  woman's  pleasant 
face. 

"Dear,  dear ;  yes,  the  poor  creature  !  The  Rector  has  sent  you, 
has  he  ?"  glancing  curiously  at  Rotha's  dress  and  Meg's  agitated 
face. 

Rotha  said  "Yes"  impatiently,  and  begged  that  they  might 
be  shown  up  at  once  ;  but  Meg  put  her  hurriedly  aside. 

"  I  am  his  wife,  good  woman — his  wife — do  you  hear  ?  For 
pity's  sake  take  me  to  him  at  once." 

"Dear  sakes  alive,"  muttered  the  rosy  landlady;  "who  would 
have  thought  his  wife  was  here,  poor  creature  ?  The  Madge,  no 
doubt,  he's  calling  after.  Bet's  with  him  now.  Bet's  a  famous 
nurse,  and  was  with  him  all  last  night.  Bet's  nursed  two  brothers 
and  a  sister,  and  saw  a  winding-sheet  in  the  candle  last  night," 
gasped  out  the  garrulous  landlady  as  she  toiled  before  them  up  the 
steep  crooked  staircase.  "  One  landing  more.  He  asked  for  our 
worst  room,  having  little  money;  and  he's  got  it,  sure  enough. 
Stoop  your  heads  as  you  go  in,  ladies,  for  the  ceiling  is  rarely  low  ; 
and  there  is  a  deep  step,  you  might  break  your  necks  leading  down 
to  the  room." 

"  Hush,  he's  partly  asleep,"  said  Bet,  a  strong-featured,  red- 
armed  wench,  coming  forward.  "  It's  been  'Madge,  Madge'  off  and 
on  all  the  afternoon  till  I'm  that  moidered  I'm  half  crazed." 

"It  is  the  gentleman's  wife,  Bet,"  said  the  landlady,  wiping 
her  eyes  on  her  apron  as  Meg,  with  a  sort  of  sob,  kneels  down 
beside  the  narrow  truckle-bed ;  and  Rotha,  half  awed,  half  dizzy, 
looks  round  the  comfortless  garret  with  its  lean-to  roof,  and  its 
carpetless  floor,  and  the  creaking  bedstead  with  the  blue-striped 
counterpane.  Bet  puts  her  arms  akimbo  and  says,  "  Lor  heart's 
alive,  missis,  and  to  think  of  that !"  and  breaks  into  a  hysterical 
chuckle.  The  rain  pours  down  against  the  crazy  window,  the  sign 
flaps  madly  outside,  the  fire  splutters  up  with  a  faint  gurgle,  and 


4-10  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

the  candle  gutters  low  in  the  socket.  Meg,  kneeling  with  her 
arms  extended  over  the  bed,  kisses  a  pale  hand  lying  motionless  on 
the  coverlet ;  and  the  uneasy  sleeper  stirs  and  moans  restlessly, 
"Madge,  Madge!" 

"Hear  him,"  says  Bet;  "he  says  nought  else." 

Meg,  turning  her  white  face  to  Rotha,  repeats  softly,  "Hear 
him  r  And  whispers  to  herself,  "  Thank  God  !" 

Rotha  clears  the  room  after  that,  and  sets  the  guttering  candle 
aside  and  lights  another;  and  then,  replenishing  the  tiuy  fire, 
closes  the  door  and  comes  again  to  the  bed. 

"  He  looks  very  ill,  Meg,"  she  whispers.  Meg,  laying  the 
skeleton  hand  against  her  cheek,  points  to  the  wasted  arm  and 
shakes  her  head. 

"  Not  long  for  this  world,  are  you,  Jack?  Oh  Jack  !  Jack  !" 
she  repeats  in  a  heartrending  voice,  "  will  you  not  wake  up  once 
more  and  speak  to  your  wife?"  And,  as  though  the  suppressed 
agony  of  her  tones  had  power  to  rouse  him,  he  opened  his  eyes 
wildly  and  rolled  them  from  side  to  side. 

"  Whose  voice  was  that?"  he  muttered  hoarsely;  "it  is  like 
hers  when  the  dead  boy  was  carried  out.  Don't  haunt  me, 
Madge  ;  don't  haunt  me  ! " 

"  Oh,  Jack,  your  own  Madge — never,  never  !" 

The  restless  picking  of  the  clothes  recommenced. 

"Who  said  it  was  my  fault,  and  that  she  might  have  died 
too  ?"  he  raved  more  loudly.  "  Somebody  pointed  out  the  black 
bruise  on  her  neck.  Who  struck  her?  Not  I.  'Don't  strike 
me,  Jack,  when  I  love  you  so,'  she  said,  a  curse  on  her  white  re- 
proachful face.  No,  Madge,  I  did  not  mean  that.  Come  here,  my 
girl.  The  boy  died  and  the  mother  too,  but  I  did  not  murder  them. 
All  the  legions  of  hell  are  trying  to  put  it  on  me.  But  I  won't  say 
I  did  it,  I  won't !"  and  the  voice  fell  into  indistinct  muttering. 

"  Jack  !  do  you  not  know  me,  dear  Jack  ?" 

"Know  you — too  well,"  he  muttered.  "You  are  Madge 
Browning — tall  Madge  Browning — old  miser  Browning's  daughter 
— ugly  as  sin.  Who  said  that  1  Nonsense.  I've  brought  you 
some  carnations.  Dark  reds  for  Madge's  faded  colours.  Don't 
wear  white,  it  does  not  suit  you.  Say  it  aloud.  Louder  still.  I 
can't  hear  you — love,  honour,  and  cherish.  Whom  ?  Browning's 
daughter  ?  Ah,  ah,  no !  Nonsense.  Kiss  me,  Madge.  I'm  a 
drunken  brute,  but  I  never  meant  to  hurt  you." 

"  He  does  not  know  me.  Oh,  Jack,  one  word,  only  one 
word  !" 

"  Hush  !  she  is  playing  her  music — grand,  grand  !  The  '  Dead 
March  in  Saul.'  No,  not  that.  Do  you  hear  ?  Ah,  terrible, 


THE  BROKEN  CLA  USE.  441 

terrible  !"  Again  the  indistinct  mutterings,  again  he  dozed,  then 
woke  more  conscious  as  Meg  was  putting  something  to  his  lips. 

"  Who  is  this  ?     Not  Madge— Madge  herself ! " 

"Yes,  your  own  Madge,  dear;  your  faithful  loving  wife. 
Drink  some  more,  dear  Jack." 

The  hollow  eyes  stared  over  the  rim  of  the  china  vessel,  and 
then  he  pushed  it  aside. 

"  No  more.  I  can't  swallow.  Is  it  really  you,  Madge,  and 
not  a  dream  ?" 

"  Really  and  truly.     Thank  God  you  know  me  at  last !" 

"I  don't  know  you,"  he  repeated,  half  frightened.  "My 
Madge  had  no  gray  hair,  and  her  face  was  not  white  like  yours." 

"  That  was  seven  years  ago,  Jack." 

"  Seven  years  ago  ?  ay ;  that's  a  long  time,  surely."  He 
seemed  wandering  again,  but  she  roused  him. 

"  Say  something  to  me  before  you  go  to  sleep,  Jack,"  she  said, 
supporting  the  poor  dying  head  on  her  arm.  "  Say  *  God  bless  you, 
Madge,'  once — only  once  !" 

"  God  bless  you,  Madge  !  That  is  a  prayer,  isn't  it  ?  I  haven't 
said  my  prayers  for  seven  years  ;  never,  I  think,  since  I  was  a 
child."  He  looked  up  in  her  face  as  though  a  glimmering  of  the 
terrible  truth  reached  him  even  in  his  semi -consciousness.  "I 
haven't  said  my  prayers,  and  I  am  going  to  die." 

"  Say  them  now.  Oh,  Jack,  fold  your  hands  in  mine  and  say 
one  prayer  for  mercy  !"  He  shook  his  head  feebly. 

"  I  don't  know  any.  Teach  me,  Madge."  And  he  let  her 
hold  his  hands,  and  tried  to  say  the  words  after  her. 

"  *  I  will  arise  and  go  to  my  Father.  To  my  Father.'  What 
next,  Madge  ?  *  And  will  say  unto  Him,  Father,  I  have  sinned 

against  heaven,  and  before — before The  broken  clause  was 

never  finished,  for  he  dropped  his  face,  muttering  still,  upon  her 
bosom.  Two  hours  afterwards  he  slept  away,  unconscious  still, 
and  Meg  fell  weeping  upon  Rotha's  neck,  and  suffered  her  to  lead 
her  from  the  room. 


CHAPTER   XL 

FIVE    YEARS   AFTERWARDS. 

"  Her  letters  too, 

Tho'  far  between,  and  coming  fitfully 
Like  broken  music,  written  as  she  found 
Or  made  occasion,  being  strictly  watch'd, 
Charm'd  him  thro'  every  labyrinth  till  he  saw 
An  end,  a  hope,  a  light  breaking  upon  him." 

TENNYSON. 

"  Yes  it  was  love,  if  thoughts  of  tenderness 
Tried  in  temptation,  strengthen'd  by  distress, 
Unmov'd  by  absence,  firm  in  every  clime, 
And  yet,  oh,  more  than  all  !  untired  by  time." 

BYRON. 

Two  more  years  passed  on,  summer  and  winter,  seed-time  and 
harvest,  since  Meg  closed  the  eyes  of  her  poor  prodigal,  and  took 
up  the  fresh  burthen  of  her  grief  and  her  widowhood  together. 

At  first  the  shock  seemed  to  have  stunned  her,  and  then  she 
wept  till  her  poor  half-blind  eyes  could  weep  no  more.  It  was  sad 
to  witness  that  terrible  waste  of  love  and  sorrow ;  she  grew  worn 
and  gray — thin  almost  to  a  shadow ;  a  sick  loathing  of  all  her  duties 
came  upon  her  ;  she  shrank  even  from  her  children,  and  for  a  little 
while  cared  to  do  nothing  but  to  sit  by  Jack's  grave  and  to  brood 
silently  over  her  trouble.  But  the  dark  hour  passed  and  the  pale 
face  grew  placid  again  under  the  widow's  cap  ;  and  strangers,  as 
they  lingered  in  the  churchyard  in  the  summer  evenings,  often 
paused  to  hear  the  wonderful  rich  pealing  of  the  organ,  and  steal- 
ing into  the  empty  church  in  the  twilight,  saw  Meg  sitting  alone 
with  upturned  face  in  the  moonlight  and  playing  fragments  of 
strange  requiem  masses.  "Was  it  Jack's  requiem  she  was  playing  ? 
Hark  !  it  breaks  into  a  low  monotonous  chant.  The  moonbeams 
play  on  the  chancel  pavement.  The  perfume  of  fresh  lilies,  dim 
white  globes  with  golden  hearts,  bound  up  with  scented  sheaves, 
pervades  the  air  ;  a  voice  tender,  tremulous,  breaks  into  deep  rich 
tones — "  I  will  arise  and  go  to  my  Father — 


FIVE   YEARS  AFTERWARDS.  443 

Ah !  Jack's  dying  prayer.  The  broken  sentence  unfinished 
and  suggestive.  The  strangers  steal  away.  Meg  comes  out,  a 
black  shadowy  figure,  and  pauses  for  a  moment  by  a  white  tomb- 
stone whereon  is  the  name  "  Jack  Carruthers,"  and  underneath  it 
that  noble  clause  from  the  Creed — "  I  believe  in  the  forgiveness 
of  sins." 

