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In memoriam
Alice,
“Not lost, but gone before.”
Was it in May or was it in June, I wonder, that we left England? June I think it must have been, because I know I was twenty that year on the twenty-eighth of April; and my birthday, I believe, was more than a month before we sailed.
Harry would laugh at me, indeed, if he knew that Dolly's memory, which every one appears to
Did I ever really, I wonder, lie awake in a large old-fashioned room in a Sussex grange, and hear the rooks calling to each other in the gray old trees outside? The very paper on the walls—large groups of pansies on a pale buff ground—rises before me as I write; and, looking across the room, I can see Violet, as she used to lie in her little white bed opposite to me, with her mass of rich hair struggling out of the white net she tucked it away in at night, and her blue eyes only half open as, between sleeping and waking, she calls for “Dolly.”
My mother had been dead so long then we could only recall her as a fair memory of our childhood, and my father died, I believe, when I was quite a baby. We had only each other and Harry, and we lived there with him until Harry married, and then we had Kate to care for too.
Dream-like as it all is now, I can remember very distinctly the day we were bridesmaids for the first time—when Violet appeared such a bewildering vision of beauty, with forget-me-nots in her hair the colour of her eyes, that the young curate who assisted at the ceremony proposed to her the week after, and required talking to for nearly two hours before he could be persuaded to accept “no” as an answer.
“I shall marry a rich man some time or other,” Violet used to say in those days, bridling her pretty white neck as she spoke; “and Dolly shall
Ah, well, it all seems a long age ago now; and not the real ocean only, but another sea of tears and pain and passion lies now between that time and this. Violet is—where is she? And Dolly is dreaming in the firelight, with her face wet with tears.
Kate called us both her children when she married, being, like Harry, a good deal our senior. It was no false pretence of affection, for she has always been like a mother to us both. And when the subject of emigration was first broached among us, we both vowed that wherever Kate went we
Harry was one of those men—are there not a large class of them at home?—bred up to no particular profession, and finding when he married that his means were not sufficient, nor ever likely to be, to enable him to live as comfortably as he desired. Letters from a friend in New Zealand had suggested to him emigration as a remedy; and, to pass quickly over those details which are not necessary to my story, it was at last settled that we should sail for one of the New Zealand colonies in the spring of the following year.
The voyage was a truly pleasant time to Violet and me. We had nothing to do except amuse ourselves, and every one was very good-tempered with us, however they might quarrel in other
The only real event of the voyage was that Violet engaged herself to a young fellow-passenger, dying, poor fellow, of consumption. It cost Kate some tears, and Violet was indignant.
“Why should not I marry him?” she asked. “I should always he very kind to him, and of course if he were my husband Dolly would nurse him and look after him. Kate, you are very interfering!”
However, I am glad to say that the engagement was broken off by mutual consent of the parties concerned upon their landing.
Settling into the new home was hard work at
Harry groaned, and said, “One unfortunate man in charge of three good-looking women! A nice life I shall have of it!”
However, Violet, a little sobered by her late romance and its rather abrupt ending, was at first unusually discreet; and Dolly, as Kate observed, was always sober enough to answer to her name. I was called “Dorothea,” after a Quaker sister of my mother's, whom, so all my relations declared, I also resembled in placidity of disposition. Perhaps it was quite as well, because Kate had a temper
I was in the kitchen one evening about a month after we had entered our new abode, helping Lizzie, our inexperienced Scotch maid-servant, to prepare the tea. Kate was not well, and was lying down, and Violet was shut up in her own room. Presently I heard Harry's voice, speaking to a stranger on the verandah.
At the same moment Kate called to me to bring her some tea, and fetch Harry in.
Now I, naturally shy, had not yet entirely recovered from my alarm at the incessant succession of strange masculine faces, therefore I hastened to summon Violet to my assistance.
She was sitting before her looking-glass,
“Go and call Harry to tea, did you say, Dolly?” she replied to my request. “Nonsense, you do it instead! Oh, is there a strange gentleman with him? How they do persecute us, don't they? Well, I'll go then, entirely to spare your shyness, Dolly.”
When I entered the dining-room at last, she was talking to Mr. Ainsleigh as if she had known him all her life. He was a man of the medium height, rather dark and brown, and broad-shouldered, with close-cropped hair, and with the
One slight peculiarity about him interested me a little on that first interview—it was the sad expression of his dark grey eyes; they were pathetic eyes, I thought, excepting when their owner smiled, which was not very often.
On the whole, Mr. Ainsleigh struck me as a quiet reserved man, anything but disposed to “persecute” us, as Violet had professed to believe.
“We thought you never intended to make our acquaintance at all, Ainsleigh,” said Harry, in his hearty, good-tempered way, which is so much appreciated out here. “We have been in this house more than a month, and the whole district called upon us long ago, except
“And your sister, Mr. Ainsleigh,” Violet struck in; “won't she condescend to come and see us at all?”
Did I notice it at the time, or only fancy that I noticed it, in the light of after events? He seemed to wince, like a man startled at this question, as though not expecting it, and perplexed what to answer. His embarrassment would certainly not have been noticeable at all, had not his ordinary manner been so perfectly self-possessed, and free from nervousness.
As it was, he nearly dropped the cup of tea which I was just handing to him; and apologized to me for awkwardness, before making any reply to Violet's question. Then he said,—
“My sister will be very happy to make your
He smiled when he asked me this question. He had a pleasant smile—sweet and bright.
I told him that the thought of the horses I was to ride had been the great inducement which had tempted me to the colonies.
And this changed the course of the conversation, so that the subject of Mr. Ainsleigh's sister, whom we had heard spoken of casually among the gentlemen of our acquaintance as a good-looking girl and a very bold rider, did not come to the surface again that evening.
But two days after she came to call upon us herself, and the impression she left upon my mind after that first introduction was somehow a disagreeable one.
Violet and I had felt a strong curiosity to see
The next moment Mr. Ainsleigh was picking up my book, and his sister shaking hands with me; and she crushed up all my fingers with her violent squeeze.
She was not a pretty girl exactly, yet not bad looking; with thick curly dark hair arranged into
But there was something about her which repelled me from the first, and I never got over the feeling. She talked so much, and once or twice I thought so strangely; asked us to call her “Madelaine” before she had been in the room with us for five minutes, and told us not to let Kate keep us boxed up, but to be sure and ride about and have as many larks as we liked.
Her brother never spoke to her, or took the slightest notice of anything that she said. Once or twice I thought he seemed to repress a slight shudder at some more than usually outrageous specimen of fastness on her part; but if he was annoyed he did not show it in any other way.
He had drawn a chair near to mine on first entering the room; and I found that the entertaining of him devolved upon me. Violet and Miss Ainsleigh were seated side by side upon the sofa opposite, and soon quite absorbed in their own, conversation.
We commenced, à propos of the book which Mr. Ainsleigh had picked up for me. It happened to be “Idylls of the King.” “Had I read the ‘Holy Grail’”? he asked me, and after we had discussed that, “What did I think of the first volume of ‘Middlemarch’”?
I had not seen it, I told him.
“Not seen it? Then he would send it over for me the next day.”
I was always passionately fond of reading, so I accepted the offer with gratitude.
After this there was a slight pause; we found
“What a very pretty dress you have on,” said Madelaine Ainsleigh. “The colour is ‘Eau de Nil,’ is it not? Is it pique?”
“Muslin,” returned Violet, rather shocked at this specimen of feminine ignorance.
“Muslin, of course,” said Miss Ainsleigh, evidently ashamed of her mistake. “I am so stupid; I always forget. I get all my things from Paris, and my modiste sends me what she pleases. I never know the names of half the materials; but in the colonies you soon fall behind the fashions.”
The Parisian dressmaker sounded imposing. Violet glanced at Madelaine's deep gray riding-habit, which was certainly of a first-rate cut, with great respect.
Mr. Ainsleigh turned to me with an inquiry, how I had enjoyed my voyage.
This opened up a fresh field of conversation, and we chatted away very pleasantly until, in another slight pause, it became evident that Madelaine was talking also about her voyage out, and telling Violet some rather wild stories of life on board ship.
Mr. Ainsleigh rose, saying coldly,—
“Miss Somerset can scarcely be much interested in all your past experiences, Madelaine; and it is high time we set off on our way home.”
His sister coloured a little, and a shade of confusion passed over her manner for the first time. It might have been with annoyance at the cold decision of his words, which amounted to a command rather than a suggestion; however, she also rose, wished us all “good-bye” with far greater
But when they had ridden off on their homeward way I was astonished to find that Violet's impressions of our new acquaintance were exactly the reverse of my own.
“Such a jolly girl! So bright and full of life!” she declared, almost before Madelaine Ainsleigh was out of hearing. “Not like her, did you say, Dolly? I wonder at you. For my part, I am charmed to have such a neighbour, and intend to cultivate her acquaintance.”
Kate, who had been present part of the time, shook her head, and her verdict agreed with mine.
Violet pouted, and declared we were wanting in taste and discrimination of character. And with this the subject dropped.
So the first links of this strange friendship were formed. And so Violet crossed the little brook, which was to swell to a great river between herself and Dolly.
We were so happy during those first months in New Zealand. Happy, in spite of hard work, to which we were all utterly unaccustomed, and very often hard fare to match it.
We all tried our hands at cooking, and at teaching our inexperienced Lizzie to cook, one after the other. I succeeded the best, and was duly installed as housekeeper and head of the culinary department; with a plentiful store of holland aprons, with bibs in front, and Miss
Violet kept the sitting-room in order, and undertook the mending of stockings for the whole family, while Kate superintended everything, and made herself (as advertisements express it) “generally useful”—that is to say, for the first few months; after that little Fred was born, an event which caused a great excitement in every member of the household.
But I am going on to this time too fast. I must advance more slowly at first.
We had a wooden house, roofed with shingle; not large, yet sufficiently so for comfort. We had only one sitting-room, but that was a good-sized room; the very pride of our hearts in contrast with other rooms in other houses of our neighbours, and regarded by the majority of the
Why, it had actually a piano—Violet's own piano, which had been my mother's; and it had a bay-window, with a flower-stand in it, soon filled with geraniums, fuchsias, and one lemon verbena. Then there were two recesses, holding shelves of books, mostly belonging to Dolly, who was the bookworm of the family; besides all this, did not a pretty work-table stand in one corner, whereon were deposited three dainty work-baskets, lined respectively with pink, green, and purple satin?
We papered the room ourselves, and hung up some engravings after pictures by Landseer and Sant, in plain but pretty frames. We made chintz curtains for the windows, and put down a carpet we had brought from England on the floor.
Lizzie was much “up-lifted” that night at the increased grandeur of the family who owned such a regal apartment. Living as she had done almost all her life “up-country”—for her parents had sailed from Glasgow when she was quite a child—she had small experience of household comforts, and had even gone so far as to mistake our iron bedsteads when she first beheld them in a disjointed condition, for ornamental iron gates, designed for the garden and paddocks.
Lizzie was a good type of her class, and as such, I may add a few more words about her
Lizzie, I may add, married of course before long; but that has nothing to do with my story.
Harry had men always working on his farm; but they lodged and boarded with a married couple, established for that purpose in a tiny wooden house about half a mile away. From this place our milk and cream were duly brought
Harry had been warned by several of his neighbours whilst his house was in course of erection that the site he had chosen for it was rather low. Heavy rains are apt to fall in New Zealand, and creeks will sometimes rise in a few hours in a manner startling and unexpected to those whose homes are near their banks.
However, on mature consideration, there seemed no occasion for any serious alarm in our case; our house was far above the highest watermark known for some years past. Only the Maoris (very few of whom ever came near us) could recollect a time when the water had flowed up as
Harry talked too of building a new and very superior homestead on a considerably higher elevation, as soon as his affairs had begun really to prosper. The house we were now in, he assured us, was only a temporary residence, and, as such, to be made the best of for a time.
However, we were very well satisfied with it so far, and everything went on very smoothly indoors for a while.
From the windows of our sitting-room, and from those of my bedroom, we commanded a lovely view. The country seen from them was, it is true, dull and monotonous looking, but it stretched away to a magnificent range of mountains, clothed in the winter in raiment of dazzling snow.
The outline of these mountains, cut sharp with
These mountains became, at the time I write of, a part of my life. I never recall any of those days but once more they rise before me, and claim me as a friend. In all their countless aspects, lustrous and dazzling in the sunlight, lurid and menacing in cloudy gloom, they were dear to my heart, and have stamped themselves upon my memory for life.
It used to be a great pleasure to me at that time, when busy about my kitchen duties, to hear
Let me pause a moment here to try to sketch this fairest of my sisters as she was in her beauty and her bloom. She had lovely yellow hair, thick and glossy as satin, eyes of bright turquoise blue, and beautiful pouting lips as innocent-looking as a baby's. She was the tallest of us all, and was to me ever my “queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls.”
Kate was not as tall as Violet, and inclined to be short; she had dark hair, and a pale face, with a sweet expression, which made every one
For myself, I used to see then in the glass a quaint little colourless face; darker hair than Violet's, worn in curls arranged high on the top of the head; and a figure which Violet pronounced too plump for elegance.
With this our family portraits are complete. Violet and I rode a good deal, generally with Harry, but sometimes alone together. It was arranged that we should return the Ainsleighs' call, and leave Kate's card, as she was not feeling strong enough herself to undertake the visit.
“Don't stay too long, girls,” said Kate, coming into the room as we were dressing for our ride. “And don't get too intimate with Madame Ainsleigh. I didn't like her manners at all, and
Violet was hunting in her drawer for a pair of riding gloves. She said nothing in answer to this remark.
“We will be very good children, and come home early, Kate,” said I, as I hastily arranged my hat before the glass.
“Mr. Ainsleigh seems a thorough gentleman, but his sister is not a thorough lady,” went on Kate, musingly, and speaking more to herself than to us. “I wonder who the Ainsleighs are, and what part of England they come from. I never met any people of that name before.”
Violet turned round, flushed with a contest she was waging with an obstinate button on her gauntlet.
“I warn you, Kate,” she said, “that I do not intend to take up any absurd prejudices. In this country, as Harry observed the other day, it is far better to be neighbourly; and if Miss Ainsleigh invites me to take tea to-night, I dare say I shall stop.”
Kate said nothing in answer to this; perhaps she did not care to reply after the dexterous fashion in which her husband's opinion had been quoted against her; but she looked hurt at the manner in which Violet had received her suggestion. Ah, my poor Kate! it was not the last time by many that we were to grieve you!
But Harry called to us to make haste; and we ran out to the horses, and except a hasty “goodbye,” no more was said.
I think Violet scarcely looked as well on horseback as at other times. She did not sit
But when we reached Feringhurst, which was the name of Mr. Ainsleigh's place, she was quite herself again. Before we arrived at the house she pointed out to me, with her whip, a figure dressed in blue, pacing in the garden, which she said she was sure was Madelaine Ainsleigh.
Violet proved to be quite correct in her judgment. Miss Ainsleigh saw our approach before any one else, and came to meet us at the gate.
She was dressed in dark blue serge, and wore a large plaited chignon, as on the day she made our acquaintance. She received us most graciously, and after the first general greeting was over drew Violet's arm through her own and walked her off to make a tour of the garden and orchard.
Harry and I went in, to be welcomed by the master of the house, who was lying on a sofa in the sitting-room, smoking a cigar and reading the newspaper.
He threw the paper on to the table and the cigar into the fire as we entered, and then turned to me with an apology. Did I mind the smell of tobacco? Would I allow him to open the window, or would I prefer to have my chair moved into the verandah?
I declined both proposals, and was forthwith seated in a very luxurious easy chair by the fireplace; it was the only handsome piece of furniture in the room, and evidently the seat of honour.
My host was opposite to me. He appeared cordially glad to see us, and though I never met him without an impression shaping itself in my mind that he was rather blasé of young ladies in
On this third interview I decided conclusively to myself that he was by far the most distinguished-looking man of my acquaintance, and his manner, with its easy patrician grace, appeared to me more and more attractive every time I met him.
I fear I cannot say much in praise of his sitting-room. It was very plainly, almost scantily furnished. Had I not already lost many of my English ideas of luxury, I should certainly have pronounced it to be exceedingly shabby.
Certainly our own newly-completed dining-room eclipsed it in every respect, and there was an utter absence of the small feminine knick-knacks and embroideries which made ours look so home-like. If Miss Ainsleigh often honoured the apartment with her presence she left no traces of her sojourn there.
There was no carpet on the floor of the room, only a square of cocoa-nut matting; upon this stood a common deal table, covered with a cheap kind of table cloth. A few painted chairs, roughly-put-together sofa, and the one handsome and comfortable easy chair in which I was seated, made up the entire furniture of the room.
Yet there was one or two details noticeable, on a second glance, not consistent with the strict economy which had apparently been studied in the arrangement of the whole. On the mantelpiece stood two costly Venetian glasses filled with beautiful bouquets from the garden; the sofa had several magnificent opossum rugs and bear skins thrown across it; the curtains looped back from the window were of the finest satin damask; there were some shelves of beautifully-bound volumes in one corner.
Taken altogether it was a strange and careless medley of elegance and coarseness. Two-thirds of Mr. Ainsleigh's surroundings might have been taken from a kitchen, the remainder from a handsome drawing-room in some stately mansion.
The flowers upon the mantelpiece, however, once seen, engrossed all my attention. I had scarcely had a flower in my hand since we had landed. Following the direction of my eyes, it seemed suddenly to dawn upon Mr. Ainsleigh that we had as yet no garden.
