Husbands and wives

It was almost the close of the Southbourne season, and already the gaily dressed crowds on the pier and on the esplanade had thinned visibly; day after day familiar faces were missed, fewer and fewer greetings were inter changed, elegant costumes had lost all their freshness; the October wind, though it might be bracing, was uncomfortably cold, and the daylight had to be supplemented by gaslight long before the fashionable dinner-hour. The "Philharmonic Society" had announced its final concert; the price of apartments was slowly coming down to its usual winter minimum, and many of the bathing-machines had already retired into private life. And yet a goodly sprinkling of visitors remained ; the brass band still per formed twice a week ; the Grand Hotel pretended to he as full and as busy as ever, though many vacant places at the table-d'hote, and the long list of departures, seemed to contradict the statement. Certainly the goings-out were largely in excess of the comings-in, and it was generally understood that the season, which had been a long and brilliant one, approached its termination.

I really think it is time we went back to town. Everybody of consequence is going, if not gone," said Mrs. Westbury to her companions, two well-dressed young ladies, who were drinking tea with her in one of the best drawingrooms of the Grand Hotel. "How long have we been here?"

"Just five weeks," said Eleanor Phipson, shortly, as if not caring to be disturbed from her reverie, and she went on balancing her spoon on the edge of her tea-cup, and gazing out abstractedly Oil the moonlit sea. To judge from her looks, her thoughts were not of the pleasantest. By-and-by, as might have been expected, down came the teaspoon clattering, and Mrs. Westbury gave a start that partly spilled the contents of her own cup. "My dear Eleanor," she expostulated, "I wish you would consider people's nerves. Besides, it is not quite well-bred, you know, to make those abrupt, unpleasant noises."

Eleanor did not reply, but she looked impatient, and drank the remainder of her tea at one draught, thereby scalding her throat without relieving her temper. The other girl, who had not spoken, glanced anxiously at her friend, and then at Mrs. Westbury, who was soon as placid and beaming as ever.

Mrs. Westbury was a widow, tolerably rich, tolerably handsome, and extremely "well preserved." She was also supposed to be very well connected, and she moved in fashionable circles. She enjoyed excellent health, she was always in good spirits, and she dressed in the best taste, so that she might have passed for forty-five, while she was in reality ten years older. She was particularly fond of the society of young people, to whom she was invariably kind and indulgent, and it was whispered that some of the "best matches" of her set were of her making. She had no children of her own, but she had satisfactorily married her husband's only daughter some years before, though report affirmed that Adelaide Westbury had refused to profit by her stepmother's scheming, and had chosen for herself. However this might be, she was Mrs. Kingscote, and Mrs. Westbury, being free from even the shadow of maternal responsibilities, was both able and willing to devote herself to the establishment of such young ladies as she might deem worthy of her notice.

"But I am no match-maker, my dear," she said one day to her intimate friend, to whom she had been recounting recent successes. "If there is anything that I am not, it is that. Match-making I despise as coarse and vulgar but when I see how matters can be arranged between two young people, I think it is my duty to give what help I can. They manage these things so much better in France; the science of matrimony is not understood, or rather, I should say, it is very much misunderstood, in England."

It was Mrs. Westbury's custom to spend a few weeks every autumn at Southbourne--then, as now, a fashionable watering-place - and to bring with her. as guests, two young unmarried and generally unengaged ladies, whom she chose from the circle of her acquaintances, and to whom she gave, as she considered, every possible advantage.

A more worldly-minded, earthly-souled woman than the widow Westbury never drew breath, and yet, by a strange but too common delusion, she believed herself to be truly religious that is, decorously religious, for she did not approve of anything approaching to fervour or earnestness, which she called "excitement." She never drove her own horses, nor gave dinner-parties on Sunday. She opened her purse freely to certain well-accredited religious societies, and she never turned a deaf ear to her clergyman's appeal--for cash. She was not High Church, for that was too pronounced; nor Low Church, for that was vulgar; nor yet Broad Church, for that gave her too much to think about. She was simply an orthodox old-fashioned Church woman--I quote her own words--and she protested mildly against Saturday evening operas, and objected to card-parties in Lent. I am quite sure that the widow Westbury accounted herself as one of the most estimable and consistent of Christian gentlewomen.