"  Where  have  you  been  to-night,  dear  Meg  ?"  And  Meg,  with 
the  solemn  light  still  shining  in  her  eyes,  would  often  answer : 

"  Half-way  to  Paradise  and  back.  And  the  music  seemed 
like  angels'  wings,  and  carried  me  away  till  the  chords  jarred. 
And  then  I  went  to  Jack's  grave  and  wished  him  good-night." 
And  Meg  would  turn  the  wedding-ring  round  and  round  on  her 
thin  ringer  with  a  happy  smile.  And  Rotha  would  know  that  that 
strange  communion  had  strengthened  and  refreshed  her,  and  that 
for  many  a  day  Meg  would  be  bright,  almost  joyous. 

But  the  anniversary  of  Jack's  death  had  come  round  twice,  and 
it  was  now  more  than  five  years  since  Robert  had  come  up  to  Bryn 
to  wish  Rotha  good-bye.  More  than  five  years,  for  then  the  rough 
March  winds  had  been  blowing,  and  now  the  soft  May  breezes 
swept  refreshingly  over  the  blue  summer  sea,  and  the  primroses 
and  the  cowslips  had  long  ago  made  golden  hollows  in  the  Burnley 
glens  and  Leatham  woods,  and  the  children  went  out  in  the  fields 
to  make  daisy-chains,  and  to  hunt  in  the  hedges  for  brier-roses  and 
bunches  of  pink  and  white  May  blossoms.  And  Meg  had  taken 
all  her  nurslings  to  drink  fresh  new  milk  at  a  farm,  and  to  see  the 
young  calves  and  lambs  and  the  brood  of  yellow  ducklings  at 
Gammer  Stokes',  and  Rotha  was  up  at  the  Vicarage  helping  Mary 
to  arrange  her  plans  for  the  Sunday  school  treat. 

"  Austin  has  decided  that  it  must  be  Burnley-upon-Sea  this 
time,"  began  Mary,  as  Rotha  entered  the  room.  Mary  was  sitting 
on  her  low  chair  by  the  open  window  watching  Arty  playing  on 
the  lawn  with  his  father.  They  were  attempting  a  game  of  cricket, 
with  Jock  and  Jasper  as  long-stops,  and  the  root  of  an  old  tree  for 
a  stump.  And,  to  enhance  the  glory  of  the  game,  Arty  had  already 
scored  more  than  the  Vicar.  Arty  had  taken  to  a  jacket  and 
trousers  now,  and  looked  very  boyish  in  his  turned -down  collar 
and  blue  ribbon.  And  Laurie,  who  was  lying  on  the  grass  lazily 
watching  them  with  his  broad-brimmed  straw  hat  tilted  over  his 
eyes,  was  now  a  tall  thin  stripling  of  fifteen,  with  a  fair  effeminate 
face,  that  had  grown  strangely  like  poor  Belle's,  and  which  bid  fair 
to  be  almost  as  beautiful.  In  fact,  Laurie's  beauty  and  his  lazi- 
ness, his  sweet  voice  and  his  lovable  indolent  ways,  often  made 
Mary  and  the  Vicar  anxious  about  their  boy's  future — Mary  on 
account  of  his  delicacy,  and  the  Vicar  for  fear  that  his  talents 


444  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

should  outstrip  his  energy.  But  they  need  not  have  feared  if  they 
could  have  known  the  future.  For  the  seeds  of  self-sacrifice  and 
self-renunciation  were  somewhere  hidden  in  Laurie's  sweet  nature, 
and  came  to  light  nobly  at  a  fitting  time  ;  for,  having  been  trained 
by  his  own  desire  for  the  priesthood,  he  was  one  of  the  few  who, 
on  the  great  day  of  intercession  for  the  missions,  consecrated  his 
fresh  young  life  to  the  arduous  work  of  a  missionary ;  and  among 
the  names  of  those  who  were  reckoned  as  the  first-fruits  of  that 
mighty  prayer  which  pulsed  through  the  length  and  breadth  of 
England  was  the  name  of  Laurence  Garton  Ord. 

And  the  mother  who  gave  up  the  flower  of  her  flock  to  this 
noble  work,  and  the  fair  young  creature  who  had  promised  to 
follow  his  fortunes  as  soon  as  he  can  make  a  home  for  her  in  that 
foreign  clime,  will  long  remember  the  day  when  Laurie,  coming 
out  from  the  Church  "  ruddy  and  beautiful "  as  a  young  David, 
walked  silently  home  beside  them,  and  then,  putting  his  arm  round 
his  mother,  told  them  that  he  had  dedicated  himself  to  a  distant 
ministry,  and  asked  his  father's  blessing  on  his  undertaking. 

But  on  this  May  afternoon  in  question  Laurie  was  nothing  but 
a  fair-haired  stripling,  graceful  and  lazy  enough  indeed  to  justify 
Rotha's  name,  still  applied  to  him,  of  "  the  little  king."  Rufus, 
loose-limbed  and  freckled  still,  but  handsome  enough  in  his  mother's 
eyes,  had  joined  his  uncle  long  ago  in  New  York,  and  was  doing 
well.  "  As  sturdy  and  independent  and  Rufus-like  as  ever,"  wrote 
Robert.  While  Guy  and  Reuben,  fine  young  men  now — Guy 
nearly  twenty-one — were  two  young  undergraduates  at  Queen's. 
Reuben  was  a  reading  man,  and  hoped  to  take  high  honours,  but 
Guy  had  joined  the  boating  set ;  they  were  still  chums  and  insepar- 
able, but  Reuben,  the  younger  and  steadier,  kept  Guy  straight, 
aud  pulled  him  up  every  now  and  then  when  his  fun  and  inex- 
haustible spirit  were  likely  to  get  him  into  mischief.  Both  of 
them  wrote  to  Rotha  dutifully,  and  called  her  "  the  little  mother," 
but  Rube's  letters  are  the  more  affectionate  and  frequent.  Five 
years  have  passed  very  lightly  over  Rotha  Maturin.  She  is  seven- 
and-twenty  now,  but  she  hardly  looks  it ;  she  is  a  little  thin  and 
pale,  slightly  grave  perhaps,  but  the  sweet  face  is  as  calm  and  good 
as  ever,  and  she  looks  a  mere  girl  this  afternoon  in  her  fresh  sum- 
mer muslin,  with  her  smooth  brown  hair  and  a  breast-knot  of  lilies 
of  the  valley.  There  is  a  pretty  dimple  still  when  she  speaks,  and 
the  large  eyes  grow  bright  and  dark  in  a  moment ;  it  is  only  in 
repose  that  a  vague  air  of  sadness  still  lingers — a  quiet  curve  or 
two,  an  added  though tfulness  on  the  brow,  which  would  tell  a  keen 
observer  that  Rotha  Maturin  has  not  been  exempt  from  her  woman's 
lot  of  love  and  suffering. 


FIVE   YEARS  AFTERWARDS.  445 

"  Austin  says  it  must  be  Burnley-upon-Sea,  after  all,"  repeated 
Mary. 

"I  am  sorry  for  it,"  replied  Rotha  quietly;  and  then  the 
Vicar  threw  down  his  bat  and  came  across  the  lawn  to  shake 
hands  with  Rotha. 

Five  years  have  made  less  havoc  with  the  Vicar  than  with  any 
one  else ;  he  is  not  thinner,  of  course,  and  he  continues  to  mourn 
over  his  superfluous  weight,  which  he  has  sometimes  been  heard 
to  declare  is  worse  than  even  St.  Paul's  thorn  in  the  flesh,  but  the 
kind  benignant  face  is  as  kind  as  ever,  and  the  wide-open  gray 
eyes  are  quite  as  keen,  but  the  crisp  curls  are  slightly  tinged  with 
gray;  but  Guy  says  his  father  is  as  young  as  ever,  and  Mary 
declares  that  Austin  will  never  grow  old,  and  the  Vicar  tells  his 
wife  privately  that  he  is  afraid  that  he  is  a  boy  still  in  his  heart, 
for  he  likes  a  game  as  much  as  Arty  does,  only  Arty  runs  faster 
and  gets  longer  innings. 

"  Well,  Mary,  have  you  told  Rotha  the  news  ?" 

"No,  dear;  I've  been  leaving  it  to  you,"  returned  his  wife, 
smiling.  "  He  has  been  dying  to  tell  you  himself,  Rotha,  and  so 
I  would  not  spoil  his  pleasure." 

"  Oh  !  I  know  Nettie  has  another  boy.  I  met  Mr.  Effingham, 
and  he  told  me  all  about  it.  Aunt  Eliza  is  so  disappointed — she 
wanted  a  girl  this  time ;  she  had  quite  made  up  her  mind  for  a 
little  Eliza,  but  Nettie  and  her  husband  both  like  sons  best." 

".'My  son's  my  son  till  he  gets  him  a  wife;'  Mary  is  always 
saying  that  ever  since  Guy  danced  six  times  with  Laura  Tregarthen. 
Poor  Mary  !  she  does  not  understand  calf-love ;  she  thinks  at 
twenty  boys  ought  to  think  of  nothing  but  their  mother." 

"  Now,  Austin,  I  call  that  too  bad.  Laura  was  a  little  flirt, 
or  she  would  never  have  gone  on  so  with  Guy ;  and  I  do  say,  and 
say  so  still,  that  Lady  Tregarthen  has  very  frivolous  young  sisters- 
in-law,  and  if  Guy  is  to  marry  I  hope  he  will  not  choose  such  a 
giddy  little  thing  as  Laura  for  his  wife." 

"My  dear,  Guy  will  fall  in  love  possibly  with  a  dozen  Lauras 
before  he  hits  upon  the  right  one ;  boys  always  do,  and  handsome 
ones  like  Guy  especially ;  but  here  we  are  talking  about  Nettie  and 
Guy,  and  quarrelling  as  usual,  and  Rotha  has  not  heard  the  news 

yet." 

"  I  can  guess  it  is  good  news  though,  by  the  way  you  are  rub- 
bing your  hands,"  said  Rotha  merrily. 

"Ha,  ha,"  laughed  the  Vicar,  "so  it  is — so  it  is.  Capital 
news — first-rate  news — old  Bobus  is  coming  home." 

"Robert  coming  home!"  returned  Rotha,  feeling  suddenly 
rather  giddy.  She  felt  a  quick  flush  rise  to  her  face,  and  turning 


446  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

her  back  for  a  moment  on  them  both,  went  to  the  table  and  busied 
herself  in  finding  some  work.  "When  is  he  coming?"  she  said 
from  a  safe  distance. 

"  When  1  Oh,  he  may  be  here  any  day ;  the  letter  has  been 
detained,  and  ought  to  have  reached  us  a  week  ago.  He  was  on 
his  way  then.  I  will  tell  you  all  about  it  if  you  will  leave  that 
work  alone  and  come  here.  I  thought  the  news  would  have  inter- 
ested you." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Ord ! "  returned  Eotha,  dismayed  at  this  implied 
imputation  of  indifference.  "  Of  course  I  am  glad  he  is  coming 
home — poor  Robert !"  but  her  voice  was  not  very  steady,  and  her 
face  was  growing  hotter  than  ever  under  the  Vicar's  keen  eyes. 
What  would  she  have  said  if  she  had  known  that  Robert  in  his 
despair  had  made  his  brother  his  confidant,  and  that  Austin  was 
looking  at  her  and  wondering  whether  Robert  had  really  any 
chance,  and  whether  he  had  been  wrong  in  advising  him  to  come 
home  and  try  what  three  more  years  had  done  for  him,  and  was 
speculating  whether  the  sudden  burning  of  Rotha's  face  meant  only 
confusion  or  pleasure. 