“Would you like some flowers, Miss Dolly?” he asked. “If you will come out with me, I shall be delighted to gather you any you please.”
We stepped through the glass door which opened on to the verandah, and walked out into the garden. In the distance we caught a glimpse
My companion stopped to listen a moment; then coloured through the sunburnt brown on his face, and threw away a verbena he had just gathered with an impatient gesture.
A minute after I thought the pathos of his dark gray eyes more strongly defined than I had ever seen it yet. They seemed to glance at me with a mute appeal. I could have fancied that they were saying,—
“Don't hold me responsible for all my sister says.”
My hands were full of flowers by this time, and I was conscious of an odd anxiety that Violet would come in, and that we might shorten our visit. She was not to be seen, however, at present,
“I know which horse and saddle are yours quite well,” he said, with a smile on his lips. “I have seen you out riding before now.”
It was a very quiet remark, yet I felt clearly conscious that he had paid me a compliment; and, somehow, the knowledge was not unpleasant.
When Mr. Ainsleigh came back, he found me studying the titles of the books on the shelves with interest; I was too shy to take one down to look at.
“Do you see any that you like, Miss Dolly?” he said. “I know you are a bookworm, and any that I have are at your service.”
I put out my hand eagerly for a volume of the Cornhill Magazine, and Mr. Ainsleigh reached it
As he opened it for a moment at the title-page, a name and a few words written on the fly-leaf caught his eye. In an instant, with a muttered exclamation beneath his breath, he had torn out the page and crushed it up in his hand.
Of course I did not appear to notice the action, and he also ignored it. But he did not at that time offer me any more books. Perhaps he wished to make sure first that they had not any secrets written inside.
Violet and Madelaine did not come in from the garden until the very last moment, and then they took an affectionate leave of each other. When I shook hands with Madelaine she crushed my fingers as before with a rather too cordial squeeze.
After we had ridden off on our homeward way, my first discovery was that my bouquet, which was fastened to my saddle with great ingenuity, was reposing in a very handsome holder of silver filagree.
“Mr. Ainsleigh must have put it there—what shall I do with it?” said I. And then involuntarily I added, “Oh, Harry! do you think he is as poor as he seems?”
“I'm sure he is,” said Violet. “That poverty-stricken apartment leaves no doubt of it. Of course the bouquet-holder is a remnant of better days—you must be sure to keep it, Dolly. I think it was a very delicate attention of his to put your flowers in it.”
“It's all stuff about his being poor,” said Harry, decidedly. “I'm pretty certain he is nothing of the sort. I was talking to him to-day about a
And then, Harry, too, added, as Kate had done, “I wonder who the Ainsleighs are, and what part of England they come from!”
In the utter dead weariness which lies upon me to-night—blank darkness within and without—weariness of mind so great, that whether it is only of the mind or of the body, too, I scarcely know—I have taken up my pen to try to write some almost necessary letters home. It is of no use; I cannot carry out the intention at all.
I have been out now for this two years, and borne this intolerable martyrdom, which presses upon me at times with a weight almost too great
Free? Yes. But of what use will my freedom be to me then? I have no object in life. Except that I shall no longer be a living lie, what shall I have gained?
Yet a vision of something that might have been rises before me as I write. If I had met her earlier in my life … or if I had not been heartbroken by the time I was thirty, striving to keep nay promise to the dead.
But I have kept it; to the letter and to the spirit. Do you know it, Eleanor, I wonder? If the ghost of your sad pale face could rise before me now, in the gathering darkness, I could meet its eyes as fearlessly as ever. I promised, and
These people avoid me here—they don't suspect, not one of them, that I am not what I seem. They think (if they think about me at all) that I am a man struggling with poverty. The carefully chosen shabbiness of my surroundings; the fact that I keep no manager, but transact all my own Business myself, leads them naturally to this impression. I intended them to think so. It makes our secret—our hateful family secret—more secure. It throws them off the scent.
And what is it to them if all the money I spend on this New Zealand Station, be the losses what they may, is of trifling importance to the yearly income of Carewe of Curtis Knowle.
My old name—my real name—how odd it seems Writing it once more! The other day when I
It seemed to flash on my eyes at that moment like a forgery. I tore the leaf out; and then stood like a fool, without the sense to make some plausible excuse for my apparent rudeness.
But Dolly took no notice; like a thoroughbred little gentlewoman as she is. It is some weeks ago since I saw her first.
I heard a great deal of talk going on among the fellows round about, concerning the Somerset girls, and at first I had intended not to make their acquaintance at all. But Madelaine was unusually trying; vowing that if I would not come, she would go over herself and seek them out.
So, at last, one evening, saying nothing to her of where I was going, I rode over to Somerset's place, determined to judge for myself what quality of womankind they were of.
When Violet Somerset came first into the room, my instant thought was, that she certainly possessed unusual beauty. The next, that she did not improve upon acquaintance; the third, that she had been greatly overpraised.
She had beauty, it is true, but almost entirely of colour, not of form. Her hair is of a rich golden colour, but the shape of her head is ungraceful; her eyes bright blue, but hard; and she is also too tall and too thin for my taste.
But after her there glided shyly into the room and endeavoured to conceal itself in a corner a little figure which raised again the credit of the family in my eyes. A demure little pale face, soft
This was Dolly. “Our Quaker sister Dorothea,” as Violet Somerset called her, and laughed.
She did not come forward at all except to make the tea. She kept almost entirely in her corner. I dare say she never knew that I looked at her once.
But her face haunted me after I had gone away. I saw it before me in the darkness all the time as I rode home that night, and I caught myself wondering again and again what it was that constituted its especial charm.
“Sweetness and light.” Yes, it had both of these, and in a certain honesty of expression
Ah, well! it might have been once, but not now. Once I might have been a happy man, if I had met with Dolly Somerset earlier in my life; now it is too late. Could I ask her to marry me with that fatal family secret hanging like a millstone round my neck—with a lie in my right hand?
I hear Madelaine singing in the next room as I write. Apparently she is in a very good humour to-night. She does not like Dolly; she told me so plainly, but she calls Violet Somerset “a nice little thing.”
As long as Violet humours her I have no doubt they will get on well together; but, if otherwise, let her beware. However, I must be on my guard that this friendship does not go too far.
On my guard I must be, too, against myself,
But I think such stern self-sacrifice as that amounts to is scarcely necessary. There is no harm in my seeing her sometimes—no harm even if I were so weak as to allow myself to love her, so long as it does not affect her happiness at all. For anything I know to the contrary she may be engaged already, nothing is more probable. And, in fact, the truth is, I don't think I could keep away from her now if I tried.
Madelaine is certainly an admirable rider. Today, as she cantered off, her figure swaying easily to her horse's stride, I was tempted—oh, how awfully tempted!—to wish that it might stumble and throw her, and rid me of the evil genius of my life at a blow.
It is best not to write about this any more.
I went over there to-day. Dolly was busy in the kitchen. I think she is always busy, doing Violet's work as well as her own. Violet was amusing herself in the sitting-room.
She was very gracious to me when I went in. She is always gracious, though she does not look upon me as very eligible. She does not see below the surface, and my coarsely-furnished room and shabby old shooting-coat have deceived her for once as completely as I could wish.
Nothing but what glitters is gold with her; but still she makes herself agreeable to rue, because she is one of those girls who love to try to conquer for conquest's sake alone.
It is of no use, Miss Violet. I have met dozens like you in the old days, with matchmaking mammas to back them up in every manœuvre; and very hard they tried to make an impression upon my unsusceptible self. I was a catch then, and I suppose I am now, after a fashion. But no one ever yet made me feel her power in the least, except one who did not try to do so.
I bore Violet's mild gossip as long as I could, though I soon grew very weary of it, as I always do, and I was obliged to have recourse to many ingenious contrivances to conceal my yawns.
At last, unable to endure it any longer, I rose,
Lizzie, the cook, stood still in the centre of the kitchen, aghast at my unexpected apparition; and Miss Dolly, after one look at me, blushed up to the roots of her hair and began to laugh.
She had on the neatest little holland apron, with a square bib in front, that I ever saw; and her sleeves were rolled up high on her pretty arms, which were well dusted with flour. It was a very uncommon and piquant costume, and I would not have missed the sight of it for the world; consequently, though I apologized, I did not feel at all penitent for my ungentlemanly behaviour.
“I beg your pardon, Miss Dolly,” I said,
“You shall stone some raisins, Mr. Ainsleigh,” said Dolly; “they are for our plum-pudding today. I won't ask you to stay and eat it, out of pity for your teeth.”
Her eyes were dancing with fun all the time.
“That is a very malicious insinuation,” I said; and I intend to stay, without you turn me out.”
“That depends entirely on how you behave,” she returned, and I saw by the wicked look in her brown eyes that she had found out perfectly well by this time my entrance into the kitchen was not an accident, but that I had done it on purpose.
However, I managed to ensconce myself behind a china dish well strewed with raisins, though what I was expected to do to them I had not the remotest idea. Still it was my stronghold, and as long as I could pretend to be occupied with those raisins I had no intention of being turned out.
Lizzie had become reconciled to the situation by this time, and pursued her work as usual, only giving vent to an occasional giggle. Dolly too pretended to be very busy and bustled about, rolling out little jam tarts, and putting them into the oven, and taking them out again, all with great dexterity, and laughing, I am sure, in her sleeve at the folly of the awkward man in the corner whom she had so completely conquered.
Her pale cheeks had a pink flush on them to-day, and her eyes were the softest, and her
At last she brought me a little strawberry-tart on a china plate, and while I ate it, I said,—
“How shall I face Miss Violet again? I said ‘good-bye’ to her, and she thinks I have gone.”
“There is a way out of the dilemma,” returned Dolly, demurely.
“And what is that?” I asked, off my guard.
“Be really going, as she fancies you have done.”
“Now that is too bad,” said I. “You have taken advantage of an innocent remark of mine to hint that you would like to get rid of me.”
“I have just finished my work,” she returned; “and I am going myself.”
I felt glad that her answer was evasive, and she did not distinctly say that she wished to be relieved of my presence.
She turned down the sleeves over her dimpled elbows as she spoke; and then unpinned the bib of her apron, in which she did really look something like a lovely little Quakeress.
I got up to go too; and it was precisely at this moment that Mrs. Harry Somerset appeared in, the doorway, looking for an instant almost as appalled as her maid Lizzie had done. But quickly she recollected she was in New Zealand, not in England. She accepted my apologies, and laughed as good-humouredly as Dolly herself.
I like Mrs. Somerset immensely. She is a really charming specimen of an English gentlewoman. She is not more than thirty; but, I am sure, is
I stayed to dinner, and I endured Violet; and I talked to Dolly about her books. Inwardly I determined to bring her over a large parcel of them in a day or two, which should have no fly-leaves requiring a skilful manipulation.
* * * * *
A week since I wrote last. To-day I went out riding with Violet and Dolly Somerset. They were starting early for a ride into town when I happened to call, and as Somerset was that day very busy it was settled that I should take his place, and act as their escort.
It was a gloriously lovely day, and I forgot everything for the time, and was in Paradise.
Dolly is beautiful on horseback; such a good rider, and such a faultless figure. If I were her
Violet was much the same as usual—pretty, a little affected, and very full of herself. She rides badly, and looks on all sides of the road, to discover if any masculine eyes are feasting on her perfections. What can Madelaine see in her? and, still more, what can she see in Madelaine? Yet in spite of all I can do, this strange friendship flourishes.
Just as I wrote these words Madelaine herself opened the sitting-room door, and walked in, closing it behind her. She threw herself into the easy chair by the fire and began to whistle.
She stopped whistling, and looked hard at me.
“Alan,” she said, “I'm thinking of wearing earrings. I admire Violet Somerset's gold shells immensely. Don't you think a pair like those would become me?”
“No,” I said shortly.
“Don't be in the grumps, Alan. Hand me over a five-pound note to get a pair the next time I go into town, there's a good fellow.”
“I will not,” I returned, as curtly and ungraciously as possible.
For reasons which I cannot explain here, I am obliged to keep Madelaine” down at a very low ebb in the matter of pounds, shillings, and pence.
She looked with a longing eye at my Russia leather covered desk, which was standing open before me on the table, and then suddenly laughed outright.
“I don't see why I shouldn't wear earrings if I choose,” she said.
“Wear them by all means,” I returned, “if your fancy leads you that way. But don't ask me to buy them for you.”
I am well aware, and so is she, that as I own the purse I am the master, and must be obeyed.
“What a cur you are, Alan,” she said, politely. “If Dolly had asked you for a pair I have no
“Now you are paying her a very high compliment,” said I, trying hard to keep my temper.
“You were riding with her to-day. You admire her very much, don't you?” she went on, spitefully; and looking up, I caught her eyes fixed on me, with so much malice in their expression that I saw I was in for a fight.
“Whether I do or not is not of the slightest consequence to you, Madelaine,” I returned. “But now that you have brought up the subject, I must tell you that I think you are carrying your intimacy with Violet Somerset a great deal too far. You are no fit associate for her, and you know it.”
“Why not?” she returned coolly.
“Do you wish me to remind you of our
I had spoken straight out, without lowering my voice in the least, determined to remind her that she was in my power, though I might be fettered by the silken thread of a promise.
She looked a little frightened for a moment.
“Hush!” said she, glancing round her uneasily. “The walls have ears, as you say.”
But my blood was up, and I was determined to take advantage of the opportunity to deliver my soul.
“Remember, Madelaine,” I said, “if you lead Violet into any mischief through her friendship for you, I cast you off from that day to fight your own battles as best you can. I give you fair warning. See to what you are about, or make up your mind to lose your last friend.”
She was looking at me with rage and hatred in her face. If a wish could kill, should I be living now? I doubt it.
But she was the mouse under the lion's paw, and must submit. Sulkily enough she said,—
“Keep your temper, Alan. What harm can I do your protegée—perhaps your sister, some day, who knows?” And with this parting shaft, flung back at me across her shoulder, she left the room, and I returned to solitude and peace.
Violet had stepped over the little brook, and day by day it was becoming harder for us to walk “hand in hand.”
One day I found her crying; the sight filled me
In vain I begged and entreated to be taken into her confidence, and told what was the matter; I got only an evasive answer in return.
“It's nothing,” she said, hastily drying her eyes and her cheeks; “only I have a headache and feel a little out of spirits. Don't tell Kate.”
Then she kissed me, and I promised not to tell. Ah, Violet, not many more kisses were to pass between yourself and Dolly!
About this time two incidents varied the somewhat monotonous life we were then leading. Violet and I each received on the same day an offer of marriage.
It was at a large picnic, given by the bachelors of the neighbourhood, that these interesting events took place. We were, with two exceptions, the only unmarried ladies present. Madelaine Ainsleigh had, we heard, declined the invitation sent to her.
“She never goes anywhere, I believe,” I heard one man say to his neighbour. “Something wrong about the upper story, perhaps.”
“There can't be a doubt about it,” the other answered.
“Pleasant for Ainsleigh, I should say.”
“Oh, she ain't dangerous; only cranky, and requires a little looking after. He won't let her visit, that's all.”
“More's the pity while ladies are so scarce. Even a cracked one would be better than none at all.”
Violet was standing near me, and had overheard this bit of dialogue. Whether Madelaine's sanity was a doubtful point with her or not I did not know, but I noticed that she flushed up hotly for a moment, and the hand she laid upon my arm was trembling.
Both Violet's admirer and mine were men farming their own land, within a circuit of ten miles from us. Both were well born and well educated. Mine was rather the handsomer, hers rather the cleverer of the two. Both were so unfortunate as to have their offer declined.
But there was a difference in the manner of the refusal. My own was unhesitating and decided, Violet's left the ground open for future hopes.
I had seen for a long time past that Arthur Lacy would have to be dismissed some day. No looks or actions of mine, however pointedly rude,
But Violet blushed and hesitated as she dismissed Hugh Maberley, and did not speak as decidedly as she intended to have done. Therefore, though he accepted his dismissal for the time, he received it with the understanding that he was at liberty to renew his offer at some future period if he thought fit. I speak from after knowledge of what took place, given me by the people most nearly concerned.
Kate and I really believed that, in her secret heart, Violet had a decided liking for good-tempered little Hugh, and that only her girlish wish for a longer period of liberty had prevented her accepting him at once.
“Violet knows she is pretty, and wants a great
à propos of the subject.
I agreed with her, and was more friendly than before with Mr. Maberley, feeling that I might probably some day have to welcome him as a brother. He himself, I know, looked upon it only as a question of time and perseverance.
Somewhere about this time, I became a most unwilling eavesdropper to a conversation never intended for my ears. It was one evening in the dusk, about two months after Kate's little baby was born. I had the little fellow on my knee, and had just coaxed him off to sleep, after a rather trying afternoon; for he was ailing and fretful, and Kate had as yet no experience in baby management.
I was sitting by the dining-room fire, not
I heard Harry come in. He went into the next room, to his wife first, as usual. He had been caught in a heavy squall, and was wet; and while he changed his wet clothes for dry ones, Kate and he were talking. I heard what they said, without listening: I was thinking about the baby: he moaned in his sleep, and moved his hands, and I was afraid every moment that he would wake again.
The first words that entered my understanding were to the effect that Harry had dined that day
“An excellent dinner,” I heard Harry say; “and very well served.”