So she went on her way rejoicing, dressing well, and living well, and keeping up a thoroughly well-appointed establishment. She was never strict with young folks, and she catered liberally for their amusement. She was also very generous to these, her temporary charges--generous undoubtedly, yet slightly wanting in that fine delicacy which is so indispensable to the exercise of true generosity. Indeed, if one must speak the truth, Mrs. Westbury was just a little coarse both in mind and in manner, and with the best intentions, to her own exceeding amazement, sometimes offended and repelled the very persons whom she was most anxiously striving to propitiate. Still, with all her faults, Mrs. Westbury was immensely popular with young people of both sexes, and with many persons of mature age likewise, f or she was undeniably kind-hearted, easy-tempered, an indulgent chaperone, and never so happy as "when making presents, and planning agreeable surprises. She was always ready to do any one a good turn, provided it did not interfere too seriously with her own comfort, and she Would go very much out of her way for her own especial favourites Royalty itself could scarcely have been received with greater enthusiasm than was the widow Westbury by the good people of Southbourne, when she made her annual appearance among them ; for she spent her money freely, never disputed charges, never checked her bills, never complained of impositions, and showered fees and gratuities ungrudgingly on all about her when she went away.

This year she had brought down with her two young ladies, to whom Southbourne paid the just meed of admiration. The elder girl was supposed to be a beauty, the younger one was voted to be a sweet little thing. They were not at all related, though they were fast friends, and had once been schoolfellows. As a rule, Mrs. Westbury professed to "introduce" only pretty girls, but she had the good sense to perceive that a plain face with a piquante expression and undoubted powers of conversation, often obtained larger suffrages than mere inanimate doll-beauty without the charm of intellect; so now she had chosen as her temporary companions, a belle and a bel-esprit -- at least that was what people chose to say about them.

Eleanor Phipson was three-and-twenty, sufficiently hand some to please a not too fastidious taste, and sufficiently clever to carry on a conversation with ease, and even upon occasion with brilliancy. She was one of a large and needy family--a family of the class so sadly common in these ambitious and competitive days, when one-half of the world seems to live only to outshine the other half. Mr.Phipson was something in the City--few people precisely knew what--hut he had something to do with companies; he had a good income, but he lived not only up to it but rather beyond it, and so was always being pushed for money, while every year his expenditure more and more exceeded his resources.

Mrs. Phipson had been dead for some years, and the eldest daughter--not Eleanor, for she was the second-- was nominally at the head of her father's establishment but the house kept itself, and the servants did pretty much just what they chose, and nothing more, for Fanny Phipson was indolent, easy-tempered, ignorant, and unobservant. Her cook might have given away--and I dare say did give away, for mistresses like Miss Phipson always chance on the worst possible servants--a dozen pounds of butchers' meat and half a sack of potatoes weekly, to say nothing of groceries, and the residue of sundries, and she be none the wiser. So the Phipson household was in a state of chronic muddle and muddle, as we know, produces the minimum of comfort at the maximum of expense."

There were five Miss Phipsons, the eldest twenty-five, the youngest in her eighteenth year, they were all alike in their talent for spending money, and they all, from Fanny down to little Kitty--as her sisters persisted in calling her -- scorned the idea of an allowance, and preferred to run bills for all their finer, which said hills Fanny laid before "papa" at certain intervals. Those were not pleasant days for Fanny, nor for any of the girls, when "papa" audited the half-yearly accounts, and stormed, and raved, and grumbled, and threatened--the crown of all threats--to marry again! Nothing appalled the hearts of these Phipson girls like this vision of a stern, arbitrary stepmother, armed with all conjugal and matronly rights, coming to rule over them, and to curtail their liberties.These girls went to fashionable and expensive schools, and they learned to dance, to enter a room properly, to sit or lounge gracefully, and to play and sing tolerably, for amateurs. And of course they were taught grammar and geography, and sundry scraps of ologies, and they read histories, ancient and modern, which they forgot as fast as possible, but of all those things in which a woman, whose sphere is home, should be instructed, they were profoundly ignorant. They could dress elegantly, if not economically they knew the exact limits to which they might carry an innocent flirtation--if there be such a thing, which I doubt --and they were careful never to outrage the proprieties. They had beaux many and admirers many, but not one good, honest lover among them. And though I cannot commend the danglers and male flirts who amused them selves with the Phipson girls, and "used" Mr. Phipson's house very much as if it were a club-house or private hotel, I must say I do not blame the young men, who were always being expected to propose, and who never did.

Mr. Phipson began to be afraid that his five handsome and expensive daughters were going to be left upon his hands he felt that he would give anything to see any one of them married Perhaps it was too well known that the Misses Phipson had been brought up in habits of careless extravagance that they were far more ornamental than Useful, and, worst of all, that being as they were, they were not likely to receive anything in the shape of a marriage-portion, nor to inherit even the smallest of fortunes.