He  was  to  remain  in  doubt  on  this  point,  for  Rotha  now 
regained  her  self-possession. 

"  Is  he  bringing  Rufus  with  him,  or  will  he  come  alone  ?"  she 
asked  presently. 

"  Oh  no.  Rufe  is  doing  too  well  where  he  is,  and  Robert  says 
that  a  year  or  two  more  of  that  work  will  be  of  great  service  to 
him ;  and  that,  though  he  is  so  young — barely  eighteen — he  is 
already  a  valuable  assistant ;  he  means  to  have  him  over  by  and 
by  when  an  opening  presents  itself.  Do  you  know,  Rotha,  I 
always  guessed  Mr.  Ramsay  would  send  for  Robert  when  that 
accident  disabled  him.  Poor  man !  he  will  never  be  able  to  go 
down  to  the  work  again." 

"And  is  Robert  to  be  manager  there?"  asked  Rotha,  not  lift- 
ing her  eyes. 

"Yes;  manager  and  partner  too,  I  believe.  He  is  to  have 
double  the  salary  he  now  receives,  to  begin  with.  The  firm  are 
very  loath  to  part  with  him ;  but  Robert  says  that  he  hardly  feels 
justified  in  throwing  away  such  a  chance,  and  especially  to  refuse 
Mr.  Ramsay  after  what  he  has  done  for  him.  Don't  you  think  he 
is  right?" 

"  Quite  right,"  returned  Rotha  quickly ;  "  only  he  said  nothing 
to  me  about  all  this  in  his  last  letter,  so  I  cannot  help  feeling 
a  little  surprised.  I  suppose  he  has  made  up  his  mind  rather 
suddenly." 

"  Yes ;  he  tells  me  that  he  had  no  idea  when  he  last  wrote. 


FIVE   YEARS  AFTERWARDS.  447 

By  the  bye,  that  explains  a  rather  misty  paragraph.  He  says — 
let  me  see,  what  is  it  he  really  does  say  ? — oh  !  here  it  is — '  I  am 
afraid  Rotha,  for  one,  will  think  me  somewhat  inconsistent  after 
what  I  once  said  to  her,  but  I  think  you  can  explain  my  reasons 
for  acting  on  this  sudden  impulse,  and  why  I  cannot  feel  justified 
in  refusing  so  kind  a  friend  and  benefactor  as  Mr.  Ramsay.  A 
man  may  sometimes  alter  his  mind  without  being  open  to  the  im- 
putation of  weakness.'  There,  perhaps  you  can  interpret  that 
mysterious  clause  better  than  Mary  and  I  can."  But  Rotha  said 
nothing,  and  coloured  so  exceedingly  that  the  Vicar  rather  abruptly 
changed  the  subject,  and  Mary,  after  a  few  warm  expressions  of 
pleasure  at  the  thought  of  seeing  dear  Robert  again,  and  wondering 
how  he  would  look,  and  when  he  would  arrive,  and  telling  Rotha 
that  Deb  and  she  had  been  beautifying  and  arranging  the  spare 
room  that  very  morning  for  his  reception,  in  case  he  should  come 
any  day,  took  up  the  subject  of  the  school-treat  again,  and  assured 
Rotha  for  the  third  time  that  the  Vicar  and  Mr.  Tregarthen 
had  already  fixed  on  Burnley -upon -Sea.  "You  see  we  have 
exhausted  all  the  places.  We  were  at  Nab  Scar  last  year,  and  at 
Finnock's  Hollow  the  summer  before,  and  Burnley  is  so  near,  and 
the  children  can  go  by  train,  and  it  is  so  much  less  fatiguing  for  the 
teachers  than  jolting  over  those  country  roads  in  open  carts ;  so  if 
you  do  not  mind,  dear — being  your  treat — Austin  thinks  he  could 
save  you  expense  and  trouble  that  way,  for  the  season  is  not  far 
enough  advanced  to  go  a  long  distance,  and  the  gardener's  wife 
at  the  head  of  the  glen  could  boil  our  kettles  for  us,  and  it  would 
not  be  far  to  carry  the  hampers ;  you  know  Austin  can  always 
get  license  for  us." 

Rotha  was  silent  for  a  moment.  It  was  more  than  five  years 
ago  now  since  Garton  and  Reuben  and  she  had  spent  the  day 
there,  but  she  had  only  been  there  once  since,  and  then  quite 
alone.  It  was  summer  then,  and  she  had  walked  where  they  had 
walked,  and  sat  in  the  same  place  where  she  had  sat,  and  dreamt 
of  the  fairy  prince,  and  then  lifted  up  her  eyes  to  see  Garton 
striding  through  the  dim  woodland  aisles.  She  had  taken  a 
mournful  pleasure  in  thus  following  his  footprints,  and  in  thinking 
what  he  had  said  and  how  he  had  looked,  and  it  had  seemed  as 
though  the  very  place  were  sacred  to  her ;  it  would  jar  on  her 
sadly  to  see  it  again  surrounded  by  merry  and  shouting  children ; 
but  she  now  banished  this  thought  as  selfish,  and  quietly  told  Mary 
that,  if  the  Vicar  wished  it,  there  was  nothing  more  to  be  said,  and 
then,  in  her  usual  self-forgetful  way,  tried  to  throw  herself  into 
her  friends'  plans,  and  to  calculate  the  number  of  buns  and  the 
pounds  of  seed  and  plum  cake  that  would  be  wanted,  but  she  had 


448  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

never  found  it  such  hard  work  to  keep  her  attention  on  anything 
—she  made  a  mistake  in  her  addition  twice,  and  Mary,  with 
placid  surprise,  put  her  right. 

She  was  undecided  too,  till  the  last  minute,  whether  Meg 
should  not  go  in  her  place ;  but  on  Mrs.  Ord  objecting  to  this,  on 
the  ground  that  it  was  Rotha's  treat,  and  that  she  need  not  do 
anything  to  tire  herself,  that  the  children  would  amuse  them- 
selves, and  that  there  was  nothing  but  to  give  them  their  tea  and 
marshal  them  to  the  train,  she  reluctantly  consented ;  and  then 
scolded  herself  again  for  her  selfishness,  and  told  Mary  that  she 
was  getting  old  and  lazy,  but  of  course  she  would  go,  and  that 
perhaps  Meg  would  be  glad  to  be  spared  the  fatigue ;  and,  when 
this  was  settled,  she  rose  to  take  her  leave. 

"But,  Rotha  dear,  Mrs.  Carruthers  is  out,  and  Austin  fully 
expects  that  you  are  going  to  stay  to  tea,"  pleaded  Mrs.  Ord,  "  and 
we  have  not  half  discussed  dear  Robert's  coming  home."  But 
Rotha  would  not  be  persuaded ;  she  had  some  work  to  do  for  her 
children,  she  said,  and  should  rather  enjoy  a  quiet  evening.  She 
felt  stupid  and  tired,  and  her  head  ached  a  little,  and,  if  Mary  did 
not  mind,  she  would  come  round  in  the  morning  and  arrange  every- 
thing for  Thursday,  and  she  thought,  after  all,  the  Vicar  had  been 
right  in  fixing  on  Burnley. 

If  Rotha  had  any  work  to  do  she  certainly  did  not  do  it  that 
evening.  Meg  found  her  sitting  at  her  window  looking  out  at 
the  sunset,  as  though  she  had  been  doing  little  else  for  hours. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  describe  Rotha's  exact  feelings  when 
she  heard  of  the  news  of  Robert's  speedy  arrival ;  but  from  the 
moment  the  words  "  he  may  come  any  day  "  had  been  spoken,  a 
curious  mixture  of  confusion,  terror,  and  excitement  had  thrown 
her  into  such  a  whirl  of  conflicting  emotions  that  she  hardly 
realised  herself  what  his  coming  home  would  be  to  her. 

Three  years  had  passed  since  she  had  answered  that  passionate 
letter  of  Robert's,  and  the  correspondence  which  had  been  carried 
on  between  them  had  been  in  a  measure  somewhat  constrained  on 
both  sides.  Robert's  letters  especially  had  been  brief  and  rather 
forced ;  and  though  he  had  never  referred  to  his  disappointment 
since  then,  even  in  the  most  distant  manner,  it  was  in  a  way 
brought  home  to  Rotha  in  every  word.  Robert  never  spoke  of 
himself  now,  never  even  answered  her  friendly  questions  as  to  his 
health  and  prospects.  His  letters  related  mainly  to  Rotha  and 
her  affairs,  every  trifle  to  which  she  had  alluded  was  canvassed 
and  magnified ;  but  the  unrestrained  outpourings  of  the  writer's 
heart  seemed  kept  in  check  and  forced  back  by  a  strong  hand ; 
only  a  tenderer  phrase  than  usual  sometimes  conveyed  to  her  that 


FIVE  YEARS  AFTERWARDS.  449 

the  writer  himself  was  unchanged,  patient  but  hopeless,  and  per- 
haps no  eloquence  could  have  touched  Botha's  heart  more  deeply 
than  those  letters — so  brief,  yet  so  suggestive ;  so  thoughtful  for 
her,  so  forgetful  of  himself. 

Once  he  had  been  ill,  but  Eotha  never  heard  of  it  till  long 
afterwards.  He  had  met  with  an  accident,  and  inflammation  and 
fever  had  set  in,  and  Austin  told  her  one  day  very  gravely  that 
his  life  had  been  despaired  of  for  days,  and  his  recovery  was 
chiefly  owing  to  the  watchful  nursing  of  his  landlady  and  her 
daughter. 

Rotha  wrote  a  reproachful  letter  to  Robert  after  that,  a  letter 
full  of  sisterly  affection  and  tenderness  j  but  he  wrote  back  in  a 
little  surprise,  thanking  her  for  her  kindness.  "  I  should  not  have 
thought  that  you  would  have  cared  so  much  whether  I  lived  or 
died,"  it  said.  "I  never  fancy  that  I  am  much  good  to  any  one, 
or  to  myself  either.  I  sometimes  think  that  my  life  has  been  a 
failure,  and  that  it  would  be  better  to  go  to  one's  long  rest  than 
to  labour  without  hope  in  the  heat  of  the  day.  When  the  labourer 
is  weary  he  can  go  home.  I  have  no  home — not  a  soul  belonging 
to  me  but  Austin  ;  the  only  woman  who  loved  me  lies  under  the 
grass  sod.  Sometimes  I  wonder  why  God  permits  such  loneliness, 
such  desolate  hearths,  such  broken  'denied  lives.'  Forgive  me, 
Rotha,  I  am  weak  still  from  recent  illness,  or  I  should  not  write 
like  this.  Just  now,  Rachel,  my  faithful  nurse,  brought  me  some 
nourishment,  and  told  me  I  was  g'etting  faint,  and  must  be  more 
careful  of  myself.  I  will  not  tell  you  how  I  thanked  her, — I  was 
very  ungrateful,  and  she  went  away  with  her  eyes  full  of  tears. 
Rachel  is  a  good  creature.  She  thinks  I  ought  to  put  a  higher 

value  on  my  life.     She  little  knows There,  I  will  not  finish 

that  sentence.  Good-night,  Rotha.  Thank  you  for  your  goodness 
to  me,  dear — I  was  going  to  write  *  Sister,'  but  I  have  sworn 
never  to  call  you  by  that  name ;  I  will  substitute  '  Friend.'— 
There ;  it  is  cold  enough,  it  makes  me  shiver,  but  many  a  man 
might  think  himself  rich  with  such  a  one ;  but  not  when  he  is 
sick  and  solitary — growing  old,  but  still  far  enough  off  his  end — 
as  I  am,  Rotha.  Adieu.  ROBERT." 