“Did you see his sister?” asked Kate.
“No,” replied Harry.
There was a pause. I don't know why, but my heart began to beat.
At last Kate said, in a low, almost awestruck whisper,—
“Harry, I don't believe in that sister.”
“Nor I,” he returned promptly.
“The question is,” Kate went on, “is she really his sister at all, or not? If she is not his sister, who is she?”
Harry apparently had no answer ready; at all events he made none.
“I have sometimes thought,” Kate proceeded, still in the same mysterious tone, “that there was insanity in the family, that she was deranged and he was her keeper. Can that be the mystery?”
“I think he lets her ride about too much, and gives her too much freedom for that,” Harry answered.
“Some mystery I am sure there is,” Kate said—“some family secret. When you come to think of it, how little we really know about the Ainsleighs; we do not know where they come from, or who any of their relations are, or anything about them. The other people we meet out here talk freely of their friends, and show us photographs of the places they have lived at at
“It is odd,” returned Harry; “I have noticed it.”
“It is odder still,” Kate said, “because I am quite sure that, wherever they come from, they are very wealthy people; and Alan Ainsleigh has had no ordinary education and lived in no ordinary society.”
“Madelaine is vulgar enough for both, however,” remarked Harry.
A pause. I hoped they had finished. The baby was again sleeping quietly, and I dreaded to disturb him.
All at once Kate resumed the conversation.
“If she were not a respectable girl,” Kate said, “I can scarcely think that Mr. Ainsleigh would let her come here like she does; but one thing is
“Ainsleigh admires Dolly,” returned Harry.
Oh, Harry! why couldn't you stop!
“I know he does,” said Kate.
“And I like him,” Harry went on. “He is a right down good fellow. Perhaps we are making mountains out of mole-hills; remember we know nothing against them; all is our conjecture. So I think we had better let matters stand as they are for the present.
Kate sighed.
“I suppose we must,” she said, “and all the more because Alan Ainsleigh is a man who will have his way. He has a strong will, and if he chooses to see Dolly, depend upon it he will find
I could bear it no longer. I got up, gathered the sick baby in my arms, and began to walk up and down the room with him that they might become aware some one was there. The movement woke the little boy, and he began to cry.
Kate was by his side in a moment, and too full of his troubles to think of anything else. I do not believe it ever occurred to her that I must have heard all she had said. And I do not think it occurred to her either that there is such a thing as shutting the stable-door when the horse is stolen.
After what I had heard Kate say I shrank from-Madelaine Ainsleigh with a stronger repulsion than ever. My antipathy to her which had existed from the first was always to myself somewhat inexplicable, but truly sincere in spite of that.
Once, as she was taking leave of us, the girl stooped—she was taller than I—and kissed me on the cheek. I think the sensation it caused me, was more like that of involuntarily touching
Violet would certainly not have been affected in the same manner. Madelaine and she played and sang together constantly; they had both some amount of musical talent, and Madelaine had a fine, though uncultivated contralto voice. They walked arm in arm round the garden and paddocks; they corresponded in short notes when apart. Certainly Madelaine in her letters did not display any signs of weakness, or eccentricity of intellect. They were perfectly clear and well expressed productions, though her handwriting was somewhat stiff, and almost unnaturally angular.
Suddenly Madelaine's visits ceased, abruptly and entirely. Afterwards I knew that her brother had interfered, and forbidden them, with a
Hugh Maberley came often, and seemed to make good progress with his suit. Violet's spirits, which had been variable for some time, suddenly revived; and became as joyous as possible. She declared she thought the colonies far preferable to England; and only wished we had come out a few years sooner.
Alan Ainsleigh I saw much of just then, and what I saw of him I liked. Everything seemed flowing very gaily and smoothly on the surface; but the waters were growing deeper, the undercurrent was beginning to glide more swiftly, and
One lovely morning Harry and I set off to ride into town. We had both many commissions to execute for Kate, and Harry had business to look after; while I was to dine with some friends of ours, who had kindly offered a welcome to both Violet and myself whenever we had any shopping to do.
There had been heavy rain the day before, and the roads were bad, and the creeks higher than usual. Kate did not half like my going. But some of her commissions were for the baby, and she could not trust Harry's masculine judgment, and I longed for the ride, so she consented.
“Be sure you are home before dark,” she said, as she kissed me for good-bye. “I shall get so uneasy if you are not.”
I promised to be back as early as possible, and looked round for Violet. But sue was not to be seen.
“I think she is writing in her own room,” said Kate. “Never mind. She asked me to tell you to get her five yards of pale green ribbon, and three of white muslin, and, that is all she wants this time she says.”
So I set off. I rode, in those days, a bay mare called Rebecca, and very fond I was of her. We had a pleasant ride into town, in spite of the roads. I finished everything I had to do, dined with Mrs. Fortescue off roast beef and apple pudding, and waited long for Harry to come to take me home.
He had much business on hand, however, and the afternoon waned, and still he did not come. I remembered my promise to Kate, and began to
I sat by one of the windows which overlooked the street, watching for Harry to make his appearance. Kind Mrs. Fortescue had ordered tea for me before I set off on my homeward way, and I had long since taken a cup of it, and eaten a morsel of bread-and-butter, and still no sign of Harry.
At last I saw him walking rapidly towards the house. I sprang to meet him in the verandah, and reminded him that we were very late.
“I know we are,” he said, and with a hurried farewell to our hostess, we set off.
As we walked quickly down the road towards the stables where Harry had left the horses, he said, “I have not nearly finished yet all that I have to
There was no time to inquire who the friend was. We turned a corner sharply, and there, holding my horse and his own, stood Alan Ainsleigh.
Coming events cast their shadows before. A shadow of the future seemed to fall upon me as I looked at him, and I trembled. He had no objection on his part to the charge he had imposed upon himself, as was evident by his face.
Harry mounted me, and with as little delay as possible we set off. We spoke little till we were clear of the town, and felt well launched on our way home. Then as the road grew lonelier and
As we rode we could see the mountains before us almost all the way. The night was slowly glooming up in heavy clouds behind them; the giant maiden lay in dusky grandeur in the declining light.
The wind changed suddenly, and from being in a warm quarter came in chill gusts against our faces.
“We had better try a canter here,” I said, turning to Alan. “The road is worse still further on, and my sister will be sure to imagine something has happened to me if I am not home soon.”
“Ride carefully,” he returned, as his horse broke into a quick trot beside Rebecca's long easy stride. “I wish we had left town sooner.”
The words were on his lips when Rebecca slipped on the road, or put her foot in a hole, I am not sure which, and fell on her side in a moment.
Before I clearly realized what had happened, she struggled to her feet with such a violent jerk, that I was thrown clear from the saddle, only my riding-habit caught one of the pommels and held me helpless. But in an instant Alan had jumped off his horse, and was at my side and set me free.
The whole thing was so sudden and confusing, and the shock I had received was so violent that I staggered to the side of the road and turned deadly faint. And when I came properly to
“Oh, Dolly, are you hurt, my darling?”
I felt his heavy moustache on my cheek for a moment, then I pushed him away, and rose slowly to my feet. I was trembling violently with the shock of my fall, and partly at his manner. For a minute or two we stood looking at each other, and there was a dreadful silence between us.
Then Alan spoke, making a desperate effort to steady his voice,—
“I have acted like a brute,” he said. “Dolly, are you hurt? Can you stand?”
“I am not hurt at all,” I answered—“only shaken; and I can stand very well, but I think I should like to sit down for a few minutes before I get in the saddle again.”
Our horses were quietly eating the tussock grass by the side of the road. Alan had his waterproof strapped to his saddle. He unfastened it, placed it on a bank close by, and made me sit down upon it.
“I wish I had my hunting-flask, with some brandy in it,” said he.
“I don't require anything of the kind,” I returned.
By this time he had seated himself by my side. The sun had set long ago, and the night was coming on apace. The road was quite quiet and lonely; the only living creatures to be seen were some sheep in a paddock opposite to us, which
Alan bent his head, and said, with his moustache very near my cheek again,—
“Dolly, you knew I loved you.”
I sat perfectly still, and after he had waited a moment, and received no answer, he said,—
“And You knew, too, that I was going to ask you to be my wife?—you must have known.”
I shook my head.
“But I was,” he said, with emphasis. “I have been intending it almost ever since I knew you. Don't you believe me, Dolly?”
I did believe him. In my secret heart I knew that it was true. He had taken my hand, and I had allowed him to do so.
“But”—he hesitated a moment, then went on—“there is something—I cannot tell you now—I
I felt myself turn cold suddenly, as Kate's words flashed upon my memory.
“Mr. Ainsleigh,” I said, “I must ask you one question in my turn. Is Madelaine your sister or not?”
He did not answer, but looking up, I saw that he had grown very pale, and that his lips had formed the word “No.” I snatched my hand from his and drew myself further away from him. I felt as if I heard him speaking in a dream. My heart seemed to cease beating for a moment, then to go on again with a bound. The ground appeared to slip away under my feet.
“I cannot explain it to you now,” he was saying. “I can only ask you to trust me. In a few months I can tell you everything. Once I
There was an agony of entreaty in his voice. I hear it still sometimes in my dreams. It was not an ordinary love scene; and in the pain I was enduring, with the pathetic voice and eyes of the man I loved pleading to me as if for his life, I felt all my girlish shyness pass from me, and leave me quite calm and collected.
“You know,” I said, “things can't go on as they have done any more.”
“I know it,” he answered. “I meant to have waited till I could come forward, and ask you openly and honestly, with no mystery between us. But I could not help myself. Oh, Dolly!” with a sudden panic as my meaning struck him; “you
Yes, that was what I meant. What I felt then was,—
Alan read my determination in my eyes.
“It is shutting me out of Paradise, “Dolly,” he said. “And the world outside is so dreary.”
“But it can't be helped,” I said firmly, determined not to give way. “You must not come to see us any more. And you must not meet me when I am out riding.”
This had hitherto been a favourite manœuvre of his.
“Until when? “he returned.
“I cannot tell,” said I, feeling suddenly ready to cry, and dreadfully afraid lest he should find it out; for then, perhaps, he would not keep to the agreement. For I knew that if he went away I should miss him; and, perhaps, I might never see him again.
“I understand,” he went on. “Until I can clear my good name. Never fear, Dolly—that time will come before long.”
Was I very weak, I wonder? I believed him. In spite of all I had heard, and every suspicious appearance against him, I believed him. His eyes and voice were so honest, and he made me feel that he spoke the truth.
“Now you must put me on my horse again,” I said; “and I must get home as quickly as possible. It is almost dark, and how frightened they will be about me.”
We rode home as fast as the roads and the gathering darkness would let us.
When Alan had opened the gate of our paddock for me, I held out my hand and said “good-bye.”
“May I not come in?” he asked.
“No,” I returned inflexibly.
“Won't you shake hands?”
I did so, and felt that I had done it for perhaps the last time. He had kissed my riding-glove, and when I was safely shut in my own room, I took that glove off and hid it away in a box with a rose he had given me one day, and locked them up carefully. And that night I cried myself to sleep, for who could tell what would be the end of it all?
I have had her in my arms! I have kissed her! Whatever happens I shall always have the memory of that.
When she banished me from her presence, with her little resolute mouth firmly set, and her eyes on fire, I did not despair. I don't despair now, for I know that she loves me, and that I shall win her yet.
I am pondering much to-night over the problem of what I am to do with Madelaine. I
After my discovery of the manner in which she appeared likely to abuse the freedom I have always allowed her, I was compelled of course to forbid her ever again seeing or corresponding with any of the Somerset family. But I cannot trust her. While apparently obedient and amiable she may be meditating some deep stroke of treachery in her heart.
I believe I must decide upon a trip to Auckland, and take her with me. Unpleasant as such a travelling companion will be, it seems to me to be the only wise course at present open to me, both on my own account and hers. For I could not remain here, so near to my little sweetheart—I will call her that, for that I truly hope and believe
I have told Madelaine about my intended journey, and that she is to accompany me. She is apparently rather pleased with the idea, and says she is weary of being buried alive in this place, and longs for a change; so we will collect a few things together, and leave by the next steamer, and stay away as long as we can.
If, some years ago, I could have looked forward, and seen all the suffering which my rash vow was to entail upon me, I think, not even for Eleanor's sake, could I have given that promise. Mine has been a thankless task; and the day that ends it will be indeed a joyful one to me.
So farewell, Dolly—my little Quaker Dorothea—till I can come back, and clear my character to you. Will you think of me sometimes? Will you miss me only half as much as I shall miss you? If I thought you would, I think I should be almost content—at present.
The next thing that happened was, that the Ainsleighs went away from Fernyhurst.
Two days after that memorable night when I was thrown from my horse, I was busy in the kitchen with Lizzie as usual, when there came a knock at the door. Lizzie, opening it, saw a man on horseback outside, who placed in her hands a small parcel, a large parcel, and a letter, and immediately rode away. All these were addressed to me, and I had learned by this time to recognize the decided upright handwriting.
The not was short, and guardedly cool and courteous. Mr. Ainsleigh informed me that he was on the point of starting for Auckland, that he had sent me a small parcel of mine which had fallen from my saddle when my horse threw me, and which, in the confusion of the moment, he had picked up and then forgotten. He had also sent me some books which he had received by the last mail, and which he had thought might interest me. He hoped I should let him know if there were any commissions he could execute for any of us in his travels, and remained, “very sincerely mine, Alan Ainsleigh.”
So he had gone, and perhaps I should never see him again; perhaps he had already repented of his promises the other night, and gone to forget them in other society. My heart ached a little that day.
The small packet contained Violet's green
I carried it to her as she sat trimming a new hat in the sitting-room, and very pleased she was to get it. She cut off a piece of green ribbon with her scissors, and slipping a locket from her work-basket on to it, tied it round her neck, and looked prettier than ever. The colour suited her so well.
It was a very pretty locket of plain gold, with small pearls set in the form of a V upon it.
“That is a very beautiful locket, Violet,” I said; “something quite new. Where did it come from?”
“Where did it come from?” she repeated, indifferently. “Oh, Hugh Maberley, of course!”
“Then it is settled, is it, Violet?” I asked. “And you are really going to be married to him some day?”
She turned her head a little, and looked me in the face; then seemed to wake up suddenly with a start.
“Oh, married?” she said. “No, not just yet, I think. But little Hugh is very useful, and I really like him very well on the whole.”
I felt shocked, for a moment, at the thought of Violet accepting presents from a man she had not decidedly engaged herself to; but I said nothing, having learnt by this time that my sister and I did not always see things in the same light.
And now I am coming to a part of my story so drearily, mournfully sad, that my heart dies within me as I write.
It seemed as if with Alan all the glory and the brightness of my life had passed; and the shadows grew thicker and drearier every day.
It was lovely weather, fair, clear, and sunny. The mountains appeared in their robes of softest lilac; there was no snow upon them as yet. Kate was singing gaily as she dressed, and played with her baby. Little Fred was growing into a fine, strong boy, and was the darling of the household. Violet, who was sewing her white muslin into a Garibaldi, joined in the song.
The only incident of the morning was, that as I was making pastry and custards in the kitchen, a man came to the door, and asked for a drink of water.
Lizzie handed him, some water in a small tin pannikin. Like most colonial kitchens, ours boasted a supply of these useful articles. While
I happened to have noticed that he was an unusually handsome man, in a fair, somewhat effeminate style, and that, unlike the majority of men seeking employment, he had with him no “swag” of any description.
We all dined together at one o'clock on boiled chickens and ham, and cherry tart and cream, which was Violet's favourite dish. The cherries had been sent to us from Fernyhurst, in accordance with orders left by Mr. Ainsleigh with the
Violet had a brilliant colour, and her eyes shone and sparkled. She wore a pretty black and white camlet dress, which suited her, and round her neck the pearl locket fastened to the long green ribbon.
Kate mentioned during dinner that she expected Mr. Maberley to tea that night. And Violet gave her head a saucy toss, and said,—
“Poor moth, let him burn his wings!”
Kate shook her head reprovingly, but did not remonstrate, knowing it to be of no use, and believing, as I did, that Hugh Maberley's ease was by no means a desperate one.
After dinner Violet and I were left alone together. How often have I pondered again and again in my memory every little look and word of that last interview. We spoke of our friends at
When I came out of my room Violet was still in the verandah.
“Good-bye, Dolly,” she said.
I went to her, and she put her arms round my neck and kissed me.
“Come with me, Violet,” said I.
But she shook her head.
Not to-day,” she answered.
Good-bye, then, till tea-time,” I said, as I went out.
She did not reply, and I noticed that her face was turned away.
When tea was on the table that night, Kate asked me to call Violet.
“She went out,” Kate said, “soon after you did. But she must long since have come home, although I have not heard her.”
I went to Violet's door, first knocked, then gently pushed it open and walked in. The room was empty. Her hat and her long grey waterproof cloak were gone from the place where they usually hung; her work—the white muslin Garibaldi—lay just where she had thrown it down on her bed; her little blue slippers were on a chair.
“She can't have come home yet,” I said to Kate. “I wonder where she has gone to.”
“We won't wait tea,” Kate returned. “She can have some made for her when she comes in.”
Hugh Maberley came in to tea as we expected. He looked blank on finding that Violet's place was empty; and, after loitering as long as he could—for business obliged him to be home early—he was at last compelled to depart without seeing her.