Of the sisters, Eleanor, though not the handsomest, was certainly the cleverest, the best-intentioned, and the most thoughtful. She was less shallow, less frivolous than thee others. She was not indolent and nonchalant, as were Fanny and Florence, neither was she vain and pert, as were Jenny and Kitty; and often, very often of late, she had reflected and asked herself how this careless, reckless, aimless sort of life would end? for that end it would, in a very few years, perhaps months, she could not rationally doubt. She talked to Fanny and to Flo, and they cried and told her she was a thorough wet blanket on their spirits; and she spoke seriously to Jenny and Kitty, who laughed at her, and boasted of the splendid matches they meant to make. But Eleanor knew better. The Phipsons were in bad odour, their chances of wedding honourably and happily were rapidly diminishing; no sensible man of any position would be likely to seek a wife among them. Even those who eagerly sought them as partners in the dance, or as companions at a Crystal Palace concert or flower-show, or a Richmond dinner, never dreamed of securing any one of them as a partner for life.

I have noticed that very foolish men are sometimes very wise and very prudent in this matter, while the men of higher order, from whom one would expect greater things, too often commit the greatest and, of course, the most irretrievable mistakes in matrimony.

"Tall love the short,
Sensible love the stupid,
Everywhere pair dark with fair,
All on account of Cupid."

Pity that it should be so, which I do not quite believe. At any rate, I am sure Cupid gets a great deal of blame that is not fairly his; he is not accountable for half the mischief laid to his charge, poor, foolish, little, heathen simpleton If people would only consider the sacredness of marriage as a divinely-appointed institution; if they would only con template the momentous issues of a single hut irretrievable step, surely there would not be so much misery, so much sin, as there is in the world, through this very necessary ordinance of " holy matrimony," which God knows is sometimes as unholy, as unhallowed--in His sight, at least --as are other conditions, which the world justly brands with shame.

When the midsummer accounts came in, and with them the usual dissatisfaction, Mr. Phipson had said to his two elder daughters, "This cannot go on!" Some of you must marry! You must manage very badly not to bring any of your admirers to the point. It is of no use being too fastidious, for I tell you plainly we cannot go on in this way much longer. If one of you married, she might help the others, or at least one or two of the others, to an eligible settlement. I cannot think how it is Plain girls, mere dowdies, girls who never go into society, get husbands, and are happily established, while you are still in the market, and seem as far as ever from gaining your ends. I tell you some of you must marry, and that soon. I am heartily ashamed of my five spinster-daughters."

It was, therefore, greatly to Eleanor's content when shortly afterwards, Mrs. Westbury, with whom she had lately become intimate, asked her to spend a few weeks with her and Margaret Deane at Southbourne. Flo wished she had been invited, and was rather sulky because she was not. Kitty and Jenny openly grumbled at being excluded; both of them declaring that Fanny and Eleanor had had their day, and ought to retire in favour of their younger and more attractive sisters. The Misses Phipson, I am sorry to say, were in the habit of speaking their minds to each other more freely than was agreeable. They were not amiable in private life, though they "deared" each other in company with the most delightful propriety. But what could be expected in a home where Christianity was never thought of, and where common sense was continually ignored?

"And I am determined to come back engaged!" said Eleanor to Fanny, the night before her departure. "Papa is right: it really is time that there was a wedding in the family. Now, at Southbourne there will be new chances, and I mean to make the very best of them. It is my duty to marry, and to marry well."

"I am sure I have no objection," replied Fanny, languidly. " I wish we could all marry well, for pa's grumbling, and the tradespeople's grumbling, and Jenny's and Kitty s grumbling because they cannot do as they wish, is almost more than I can bear. I am sure the expenses are enormous--tradesmen are so extortionate, and servants are such cheats -- but then, what can I do? I did propose going abroad to retrench, but papa would not hear of it. He has been very disagreeable lately, and I really shall be quite frightened, Nellie, if after all you do come back disengaged, for there will be the bills for your new dresses he will not mind them if you only come back to be married. How horrid it is to be poor!"

"And yet we should scarcely be called poor. I know lots of people who have not half our income, and who seem quite comfortable and rich. The fact is we spend more than we have, and that causes unpleasantness. If we could only make up our mind to do without things, we might get on. When I am married, I will not go in debt, Fan ; I am resolved on that."

"Nonsense every married woman runs into debt," was Fanny's cool reply. "What's the use of being married if you cannot have all you want, and do as you please? Your husband pays your bills, you know."