That  was  the  last  letter  Rotha  had  received,  nearly  three 
months  ago,  and  now  he  was  coming  home.  She  showed  no  one 
that  letter,  but  put  it  away  with  mingled  feelings  of  pleasure  and 
pain.  It  was  hardly  in  woman's  nature  not  to  be  touched  and 
made  proud  by  this  passionate  fidelity — this  patient  hopelessness. 
For  the  first  time  she  lost  sight  of  Garton's  love,  to  wonder  upon 
the  length  and  breadth  of  this  man's  affection,  that  could  survive 
distance  and  time  and  disappointment,  that  could  refuse  to  be 

29 


450  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

satisfied  with  the  crumbs  of  her  comfort.  "  Could  Garton  have 
loved  me  better?"  she  thought,  as  though  for  the  first  time  she 
realised  Robert's  feelings  in  all  their  intensity,  and  a  little  fear  and 
trembling  seized  her.  She  thought,  "What  if  he  should  ever 
renew  his  suit?  Would  her  purpose  remain  as  unflinching  and 
steadfast  as  it  had  done  three  years  ago  ?  Would  Garton  wish  it  1 
Would  Belle?"  But  at  this  point  she  always  broke  off,  shrinking 
from  her  own  thoughts,  trembling  and  blushing  even  in  the  dark- 
ness, and,  folding  her  hands,  would  pray  that  He  who  had  guided 
her  through  her  troubled  youth,  and  had  brought  her  feet  out  on 
these  pleasant  places,  would  lead  her  still  through  the  shadows  of 
the  future  in  a  plain  path  ;  but  not  now,  because  of  her  enemies. 

These  petitions  always  calmed  her,  but  to-night  they  failed. 
The  mere  recollection  of  the  words  "  coming  any  day  "  threw  her 
into  a  state  of  distressing  restlessness  and  excitement,  a  longing  to 
go  away  somewhere,  to  fly  from  some  inevitable  fate  which  seemed 
to  come  upon  her.  She  resolved  to  avoid  the  Vicarage,  to  shut  her- 
self up  in  the  fortress  of  Bryn,  to  live  at  the  "  Home,"  to  do  any- 
thing, in  short,  to  put  off  the  evil  day  of  their  meeting ;  and  yet, 
such  was  her  inconsistency,  she  longed  to  be  somewhere  that  she 
might  see  him  without  his  being  aware  of  her  presence.  "  Just 
to  see  him,  and  to  be  sure  that  it  is  Robert,  and  that  he  is  well 
and  safe,  and  to  go  away  where  he  could  not  find  me,  or  ever  say 
what  he  said  to  me  in  those  letters." 

These  were  some  of  Rotha's  thoughts ;  but  it  would  be  difficult 
to  describe  half  of  them.  The  leading  idea  seemed  to  be  terror  at 
what  Robert  might  say  to  her,  and  yet  in  her  secret  heart  she 
rejoiced  at  the  knowledge  that  he  was  still  unchanged.  She  fell 
asleep  trying  to  recollect  the  contents  of  his  last  letter,  and  awoke 
depressed  and  restless,  and  passed  a  most  unsatisfactory  day, 
and,  as  often  happened,  everything  jarred  with  her  mood :  the 
children  were  troublesome,  and  Caroline  had  a  raging  toothache 
and  was  obliged  to  go  down  to  the  Infirmary ;  Meg  was  called  off 
in  the  middle  of  the  afternoon  by  the  Vicar,  and  Rotha  had  to 
take  her  place  just  as  she  was  most  longing  for  quiet. 

The  children  had  got  through  their  stage  of  fractiousness  by 
this  time,  and  were  playing  at  Nebuchadnezzar  and  the  burning 
fiery  furnace.  The  game  struck  Rotha  as  slightly  profane,  but 
she  was  languid,  and  lacked  energy  to  interfere.  It  struck  her  as 
rather  droll,  however,  that  Shirtle  Pearl,  who  was  still  there, 
should  enact  the  part  of  Nebuchadnezzar  and  the  Golden  Image 
as  well,  and  she  got  once  or  twice  slightly  confused  over  it ;  and 
she  could  not  understand  for  a  long  time  why  the  youngest  boy 
there  should  be  playing  the  Jew's  harp  industriously  in  the  corner, 


FIVE  YEARS  AFTERWARDS.  451 

till  he  told  Shirtle  crossly  that  he  wasn't  going  to  play  Dulcimers 
for  ever,  and  that  he  thought  it  a  stupid  game,  which  woke  her  up 
in  earnest ;  and  after  she  had  reprimanded  Shirtle  gravely,  and 
had  taken  the  refractory  Dulcimer  on  her  lap,  she  told  them  a 
story,  and  then  made  them  sing  the  hymns  Meg  had  taught  them, 
and  told  them  softly  about  the  Child  Christ,  who  had  come  to 
their  beds  when  they  were  little  and  weak,  with  His  arms  full  of 
tiny  crosses,  and  had  laid  one  down  by  the  side  of  each  child, 
bidding  them  carry  them  bravely  for  His  sake. 

"And  what  sort  of  cross  did  the  Child  Christ  leave  you, 
Shirtle  Tasked  Rotha. 

"I  think  it  was  a  knobbly  one,  mother,"  returned  Shirtle 
promptly,  for  Shirtle  was  an  orphan,  a  mere  waif  and  stray  cast 
upon  Thornborough  streets,  and  Rotha  had  classed  him  among 
her  adopted  children.  "  A  wery  knobbly  one,  bursting  out  with 
abysses  and  such  like." 

"  I  should  think  being  almost  dark  is  worser  than  abysses," 
put  in  Sallie,  a  diminutive  child  with  a  patient  sickly  face  and  a 
shade  over  her  eyes.  "  Shirtle  can  learn  to  spell,  and  cast  up,  and 
read  pretty  picture  books,  though  his  bones  is  so  sore  that  he  cries 
sometimes." 

"  But  Sallie  can  pick  up  shells  and  dig  on  the  sand,  and  feel 
the  sweet  sea-breeze — can  she  not?"  returned  Rotha,  putting 
her  hand  tenderly  on  the  cropped^  head,  for  she  knew  that  by  and 
by  it  would  be  quite  dark,  and  not  almost,  with  Sallie.  "  And 
what  did  the  Child  Christ  say  to  little  Sallie  when  he  laid  on  her 
this  heavy  cross  ?" 

"  Carry  it,  and  it  will  carry  you,"  returned  the  child  in  her 
shrill  little  voice. 

"Yes;  and,  heavy  as  it  is,  it  is  not  so  heavy  as  His — we 
must  remember  that.  And  when  do  we  lay  down  our  crosses, 
children1?" 

"  Never  "  returned  one,  and  "  When  we  die  "  responded  others ; 
and  one  small  boy  opined,  "  When  their  backs  ached  or  they  were 
tired ;"  but  he  was  a  cripple  and  a  hunchback,  and  spoke  feelingly, 
and  every  one  knew  that  poor  Teddy  was  breaking  down  under 
the  weight  of  his. 

"Oh,  Teddie,  I  wish  we  could !"  said  Rotha,  with  a  compas- 
sionate glance  at  the  deformed  boy.  "I  wish  we  could  lay  them 
down,  Teddie,  sometimes,  you  and  Sallie  and  I — when  we  are  so 
tired,  and  our  hearts  and  arms  are  so  sore  with  the  weight !"  And, 
in  that  fanciful  imagery  so  dear  to  children,  she  told  them  they 
must  lie  down  in  their  narrow  beds  with  their  crosses  beside  them 
to  the  last — they  and  their  crosses  under  the  shadow  of  one  mighty 


452  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

one ;  and  how  they  must  carry  them  right  up  to  the  Golden  Gate 
itself,  and  there,  laying  them  down  for  ever,  should  receive  tiny 
jewelled  crowns ;  and  where  their  crosses  had  fallen  should  spring 
up  roses,  white  and  red,  and  lilies  fairer  than  any  they  had  seen, 
and  the  Child  Christ  should  lead  them  into  the  City — cripples, 
and  blind,  and  suffering  no  longer.  "  Now  children,  sing  the 
hymn  Meg  taught  you  last  Sunday,"  and  the  children  united  their 
weak  quavering  voices  and  sang  "We  are  but  little  children 
weak,"  but  the  Dulcimer  had  gone  fast  asleep,  and  Teddie  came 
and  laid  his  heavy  head  against  Rotha's  dress. 


CHAPTER    XLL 

WON    AT    LAST. 

•'  Some  one  came  and  rested  there  beside  me, 

Speaking  words  I  never  thought  would  bless 
Such  a  loveless  life  ;  I  longed  to  hide  me, 
Feasting  lonely  on  my  happiness. 
But  the  voice  I  heard 
Pleaded  for  a  word, 
Till  I  gave  my  whispered  answer,  'Yes.' 

"  Yes  ;  that  little  word  so  calmly  spoken 

Changed  all  life  for  me,  my  own,  my  own  1 
All  the  cold  gray  spell  I  saw  upbroken, 

All  the  twilight  days  seemed  past  and  gone, 
And  how  warm  and  bright 
In  the  ruddy  light 
Pleasant  June  days  of  the  future  shone  ! 

"  So  we  wandered  through  the  gate  together, 

Hand  in  hand,  upon  our  future  way, 
Leaving  shade  and  cold  behind  for  ever, 
Out  to  where  the  red  sun's  westering  ray 
Gave  a  promise  fair 
Of  such  beauty  rare 
For  the  dawning  of  another  day." 

HELEN  MAEION  BURNSIDE. 

THE  Sunday  school  treat  was  fixed  for  the  following  day,  and 
when  the  children  were  safe  in  their  dormitories  Rotha  meant  to 
go  round  to  the  Vicarage  to  make  the  final  arrangements  with 
Mrs.  Ord. 

It  was  a  lovely  evening,  and  the  setting  sun  streamed  into  the 
long  low  room  where  Rotha  sat  among  the  little  ones ;  the  chil- 
dren had  broken  down  in  the  middle  of  the  hymn,  and  Rotha's 
sweet  voice  took  up  the  refrain  and  hummed  it  softly  with  a  sort 
of  weird  accompaniment  from  Teddie;  the  rest  crooned  out  a 
dolorous  chorus  of  "We  don't  know  it,  mother,"  when  the  garden 
gate  suddenly  clicked.  Fidgets,  who  was  fast  asleep,  got  up  and 
limped  to  the  door  on  three  legs  and  began  a  furious  barking, 


454  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

every  hair  bristling  with  excitement.  Firm  footsteps  crunched  up 
the  garden-path,  voices  were  heard  in  the  little  passages,  the  door 
of  the  mother's  room  opened  and  closed  quickly. 