I think we did not get uneasy about her till it became quite dark, and then, alarm seemed to strike us suddenly, like a blow. We sent Harry and the men to look everywhere in the neighbourhood for her, but without any result. Shall I ever forget that long miserable night, or the dreary dawn that followed?
“If she should have gone down to the creek and have fallen in!” sobbed Kate.
There was a deep hole not very far from the house, and the ground about that part sloped sharply away, so as to be quite hidden from the house or any of the farm building's.
Kate and I would have run down to the creek at once, but Harry interposed and went instead. He could see nothing, but remarked on his return that he fancied the grass about the edge of the creek had a rather trampled appearance.
When morning came, and the next day slowly wore itself out, without any news, we were obliged to look the strange and wonderful event in the face. Violet had disappeared!
Harry rode round to the houses of all our neighbours, groping blindly for some light to be cast on the mystery. No one had seen Violet anywhere. The Ainsleighs had left home nearly a week before. Poor Hugh Maberley was wild with terror and grief. He galloped backwards and forwards, looking for her in every place he could think of, and lamed one of his best horses with his hard riding. Kate cried over her baby the greater part of the day. For myself, a vague restlessness had taken
At one period of the day, I remember, Kate and I hastily examined Violet's room, to see if anything we could find there would throw a light on the mystery. But our search was quite fruitless.
Nothing was missing except the hat, cloak, and boots, which she had put on when Kate saw her go out on that last walk. At last—
and, as evening came on, I found myself still possessed with the same miserable restlessness. Standing in the yard at the back of the house, I was utterly unable as yet fully to realize what had
Just then one of Harry's men, of the name of Thorpe—one of the upper class of “New Zealand working men—came up to me, and begged me in a low tone to follow him a little way from the house, as he had something of importance to say to me.
I knew Thorpe well; I had often lent him books and been astonished at his self-education. He was one of those men who are sure to rise from the ranks sooner or later. I followed him when he asked me, marvelling much at his manner, but without the slightest hesitation.
A few paces further from the house he paused, and I came up to him and stood by his side. A little sunset-light still lingered over the mountains
“I have been down to the creek, Miss Dolly,” Thorpe said, in a subdued tone, “and I found this.”
He placed in my hands what seemed at first sight a stained and faded strip of rag, with something glittering at one end of it. At the next glance I knew it for the green ribbon that Violet had worn round her neck the afternoon she disappeared, with the locket still attached to it.
Yes, there could be no doubt about it, it was the very same—muddy and damp as the green silk had become, and though the locket was scratched and bent, and had apparently been trodden upon; for one of the small pearls which formed the letter V
I looked at Thorpe, I am conscious, with wide, horror-struck eyes as the full meaning of this discovery gradually dawned upon me.
“You found it by the creek?” I said, trembling so much that I could scarcely stand.
“Half hidden in the mud at the very edge of the creek, almost in the water,” he replied; “and I brought it to you, for I thought it might be a clue, and perhaps, as Mrs. Somerset is but delicate, she had better not see it, poor thing!”
It was quite evident what conclusion the man had come to from this awful piece of evidence, and what other could I come to myself, however I might still try to cling to hope?
I thanked him for his thoughtfulness, and told him he was quite right in his conjecture, the
The next thing I remember is trying to walk back to the house, and feeling my way along by the fence, like a person groping in the dark. The cool night air blowing on my hot forehead revived me, and seemed to clear my mind and give me fresh strength.
Hope sprang up again, and showed herself not dead as yet. What was the discovery of the locket and the ribbon but a piece of circumstantial evidence with nothing so far to follow it up? My heart rebounded against the cold despair that had oppressed it, and I said to myself that the thing was too horrible to be true.
I saw Harry ride into the yard at that time. I
“Don't tell Kate, and to-morrow, as soon as it is light, I will set the police to work.”
That night I had a strange dream. I was so utterly exhausted with anxiety and watching the night before that I fell asleep almost as soon as my head touched the pillow. And this was what I dreamed:—I thought I was in the heart of the bush. Strange trees and shrubs, never beheld by me before I left England, grew on all sides of me. I stood on the bank of a creek, which formed itself at my feet into a clear shallow pool. The moonlight poured through the boughs of the trees on to the water, and on to a white motionless figure, which floated just before me, so that I could not see the face.
In my dream I was possessed with the fancy that it was Violet's form. The words “Drowned! Drowned!” seemed to ring in my ears. I followed the windings of the creek; the moonlight always shone through, the foliage, and always there was the floating figure with the hidden face.
I cried, “Violet! Violet!” I wrung my hands. The figure slowly raised itself on the water. The face was—not Violet's; it was the face of the man who had asked the way to Mr. Ainsleigh's station the day that Violet disappeared.
I awoke with a sensation of relief, as if a load had been lifted from my mind; but the moon was shining through the window, and in its light something on the dressing-table sparkled; it was the locket, which had been placed there the evening before by Harry.
A fresh spasm of dismay overcame me as I recognized it, and I could only hide my face in my pillow and pray. After that I slept quietly for the rest of the night, and was troubled by no more feverish visions.
The next day two mounted constables came out. They were busy at the creek. Kate is asked no questions, and wished to hear nothing. In the morning Hugh Maberley was over, and we of course showed him the locket, and told him of the place where it had been discovered. He took it in his hand, and turned it over and over on his palm with a very grave face.
“You gave it to her did you not, Mr. Maberley?” I ventured to inquire.
He looked surprised at the question.
“I?” he said. “No, indeed, I never gave her that locket; I never saw it before in my life. What do you mean, Miss Dolly?”
“She told me so,” I said faintly, trying to recall exactly what Violet had said about it on the first and last day I saw her wear it.
He looked extremely puzzled; then shook his head.
“There must be some mistake,” he said. “I never yet ventured to offer Miss Violet as handsome a present as that; and I doubt if she would have accepted it from me if I had.”
So on every side the mystery increased; the darkness seemed to thicken.
Towards the middle of the afternoon, Harry suddenly burst into the house. He gathered up Kate, Lizzie, myself, and the baby, as if it were in
Kate and I, pale as death, sat holding each other's hands, scarcely daring to breathe, while Lizzie walked up and down the room with the baby.
What was happening outside?
At last Kate became faint with the suspense, and Lizzie had to lay the baby down while she opened the window, while I bathed Kate's forehead with eau-de-Cologne. Through the open window a faint, compressed murmur of many voices stole in, with here and there a louder tone, as of one who gave directions, rising above the rest.
At last Harry returned, flushed and excited.
“They have found a body in the creek,” he said. “Nonsense, Kate” (for she uttered a cry), “it is the body of! a man.”
We breathed freely again, and Harry went on.
“The men were going to carry it through the yard, and over the bridge to the stables, and I did not want any of you to look out just then, so I fastened you in here.”
“The body of a man,” repeated Kate with a shudder.
“Yes,” returned Harry. “And what is odd about it is, that the police say it is one of themselves who had been despatched lately into this neighbourhood, and reported missing. They don't, of course, let out what his business here was.”
“Was he a tall, fair man?” asked I.
“Yes,” returned Harry. “He was here the other day. Don't you recollect? I saw him in the yard, and he asked the way to Fernyhurst.”
Then it was the face of my dream, and the man who had puzzled us at the time we saw him was a policeman in plain clothes! What could have
We wearied ourselves with vain conjectures to which none of us could frame any answer, until Harry was obliged to go back again, and leave us once more alone.
“Take courage,” he said, as he went out; “I do not believe that Violet is dead, and I do not think that the police believe it either. But they looked grave over her locket, and asked leave to retain it in their hands for the present.”
Later in the day we received the satisfactory intelligence that nothing further had been discovered in or near the creek, and that the two constables were going away for the present. And
Time went on. Many more days passed by without a single ray of light striking the darkness which enveloped Violet's fate.
There was a little stir and excitement until the death of the drowned man was duly inquired into and he was buried, then all subsided into a dead calm. If the police had hit upon any clue, they did not take us into their confidence.
Kate was the most hopeless of us, I think. One day she proposed to me to put on mourning,
For myself I could not feel that Violet was dead. My old dream came back in slightly altered forms again and again. But always I stood in the bush; Australian shrubs grew around me; and always there was a veiled form, whose face I could not see. There was water, there was moonlight and trees all around, and I always felt the same miserable uncertainty whether the floating figure was really Violet or not.
I had never been in the Australian bush in my life, but in my visions of the night I wandered there again and again.
Kate's baby was a great comfort to me at this period. The little fellow grew so fat, and strong,
We almost grew to look upon poor Hugh Maberley as one of ourselves. He roamed the neighbourhood like an uneasy ghost. At last, in despair, he came to me. He always did come to me in his desponding moods, and when the hopeful fit was on him he went to Kate. He told me at last he could bear it no longer. He must go away. His brother would look after his affairs, and he intended to spend the winter in Melbourne.
“Perhaps when I come back in the spring I may have forgotten her a little,” he said, and looked up at Violet's photograph on the wall, and sighed.
I was very sorry for him, and I told him I thought that he had much better go.
Then he shook hands with us both, and asked if he could do anything for us in Melbourne, and next week he went away.
It seemed as if all our friends were going away. What had become of the Ainsleighs? We never heard anything about them now.
Beautiful fruit and most lovely flowers were sent to us regularly from Fernyhurst. “Such was the order Mr. Ainsleigh had left when he went away,” Harry was told, and he had also given directions that all the new books and periodicals arriving by the mails were to be forwarded at once for my entertainment.
With one thing and another I was kept in mind of Alan very constantly, but where he was I did not know. Several times I felt strongly tempted to write to him and tell him of the great trouble that had fallen upon us, but I had literally no idea
Winter set in early that year, cold and damp. The mountains assumed their most glorious raiment; the giant maiden became a statue of alabaster on a colossal tomb.
With the first frosts of winter, quite unexpectedly to everybody, Hugh Maberley came back. He had been in Melbourne only a month. He returned to his old life and his daily work as quietly as if he had never been away. Had he found absence such an effectual anodyne, I wondered? After all his despair could he have forgotten Violet so soon?
We might have both thought so, for any sign
This seemed strange; and Kate and I felt hurt at the marked coldness which he continued to display towards us, until we charitably reflected that poor Hugh had certainly been through some trouble, and that perhaps we reminded him too painfully of former happy days with Violet for our companionship to be altogether agreeable to him.
However it might be, we ceased after a while to wonder at the matter any more, having plenty of other and more exciting food for thought.
One day I set forth by myself for a walk to Fernyhurst. It was only about two miles from us through the paddocks, though nearly double as far by the road; although nothing of the place, nor even of the road to it, could be seen from our windows, owing to the sharp spur of a hill cutting off the view.
Not one of us had been near Fernyhurst since Alan's departure; and Kate and I had agreed that we must offer Mrs. Barton, the wife of the man who had the principal charge of the place, the civility of thanking her for the regularity with which she had executed Mr. Ainsleigh's orders in sending us the choicest fruits and flowers the garden afforded.
It was a charming day for a walk, fine and
I entered the Fernyhurst garden by a small gate at the side, which I was acquainted with, intending to make my way round from there to the front of the house. Just as I closed the little gate behind me I saw a slip of paper lying at the roots of a laurustinus near me, as if blown there by the wind. I should not have noticed it twice, but that the paper was the pink colour which Violet had so much affected, and a large supply of which she had brought out with her, stamped with her monogram in gold.
The colour attracted me so much that I could
I cannot describe the strange sensation with which I realized that I held in my hand a part of a letter written by Violet herself. It appeared to me as if I had stumbled at last upon the first trace of her which we had any of us discovered since her disappearance.
The question was, when was this letter written?
The paper was damp as if with lying in the rain, and was torn through crossways, but the words upon it were still easily to be deciphered.
I sat down among the wattles and blue gums, which grew thickly in this part of the garden, and, quite secure from observation myself, began to examine into the evidence afforded by this precious document at my leisure. I cast sharp glances in all directions to discover if possible the missing half of the note paper I held in my hand, but it was not visible anywhere.
Spreading out the thin pink waif upon my lap, I was rejoiced to find that the first words my eye rested upon were a date, clearly marked. Yes, it was dated the very day that Violet disappeared!
At the top was the gilt monogram “V. S.”
After decyphering this I felt more thoroughly perplexed in my mind than I had ever felt yet. I had hoped that this unexpectedly discovered relic of my lost sister might have thrown a clearer light than before upon her fate. It seemed to me as if it only increased the mystery which surrounded it.
Who was “R.?”—the “R.” whom it appeared she was expecting on the day we last saw her. The donor apparently of her handsome locket. Could she have been clandestinely engaged to some person in the neighbourhood? But, if so, why
Oh, if that mysterious letter “R.” had but been followed by the remaining letters of the word it represented!
Sitting and musing thus, I heard the latch of the little gate by which I had entered the garden click, and a man's footstep on the gravel. Some one was coming up the path towards me, whistling “Annie Laurie” as he advanced.
I felt suddenly like a detected spy; my cheeks burnt red as fire, and stepping hastily out from my hiding-place, I found myself, not face to face with Alan Ainsleigh, as I had half expected, but with Hugh Maberley.
He was caught at last, and could not avoid a meeting, and we shook hands, rather constrainedly. His sunburnt face had flushed up, and he still
Of course I explained to him immediately how it was I came to be there.
His face did not relax, even when I said point blank, for I was determined to know what ailed him, “You have not been to see us for a long time, Mr. Maberley.”
“The truth is, Miss Dolly,” he said, “I don't think your sister treated me very well. I don't much care to be reminded of her at present. There—you have it all now, and you can be angry with me for saying it, if you please.”
“I don't understand what you mean, Mr. Maberley,” I said. “How did Violet treat you ill?” Then as a sudden thought struck me, I added, hastily, “Oh! for heaven's sake, if you have
Hugh stroked his light beard, and seemed to hesitate. At last he said,—
“Is it possible that you have heard nothing of her, all this time?”
“Nothing,” I returned, promptly.
I drew the bit of pink note paper from my glove, where I had hidden it, and showed it to Hugh; telling him, at the same time, how it had come into my possession.
He read it carefully twice over; then returned it to me, and frowned as he did so.
“I cannot tell how it got here,” said he, “nor to whom it is addressed. But one thing is clear as daylight, Miss Dolly—your sister had some other attachment, which, for reasons of her own, she
He ground the gravel on the path under the heel of his boot in his indignation. I had never seen his good-tempered face with so black an expression upon it before; but if the truth was as he imagined, he had certainly, as he said, been treated very badly.
“But I cannot believe it, Mr. Maberley,” I said, after pondering his words for a moment or two. “What proof is there of such deceit on my sister's part, except this vague note and that mysterious locket?”
“What proof, did you say? “Hugh flamed out. “Then I will tell you what I know at once. I hadn't been in Melbourne a week before I saw
I grasped hold of Mr. Maberley's arm in my excitement.
“You really saw Violet!” I gasped out. My first sensation was one of infinite relief. She was not dead, then; I did not at the first moment realize all the conclusions forced upon us by her re-appearance. “Oh, thank God!” I said softly to myself.
Hugh looked down again moodily, and trod harder than ever upon the gravel at his feet.
“It is not much of a matter of thankfulness to me,” he said.
“What, not to find that she is alive?” I returned, indignantly.
“I never thought her dead,” he replied, “except for a day or so at the first. And if she had been dead, I could have loved and honoured her still, instead of despising her, as I do now, for her treachery.”
These were bitter words; but a man treated as Hugh had been had a right to feel indignant. I was beginning to be aware that I should now for the first time in my life be compelled to hear Violet blamed, and not be able to stand forth in her defence.
“I am truly sorry, Mr. Maberley,” I said, very humbly now. “Indeed I feel for you from my heart. But perhaps even yet Violet may be able to explain everything quite simply to us some day.”
I do not know what wild ideas were running through my mind. One of the least improbable was, that Violet had in some perfectly innocent manner been the cause of the policeman's fall into the creek, and had fled in a panic to avoid the consequences of discovery.
Hugh shrugged his shoulders at my words.
“Your trust in her is something wonderful, Miss Dolly,” he said; then, with a sudden softening in his tone, “but I think on the whole I admire you for it.”
I made no reply to this compliment, which fell very flatly on my ears. I was still revolving in my brain all kinds of wonderful and impossible theories to account for Violet's conduct, and there was a silence betwixt us for some moments. Hugh was the first to speak again.
“It is as plain as daylight now,” he said, “that
He spoke with exceeding bitterness.
“But, Mr. Maberley, think for a moment,” I said, entreatingly. In my simplicity I was still trying to believe in my lost Violet. “Who could she have been attached to? No one ever came to our house half so often as yourself.”
“Yes,” he returned; “one person did.”
“And who was that?”
“It was Ainsleigh.”
Remembering that we were standing just within the boundaries of Ainsleigh's own garden, he lowered his voice with the last words.
I felt myself grow pale at this unexpected reply, and could not answer for a moment. How could
“I have thought it all over,” Hugh went on, presently. “And it is quite plain to me now. Of course it was Ainsleigh, and we were all perfectly blind not to have seen it at the time.”
“But Violet did not like Mr. Ainsleigh,” I said, goaded by despair to enter some kind of defence. “His sister was the one she liked best.”
“That is nonsense,” said Hugh. “She only pretended she did not like him. Girls are fond, I believe, of professing dislike to a man they are really wild about. As for his sister, he used her for a cloak to his real designs. Madelaine Ainsleigh is perfectly mad, you know; I am sure of it. But she has still quite enough wits to carry out the part he set her to play.”
But the Ainsleighs were away,” I protested
“That is the most suspicious circumstance of all,” said Hugh. “Gone? Not they. At least not so far but that she could join them at a preconcerted signal. Where had they gone to? It was a very sudden move on their part, and why have they never been back since? If you can answer these questions, I will allow that there is just a chance I may be mistaken.”
He spoke so confidently, as a man who had weighed the evidence on both sides and thoroughly made up his mind with regard to the verdict, that I was completely silenced. Not one word more could I add in defence of anybody.
“So now you see, Miss Dolly,” Hugh wound up more kindly, “why I am so sure about this
Once more his compliment sounded to me as empty words. What was a soft speech or two to me after the dreadful discoveries I seemed to have been lately making?
I murmured something in reply; what it was I do not know, but Hugh shook hands with me very cordially, begged I would forgive anything he had said which might have offended me, and, adding that his business there was over, as he had learnt that Ainsleigh had not yet returned, he walked away again out of the little gate by which he had entered the garden.
I stood for some minutes on the spot where he had left me, and presently saw him riding away
If Hugh was right, then nothing could exceed Alan's falseness—except Violet's. But oh! I could not help believing even now that he must be mistaken. Had not Alan begged me with his own lips to trust him till he could come forward and clear his good name?
I don't know how long I sat there, but I sprang up at last hastily, frightened to remember how time was passing by, and that my errand at the house was still unaccomplished. I walked round to the front of the house, and Mrs. Barton saw me through one of the windows and opened the door to me immediately.
She was a pleasant, middle-aged woman, with no children; an Englishwoman, and came from
I could not resist asking her when she expected Mr. Ainsleigh home, for I felt a nervous dread all the time lest the door should open suddenly and he should make his appearance and find me in the very heart of his territories. I felt inclined to start at the least noise.
Well, Mrs. Barton could not say when he might be expected for certain; but not immediately, she believed. Anyhow, Barton had directions in Mr. Ainsleigh's hand-writing for the management of the place during the next two months.
“Is Miss Madelaine likely to come home any sooner? “I asked.
No, Mrs. Barton did not think so; and then she laughed.
“Miss Madelaine is an odd lassie, isn't she, Miss Somerset?”
“Mrs. Barton,” I said—ashamed of myself for asking, but quite unable, after my late conversation with Hugh, to resist the temptation—“did you ever see anything about her to make you think she was a little deranged?”
Mrs. Barton deliberated.
“Well, no,” she said at last; “I can't honestly say that I have; though I know many people think it of her, too. But she's a strange young lady, is Miss Madelaine! And she's that cunning! Her brother don't know half of her goings on; and she's a sore trouble to him as it is.”
“I thought it was a mistake, Mrs. Barton,” I said. “But I had heard people call her mad, and I wanted to ask you.”
“Well, you know, ma'am,” she replied; “any-
I thought I had heard enough, by this time, and got up to take my leave. But Mrs. Barton was quite distressed at this proceeding.
“Not until you have had a cup of tea, my dear,” said she; and put me forcibly back into Mr. Ainsleigh's easy chair, and hastened out of the room to prepare it.
I was not hungry, or thirsty; but all my life I have had a great dread of hurting people's feelings by refusing to accept trifling acts of kindness. If I could not eat, I could pretend to do so, and that would answer the purpose as well.
So I waited, and looking round for something to beguile the time, my eye lighted on a photographic album, bound in crimson velvet, upon the book-shelves.
But when I had taken it down and opened it, I was disappointed of the amusement I expected. There were only two photographs in the book; all the others had been removed, and the names beneath carefully erased. The two that remained were framed side by side. One was of Alan himself, a very good one. I had the curiosity to look at the name of the photographer. The name was an uncommon one, an Italian name; it lingered in my memory, and so did that of the town—a country town—where the photograph had been taken. I mention this to throw a light upon what happened afterwards.
Side by side with Alan's portrait was one of a
It could not have been Alan's mother; the fashion of the hair and dress was too recent for that. Another sister of his? That seemed more likely; but if so, she did not resemble him in the least.
I shut the book and put it away, and it struck me then, with a cold chill, how very little I really knew about the man who had not so very long ago expressed a determination to make me his wife. No one knew where he came from or what he had come out here for, or who his friends might be. He did not pass as a married man, but he might have been for aught that any one knew to the contrary.
Long, after I had left Fernyhurst and walked home, I caught myself wondering again and again who' could be the original of the lovely portrait which Alan had placed by the side of his own.
Of course I told Kate and Harry about my meeting with Hugh Maberley, and equally of course I left out all that he had said about the Ainsleighs. I merely made them aware that Hugh had seen Violet in Melbourne, and had come home bitterly indignant at the deceit which had been practised upon him.
We could no longer feel any doubt that our sister had deliberately run away. It was very sad and shocking, and poor Kate took it dreadfully to
Violet's room had been kept locked ever since she disappeared. We had looked over her things once, as I mentioned before, hoping vainly to make some discovery which might guide us through the mystery of her loss. But we had met with nothing that could in any way help us. All her small possessions were as she had been accustomed to keep them. So we locked up the room.
But on my way home from Fernyhurst it struck me suddenly that all Madelaine Ainsleigh's letters to Violet must have been destroyed, as we had not found one of them amongst her things. This set
But though I resolved this, when the time arrived for carrying out my purpose I shrank from doing so with a reluctance which I could not myself account for. I let opportunity after opportunity slip by, and still I could not bring myself to open the locked door.
While I loitered thus, unconscious that I was upon the verge of a great discovery, and pausing with a vague uneasiness upon the brink, a chance push from another hand decided the question, and gave me the impetus required.
Sitting one day with Kate and helping her to sew for little Fred, she tossed across the table to me a scrap of bright-coloured braid.
“There,” she said, “I want another yard, of that
Kate shrank from going herself, and I could not bear to refuse. So that afternoon I entered Violet's room, and, when once there, I locked myself in.
What did I hope or expect to find? I don't know; it was the scrap of paper I had picked up at Fernyhurst which had turned my thoughts in the direction of written traces of my sister. I determined to look everywhere in which the smallest atom of a letter, or even an envelope, might have lam concealed.
I took out in the first place all Violet's dresses, shook them carefully, and searched in every pocket. There were the lavender and the Japanese silks, in which she had looked so beautiful on days I
I sat down on the neat little bed, which I had taken care was ready made, as if we had expected Violet back that night, and considered where to look next. Violet had no desk, merely a small morocco writing-case in which she was accustomed to keep a few sheets of paper and an envelope or two at a time. This we had found empty after her disappearance, and it was now in Harry's safe keeping.
She had very few trinkets, like myself; Violet
I did not know where to look next, yet I was loth to give up the search. It seemed to me as if I must find something before I left the room.
At last I took out all the drawers, one by one, from their frame, and looked carefully behind them, and then I really did make a discovery at last! Behind the smallest drawer, on the left-hand side, I found a photograph. It must have slipped out
It was a photograph of a man. Upon the back was written, in a man's bold hand, “From Richard to Violet.” “Richard,” then, was the “R.” to whom her note was addressed.
It was a stroke of wonderful good luck, indeed, to have stumbled upon Richard's likeness.
At the first glance I did not recognize the face before me. It seemed the face of a stranger. Looking at it again, I perceived a resemblance to some one with whom I was acquainted, but I could not recall whom. At the third inspection I knew it.
It was Madelaine Ainsleigh in the dress of a man!
Turning the photograph over, I saw that it had on the back the same name and that of the same town as the portrait of Alan Ainsleigh which I had
The whole truth flashed, like the sudden striking of a light, across my mind. We had all been the victims of a monstrous deception, and Madelaine Ainsleigh was not a girl at all, but a man in woman's disguise.
All her odd ways were now accounted for, and the extraordinary repugnance I had always experienced towards her. But Violet! she had allowed herself to be drawn on, until this man's influence over her could compel her to leave home and friends, and go with him wherever he chose to take her. The little brook had swelled at last into the great river which Violet could never recross again, and Dolly stood looking after her mournfully from the further side.
“Richard!” what was Richard's other name?
I got up from the bed with the photograph clasped tight in one hand, and mechanically unfastened the door, which I had locked, passed out of the room, and refastened it behind me. The kitchen was empty, the outer door stood open, the cool evening air stole in on my flushed face.
The next moment I found myself outside the house, and in another instant, though how I got there I hardly know, I was leaning against the fence of the paddock at the back of the house.
Some one came up to me softly in the gathering dusk leading a horse. Dimly I recognized the easy grace of the most distinguished—looking man I knew—Alan Ainsleigh.
He was by my side almost before I was aware of it. I stood looking at him like a person in a dream. But when he held out his hand, which he did doubtfully, as if uncertain whether I should accept it, I recoiled from him with a start.
He stood looking at me wistfully across the fence, and for some minutes neither of us spoke a word.
The dusk fell softly round us, everything was very still. The horse jerked the bridle out of Alan's hand, and began to eat the short grass by
As I stood there looking at him, my eye took in, as a woman's eye is used to do, every little detail of his dress, his attitude, his look, the heather colour of his shooting-coat, the pattern of his watch-chain, photographed themselves upon my memory for life; the quiet patrician ease of his gestures, the intellect and the power of his face, all smote me then with an additional pang; for I knew that I loved him with all my heart and soul, that I should never love any one again as I did this man—“there he stood, my king!” And my love lay at present under a cloak so dark, that it was the greatest misery of my life—yes, greater by far than even the loss of my sister.
At last I said, trying to speak very coldly and indifferently, as if to a stranger,—
“Good evening, Mr. Ainsleigh. I am surprised to see you here.”
He made no answer to this. I heard him say softly,—
“How pale she is, and how much thinner she has grown—my little Dolly!”
Then addressing me directly, he said,—
“Don't you hate us both now, Dolly—both my brother and me? Will you forgive me far enough to listen to what I have to say to you?”
I opened my hand and showed him the photograph I had held tightly clasped all this time.
“Is this your brother?” I said.
“My half-brother, Richard,” he replied.
“And what, then, is your real name?”
I felt contemptuous at the remembrance of the deceit that had been, practised upon us, and I am sure that I spoke with contempt in my voice.
“Before I answer you,” he said, “I want to know if you will let me tell you everything. Not half the story, but the whole truth from beginning to end.”
“The truth?” I replied, more scornfully than ever. “Are you sure it is that you intend to tell?”
It was such a cruel speech that I hated myself for it the moment afterwards, and he shivered suddenly as if I had hurt him. He took a thick sealed envelope from his pocket and laid it in my hands.
“Read that to-night,” he said, “and then pass sentence on me when you please. But don't do it till you have heard my defence.”
He moved a little away as if to go, then stopped and stood looking at me again, wistfully.
“You are so pale,” he said. “When did you
“My looks are of no consequence now to any one,” I replied, coldly; “don't trouble yourself about them. But before you go, I should like to know your brother's real name, as I suppose he will no longer try to pass himself off as Madelaine Ainsleigh.”
“His real name is Carewe,” he returned.
“Then Richard Carewe is the name of the man to whom I owe an undying grudge, of the villain who has robbed me of my sister?” I threw the bitterest emphasis in my power into the words.
“And Alan Carewe is the name of the man who will never cease to love you as long as he lives, however much you may despise him,” he answered, and with that he caught up Ms horse's bridle, raised his hat to me, and sprang into the saddle.
I could just see the figure of one of the men in the yard in the dusk, and knew what had cut short the interview.
“Thorpe,” I said, “be so good as to open the gate to Mr. Ainsleigh.”
And then I knew that Thorpe would see him on to the road, and that he would have no excuse for lingering. But almost before he was out of sight I was crying bitterly, with my cheek against the rough bar of the fence; and I felt at that moment as if the very darkest hour of all my life had come upon me.
That night, alone in my room, I opened Alan's letter.
When you read these lines, Dolly—this history which I am writing expressly for your eyes—you will know, I have no doubt, enough of the truth to make you very bitter against my brother and me.
I call him my half-brother, for his mother's sake. Strictly speaking, he is no near blood relation of mine at all, and it is a connexionship of which I can scarcely be expected to be proud; but I promised his mother, Dolly, that I would act by Richard as if he were my own brother, and I have tried to keep my word.
He is ten years younger than I am. He was a mere lad when my father married the widow of his distant cousin Rupert Carewe, and she brought her young son with her when she came to live at Curtis Knowle. Eleanor was only as much older than I as I was of Richard, and she was a very beautiful, very charming woman. I can speak of her now, alas! only in the past tense; she is dead, and whatever Richard does can trouble her no more, thank God!
My beautiful stepmother was the idol of my boyish heart. I am quite sure I loved her far more than her own son did. Richard takes after his father, who was not a good man, and he was always a source of great anxiety to her, and, for her sake, to me. For her sake! I have gone through much for that, but I have been faithful to my promise, Eleanor, and I think you would give your verdict, at all events, in my favour.
The small fortune which Richard inherited from his father he soon got rid of. He would settle to no profession, would take up no steady occupation of any kind; thus, when he had spent his last farthing, he became dependant upon his mother and on me.
My father was dead by that time, and I had begun my reign at Curtis Knowle. We lived there chiefly; sometimes we went to town for a few weeks, but Eleanor was a country flower, and in town she faded, so we never stayed there long.
I had one uncle living—a man of wealth as my father had been. He had no children, and would, I think, have attached himself to Richard if Richard would have given him a chance.
There was some farmer's daughter in our neighbourhood whom Richard greatly admired. I saw her once—a handsome, coarse-looking girl, openly
What puzzled Eleanor and myself was, where had he got the money for this escapade? Not from her, and not from me. We were too much on our guard, and knew his character only too well by this time-the morels the pity.
The truth came out at last, however, when Richard stepped suddenly in at the drawing-room window one evening, as his mother lay reading on her sofa, and told her abruptly that he had forged my uncle's name for a considerable amount; that the fraud had been discovered, my uncle was furious, and that the police were at that moment on his track.
I was in the library which opened from the drawing-room, looking over papers and accounts, when I heard Eleanor's cry, and running in, found her fainting on the sofa and Richard sullenly looking at her without offering to do anything for her relief.
I flung him to the farther end of the room, where he fell against the wall, and knelt down by her and took her in my arms. I seemed to feel, for the first time, the cold shadow of the separation fast approaching between her and me. Who could wonder at it? He had broken her heart.
Later on, when she had recovered a little, we hastily made such, arrangements as we could together for Richard's safety. He was to leave England at once with me, and he was to travel in disguise. His small-featured face, without moustache or whisker, and slightly-made figure,
He was to be my sister, and my name was to be Ainsleigh.
The next thing was to settle where to go. The Continent would not do. The police were on the look-out too closely. We decided on a voyage to Australia. I had often wished to try one, and Eleanor begged of me to take him as far and as much out of the world as I could.
Then she made me promise to guard his safety, as if he were my very own brother. For her sake, with her arms round my neck, I promised. For three years, I was, if necessary, to keep up the disguise; at all events, I was never to disclose the secret to
There was of course no necessity for my remaining away so long. It was settled between us that I was to come home in about a year, leaving Richard safely established in some remote corner of the colonies.
I see Eleanor's blue eyes now, as she looked me through to make sure that I meant what I said, and I hear the tone of her voice as she whispered, “I trust you, Alan. I know you're loyal to the core.”
I kissed her hand as I made my vow. She was mother, sister, and friend all in one to me, and I valued her happiness more than my own.
So we parted; not as we thought for long,
The news reached us when we landed in Melbourne, and then I did not care to go home. We came to New Zealand, and established ourselves where you have known us, at Fernyhurst. What had I left to live for now, I said to myself, except to carry out my promise to my dead friend to the uttermost. I did not know at first all that it was to cost me.
Wait a little, Dolly, as you read these lines, and try to separate Alan from Richard in your thoughts. Don't hold me responsible for all that he has done; the only link that ever held us together was Eleanor Carewe, and the sweet briar—
If I could only see your face as you read these lines I should know if I had any chance left with you. If I could only plead with my own voice to you, “As you are strong be merciful!”
* * * * *
Even now, Dolly, you see I cannot clear up everything. I know that your sister has been enticed to Melbourne by the scamp who calls himself Richard Care we, but how her locket came to be lying by the creek, and what connexion there is between that trinket and the drowned policeman is more than I can tell you.
I can only conjecture that the police, whom we imagined when we came here we had baffled, must have been then on Richard's track. He was always wilfully imprudent, and at times would
However that may be, I fear it is only too true that he is now living with your sister Violet in Melbourne. A greater scamp of a husband I am afraid she could hardly have bound herself to; but I must take blame to myself for not having foreseen and prevented all this long ago.
My fault lay in not putting a stop to all acquaintanceship between our families from the first.
We ought, if necessary, to have left this part of the country immediately. I had selected it, in the first place, because there were so very few ladies in the neighbourhood, and those few Richard disliked and sedulously avoided.
But you see we did not go away, as we should have done. We had become settled here; I did not know where else to go. Richard, as I thought, had successfully eluded the police. Last, but by no means least, in the list of reasons, I fell in love with you, Dolly.
When you read these words, however, I shall be gone. I am going to Melbourne to bring Richard to his senses. If I fetch you back your sister, Dolly, and do all I can to atone for the past, will you listen to me then?
Your face comes between me and the paper; I cannot meet its anxious look again till I have done something to make your brown eyes less sad. Do you know that your eyes are the sweetest in all the world to me, Dolly?