"  Run  and  tell  the  Vicar  I  am  here,  Joe,"  said  Rotha,  break- 
ing off  her  humming  ;  "  and,  children,  do  not  forget  to  get  up  and 
curtsey  to  him." 

"May  we  come  in,  little  sister?"  said  the  Vicar's  cheerful 
voice  over  Joe's  head.  "  Do  not  let  the  children  disturb  them- 
selves ;  they  look  far  too  comfortable.  No,  do  not  come  in  just 
yet,"  he  continued  to  somebody  in  the  background.  "Guess  what 
visitor  I  have  brought  to  see  you,  Rotha  ?" 

"  That  is  not  hardly  fair,"  returned  a  well-remembered  voice  j 
"  let  me  introduce  myself,  Austin."  A  firm  hand  puts  the  Vicar 
aside — a  dark  figure  blocks  up  the  entry,  a  tall  man,  gray-haired, 
with  a  worn  handsome  face.  Rotha  stands  up,  white  and 
trembling,  with  the  sleeping  boy  still  in  her  arms — it  is  Robert ! 

"Rotha,  are  you  surprised  to  see  me?  I  did  not  mean  to 
startle  you  like  this." 

Her  only  disengaged  hand  is  taken  and  pressed  kindly,  and 
then  Robert  replaces  her  in  her  seat.  She  has  not  spoken  one 
word  of  welcome — not  one,  except  that  low  uttered  "  Robert ! " 
— but  her  heart  is  beating  so  that  she  can  hardly  breathe. 

"  That  is  not  a  very  warm  greeting  after  five  years'  absence," 
says  the  Vicar  mischievously ;  and  Robert,  gravely  as  before,  just 
touches  her  cheek  with  his  lips,  and  says  quietly  that  Austin 
has  brought  him  in  to  see  the  little  sister  in  the  midst  of  her 
children,  and  that  he  is  glad  to  see  her  looking  so  strong  and 
well,  and  so  on.  All  spoken  in  the  same  calm  kind  manner,  as 
though  the  blood  that  swept  over  Rotha's  pale  face  did  not  stir 
every  pulse  within  him  at  the  thought  that  he  had  the  power  to 
stir  her  thus,  that  those  burning  blushes  and  quivering  lips  could 
not  mean  only  that  he  had  taken  her  unawares. 

"I  hope  you  do  not  mind  my  bringing  him  in  like  this? 
Robert  was  so  anxious  to  see  you,"  said  the  Vicar,  trying  to  put 
a  stop  to  this  painful  embarrassment.  "You  are  so  completely 
one  of  us,  you  know,  Rotha ;  and  Mary  said  she  was  sure  you 
would  be  pleased  to  see  him." 

"  I  am  very  pleased,"  returned  Rotha,  finding  her  voice  with 
difficulty.  "When  did  you  come?"  lifting  her  eyes  timidly  to 
Robert,  who  was  leaning  against  the  mantelpiece  watching  her. 

"  Only  an  hour  ago ;  I  got  off  the  dust  of  my  journey,  and 
talked  to  Mary  and  Austin  a  little,  and  then  Mary  proposed  our 
coming  round  to  fetch  you.  How  well  dear  Mary  looks,  to  be 
sure  !  and  as  pretty  as  ever ;  only  her  hair  is  so  gray — not  so  gray 


WON  AT  LAST.  455 

as  mine  though."  Aiid  he  tossed  it  carelessly  from  his  forehead 
as  he  spoke.  "  Do  you  not  think  me  very  changed,  Rotha  ?" 

"Very  much  changed.  You  look  as  though  you  had  been 
very  ill,"  she  returned  softly.  She  was  regaining  her  calmness  at 
the  sight  of  his,  but  her  colour  still  varied  dangerously. 

Yes,  he  was  changed,  wonderfully  so;  but  she  thought  she 
had  never  seen  a  nobler  face.  His  dark  hair  was  quite  iron-gray, 
though  he  was  hardly  more  than  thirty-six;  and  his  face  was 
thinner  and  paler,  and  the  forehead  deeply  lined.  But  the  hard- 
set  curve  of  the  lips  had  relaxed,  and  the  curve  round  the  mouth 
was  exceedingly  sweet  and  sorrowful ;  only  when  he  smiled,  which 
he  did  rarely,  his  smile  was  like  Gar's. 

"  I  was  very  near  death,"  he  returned,  reading  the  unspoken 
sympathy  in  her  eyes.  "  I  suppose  if  I  had  not  been  with  good 
Samaritans  it  would  soon  have  been  all  over  with  me.  Rachel 
cried  when  she  received  your  present,  Rotha.  When  I  gave  it  to 
her  I  said  it  was  so  like  the  little  sister  that  Austin  talks  about." 

He  had  used  the  Vicar's  title  twice,  but  not  as  though  he  had 
appropriated  it.  Was  it  merely  to  put  her  at  her  ease  with  him, 
or  to  remind  her  that  he  had  no  hope  ?  Somehow  the  name  jarred 
on  her  for  the  first  time. 

"You  do  not  find  Rotha  much  altered,  do  you,  Robert V1 
struck  in  the  Vicar  briskly.  Rotha's  eyes  fell  again  before 
Robert's  swift  keen  glance. 

"  No;  she  is  not  a  day  older.'  How  do  you  manage  to  preserve 
your  youth,  Rotha — you  look  so  young  *?  And  do  you  always  wear 
that  little  cap  1  Do  you  know,  it  reminds  me  of  the  day  I  met 
you  first  in  the  Castle  gardens  ?  You  had  a  cap  on  then,  had  you 
not?" 

"No;  only  a  lace  kerchief  tied  over  my  hair,"  returned 
Rotha,  with  a  smile.  "This  is  our  uniform,  Meg's  and  mine," 
she  continued  hurriedly.  She  knew  intuitively  why  Robert  looked 
so  grave.  Would  he  ever  forget  that  day  when  he  saw  her  under 
the  low  apple  trees,  a  slim  creature  in  her  black  dress  1  It  made 
her  speak  to  him  in  her  own  frank  way  to  see  that  look  of  pain 
on  his  face.  "  Meg  will  be  so  glad  to  see  you,  Robert." 

"  Ah,  to  be  sure.  Poor  Mrs.  Carruthers  !  I  was  so  sorry  to 
hear  about  her  trouble ;  but  you  told  me  in  one  of  your  last  letters 
that  she  has  been  more  settled  ever  since.  How  good  you  have 
been,  Rotha,  to  write  to  me  so  often  ! " 

"  You  were  lonely,  and  I  knew  you  would  like  to  hear  about 
everything,"  she  returned,  beginning  to  get  hot  again. 

"  You  have  no  idea  what  letters  she  can  write,"  he  continued, 
turning  to  his  brother,  who  had  half  a  dozen  of  the  children  round 


456  ROBERT  ORD 'S  A  TONEMENT. 

his  knee,  and  was  talking  to  them  in  an  undertone.  "  They  used 
to  be  like  a  series  of  pictures  to  me,  and  clever  pictures  too.  I 
don't  think  all  these  five  years  I  have  ever  had  to  ask  after  any- 
body." 

"  We  did  not  know  you  were  a  scribe,  Rotha,"  returned  the 
Vicar,  laughing ;  "  but  here  we  are  keeping  Mary  and  tea  waiting. 
Do  you  know  we  have  orders  to  carry  you  off  f 

"  Indeed  !  But  I  do  not  think  I  can  leave  just  yet ;  I  have 
my  working  dress  on,  and  the  children  are  not  in  bed,  and — 

"Perhaps  not,"  interrupted  the  Vicar;  "but  Mrs.  Carruthers 
is  on  her  way  to  help  Caroline,  so  that  excuse  has  fallen  through. 
And  as  for  the  working  dress,  if  you  want  to  honour  Robert  by  a 
festive  attire,  we  will  willingly  escort  you  to  Bryn ;  but  I  can 
assure  you  that  that  gray  serge  is  quite  as  becoming  in  our  eyes 
as  gray  silk  would  be."  A  mischievous  little  speech  which  made 
Robert  smile,  and  after  that  Rotha  would  have  gone  in  gray  sack- 
cloth, if  there  were  such  a  material ;  but  as  she  still  hesitated, 
though  for  far  different  reasons,  Robert  settled  the  matter  by  lift- 
ing the  drowsy  Dulcimer  off  her  lap  and,  taking  out  his  watch, 
told  her  that  they  would  wait  for  her  just  five  minutes — a  piece 
of  peremptoriness  which  reminded  her  of  the  old  Robert  Ord,  and 
brought  one  of  her  sunny  smiles  back  in  an  instant. 

Rotha  was  in  a  curious  state  of  mind  all  the  evening;  an 
uneasy  sort  of  happiness,  too  nearly  approaching  nervous  excite- 
ment to  quite  deserve  that  name,  seemed  to  be  the  prominent 
feeling;  it  was  very  strange  and  very  pleasant  to  have  Robert 
back  again.  Now  for  the  first  time  she  realised  how  she  had 
missed  him,  and  what  a  blank  his  absence  had  made.  The  Vicar- 
age had  never  looked  so  like  itself  for  five  years,  and  the  Vicar 
seemed  so  wondrously  content  and  so  proud  of  Robert,  and  the 
boys  hung  about  their  uncle  eager  for  news  of  Rufus,  and  the 
family  tea-table  had  never  looked  more  cheerful  than  it  did 
to-night. 

Rotha  was  very  quiet  and  kept  in  the  background  all  the 
evening,  but  no  one  seemed  to  notice  it.  For  Robert  and  Austin 
had  so  much  to  say  to  each  other,  and  were  so  busy  in  discussing 
the  former's  prospects,  and  every  one  had  so  many  things  to  tell 
him  and  so  much  to  hear,  that  no  one  seemed  to  perceive  what  a 
silent  listener  Rotha  was;  and  though  now  and  then  Robert  turned 
to  her  with  a  quiet  word  or  smile,  as  though  to  show  her  presence 
was  by  no  means  forgotten,  he  never  once  strove  to  bring  her  into 
the  conversation.  But  more  than  once  the  uneasy  conviction 
seized  her  that  her  silence  was  understood  and  respected.  And 
deeply  as  this  thoughtfulness  and  delicacy  touched  her,  it  made 


WON  AT  LAST.  457 

her  still  more  conscious.  Now  and  then  she  started  and  flushed 
painfully  as  some  tone  or  some  expression  of  Robert's  recalled 
Garton  vividly.  She  had  never  thought  the  brothers  alike,  but  a 
hundred  times  this  evening  some  trick  or  turn  of  Robert's  voice 
brought  him  before  her.  Now  and  then  she  could  look  at  him 
unperceived,  and  then  she  was  struck  afresh  by  the  great  change 
in  him ;  and  once  or  twice  the  thought  crossed  her,  of  what  noble 
metal  the  man  must  have  been  made  that  the  fire  of  suffering  had 
so  purified  and  strengthened  him. 

She  had  been  perfectly  content  in  her  quiet  corner,  but  she 
was  more  than  ever  tongue-tied  and  embarrassed  when  he  walked 
with  her  to  her  own  door.  A  dread  of  being  alone  with  him,  a 
terror  of  what  he  might  say  under  these  circumstances,  was  strong 
within  her  when  she  went  out  of  the  Vicarage  gate.  But  she 
need  not  have  been  afraid.  Robert  seemed  bent  on  putting  her 
at  her  ease.  Nothing  could  exceed  his  quiet  gentleness.  He 
spake  about  the  beauty  of  the  night,  and  asked  Rotha  if  she  ever 
took  long  walks  now.  And  he  described  an  excursion  Rufus  and 
he  had  taken,  which  lasted  till  they  had  got  to  Bryn ;  and  then 
he  shook  hands  with  her  and  bade  her  good-night,  as  though  he 
had  been  doing  so  every  evening  for  the  last  five  years. 