Tell your brother what you please of my story. It is better he should know the whole truth at
Dieu, vous garde!
The winter grew colder and drearier. We had much wet weather, and the roads became in some places almost impassable; so I gave up riding. The creek never rose high enough to alarm us, though we all agreed that Harry's new house—when it was built—must be placed in a much higher situation. When it was built!—but there seemed to be no immediate prospect of that.
Kate and I both knew that Harry was worried at this time by money troubles, and it seemed
In this difficulty I broke the ice first with Kate, and she repeated the story to Harry in my presence. He walked about the room impatiently while she was speaking. His face wore its sternest expression, very unlike the good-tempered Harry of old. Violet had angered him, it was plain, almost past forgiveness; but his first words were not, as I expected, a passionate outburst of indignation against her; instead of that he walked up to me, and stood before me, looking down at me steadily.
“Dolly,” he said, “when this Ainsleigh, or Carewe, comes back, and asks you to marry him, shall you, after all that has passed, accept him?”
It was not a fair question, but at that moment I dared not tell him so. Kate, however, glanced at my face, and then answered for me,—
“There is no doubt that she will, Harry,” she said.
He groaned to himself, and walked to the window, and stood looking out, with his hands in his pockets. It was plain that, if I did accept Alan, it would not be with his consent.
Kate took my part, however—dear Kate! she always did so—and she changed the subject, which I was not troubled with any more.
Harry, no doubt, had much to contend with at that time. Nothing had prospered with him lately, as he expected. Inexperience in the class of work which he had undertaken had told sorely against him; and, unfortunately, he had no friend to whom he could go for advice on an emergency.
Kate and I saw matters, of course, from the woman's point of view, and did not know what particularly troubled him. But one thing was only too palpable to us all—we were growing poorer every clay.
One day, after I had been carrying little Fred about, and playing with him half the morning, I found Kate crying bitterly over her sewing in the sitting-room. She dried her eyes when I went in, and tried to look as if nothing was the matter.
But I would not allow of this. With my arms round her neck I coaxed her gradually into telling me her trouble. It appeared that she was in want of some little things for the baby, and had no money to get them with—nor did Harry know when he could give her any.
How could I suffer our little darling to want for anything while I had the means to supply it? I
She thanked me many times over, and kissed me on both cheeks. “I can soon pay you back, you know, Dolly,” she said. We had not yet given up being hopeful at that time.
From, that day dated my own especial poverty, which meant simply that I had no longer one penny in the world. Violet and I had always been quite dependant upon Harry, who on his part had ever been a very liberal brother in the matter of pocket-money. Now, of course, he could be so no longer, and I did not expect it.
I had two stamps still left in my purse. After those were used I gave up writing English letters.
Harry parted with all his men but Thorpe and one other; he could no longer afford to keep them. He worked hard himself. We on our side sent Lizzie's successor—Lizzie herself was now married—away, and did everything for ourselves and the baby with our own hands. Maid-servants at 30l. a year are expensive comforts in the colonies, and we find it out then, to our cost.
Kate was not strong, and could do little, though her will to help was not wanting; I began often to get very tired. But it was the same for all, and we looked bravely forward to the future, and tried to be patient during the present.
One day as I stood by the kitchen table with
He stopped a moment by my table, touched my hot cheek, and said I looked tired.
“You work too hard, Dolly,” he said. “By and by, when you are a rich woman, you will look back and wonder at all you are doing now.”
He spoke lightly, and I knew what he meant; but I did not choose to let him see that I did.
“When Ainsleigh comes back,” he went on, “he won't let you do this any more. You know he's anything but poor, don't you, Dolly?”
I did not answer this either, and he stood by my side for some moments in silence. At last,—
“Do go away, Harry,” said I. “I am too busy to talk to you at present.”
He woke up from his musing, and sighed.
“I shall have to give you up to him after all,” he said; “and I can see that it will be much the best for you, in spite of everything. Only when you are married, don't tell your husband that your brother worked you like a slave.”
This was too much. I set down my iron, and laid my hand on his arm.
“Harry,” I said; “all that I am doing is done willingly for you and Kate. I have no wish to be a fine lady, while you have to work so hard. And don't speak of my marrying, for it is not likely that I ever shall.”
And at that moment I did not feel as if it were. Alan had been away some weeks, and we had heard nothing of him or of Violet. It was getting to the depth of winter; the weather was wet and dreary in the extreme. I was not
After Harry had gone away, I sat down in a corner and cried. But no one saw me, except the baby.
Kate and I had fortunately brought out good outfits, and did not at that desolate time want for any kind of clothing. It was well, for we could not have bought it if we had.
Nobody need starve in New Zealand; and mutton and tea are to be had by all; but we could no longer afford all the small luxurious accessories which made our plain meals agreeable; and I became quite an expert cook, with trying to evolve dainty dishes out of something almost as unsubstantial as my own inner consciousness.
Our dinners were certainly not like what they used to be in the days when we delighted in
To-day he asked me to walk with him down the garden. I half fancied he might have gained some further information about Violet, and consented with alacrity.
This seemed to please him; but when we had walked to the very end of the half-cultivated wilderness we called a garden—which was fated never to be completed, if we had only known it—he did not appear willing to enter on the subject at all. In fact, he avoided it when I gave him an opportunity to discuss it, by remarking that his visit was quite like old times.
“I do not want to think about the old times any more,” he said.
His tone sounded strange to me, and I felt puzzled. I looked at him more attentively than I had done yet, and noticed for the first time how very carefully he was dressed. He had even gold sleeve-links at his wrists, and his scarf was fastened with a new and elegant pin, in the shape of a little gold-digger leaning on a tiny coral spade.
I could not think of anything else to say; and there was a dark cloud just hurrying up which looked like rain. I cast a longing eye back at the house, and waited for my companion to make some further move.
At last Hugh said abruptly,—
“I have forgotten your sister, Miss Dolly, as if she had never been—for me, at least; and what I came for to-day was to ask you if there was any chance of your ever coming to like me a little.”
He meant it for a proposal, but it was a very strange one, and very oddly expressed. It was the last thing I had ever dreamt of, and when his meaning dawned upon me, I was literally too appalled to reply, and stood looking at him, in—I am confident—a very silly manner, as if stricken dumb.
“Perhaps it strikes you as odd,” he went on, as he took in the amazement of my face. “And I think I must be a fellow who does not know how to please a girl with his love-making, for you see I did not succeed with her, and I'm afraid now I shan't succeed with you. But I have come to the conclusion for some time past, that when I ran after Miss Violet I had passed by the real diamond, and taken up with the false.”
This simile was, no doubt, flattering, though farfetched. But I was extremely sensitive then about
Could Alan have been aware of this? I do not know, though I think he read my thoughts more clearly than other people; but, however it might be, I had noticed and been grateful to him for the fact that while in his letter he had lavished abuse on his half-brother, he had never said or even hinted one word against Violet.
I answered Hugh Maberley with coldness.
“I am very sorry,” I said, “that you have come to that conclusion at all.”
“Then you won't have me?” he returned, with most outspoken plainness of speech. “Think better of it, Dolly. I'm not half a bad fellow when you come to know me, and I would be as
I think poor Hugh was right. He did not know how to please a girl with his love-making. But I am sure he meant it all very kindly, and was a man whom one could esteem heartily, if not love.
I answered him much more cordially this time.
“Don't think about it any more,” I said. “Such a thing could never, never be. I am very sorry you dreamt of it for a moment.”
Poor Hugh looked really sorrowful.
“I suppose I'm too late in the day,” he said. “I ought to have found it out sooner, instead of wasting my time running after some one else. But you see, Miss Dolly, you have really been working for your sister, and behaving in such a very”—he hesitated for a word—“magnificent
I could scarcely help laughing. A vision of myself, in an old print dress, with my face hot and floury, crossed my mind, and caused me to remember what a far from beautiful object my glass had often depicted me.
“I am sure there must be plenty of fools then in the world,” I said, as gravely as I could.
But Hugh did not reply to this.
“I can't think how it is I'm so unlucky,” he remarked, with a sigh. “Miss Dolly, are you quite sure you can't give me a little hope?”
This was said so piteously, that I felt there was no help for it. I must say something to decide the matter at once. I stopped, and looked steadily at him while I spoke, and I felt my face grow scarlet.
“Mr. Maberley,” I said, “I will tell you a secret. I do care about somebody else. There now, don't say another word to me on the subject, and please come back with me to the house directly.”
I marched him up the garden path in silence, opened the verandah door, and placed him safely in Kate's custody. Then I escaped to my own room, and when I came back he was gone.
I have been to Melbourne, and have failed in what I undertook to do. I write this at Fernyhurst, on the evening of my return home; and I have not yet had time to learn anything that may have happened in my absence.
I have not been able to ascertain anything about Richard and Violet. After steadily and persistently following up my inquiries for several weeks, with my own only too familiar knowledge of Richard's tastes and habits as a guide, I am
So I have come back to Fernyhurst to wait patiently for events. My old experience assures me that Richard will only stay away as long as his money lasts. When that is exhausted he will be sure to come to me.
I was puzzled at first as to how he had obtained his funds for this escapade at all, until I discovered that he had tampered with the lock of my desk, and helped himself to a few hundred pounds in notes. If that were the only mischief he had succeeded in, it could be easily passed over; but the fellow is a cur at heart, and makes misery wherever he goes.
I have heard nothing all this time of Dolly, and
* * * * *
Mrs. Barton has been and gone again. She tells me that Somerset's affairs are reported to be in a bad way, that they have dismissed their maidservant, and Miss Dorothea is said to be wasting away with all the hard work she undertakes.
“The bonnie lassie has grown that pale and thin I would not have known her,” she said, “only her face is as sweet as ever. But she looks like the shadow of what she did when she was here two or three months ago.”
“Here!” said I, in amazement.
So then she told me of what I had not known
Since Mrs. Barton went away, I have been walking up and down the room in restless bitterness at the crookedness of things in this world. “The times are out of joint” truly with me tonight. Here am I, with wealth accumulating every day, and there is Dolly working herself to death a few miles off, and I dare say she would not let me give her even a pair of gloves if I tried. She spoke with icy coldness to me the last time I saw her. Ah, well, I must endeavour to be patient and to remember my old favourite lines,—
Doubtless we shall each have, in the words of that grand Bible Verse, our “expected end.”
* * * * * *
I think on the whole it is well that Richard is not within my reach to-night. I am quite sure that there would be hot words, perhaps more than words, between us two. Thinking of all the entanglements which his cursed rascality has caused, makes me mad to-night. It is well he is away.
There is another subject of uneasiness pressing heavily upon my mind. I feel persuaded that Somerset's house has been built upon far too low an elevation, and too near to the creek. The winter so far has been, though cold, unusually dry. Should we now, however, enter upon a change of weather, and have a flood of any real violence, I shudder to think of what might happen.
In any case I feel I cannot leave this neighbourhood again, at present. I must remain here, and watch the course of events, and be ready to render assistance in case anything should happen.
As for Dolly, I must and will win her sooner or later, and carry her off for my own especial care and keeping. I register the vow here. Dolly, you shall marry me. In spite of all that has happened, I will take no denial; but I will have you before long for my wife.
Just in the depth of the dreary winter, that happened, which I had hoped and prayed for all along,—
One wild, stormy afternoon, just as I was lighting the lamp and getting dinner ready for Harry, who had not yet come in, the kitchen door softly opened, and Violet stepped across the threshold.
I did not feel surprised; only carried away
I took her quietly by the hand and led her like a child into my room, placed her on the bed, and kissed her. It was like the old times come back again, for I was always used to wait upon Violet.
She put up one hand, and gently patted my cheek.
“Little Dolly,” she said, softly,” are you glad to see me?”
On her finger was her wedding ring, and a plain gold guard.
She was dressed exactly as she had been on the day when she disappeared; the same black and white camlet dress, the same long gray waterproof cloak. For a moment I could have fancied the whole blank space which lay between then and now had been a dream—but for the
I saw all this almost at a glance, and then I awoke suddenly to the necessity of telling Kate before Henry came in. I flew into the sitting-room, and with my arms round Kate's neck, whispered the news into her ear.
She got up with a cry.
“Where is she?” she said.
When I told her she ran to Violet's room and caught her in her arms, and we all cried together in a manner which would have alarmed
Then I lit a candle, and we saw how thin and changed Violet had grown. Her blue eyes were as pretty as ever, but the deep hollows beneath them, were mournful to see; her beauty—oh, Violet!—it was the faded ghost of the past!
She must have walked a great deal, for her boots were cut quite to pieces; and her poor feet were covered with sores. I got warm water and bathed them, and we tied them up with soft linen, and put her on a pair of Harry's slippers.
I brought in a tray, with tea and bread-and-butter; and she ate like a starved creature. Then she lay down on the bed again and closed her eyes.
She had spoken very little, only answering a few ordinary questions about her journey, the
I got a warm bath ready, and coaxed her to let me undress her, and bathe her, and put her to bed. She submitted languidly to everything I proposed, too worn-out to have any will of her own. And oh, what a pleasure it was to me to wait upon Violet once more!
While I was doing all this we heard Harry come in, and Kate, with little Fred in her arms, ran off to break the news to him.
I do not know how she managed to tell him, or what he said at first; but when Violet was lying at last quietly in her little white, bed, with her yellow hair falling over the pillow, Kate came to the door and asked leave for Harry to come in.
“Yes, yes,” said Violet, eagerly, and held out both her hands.
The next moment Harry was kissing her just as if nothing had ever come between them, quite forgetting that he had vowed she should never again cross his threshold. His anger had vanished in a moment like a dream in the night.
But still I thought his manner somewhat strange. He said a few kind words to her, but asked no questions, and in a minute or two had left the room again.
A little while afterwards, hearing some slight sound in the verandah, I looked out, and saw Harry actually crying. He caught me by one hand, and grasped it hard.
“Dolly,” he said, “try not to grieve. Violet has come home only to die!”
His voice subsided into a sob. He flung my hand away, and went out into the dark night outside; and I stood where he left me, trying to hope that he was mistaken.
I said to myself that Violet was worn-out now; in the morning light we should see a great change for the better after she had had a good night's rest. In my heart I resolved that it should go hard but I would nurse her back to health.
But when the morning came, we seemed to see the changes in her only the more plainly. Was it Violet, or only her wraith, that had come hack to us, after all?
The day after Alan came back from Melbourne he rode over to see us. I saw him in Kate's presence for a few moments, and we told him that Violet had returned.
After he had risen to go away, he lingered, looking at me for a few moments; but in the silence there was a faint call for “Dolly,” from the next room, and I hastened back to my charge.
But every day Alan sent to inquire after Violet, or came himself. He used to write little notes, very formal and polite, begging our acceptance of a few comforts for the invalid, and reminding us that he might almost claim as a right to be allowed to do anything in his power for her pleasure.
The comforts were endless. From new music to cold turkeys, jellies, and blanc-manges, what did they not comprise?
Mrs. Barton was, we knew, an experienced cook; and if Alan's sitting-room was plainly furnished, the same could not be said for his dinner table.
Violet used to smile when she saw the things.
“He is very fond of you, Dolly,” she said; “Richard told me so.”
And Kate wickedly added,—
“He is determined that Dolly shall not forget him.”
Violet never got any stronger. Rest could not restore her, for weariness and weariness had penetrated to the foundation of her life. But she rallied enough, after the first, to talk to me at times; and, little by little, we pieced together the sad story of her life.
Do you remember that unutterably plaintive song of Mrs. Browning's, with the refrain, “For now the spinning is all done”? I never think of what my sister told me, with
Violet's spinning was all done. Her life, with the joy of it, the gladness and the usefulness that might have been, was all over, and it was the work of the man who said he loved her.
He did love her, as I learnt afterwards; but it was a love which did not gather the flower to wear it tenderly and loyally, but tore it up by the roots.
He had persuaded her to leave home with him, telling her that she should write as soon as she reached Melbourne, and relieve our minds. This promise he would not afterwards allow her to avail herself of.
The police were on his track, and he knew it. The man whose body was afterwards found was waiting for him by the creek in the way which Violet and he were obliged to pass, to get off unobserved. There was a struggle; and whether the man was pushed into the water, or slipped on the bank and fell in, Violet did not know. She shuddered whenever she spoke of this scene at all.
“Richard assured me,” she said, “that the man could swim, and was in no real danger. He said to linger was to lose our only chance, and dragged me from the spot to where the horses he had procured were waiting. In the confusion I must have dropped my locket, but I did not miss it for some time afterwards.
“My guilty secret haunted me wherever we went, and I felt like a murderer for not having raised an alarm when I saw the water close over
“I did not know then all the reasons that had led Richard to leave England, and assume a disguise in which I first knew him. He told me so many different stories at different times. But at last I pieced the truth together out of it, and from that time my only hope and longing was to come home to you all.
“Oh, Dolly, I thought I was going to be so happy when I went away with him; and instead of that I was so wretched. We were married before we sailed for Melbourne—you never doubted that, did you? He had promised me every kind of pleasure and amusement I could wish for, and you know I was always a silly girl, and used to
* * * * * *
“Richard lavished everything upon me, but in spite of it all, I was very miserable; and then my health gave way. I had an illness, and Richard began to leave me a great deal to myself.
“Then I made up my mind as I lay alone, with no one to comfort me, that I would manage somehow to get back to you, Dolly—you would not have left me in that way. No one loves me like you do, and it seems I can't do without you when I'm away.
“I used to be haunted by a dream about you in those days. I thought I was standing by the side of the creek, and I heard you calling to me; I tried to answer, but always a face—that face—rose to the surface of the water, and at the sight of it was dumb. I often woke crying bitterly.
“At last I made a plan in my mind. I daren't let Richard know anything about it. I got together all the dresses and pretty things he had given me, and sold them one by one and hid the money. Then, one day when he was out, I left a little note for him and ran away.
“He may come after me, but I hope not. And, indeed, I think he will scarcely dare to venture in this neighbourhood again. Besides the danger from the police, he is afraid of Alan; and if there is one human being in the world whom he respects, it is his half-brother.
“So now, Dolly, kiss me. I don't mind about anything now I have got back to you again and you are taking care of me just like old times. I never was a very kind sister to you; but I think I shan't trouble you much longer, and I know you will forgive your Violet everything.”
She spoke softly from time to time of the journey—a longer one than to Melbourne—that lay before her; not often again of her husband—he had passed from her mind with the sin and the misery that had surrounded him.
Together we went over the old hymns we had learnt as children, and I read to her those parts of the Bible which she asked for. It was a dear old Bible, a joint possession of Violet's and mine, left by our dying mother to her two little daughters.
We had gone back again to the old days of our
* * * * * *
At last there came a morning when we were all gathered there—Harry, and Kate, and I. This time we knew where she was going, and that the parting was just at hand. The gray change was on her face. I had her in my arms; softly then there passed “Love's last words atween us twain.”
“Don't forget me, Dolly—promise that.”
I promised.
“Tell Harry to forgive me, and poor Kate.”
Then she forgot them; she lost her hold of every one but me. She clung to me to the last.
“Dolly.”
“Yes, Violet.”
“We shall be so happy when you come. I know it now. Don't cry. The Master sees it is better for me to go the first.”
Those were the last words upon my sister's lips. She faded softly away into the shadow as I held her in my arms.
Some one came quietly to the side of the bed and put his arm round me. It was Alan. Harry, on the other side, laid Violet gently down, and then I knew that she had gone!
It was wild weather the day they buried Violet. All the desolation and dreariness of the winter had culminated at last. Storms of rain fell at short intervals. It was as if buckets of water were emptied upon the roof, and the damp chillness of the atmosphere seemed to penetrate to your bones. Kate begged hard to go, in spite of the weather, to the funeral, and Harry at last consented. The difficulty was to know what to do with me. I was not well enough for the long drive, and they did not like to leave me quite alone.
At last it was settled that Mrs. McLeod, the wife of Harry's shepherd, and a very good, respectable woman, should be asked to come over and keep me company during the day, and Kate and Harry were to return as early as possible. Little Fred, well wrapped up, went with his mamma.
I was so utterly exhausted with all that I had lately gone through, that I lay all day, in a half-conscious state, upon the sofa, and Mrs. McLeod had only to keep the fire in and bring me some tea and chicken broth from time to time. I never got up to look out of the window at all; if I had, I might have grown uneasy at the state of the weather, for in the afternoon the creek began to rise very rapidly.
As the day darkened to a close, Mrs. McLeod began to “weary,” as the Scotch say, after her baby, which she had left in her husband's charge,
I was left quite alone in the house. The consciousness that I was alone, and dependent upon myself for everything, made me shake off a little of my languor. I got up, and, going to the window, looked out.
The prospect outside was very discouraging. The sky was of a monotonous leaden colour, the creek was very high. The thought suddenly occurred to me, suppose Harry should be prevented, by the sudden rising of one of the creeks between us and the town, from getting home at all that night?
I felt my heart beat; the thought of a night
To try to put the fancy out of my mind, I began walking slowly about the room. I might have been bidding them all farewell, for it was farewell, though I was not conscious of it at the time. Through those rooms, as they then stood, neither I nor any one else was ever to walk again.
I stooped and brushed a little dust off Violet's piano. There were so many things scattered about the house which reminded me of her. I did not enter her room at all, I had not the heart to do it then; and so I never saw it any more. It passed out of existence with the one to whom it had belonged.
But I went into my own room, and into Kate's, and looked at myself for the last time in Kate's large toilet glass, meeting the reflection of a pale
The baby's coral and bells lay there, and a pair of his small socks; some pretty bottles of Bohemian glass, holding eau-de-cologne and rose-water, a pincushion with muslin frills laid over a pink lining; besides all these there was a small photograph of Violet, taken when she was a child in short frocks, with long golden curls falling over her shoulders. Kate had been crying over it that morning, and had laid it down the last thing before she went away.
I took the little portrait up and kept it in my hand. I have it now. That and one other treasure were the only things I rescued from the
I laid the photograph by the side of the hair, closed the little book, and placed it in my pocket. That action of mine explains the cause of its preservation when everything else was lost.
I fancied that I heard a noise at the back of the house, and, hastening to one of the windows, I looked out, hoping that Harry at all events had come home. But I could see no one, only the increasing waste of waters; and I could hear nothing but the steady beat of the rain upon the roof.
The kitchen fire was burning red and the kettle
After that I lit the lamp, and went back again to the sofa in the sitting-room, to wait as patiently as I could and try not to be afraid. If you think me faint-hearted remember that I was at that time far from strong.
As I lay there I became certain that some noise had broken the stillness, other than the patter of the rain upon the roof, but whether it was in the house or outside I could not determine. Then came upon me a sharp, sudden consciousness that I was not alone in the house; and, as I lay there listening intently, a man's figure emerged from the gloom of the hall and stood a moment framed in the doorway of the room.
I knew the face immediately, though when last I had seen it it had assumed another character than that it now wore. But it was the same bold, bad face now as then; bolder and harder than ever now that it was unsoftened by its feminine disguise, the face of the only person in the world whom I both feared and disliked, whom I looked upon as an enemy.
Remember all that had come to my knowledge of this man's past actions, and then it will be clear that it was not the pleasantest situation in the world to find yourself shut in alone at night in a desolate house with Richard Carewe.
I Rose slowly to my feet and stood looking at him. For some moments we faced each other in silence; it was the lull before the storm.
He was still standing just upon the threshold of the door. The light from the lamp, which I had placed upon the mantelpiece, fell full upon his face, which was brought out in strong relief against the darkness behind him. There was as evil a look upon it as I ever saw or imagined in my dreams.
But as we gazed steadily into each other's eyes, I felt my fear pass from me and change slowly to contempt. I was only a weak girl, and he was a bad and desperate man; but he was a coward at heart, and in spirit I was the stronger of the two after all.
At last he advanced into the room.
“You're glad to see me, aren't you?” he said. “I'm a charming visitor on a wet night in the country, don't you think?” and he laughed.
I made no answer. I was not sure if he was aware that there was no one else in or near the house, and I was determined, if not, that he should not find it out the first from me.
“Well,” he went on, “if you're not glad to see me, anyhow there is one who will be. Dolly Somerset, where is my wife?”
“She is not here,” I returned.
He kicked one of the logs on the hearth out of its place, and swore a little, but under his breath, and I do not think that he intended me to hear it. He had still some of the varnish, of his education and bringing up about him, though it had grown very thin.
“Here have I come all the way from Melbourne into this blackguardly neighbourhood, at the risk of my life, to find her,” he said. “And you tell me she is not here!”
He walked up and down the room impatiently, evidently chafing at his disappointment.
Suddenly he stopped, threw back his head, and listened; but there was no sound except the cease-less beating of the rain upon the roof. It was quite dark out of doors by this time.
“It is a very nasty night,” he said, resuming his walk again. “I almost wish I had not come here at all.”
“The creek is very high,” I said, rather enjoying his uneasiness.
He became perceptibly paler, and, going to the window, tried to gain some information as to the state of matters without. But the darkness baffled him, and he came back again.
“Do you know where my wife is?” he asked at last, coming nearer to me than he had ever done yet.
I had been expecting this question every moment—I was prepared for it, and answered “Yes,” as shortly and coldly as possible.
“Then you will be so good as to tell me,” he went on. “Don't refuse, and don't give me any false information. I know we are alone in the house, and I swear I'll have the truth.”
“You might have spared yourself the trouble of threatening me,” I answered, “it was not necessary. The truth is that your wife is far beyond your reach for ever—she has gone home.”
“Home?” he returned, looking bewildered. “To England?”
“No,” I said. “Home—to Heaven.”
Richard sprang up as if he had been shot.
“Violet is not dead?” he gasped out. Then he seized me by the shoulder, and shook me violently in his excitement. “It can't be true. Say it is not true!”
“It is true,” I said, “she is dead!”
Then my voice choked, and, for a moment or two, I could see nothing for the tears which filled my eyes.
When my sight became clear again I found that Richard had loosed his grasp of my shoulder and turned away and covered his face with his hands. I was not in the least afraid of him now.
“She was buried to-day,” I said, more softly than I had yet addressed him.
“Dolly always spoke the truth,” he said, as if to himself. “Is it true?” there was anguish in his voice.
The next moment he dashed himself on the ground, and lay, writhing to and fro and moaning, with his face still hidden in his hands.
“Dead!” he repeated again and again. “Dead! and I am just too late!”
He seemed quite unconscious of my presence. At last I touched his arm gently, for it was dreadful to see his despair.
He sat up suddenly, looking white and wild.
“If there was a knife within my reach now,” he said, “I would cut my throat!”
“Hush,” I said, speaking as authoritatively as I might have done to a child. “Don't let me hear you say such a thing as that again.”
He crawled to my feet and hid his face in the folds of my black dress.
“Dolly,” he said, “I loved Violet. Oh, how I loved her! She is the only woman who ever really found her way to my heart. I have come back here and put my head into the lion's mouth to find her, and I'm just too late!”
I felt nothing now but pity for him. Truly, and from my heart, I pitied him at that moment.
“Richard,” I said, calling him by his name for the first time. “Don't despair, you will see her again some day if you choose.”
“Dolly,” he answered, still clinging to me like a despairing child, “I've been a very bad fellow; you don't know half that I've done—you can't know. I don't know how to pray. And if I don't take care I shall never, never see her again. Take pity on me, Dolly, and pray for me—now, while I'm here.”
I hesitated. It was a strange turn that our
* * * * * *
I am glad now from the very bottom of my heart to think of that prayer. Richard crouched rather than knelt at my feet, with his face hidden as before. But he repeated after me all that I said. And when I stopped, he added a few words with much earnestness himself.
“Thou hast promised to save,” he said. “Intercede for me, and let me see my Violet soon.”
Though we did not know it, it was the prayer of a dying man; and I truly hope and believe it was heard.
A long silence came after this, and we both
Richard got up.
“Shake hands with me once, Dolly,” he said, holding out his hand, “as a sign that we are friends at last.”
We shook hands cordially, and were certainly not enemies any longer.
I was still in hopes of Harry's return, and I went through the kitchen to the back door and opened it and looked out. As I did so, a blast of wind extinguished my candle.
Some one outside dashed up, caught me in his arms, and without a word fled for dear life towards he granary, which was a strong stone building on a higher elevation than the house. There was
The creek had risen ten feet in as many minutes, and the house, with Richard Carewe inside, was swept away like a straw upon the raging waste of waters.
When I came to myself I was lying wrapped in an opossum rug upon a pile of sacks hastily heaped together, upon the granary floor. I was in charge of Alan and one of his men. The roaring of the flood was still in our ears, and. there was a waste of waters all round us.
I learnt afterwards that Alan had foreseen the catastrophe early in the day, and had spent some hours, aided by one of his men, who was a skilled carpenter, in building a boat, to be ready as a last
As soon as I could speak I told Alan of my companion who had been left in the doomed house. But Richard's fate must have long since been decided.
Having been in the front part of the house at the critical moment he had no chance for his life. My opening the door at the instant I did so, humanly speaking, saved my life.
Richard's body was found some hours afterwards, and he is buried not far from Violet. But Alan would have no name placed on the stone over his grave, only his initials, and the date when he died.
When the flood had sufficiently subsided, I took Dolly to Fernyhurst. The child had no longer any home—it had passed away like a dream in the night, and I was determined that no other roof but mine should cover her. Her brother and sister joined her as soon as they could get past the creeks which lay between us and the town.
Dolly was, however, very ill, and scarcely sensible when they arrived. She lay for some weeks languid and prostrated with low fever; but
Somerset was nearly in despair at the loss of his homestead and the damage done to his property. He told me that he was in difficulties before, but that now he might consider himself a ruined man.
This notion of his I managed soon to put on one side. I had money to lend, and wished to be considered as a brother; and I persuaded him to consent to the agreement.
I had asked Dolly to marry me so often that it scarcely seemed necessary to go through the old form again. But she had never given me a decided answer; so one day when she was better I succeeded in obtaining her promise.
The next morning I ventured to put a ring on her finger; it was an engagement ring, set with
She coloured a lovely rose colour when she saw them, then looked up at me, and asked in the simplest, most piquant manner,—
“Are you a rich man, Alan?”
I could not help laughing outright.
“I can't call myself exactly poor,” I said. When you are my wife, Dolly, you will only have to ask me for what you wish for; and you will be Lady Carewe into the bargain.”
She opened her brown eyes wide in her amazement.
“Why you don't mean to say?” she began, and then stopped.
“You are the dearest, most innocent little woman in the world,” I said. “You never asked
Dolly quietly took off her ring, laid it in my hand, and pushed my hand away.
“Good-bye,” she said. “The man I fell in love with was plain Alan Ainsleigh. I do not know him in Sir Alan Carewe.”
But I caught her with one hand, and with the other put the ring back upon her finger.
“The girl who gave me her promise,” I said, “was Dorothea Somerset—not plain at all, and though Quakers have no respect for titles, I have never heard that they were especially ready to break their word.”
* * * * * *
She kept her word, and we were married, and went home.
Somerset is doing well now. Next year we expect them to pay us a visit at Curtis Knowle. Kate will bring with her, besides Fred, a small Violet, to whom we have yet to be introduced.
The End.
Crown Buildings, 188, Fleet Street,
London, October, 1873.
The drawings, etchings, and engravings have been twelve years in preparation, and an idea of the importance of this splendid work may be gathered from the fact that upwards of twelve hundred and fifty thousand francs, or fifty thousand pounds, have been expended on its production, and it has obtained for M. M. Hachette the Diplome d'Honneur at the Vienna Exhibition.
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It is intended to publish each Gospel separately, and at intervals of from six to twelve months: and in order to preserve uniformity, the price will in the first instance be fixed at £3 3s. each volume. This uniformity of price has been determined on the assumption that purchasers will take the whole of the four volumes as published; but, as it will be seen that the Gospels of St. Matthew and St. Luke contain more etchings and more letterpress than St. Mark and St. John, and are therefore proportionately more costly in production. it must be understood that at the expiration of three months from the first issue of each of these two volumes, the price (if purchased separately) will be raised to four guineas. This extra charge will, however, be allowed at any time to all bona fide purchasers of the four volumes.
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From 1868 to 1871.
Translated by Ellen E. Frewer. With an Introduction by Winwood Reade.
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—– Fairy Tales, with Illustrations in Colours by E. V. B. Royal 4to. cloth. 1l. 5s.
Andrews (Dr.) Latin-English Lexicon. 13th edition. Royal 8vo. pp. 1,670, cloth extra. Price 18s.
The superiority of this justly-famed Lexicon is retained over all others by the fulness of its Quotations, the including in the Vocabulary Proper Names, the distinguishing whether the Derivative is classical or otherwise, the exactness of the References to the Original Authors, and by the price.
“The best Latin Dictionary,' whether for the scholar or advanced student.”—Spectator.
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Anecdotes of the Queen and Royal Family, collected and edited by J. G. Hodgins, with Illustrations. New edition, revised by John Timbs. 5s.
Angell (J. K.) A Treatise on the Law of Highways. 8vo. 1l. 5s.
Arctic Regions (The). Illustrated. See Bradford.
—– German Polar Expedition. See Koldeway.
—– Explorations. See Markham.
Around the World. See Prime.
Art, Pictorial and Industrial, Vol. 1, 1l. 11s. 6d. Vols. 2 and 3, 18s. each.
Atmosphere (The). See Flammarion.
Aunt Jo's Scrap Bag. See Alcott.
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Back-log Studies. See Warner.
Baldwin (J. D.) Prehistoric Nations. 12mo. 4s. 6d.
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The Bayard Series. Comprising Pleasure Books of Literature produced in the Choicest Style as Companionable Volumes at Home and Abroad.
Price 2s. 6d. each Volume, complete in itself, printed at the Chiswick Press, bound by Burn, flexible cloth extra, gilt leaves, with silk Headbands and Registers.
The Story of the Chevalier Bayard. By M. De Berville.
De Joinville's St. Louis, King of France.
The Essays of Abraham Cowley, including all his Prose Works.
Abdallah; or, the Four Leaves. By Edouard Laboullaye.
Table-Talk and Opinions of Napoleon Buonaparte.
Vathek: An Oriental Romance. By William Beckford.
The King and the Commons: a Selection of Cavalier and Puritan Song. Edited by Prof. Morley.
Words of Wellington: Maxims and Opinions of the Great Duke.
Dr. Johnson's Rasselas, Prince of Abyssinia. With Notes.
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The Religio Medici, Hydriotaphia, and the Letter to a Friend. By Sir Thomas Browne, Knt.
Ballad Poetry of the Affections. By Robert Buchanan.
Coleridge's Christabel, and other Imaginative Poems. With Preface by Algernon C. Swinburne.