Rotha  gave  up  her  thoughts  in  despair  when  she  reached  her 
own  room.  To  disentangle  and  arrange  such  a  hopeless  confusion 
of  ideas  was  next  to  impossible.  A  sense  of  disappointment  and 
regret — inconsistent  regret — at  Robert's  calmness  and  brotherly 
kindness  were  the  paramount  feelings  ;  it  increased  her  admiration 
and  respect  tenfold,  but  it  humiliated  her.  He  had  loved  her  for 
five  years,  and  only  three  months  ago  had  hinted  at  his  despair. 
But  now  he  was  by  far  the  calmer  of  the  two,  and  she  herself  had 
been  taken  unawares,  and  had  betrayed  her  embarrassment  in  a 
hundred  ways.  The  calmer  of  the  two  !  What  if  she  had  looked 
out  that  very  moment  and  seen  the  lonely  figure  pacing  up  and 
down  the  sea-wall  for  hours'? — could  see  him  standing  in  the 
moonlight  beside  Belle's  grave,  and  leaning  his  hot  brow  against 
the  marble  cross,  and  could  hear  him  say,  "  Dearer  than  ever — 
the  one  face — the  one  woman  in  the  world — to  me.  Oh,  my  God  ! 
to  see  her  every  day  and  not  to  win  her,  will  be  more  than  I  can 
bear.  I  must — I  will  win  her !  Something  tells  me  that  I  shall, 
Rotha." 

The  next  day  was  that  appointed  for  the  school  treat,  and 
Rotha  had  promised  to  be  round  at  the  Vicarage  as  early  as 
possible  to  help  Mary  and  Aunt  Eliza  pack  the  hampers.  But, 
early  as  it  was,  Robert  had  already  started  for  Stretton,  where  he 
would  probably  be  detained  the  greater  part  of  the  morning. 


458  ROBERT  ORD^S  ATONEMENT. 

Rotha  felt  a  little  chill  of  disappointment,  for  she  had  quite 
made  up  her  mind  to  be  her  old  self  with  him  to-day.  It  relieved 
her,  therefore,  and  sent  quite  a  glow  of  satisfaction  to  her  heart, 
when  the  Vicar  casually  remarked  to  Aunt  Eliza  that  she  would 
certainly  have  her  wish  to  see  Robert  gratified  that  very  afternoon, 
for  he  had  promised  him  faithfully  to  take  the  four  o'clock  train 
from  Blackscar,  and  to  be  present  at  the  distribution  of  buns ;  and, 
as  he  always  kept  his  word,  she  might  be  certain  that  he  would 
make  his  appearance  at  the  time  specified. 

Rotha  said  nothing,  but  she  worked  with  redoubled  zeal,  and 
at  the  appointed  hour  joined  the  phalanx  of  teachers  and  children 
on  the  Blackscar  platform,  looking  singularly  appropriate  to  the 
occasion  in  her  pretty  spring  dress — a  soft  blue — with  her  white 
chip  hat.  Dress  always  set  off  Rotha,  but  she  never  looked 
prettier  than  she  did  to-day,  as  Mary  remarked  to  the  Vicar  and 
to  Aunt  Eliza  about  half  a  dozen  times. 

There  was  nothing  worth  recording  in  the  afternoon  itself.  As 
in  most  other  school  treats,  the  children  were  wild  with  pleasure, 
and  ran  all  over  the  glens  like  a  herd  of  young  colts.  Rotha 
strove  once  or  twice,  in  quiet  moments,  to  bring  back  the  sweet 
and  mournful  associations  of  the  place,  but  for  once  the  effort  was 
manifest.  The  day  was  so  glorious,  the  sunshine  so  bright,  the 
play  of  light  and  shade  so  delicious  in  the  bosky  dells  and  hollows, 
the  little  river  ran  underneath  so  brimming  over  with  ripples  and 
tiny  gurgles  of  joy,  the  children's  mirth  was  so  infectious,  the 
knots  of  eager  rosy  faces  such  warm  vivid  pictures  set  in  the  green 
bowery  depths,  that  a  less  happy  nature  than  Rotha's  must  have 
expanded  to  the  cheering  influences;  and  more  than  one  bright 
thought  kept  her  pulses  beating  to  a  tune  they  had  not  heard  for 
many  a  long  year,  as  she  walked  up  and  down  the  shady  walks, 
or  sat  on  one  of  the  tiny  lawns  keeping  watch  and  ward  over  the 
little  ones.  But  about  five  o'clock,  when  the  children  were  ranged 
in  orderly  files  on  one  of  the  green  lawns,  and  the  Vicar  was  called 
upon  to  say  grace,  Rotha's  eyes  often  wandered  to  the  little  white 
gate  in  the  hope  of  seeing  a  tall  figure  advancing  from  the  road ; 
but  tea  was  over  and  the  children  scattered  to  their  games  again, 
and  still  no  Robert  made  his  appearance. 

Mr.  Townsend,  the  Vicar  of  Burnley,  had  just  entered  the 
gardens,  and  Rotha  was  slightly  surprised  when,  after  a  brief 
conversation,  our  Vicar  walked  quickly  to  the  gate  with  him. 
She  was  tolerably  near  them,  and  saw  that  both  looked  rather 
grave  and  anxious,  the  Vicar  especially;  and  the  latter  spoke 
almost  irritably  to  some  boys  who  surrounded  him  with  entreaties 
to  join  their  game. 


WON  AT  LAST.  459 

"  Run  away,  children,  I  ican't  attend  to  you  now.  Now,  Sam, 
don't  block  up  our  way,  please  ;  Mr.  Townsend  and  I  have  busi- 
ness in  the  town."  And  he  swung  round  one  small  lad  who  was 
in  his  path  so  hastily  that  he  nearly  tripped  him  up. 

"  Elliot,"  said  Rotha,  addressing  a  young  Sunday-school  teacher 
who  had  been  with  the  Vicar  most  of  the  time,  "  what  has  Mr. 
Townsend  been  saying  to  make  the  Vicar  look  so  grave  ? " 

" Haven't  you  heard ?"  returned  young  Elliot  eagerly.  "All 
the  teachers  have  been  talking  about  it :  there's  been  an  accident 
to  the  Blackscar  train — some  collision,  I  believe ;  and  two  or  three 
people  have  been  killed.  Murray  heard  it  in  the  town." 

Rotha  turned  suddenly  white,  and  then  began  to  shiver. 

"What  train,  Elliot?" 

"Why,  the  four  o'clock  from  Blackscar — a  goods  train  or 
something  ran  into  it.  There  are  not  many  people  hurt — only  the 
engine-driver  and  the  stoker  and  one  passenger  were  killed.  The 
line  will  not  be  clear  for  another  hour  or  two,  and  that's  why 
the  Vicar  has  gone  up  to  the  station." 

"No,  no,"  returned  Rotha,  half  beside  herself;  "don't  you 
know  his  brother  was  to  be  in  that  train  ?  Oh,  Elliot,  for  mercy's 
sake,  don't  say  anything  to  Mrs.  Ord.  Suppose  anything  has 
happened  to  his  brother.  There,  go,  go ;  don't  you  see  Mr. 
Tregarthen  is  calling  you  1 " 

"  We  are  going  to  take  some  of  the  children  on  the  pier,"  called 
out  Mr.  Tregarthen ;  "  the  ladies  and  the  younger  ones  can  stop 
behind,  if  they  like.  You  know  there  is  no  possibility  of  getting 
home  for  another  hour  or  two." 

Rotha  heard  no  more.  She  was  in  a  high  winding  walk,  just 
under  the  suspension  bridge  and  near  the  entrance  to  the  gardens ; 
and  feeling  giddy,  and  even  her  limbs  tottering,  she  sat  down, 
thankful  that  no  one  was  witness  to  her  violent  agitation. 

A  collision,  a  railway  accident,  and  he  was  in  it — that  was 
her  first  thought;  he — Robert — Garton's  brother,  the  man  who 
had  loved  her  so  patiently  and  so  hopelessly  for  more  than  five 
years,  and  whom,  as  she  knew  too  well  by  this  terrible  heartache, 
she  was  already  beginning  to  love  in  return.  Poor  Rotha !  it 
needed  this  shock  to  reveal  the  real  nature  of  her  feelings  for 
Robert.  For  months  past — ever  since  his  last  letter — she  had 
been  fighting  against  her  own  heart,  and  hiding  her  eyes  like  a 
child  from  the  destiny  that  was  in  store  for  her.  This  had  been 
the  secret  of  her  trembling  eagerness  to  escape  a  meeting.  One 
word  from  him  whose  fidelity  she  had  so  severely  tested  might  in 
a  moment,  she  knew,  overthrow  the  resolutions  of  years.  And  if 
she  had  doubted  her  heart  even  yesterday,  one  glance  at  Robert's 


460  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

face,  with  its  evidence  of  suffering,  "would  have  undeceived  her ; 
and  now — now,  when  he  might  be  lost  to  her  for  ever,  mortally 
hurt,  or  even  dead — now  did  she  realise  for  the  first  time  that, 
however  she  might  have  tried  to  blind  herself,  her  heart  was 
assuredly  and  entirely  his. 

But  to  have  another  lover  destroyed  in  such  a  cruel  way — 
impossible,  merciful  God,  impossible  ! 

"  Why  are  you  sitting  here  alone,  and  where  are  they  all  gone  1 
Good  heavens,  are  you  ill,  Rotha  ? " 

He  might  have  thought  so  by  the  way  she  uncovered  her  white 
face  and  looked  at  him,  and  then  clung  to  his  arm  with  her  two 
hands,  trembling  from  head  to  foot. 

"  Robert,  is  it  really  you — alive — unhurt  1  Oh,  Robert,  Robert, 
what  a  fright  you  have  given  us  !  Oh,  I  thought  it  must  be  too 
terrible  to  be  true,"  cried  the  girl,  with  her  eyes  brimming  over 
and  her  face  perfectly  radiant. 

"  What  is  too  terrible  ?  Do  you  mean  you  have  heard  of  the 
accident  to  the  Blackscar  train  1  I  galloped  round  as  fast  as  Mr. 
Ramsay's  horse  would  take  me,  that  I  might  arrive  before  any  one 
heard  of  the  affair.  I  was  afraid  Austin  would  be  frightened,  but 
I  hardly  thought — I  hardly  hoped — that — 

He  did  not  finish  his  sentence,  but  his  own  face  worked,  and 
he  was  evidently  greatly  moved  at  this  frank  expression  of  joy  at 
his  safe  return.  For  the  moment  he  held  the  little  hands  tightly 
in  his,  and  then  with  a  sudden  impulse  lifted  first  one  and  then 
the  other  to  his  lips. 

"  I  did  not  expect  such  a  sweet  welcome,  Rotha.  How  could 
you — how  could  you  care  so  much,  my  darling  ?" 

But  Rotha,  scarlet  and  confounded  at  her  own  impulsive  words, 
started  away  from  him  like  a  young  fawn. 

"  Where  is  the  Vicar,  Robert?  We  must  go  and  tell  the  Vicar; 
he  has  gone  down  to  the  station  with  Mr.  Townsend." 

"  Come  then,"  said  Robert,  holding  out  his  hand,  with  a  smile. 

He  had  no  wish  to  take  advantage  of  the  sweet  impulse  that 
had  made  her  cling  to  him.  For  this  evening  at  least  he  would 
respect  the  shy  reticence  that  had  grown  out  of  her  impulsiveness. 
He  walked  beside  her  with  a  proud  and  swelling  heart,  but  out- 
wardly as  calm  and  kind  as  ever  ;  but  Rotha,  who  had  overheard 
his  last  words,  drooped  her  head  and  answered  in  monosyllables, 
and,  as  soon  as  she  caught  sight  of  the  Vicar,  took  shelter  under 
his  wing  directly. 

The  Vicar  did  not  say  much,  but  he  looked  from  one  to  the 
other,  and  held  out  his  hand  to  Robert  with  an  unsteady  smile. 

"  We  have  had  a  terrible  fright,  Robert,  and  I  hear  Edward 


WON  AT  LAST.  461 

Elliot  told  her,  and  so  she  knew  it  too.  I  would  not  go  through 
the  last  half-hour  again  for  half  my  income.  By  what  providential 
means  did  you  manage  to  miss  your  train?" 

"  Mr.  Ramsay  detained  me,  Austin ;  and  while  I  was  waiting 
on  the  platform,  chafing  like  a  blind  fool  at  the  tiresome  delay, 
we  got  news  of  the  collision  just  outside  Leatham  Junction ;  and, 
knowing  what  a  horrible  state  you  would  be  in,  I  went  round  to 
the  mews  where  I  had  put  Mr.  Ramsay's  bay  mare,  and  rode  her 
off  to  Burnley  as  hard  as  I  could,  and  here  I  am." 

"For  His  mercy  endureth  for  ever,"  ejaculated  the  Vicar. 
"  Oh,  Bob,  if  I  had  been  called  upon  to  lose  another  brother — 
and  you  only  just  come  home ! "  And  Robert,  touched  by  his 
agitation,  linked  his  arm  in  his  brother's,  and  the  two  walked 
away  together. 

The  line  was  pretty  clear  by  this  time,  and  the  officials  informed 
the  Vicar  that  a  special  train  would  be  ready  in  half  an  hour.  So 
Rotha  went  down  on  the  pier  with  the  other  teachers  to  marshal 
the  children  and  hunt  after  stragglers.  The  work  and  the  cool 
sea-breezes  did  her  good,  and  she  was  successful  in  holding  herself 
aloof  from  Robert  during  the  return  journey.  She  got  into  a 
different  compartment,  and  as  soon  as  they  reached  Blackscar  she 
headed  the  first  division  of  the  children  to  the  schoolhouse,  where 
they  were  to  receive  a  final  bun  each ;  and  Robert,  who  had  to  see 
after  his  horse,  was  left  far  enough  behind. 

Rotha  left  the  other  teachers  'at  the  schoolhouse  and  went  off 
alone,  in  reality  to  get  herself  quieted  for  the  evening,  for  Mrs.  Ord 
had  made  her  promise  to  come  to  the  Vicarage  to  supper  to  talk 
over  the  events  of  the  day.  The  church  was  always  open,  and  it 
seemed  to  her  the  quietest  place.  It  did  not  matter  one  bit  that 
Meg  was  playing  there  ;  she  slipped  into  a  dark  pew  by  the  door 
and  listened  to  the  solemn  strains,  feeling  rested  and  soothed  in 
spite  of  herself.  She  was  so  absorbed  by  the  music  and  her  own 
thoughts  as  well  that  she  was  quite  unaware  that  after  a  time  she 
had  been  followed,  and  that  a  tall  dark  figure  had  silently  entered 
and  taken  up  its  station  near  her,  awed  and  silenced  by  the  weird 
music  that  seemed  to  peal  out  of  the  semi-darkness. 

Rotha  rose  and  went  out  after  a  time,  and  then  paused  as 
usual  by  Belle's  grave  to  readjust  the  wreath  which  always  hung 
over  the  cross.  Yesterday  Rotha  had  placed  a  fresh  one  made  of 
sweet  spring  flowers,  but  already  it  was  withered;  a  mournful  con- 
viction that  this  withered  garland  was  a  meet  emblem  of  Belle's 
unfinished  life  and  broken  hopes  crept  over  Rotha,  and,  as  she  laid 
her  cheek  to  the  marble  cross,  where  only  last  night  Robert  had 
rested  his  weary  head,  she  said  more  than  half  aloud  : 


4G2  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

"  Poor  Belle,  how  well  she  loved  him  !  But  I  can  understand 
it  now.  Ah,  it  is  coming;  I  know  it ;  I  am  sure  of  it,  if  only  Gar 
would  have  had  it  so  !" 

"What  is  coming,  Rotha?  Why  would  Gar  not  have  it  sol 
Dear,  I  did  not  mean  to  startle  you.  I  could  not  help  following 
you  here."  A  hand  is  laid  softly  on  her  arm;  the  voice  is  very 
calm  and  reassuring.  What  does  she  fear  that  she  lays  her  cheek 
only  the  closer  to  the  marble  cross,  and  clings  more  tightly  to  its 
smooth  stoniness  1 

Only  a  churchyard — a  white  gleaming  cross — the  moon  shining 
from  behind  a  bank  of  dark  fleecy  clouds ;  only  a  tale  of  love  told 
over  a  grassy  mound ;  only  a  girl  listening  to  it  with  her  arms 
entwined  about  the  marble  headstone ;  only  the  tears  from  happy 
eyes  watering  the  dead  girl's  grave  with  dews  of  blessing  for  the 
living,  and  a  voice  with  a  tender  break  in  it  like  Gar's  says  : 

"Just  one  word,  Rotha — one  word  to  tell  me  that  you  have 
listened  and  heard;  or,  if  you  cannot  speak,  put  your  hand  in 
mine  and  I  shall  understand  you  then." 

What  if  her  hand  goes  out  to  him  in  the  darkness  1  What  if 
strong  arms  draw  her  from  her  stony  support,  and  gather  her  close 
to  a  faithful  breast  1  Can  she  check  those  happy  tears  flowing  all 
the  faster  for  his  mute  tenderness?  Presently,  when  she  grows 
calmer,  she  lifts  up  her  face  to  him — that  dear  face  which  he  has 
learnt  to  read  so  clearly  now — and  asks  him  if  he  will  take  her 
back  into  the  church  for  a  little  while. 

And  as  he  yields,  in  some  little  surprise,  the  music  breaks  into 
some  grander  measure,  swelling  triumphant  down  the  echoing 
aisles ;  and  then  he  understands  that  this  is  their  betrothal, 
and  kneels  beside  her  in  that  mute  thanksgiving  prayer  of  hers ; 
and  then,  as  the  music  ceases  and  Meg  leaves  the  organ,  Rotha 
comes  out  of  the  porch  hand  in  hand  with  Robert,  and  walks  down 
with  him  to  the  Vicarage. 


CHAPTER  XLII. 

CONCLUSION. 

"Ah,  who  am  I,  that  God  hath  saved 

Me  from  the  doom  I  did  desire, 
And  crossed  the  lot  myself  had  craved, 

To  set  me  higher  ? 
What  have  I  done  that  He  should  bow 

From  heaven  to  choose  a  wife  for  me  ? 
And  what  deserved  He  should  endow 

My  home  with  thee  ?"  JEAN  INGELOW. 

.  .  .   "My  story  is  told  out  j  the  day 

Draws  out  its  shadows,  time  doth  overtake 

The  morning.     That  which  endeth  call  a  lay 

Sang  after  pause — a  motto  in  the  break 

Between  two  chapters  of  a  tale  not  new 

Nor  joyful,  but  a  common  tale.     Adieu  ! "  Ibid. 

THEY  were  at  supper  at  the  Vicarage  when  they  entered,  but  Mrs. 
Ord  had  hardly  time  for  a  reproachful  exclamation  before  the  Vicar, 
after  one  glance  at  Botha's  happy  blushing  face,  had  jumped  from 
his  seat  and  had  fairly  taken  her  in  his  arms. 

"Is  it  so  1  God  bless  you,  my  dear  child.  You  have  made  us 
all  very  happy.  Won  at  last,  and  bravely  too.  Dear  old  Bobus  ! 
There,  take  her  to  Mary." 

But  Mary,  startled  and  overwhelmed  by  what  were  to  her  such 
utterly  unexpected  tidings,  could  only  hold  Botha  in  her  arms 
and  cry  over  her,  and  hope  inarticulately  that  she  would  be  happy, 
very  happy. 

"That  she  shall  be,  God  helping  me,"  said  Bobert  quietly. 
"  Mother  Mary,  are  you  not  going  to  wish  me  happiness  too  V9 

And,  as  he  stooped  his  handsome  head  over  her,  she  put  back 
the  gray  waves  of  hair  tenderly  from  his  forehead  and  whispered, 
"  Dear  Bobert,  I  am  so  glad,  and  our  darling  would  be  glad  too," 
and  then  hid  her  face — poor  Mary — on  his  shoulder  and  cried,  re- 
membering how,  ten  years  ago,  he  had  come  to  her  for  her  sisterly 
congratulations. 

"  Dear  Mary,  I  understand  you." 


464  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

It  was  a  proof  of  Robert's  new  gentleness  that  he  should  soothe 
this  burst  of  natural  feeling  so  patiently  and  kindly.  Rotha  was 
looking  shy  and  almost  sad  over  this  little  scene,  but  Robert  pre- 
sently came  to  her  side  with  a  quiet  happy  smile,  and  Austin  soon 
cheered  up  his  wife,  and  the  remainder  of  the  evening  passed  like 
a  delightful  dream.  Robert  walked  as  usual  with  Rotha  to  her 
own  door,  but  before  they  parted  he  said  a  grave  word  or  two  that 
somewhat  upset  her. 

"  I  shall  leave  everything  to  you,  Rotha;  but  do  not  let  it  be 
long  before  you  become  my  wife.  For  five  years  I  waited  for  a 
blessing  which  never  came,  and  for  five  more  I  suffered  almost  hope- 
less, and  now  I  feel  as  though  many  of  my  best  years  are  gone ; 
but  you  must  come  to  me  soon,  dear,  and  make  me  young  again." 

Rotha  pondered  over  these  words,  and  grew  hot  and  cold  over 
them,  but  for  a  little  time  nothing  more  was  said  to  mar  the 
beautiful  serenity  of  those  first  few  days  when  Robert  and  she 
were  always  together ;  and  she  learnt  hour  by  hour  to  appreciate 
still  more  fully  the  noble  nature  of  the  man  who  was  to  be  her 
future  husband,  when  the  traces  of  his  past  faults  became  beauties 
in  her  eyes,  and  she  could  realise  more  and  more  that  it  was  good 
to  lean  on  the  strong  arm  that  was  to  be  hers  through  life. 

Rotha  had  respite  for  a  little  while,  during  which  she  learnt  to 
know  herself  and  Robert  more  thoroughly,  days  during  which  Meg 
and  Mary  were  never  weary  of  praising  the  sweet  face  that  had 
grown  so  calm  and  trustful  under  its  new  happiness;  and  then 
came  a  day  when  Mary  and  the  Vicar  came  to  her,  and  when 
Robert  pleaded  in  a  few  manly  strong  wTords  that  there  should  be 
no  delay,  no  dallying  with  time. 