Lord Chesterfield's Letters, Sentences and Maxims. With Introduction by the Editor, and Essay on Chesterfield by M. De St. Beuve, of the French Academy.
Essays in Mosaic. By Thos. Ballantyne.
My Uncle Toby; his Story and his Friends. Edited by P. Fitzgerald.
Reflections; or, Moral Sentences and Maxims of the Duke de la Rochefoucauld.
Socrates, Memoirs for English Readers from Xenophon's Memorabilia. By Edw. Levien.
Prince Albert's Golden Precepts.
A suitable Case containing 12 volumes, price 31s. 6d.; or the Case separate, price 3s. 6d.
Extracts from Literary Notices.
“The present series—taking its name from the opening volume, which contained a translation of the Knight without Fear and without Reproach—will really, we think, fill a void in the shelves of all except the most complete English libraries. These little square-shaped volumes contain, in a very manageable and pretty form, a great many things not very easy of access elsewhere, and some things for the first time brought together.”—Pall Mall Gazette. “We have here two more volumes of the series appropriately called the ‘Bayard,’ as they certainly are ‘sans reproche.’ Of convenient size, with clear typography and tasteful binding, we know no other little volumes which make such good gift-books for persons of mature age.”—Examiner. “St. Louis and his companions, as described by Joinville, not only in their glistening armour, but in their every-day attire, are brought nearer to us, become intelligible to us, and teach us lessons of humanity which we can learn from men only, and not from saints and heroes. Here lies the real value of real history. It widens our minds and our hearts, and gives us that true knowledge of the world and of human nature in all its phases which but few can gain in the short span of their own life, and in the narrow sphere of their friends and enemies. We can hardly imagine a better book for boys to read or for men to ponder over.”—Times.
Beecher (Henry Ward, D. D.) Life Thoughts. Complete in 1 vol. 12mo. 2s. 6d.
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Blackburn (H.) Art in the Mountains: the Story of the Passion Play, with upwards of Fifty Illustrations. 8vo. 12s.
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Blackmore (R. D.) Lorna Doone. New edition. Crown, 8vo. 6s.
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—– Cradock Nowell. 2nd and cheaper edition. 6s.
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Books suitable for School Prizes and Presents. (Fuller description of each book will be found in the alphabet.)
Adventures of a Young Naturalist. 7s. 6d.
—– on Great Hunting Grounds. 5s.
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Bayard Series (See Bayard.)
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Christ in Song. 5s.
Craik (Mrs.) Adventures of a Brownie. 5s.
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Craik (Miss) The Cousin from India. 4s.
Dana's Corals and Coral Islands, 21s.
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Davies's Pilgrimage of the Tiber. 18s.
De Witt (Mad.) An Only Sister. 4s.
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Favell Children (The). 4s.
Favourite English Poems. 300 Illustration. 21s.
Franc's Emily's Choice. 5s.
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Gayworthys (The). 3s. 6d.
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Gentle Life Series. (See Alphabet).
Getting on in the World. 6s.
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Hayes (Dr.) Cast Away in the Cold. 6s.
Healy (Miss) The Home Theatre. 3s. 6d.
Henderson's Latin Proverbs, 10s. 6d.
Hugo's Toilers of the Sea. 10s. 6d.
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Jack Hazard, by Trowbridge. 3s. 6d.
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King's Mountaineering in the Sierra Nevada. 6s.
Low's Edition of American Authors, 1s. 6d. and 2s. each. 23 Vols. published. See Alphabet under Low.
Lyra Sacra Americana. 4s. 6d.
Macgregor (John) Rob Roy Books. (See Alphabet.)
Marigold Manor, by Miss Waring. 4s.
Maury's Physical Geography of the Sea 6s.
Parisian Family. 5s.
Phelps (Miss) The Silent Partner. 5s.
Picture Gallery British Art. 12s.
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Ready, O Ready. By Captain Allston, R.N. 3s. 6d.
Reynard the Fox. 100 Exquisite Illustrations. 7s. 6d.
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Tauchnitz's German Authors. See Tauchnitz.
Tayler (C. B.) Sacred Records. 2s. 6d.
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Twenty Years Ago. 4s.
Under the Blue Sky. 7s. 6d.
Verne's Meridiana. 7s. 6d.
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Whitney's (Mrs.) Books. See Alphabet.
Bowles (T. G.) The Defence of Paris, narrated as it was Seen. 8vo. 14s.
Boynton (Charles B., D.D.) Navy of the United States, with Illustrations of the Ironclad Vessels. 8vo. 2 vols. 2l.
Under the Special Patronage of Her Most Gracious Majesty the Queen, the Duke of Argyll, the Marquis of Lorn, &c.
Bradford (Wm.) The Arctic Regions. Illustrated with Photographs, taken on an Art Expedition to Greenland. With Descriptive Narrative by the Artist. In One Volume, royal broadside, 25 inches by 20, beautifully bound in morocco extra, price Twenty-five Guineas.
Bremer (Fredrika) Life, Letters, and Posthumous Works. Crown 8vo. 10s. 6d.
Brett (E.) Notes on Yachts. Fcp. 6s.
Bristed (C. A.) Five Years in an English University. Fourth E lition, Revised and Amended by the Author. Post 8vo. 10s. 6d.
Broke (Admiral Sir B. V. P., Bart., K.C.B.) Biography of. 1l.
Brothers Rantzau. See Erckmann Chatrian.
Browning (Mrs. E. B.) The Rhyme of the Duchess May. Demy 4to. Illustrated with Eight Photographs, after Drawings by Charlotte M. B. Morrell. 21s.
Burritt (E.) The Black Country and its Green Border Land: or, Expeditions and Explorations round Birmingham, Wolverhampton, &c. By Elihu Burritt. Second and cheaper edition. Post 8vo. 6s.
—– A Walk from London to Land's End. With Illustrations. 8vo. 6s.
—– The Lectures and Speeches of Elihu Burritt. Fcp. 8vo. cloth, 6s.
Burroughs (John). See Wake Robin.
Bush (R. J.) Reindeer, Dogs, and Snow Shoes: a Journal of Siberian Travel. 8vo. 12s. 6d.
Bush Fighting. See Alexander (Sir J. E.)
Bushnell's (Dr.) The Vicarious Sacrifice. Post 8vo. 7s. 6d.
—– Sermons on Living Subjects. Crown 8vo. cloth. 7s. 6d.
—– Nature and the Supernatural. Post 8vo. 3s. 6d.
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Butler (W. F.) The Great Lone Land; an Account of the Red River Expedition, 1869–1870, and Subsequent Travels and Adven tures in the Manitoba Country, and a Winter Journey across the Saskatchewan Valley to the Rocky Mountains. With Illustrations and Map. Fifth and Cheaper Edition. Crown 8vo. cloth extra. 7s. 6d. (The first 3 Editions were in 8vo. cloth. 16s.)
The Times says:—“He describes easily and forcibly. He has a sympathy with the beautiful as well as a sense of the ridiculous. But his prejudices and his egotism are merely the weaknesses of a frank, hearty nature, and we have a personal liking for him when we take leave of him at the end of his wanderings.”
“The tone of this book is altogether delightful and refreshing.”—Spectator.
“The impression left on the mind by his narrative is one of profound interest.”—Morning Post.
“This is one of the freshest and most interesting books of travel that we have had the pleasure of reading for some time past.”—Examiner.
“There is a delightful breeziness and vigour about Captain Butler's style of writing.”—Leeds Mercury.
“His fascinating volume … . not only exciting, but instructive reading.”—Pall Mall Gazette.
“Captain Butler writes with rare spirit.”—Nonconformist.
California.See Nordhoff.
Carlisle (Thos.) The Unprofessional Vagabond. By Thomas Carlisle (Haroun Alraschid), with Sketches from the Life of John Carlisle. Fcap. 8vo. Fancy boards. 1s.
Changed Cross (The) and other Religious Poems. 2s. 6d.
Child's Play, with 16 coloured drawings by E. V. B. An entirely new edition, printed on thick paper, with tints, 7s. 6d.
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China. See Illustrations of.
Choice Editions of Choice Books. New Editions. Illustrated by C. W. Cope, R.A., T. Creswick, R.A., Edward Duncan, Birket Foster, J. C. Horsley, A.R.A., George Hicks, R. Redgrave, R.A., C. Stonehouse, F. Taylor, George Thomas, H. J. Townshend, E. H. Wehnert, Harrison Weir, &c. Crown 8vo. cloth, 5s. each; mor. 10s. 6d.
Bloomfield's Farmer's Boy.
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Coleridge's Ancient Mariner.
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Goldsmith's Vicar of Wakefield.
Gray's Elegy in a Churchyard.
Keat's Eve of St. Agnes.
Milton's l'Allegro.
Rogers' Pleasures of Memory.
Shakespeare's Songs and Sonnets.
Tennyson's May Queen.
Weir's Poetry of Nature.
Wordsworth's Pastoral Poems.
Christ in Song. Hymns of Immanuel, selected from all Ages, with Notes. By Philip Schaff, D.D. Crown 8vo. toned paper, beautifully printed at the Chiswick Press. With Initial Letters and Ornaments and handsomely bound. New Edition. 5s.
Christabel. See Bayard Series.
Christmas Presents. See Illustrated Books.
Chronicles of Castle of Amelroy. 4to. With Photographic Illustrations. 2l. 2s.
Clara Vaughan. See Blackmore.
Coffin (G. C.) Our New Way Round the World. 8vo. 12s.
Commons Preservation (Prize Essays on), written in competition for Prizes offered by Henry W. Peek, Esq. 8vo. 13s.
Compton Friars, by the Author of Mary Powell. Cr. 8vo. cloth. 10s. 6d.
Courtship and a Campaign; a Story of the Milanese Volunteers of 1866, under Garibaldi. By M. Dalin. 2 vols. cr. 8vo. 21s.
Cradock Nowell. See Blackmore.
Craik (Mrs.) The Adventures of a Brownie, by the Author of “John Halifax, Gentleman.” With numerous Illustrations by Miss Paterson. Square cloth, extra gilt edges. 5s.
A Capital Book for a School Prize for Children from Seven to Fourteen.
—– Little Sunshine's Holiday (forming Vol. 1. of the John Halifax Series of Girls' Books). Small post 8vo. 4s.
—– John Halifax Series. See Girls' Books.
—– Poems. Crown, cloth, 5s.
—– (Georgiana M.) The Cousin from India, forming Vol. 2. of John Halifax Series. Small post 8vo. 4s.
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Craik's American Millwright and Miller. With numerous Illustrations. 8vo. 1l. 1s.
Cruise of “The Rosario. See Markham (A. H.).
Cummins (Maria S.) Haunted Hearts (Low's Copyright Series). 16mo. boards. 1s. 6d.; cloth, 2s.
Curtis's History of the Constitution of the United States. 2 vols. 8vo. 24s.
Dalton (J. C.) A Treatise on Physiology and Hygiene for Schools, Families, and Colleges, with numerous Illustrations, 7s. 6d.
Dana (R. H.) Two Years before the Mast and Twenty-four years After. New Edition, with Notes and Revisions. 12mo. 6s.
Dana (Jas. D.) Corals and Coral Islands. Numerous Illustrations, charts, &c. Royal 8vo. cloth extra. 21s.
“This handsome book is of a kind unfortunately too rare. An eminent traveller and naturalist has here endeavoured to present a popular account of a subject in which he has been one of the foremost investigators… . Professed geologists and zoologists, as well as general readers, will find Professor Dana's book in every way worthy of their attention.”—The Athenæum, Oct. 12, 1872.
“That his work is likely to be more popular than most accounts of the corals and coral polypes that we have seen, we have no doubt whatever.”—Saturday Review.
Darley (Felix O. C.) Sketches Abroad with Pen and Pencil, with 84 Illustrations on Wood. Small 4to. 7s. 6d.
Daughter (A) of Heth, by Wm. Black. Eleventh and Cheaper edition. 1 vol. crown 8vo. 6s.
Davies (Wm.) The Pilgrimage of the Tiber, from its Mouth to its Source; with some account of its Tributaries. 8vo., with many very fine Woodcuts and a Map, cloth extra. 18s.
“Et terram Hesperiam venies, ubi Lydius arva Inter opima virûm leni fluit agmine Tibris.”
Virgil, Æn. II., 781.
Devonshire Hamlets; Hamlet 1603, Hamlet 1604. I Vol. 8vo. 7s. 6d.
De Witt (Madame Guizot). An Only Sister. Vol. V. of the “John Halifax” Series of Girls' Books. With Six Illustrations. Small post 8vo. cloth. 4s.
Dhow-Chasing. See Sulivan.
Draper (John W.) Human Physiology. Illustrated with more than 300 Woodcuts from Photographs, &c. Royal 8vo. cloth extra. 1l. 5s.
Dream Book (The) with 12 Drawings in facsimile by E. V. B. Med. 4to. 1l. 11s. 6d.
Duer's Marine Insurance. 2 vols. 3l. 3s.
Duplais and McKennie, Treatise on the Manufacture and Distillation of Alcoholic Liquors. With numerous Engravings. 8vo. 2l. 2s.
Duplessis (G.) Wonders of Engraving. With numerous Illustrations and Photographs. 8vo. 12s. 6d.
l. 2s.
—– General Treatise on the Manufacture of Vinegar. 8vo. 1l. 1s.
English Catalogue of Books (The) Published during 1863 to 1871 inclusive, comprising also the Important American Publications.
This Volume, occupying over 450 Pages, shows the Titles of 32,000 New Books and New Editions issued during Nine Years, with the Size, Price, and Publisher's Name, the Lists of Learned Societies, Printing Clubs, and other Literary Associations, and the Books issued by them; as also the Publisher's Series and Collections—altogether forming an indispensable adjunct to the Bookseller's Establishment, as well as to every Learned and Literary Club and Association. 30s. half-bound.
The previous Volume, 1835 to 1862, of which a very few remain on sale, price 2l. 5s. as also the Index Volume, 1837 to 1857, price 1l. 6s.
—– Supplements, 1863, 1864, 1865, 3s. 6d. each; 1866, 1867 to 1872, 5s. each.
—– Writers, Chapters for Self-improvement in English Literature; by the author of “The Gentle Life.” 6s.
Erckmann-Chatrian, Forest House and Catherine's Lovers. Crown 8vo 3s. 6d.
—– The Brothers Rantzau: A Story of the Vosges. 2 vols. crown 8vo. cloth. 21s.
Faith Gartney's Girlhood, by the Author of “The Gayworthys.” Fcap. with Coloured Frontispiece. 3s. 6d.
Favourite English Poems. New and Extended Edition, with 300 illustrations. Small 4to. 21s.
Favell (The) Children. Three Little Portraits. Crown 12mo. Four Illustrations. Cloth gilt. 4s.
“A very useful and clever story.”—John Bull.
Few (A) Hints on Proving Wills. Enlarged Edition, sewed. 1s.
Fields (J. T.) Yesterdays with Authors. Crown 8vo. 10s. 6d.
Fleming's (Sandford) Expedition. See Ocean to Ocean.
Flammarion (C.) The Atmosphere. Translated from the French of Camille Flammarion. Edited by James Glaisher, F.R.S., Superintendent of the Magnetical and Meteorological Department of the Royal Observatory at Greenwich. With 10 beautiful Chromo-Lithographs and 81 woodcuts. Royal 8vo. cloth extra, bevelled boards. 30s.
Franc (Maude Jeane) Emily's Choice, an Australian Tale, 1 vol. small post 8vo. With a Frontispiece by G. F. Angas. 5s.
—– Marian, or the Light of Some One's Home. Fcp. 3rd Edition, with Frontispiece. 5s.
—– Silken Cords and Iron Fetters. 5s.
—– Vermont Vale. Small post 4to., with Frontispiece. 5s.
Minnie's Mission. Small post 8vo., with Frontispiece. 4s.
Frey (H.) The Microscope and Microscopical Technology. 8vo. illustrated. 30s.
Friswell (J. H.) See Gentle Life Series.
—– One of Two. 3 vols. 1l. 11s. 6d.
Gayworthys (The), a Story of New England Life. Small post 8vo. 3s. 6d.
Gems of Dutch Art. Twelve Photographs from finest Engravings in British Museum. Sup. royal 4to. cloth extra. 25s.
Gentle Life (Queen Edition). 2 vols. in 1. Small 4to. 10s. 6d.
The Gentle Life Series. Printed in Elzevir, on Toned Paper, handsomely bound, forming suitable Volumes for Presents. Price 6s. each; or in calf extra, price 10s. 6d.
The Gentle Life. Essays in aid of the Formation of Character of Gentlemen and Gentlewomen. Tenth Edition.
“His notion of a gentleman is of the noblest and truest order. A little compendium of cheerful philosophy.”—Daily News.
“Deserves to be printed in letters of gold, and circulated in every house.”—Chambers Journal.
About in the World. Essays by the Author of “The Gentle Life.”
“It is not easy to open it at any page without finding some happy idea.”—Morning Post.
Like unto Christ. A New Translation of the “De Imitatione Christi “usually ascribed to Thomas à Kempis. With a Vignette from an Original Drawing by Sir Thomas Lawrence. Second Edition.
“Evinces independent scholarship, and a profound feeling for the original.”—Nonconformist.
“Could not be presented in a more exquisite form, for a more sightly volume was never seen.”—Illustrated London News.
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Very Far West Indeed. See Johnson.
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