"  I  shall  never  grow  younger,  darling,  and  I  think  you  know 
me  well  enough  by  this  time  to  trust  me  with  your  happiness.  I 
want  my  wife,  to  have  her  dear  presence  always  near  me,  strengthen- 
ing me." 

And  Rotha,  with  the  look  of  meek  love  she  already  bore  for 
him,  slipping  her  little  hand  in  his,  said  : 

"Whenever  you  like,  dear  Robert,  and  the  Vicar  wishes,"  and 
quietly  yielded  the  point,  when  they  all  said  that  it  was  no  use 
waiting  till  the  autumn,  but  that  they  thought  she  might  be  ready 
by  the  middle  of  August,  and,  when  it  was  pressed  upon  her,  Rotha 
said  she  thought  so  too. 

Mary  and  Meg  soon  had  their  hands  full  of  delightful  business, 
and  Rotha  was  quite  passive  in  their  hands.  She  did  everything 
that  her  friends  thought  right.  One  or  two  of  the  rooms  in  Bryn 
were  to  be  remodelled  for  the  new  master,  and  Meg,  by  her  own 
desire,  was  to  take  up  her  abode  in  the  Children's  Home. 


CONCLUSION.  465 

Rotha  took  far  more  interest  in  these  arrangements  than  in 
ordering  her  fine  new  dresses.  She  made  Robert  come  up  to  Bryn 
and  look  at  his  old  rooms  before  the  painters  and  whitewashes 
turned  everything  topsy-turvy.  Robert  was  strangely  moved  at 
these  evidences  of  his  boyhood,  and  at  Rotha's  care  in  preserving 
them.  He  knew  all  about  her  full-grown  heir  by  this  time,  for 
one  day  the  Vicar  basely  betrayed  her  confidence  in  her  presence. 
Robert  went  all  over  Bryn,  from  the  garret  to  the  basement,  tell- 
ing Rotha  many  anecdotes  of  his  old  life.  He  made  her  show  him 
Aunt  Charlotte's  jewels,  and  further  stipulated  that  the  pearls  were 
to  be  worn  on  her  wedding-day ;  and  before  he  left  he  drew  her 
to  him,  and  told  her  in  grave  tender  tones  how  her  generosity 
and  magnanimity  had  humiliated  him  long  years  ago,  and  how  the 
bitterness  of  his  accusation  had  recoiled  upon  himself,  and  made 
his  life  for  a  long  time  barren ;  and  how  little  he  deserved  to  spend 
his  future  days  under  the  shelter  of  that  roof  from  which  his  bad 
temper  and  obstinacy  had  driven  him,  and. how  still  less  he  deserved 
the  crowning  glory  of  her  love. 

"  My  future  life  shall  be  one  long  act  of  gratitude  and  atone- 
ment if  I  am  spared,"  he  finished,  and  Rotha,  who  knew  his  faith- 
fulness and  integrity,  felt  certain  he  would  keep  his  words. 

The  summer,  with  its  pleasant  courting  days,  passed  away  only 
too  quickly  for  Rotha.  Robert  spent  all  his  leisure  hours  with  her, 
either  at  Bryn  or  at  the  Vicarage.  He  had  a  horse  of  his  own 
now,  a  wedding  present  from  Mr.  Ramsay,  and  rode  to  and  from 
Stretton  every  morning  and  evening.  By  and  by,  when  it  was  in 
the  stable  at  Bryn,  a  beautiful  bay  mare  made  its  appearance  from 
the  same  munificent  donor,  and  Robert  ordered  a  riding-habit  from 
London,  and  taught  Rotha  to  ride,  and  was  not  at  all  surprised 
when  she  made  a  splendid  horsewoman. 

"  My  wife  does  everything  well,"  was  a  speech  very  often  in 
Robert's  mouth. 

But  at  present  Rotha  had  neither  horse  nor  habit,  but  was  quite 
content  when  Robert  took  her  out  for  long  country  walks  in  the 
sweet  summer  evenings.  They  went  over  to  Burnley  once  or 
twice,  and  Rotha  told  Robert  all  the  girlish  fancies  she  had  had  in 
the  dim  wintry  woods. 

But  she  loved  best  to  take  him  to  her  Children's  Home,  and 
see  him  gather  the  children  round  his  knee  and  tell  them  stories 
of  the  New  World  and  its  wonders ;  and  before  long  Rotha  found 
she  would  have  a  true  helpmeet  in  all  her  benevolent  schemes. 
Robert's  large-heartedness  and  his  secret  ways  of  doing  good  were 
proverbial  in  the  family  ;  he  threw  himself  into  Rotha's  plans  for 
the  new  Home  with  an  enthusiasm  which  surprised  her,  until  she 

30 


466  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

learnt  more  and  more  how  his  deep  still  nature  loved  to  do  good 
for  its  own  sake,  and  thought  nothing  too  small  if  it  could  benefit 
a  suffering  brother  or  sister. 

"  You  can  build  the  Home,  if  you  like,  next  summer,  Kotha," 
he  said  to  her  one  day.  "  I  have  been  looking  over  your  accounts 
as  you  wish,  and  I  see  you  have  a  large  surplus  sum  at  the 
bankers,  in  spite  of  your  munificent  deed  of  gift  to  Reuben  and 
G-uy  ;  and  although  the  expenses  of  your  two  sons'  education  are 
very  great,  I  think  we  can  afford  it,  for  I  am  a  tolerably  rich  man 
now,  and  Laurie  is  going  to  be  my  charge." 

"  We  can  do  so  and  so  " — how  sweet  that  used  to  sound  in 
Rotha's  ears !  Never  to  be  alone  any  more,  to  have  Robert  to 
work  with  her,  to  direct  her  with  his  man's  counsel  and  strengthen 
her  hands  with  his  praise ;  what  a  rest  to  the  lonely  girl  who  had 
fought  such  a  fierce  battle,  and  who  had  accepted  her  bitter 
stewardship  so  bravely  !  No  need  to  keep  it  all  for  him  any  longer, 
who  prized  one  word  of  love  from  her  lips  more  than  the  wealth  and 
comforts  she  could  give  him ;  no  need  to  keep  it  all  for  him  when 
she  had  given  herself  into  that  faithful  keeping. 

It  was  the  evening  before  her  marriage ;  it  had  been  a  busy 
trying  day  in  spite  of  Meg's  efforts  to  lighten  her  labours ;  and 
Rotha,  when  she  came  down  to  Robert,  looked  pale  and  harassed, 
a  trifle  moved  from  her  serenity.  And  Robert,  understanding  how 
she  felt,  took  her  down  on  the  shore  that  the  fresh  sea-breezes 
might  blow  her  fatigue  away,  and  let  her  stand  there  silently  by 
his  side  undisturbed  by  questioning,  till  the  tired  eyes,  dazzled  by 
pomp  of  finery  and  the  unreality  of  bridal  garments,  might  grow 
rested  by  the  calm  of  summer  seas  and  evening  shadows. 

It  was  a  proof  of  his  unselfishness  that  he  never  spoke  of  his 
own  exceeding  happiness,  or  reminded  her  by  look  or  word  that 
this  was  the  last  evening  that  she  would  be  Rotha  Maturin.  Now 
and  then  he  spoke  to  her,  but  only  of  the  scene  that  lay  before 
them,  till  he  was  rewarded  by  seeing  the  ruffled  brow  grow  calm 
again,  and  the  old  colour  come  back  to  the  weary  face. 

"Dear  Rotha,  they  ought  not  to  have  let  you  tire  yourself 
like  this.  I  shall  take  better  care  of  you  than  that." 

"  They  could  not  help  it,  Robert ;  there  was  so  much  to  do, 
and  Mr.  Tracy  came  so  late.  I  don't  mind  now.  I  am  getting 
rested,  I  always  do  with  you,"  and  Rotha  leant  gratefully  on  the 
strong  arm  that  loved  to  support  her. 

Presently,  of  her  own  accord,  she  asked  him  if  they  should  walk 
towards  the  churchyard,  as  service  was  over,  and  it  would  be  quite 
quiet  now.  Robert  answered  that  it  was  just  what  he  wished ; 
but  that  he  had  feared  to  tire  her  by  proposing  it ;  and  then  they 
slowly  retraced  their  steps. 


CONCLUSION.  467 

They  stood  for  a  long  time  silently  by  the  marble  cross,  till 
Eobert  saw  the  tears  in  Rotha's  eyes,  and  questioned  her  gently. 

"  I  ought  not  to  have  brought  you  here  to-night,  my  darling." 

"  Why  not,  Robert  1  It  is  so  quiet  and  beautiful  up  here ; 
and  see  how  the  soft  wind  sweeps  over  the  grass,  as  she  said. 
Robert,  I  can't  help  thinking  of  Gar  to-night." 

"Oh,  Rotha  !"  he  drew  her  towards  him  sorely  troubled,  almost 
jealously ;  "  not  of  Gar  to-night,  surely  darling." 

"Happily — only  happily.  Nay,  Robert,  you  never  thought 
that.  I  was  so  wishing  he  could  see  us  to-night.  I  think  he 
would  be  so  glad,  Robert." 

"  My  darling,  why  should  we  doubt  it  1  Surely  the  knowledge 
of  our  happiness,  if  they  know  it,  will  be  as  precious  as  ever  to 
their  sainted  souls.  But,  Rotha,  I  am  only  a  poor  earthly  lover, 
and  earthly  love  is  prone  to  jealousy  and  doubt.  Tell  me,  dearest, 
if  at  this  moment  one  shadow  of  regret  for  the  past,  one  fear  for 
the  future,  is  in  your  heart  to-night;  for,  as  surely  as  we  have 
crossed  over  two  graves  to  each  other,  I  believe  that  God  intended 
each  for  each  and  none  other." 

Rotha  looked  up  in  his  face,  a  little  moved  by  his  passion. 

"  Do  you  mean  if  I  regret  Gar  still,  Robert  ?" 

He  made  an  affirmative  motion,  but  did  not  trust  himself  to 
speak. 

She  stole  her  hand  in  his.     "  What  do  you  think,  Robert  ?" 

"  My  darling,  it  is  for  you  to  answer  and  not  I." 

It  was  nearly  dark  now,  and  she  took  up  the  hand  she  held  and 
kissed  it,  as  though  that  were  the  fittest  expression  of  her  love ; 
but  closing  her  suddenly  in  his  arms  he  prayed  her  to  tell  him. 

"  Oh,  Robert,  to  think  you  need  my  words  still !  Do  you 
know,  Gar  once  told  me  that  I  had  not  given  him  all  that  was  in 
me  to  give,  and  now  I  feel  he  was  right." 

"What  then,  love?" 

"  I  have  given  it  all  now !"  And  then,  speaking  with  her  face 
hidden,  "  God  has  taken  Gar,  and  for  a  long  time  I  was  inconsol- 
able, now  I  know  it  was  for  the  best ;  for  if  he  had  lived  I  should 
have  loved  him  well,  no  doubt,  but  not  as  I  shall  love  you."  And, 
as  he  pressed  her  to  his  heart,  the  anguish  of  that  doubt  died  away 
out  of  Robert  Ord's  heart  for  ever. 


THE    END. 


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