"But suppose he has not money enough to pay them Or suppose he won't?"

"Nonsense; there is no won't in the case; a man must pay his wife's debts, my dear,--yes, even debts contracted before marriage. And as for not having the money, you must be careful, Eleanor, not to marry a poor man. But I think I can trust you."

"Yes, you may trust me," said Eleanor, sadly; "but it must be pleasant to feel that you may marry the person you like, instead of the person who has most money."

"Pray do not talk so foolishly. I thought we had done with that nonsense," said Fanny, quite sternly for her. I hope you never think of that presumptuous young man."

"Really, Fanny," returned Eleanor, with spirit, "I do not quite see the presumption. He offered me two hundred a year, and I have nothing, literally nothing, except a lot of fine dresses which are not paid for. It seems to me that I should have had the best of the bargain--besides--besides--well liking him!"

"No girl in the present state of society ought to like a man with only £200 a year."

"Then I wish the present state of society would alter, Fan I wouldn't say it to any one but you, but sometimes I feel so tired--so tired of it all. I feel as if there must be something better than the life we lead--I might say, the life we waste! And I wish I had accepted John Thornton; it would have been so nice to work together, and do things together - for I really don't see why the man should do all the work, and the woman do all the spending."

"Eleanor! if you are going to Southbourne in that absurd, and, I may say, vulgar spirit, you had better stop at home. It is a pity Mrs. Westbury did not ask me or Flo. I am quite willing that you should have the chances, but if you are going to fling them away, why it is a pity you should have them. John Thornton, indeed! Cold mutton, washing done at home, mending old stockings, nine children and no nursemaid; would that suit you, do you think?"

"No," said Eleanor, desperately "say no more, Fanny. I'll do my duty."

And next morning, with plenty of pretty dresses and tasteful costumes in her trunks, and with a very little money in her purse, Eleanor met Mrs. Westbury and Margaret Deane at the railway station, and went with them to Southbourne to do her duty.

And Eleanor Phipson did "her duty," according to her lights; for when the time came to think about leaving Southbourne, it rested with herself to accept or to refuse a certain Mr. Esdaile, with whom, for the last few weeks, she had been in constant intercourse. Mr. Esdaile was rich, middle-aged, and a childless widower. He had only just made up his mind to marry again, and he had no sooner resolved on this important step than Miss Phipson crossed his path, and made an impression which further acquaintance confirmed.

He, as well as Mrs. Westbury and her charges, was at the Grand Hotel; so that they naturally met at all hours of the day, and it soon became a settled thing that in all their walks, drives, and excursions, he should accompany them. And presently people coupled his name with Eleanor's, for that it was the tall, stately Eleanor, and not the little dove-eyed maiden, Margaret, whom he had chosen, became speedily apparent.

And Eleanor received his attentions with a certain reserve, which he naturally mistook for maiden modesty. She was far too prudent to give him undue encouragement, since a man of his temperament--proud, sensitive, with high and chivalric ideas about women--would be more likely to be repelled than gratified by the smallest compromise of feminine dignity. Little thought Richard Esdaile how, from the very first hour of his introduction to these ladies, and even before--for the "visitors' book" had told them his name on the evening of their arrival--it had been designed that he and Eleanor Phipson should henceforth travel the road of life together. Nevertheless he had been cautious; he had watched the girl, and he had made no hasty advances. Richard Esdaile was the soul of honour, and he would have thought it shame to trifle in the smallest degree with a girl's happiness. That easy familiarity which men nowadays so often assume towards women with whom they are for the first time associated, and whom they may never encounter again, he especially disliked, and his manner was not only guarded but respectful. He flattered himself that he entirely concealed his sentiments, that he paid no more attention to Eleanor than to Margaret, whom he liked and esteemed, but whom he never dreamed of asking to be his wife. She was a good little thing, he said; any man might count himself happy to win and wear so sweet a flower. But, in spite of his reticence, and before he would even acknowledge it to himself, his heart was irrevocably given to Eleanor Phipson.

Still he had not yet proposed, though he now considered himself as a man of honour fully compromised. He had paid attentions which, in his estimation, could have but one meaning, and she had received them so graciously, though so modestly, that he felt little, if any, doubt of his acceptance. He had, as he imagined, been most discreet and prudent; the days of youthful passion were over, but he was quite capable of a very deep and steadfast attachment; his first marriage had not been happy, for he had been too hasty; now, as he told himself, having attained the mature age of forty-three, he was not likely to make a second blunder. He had seen Eleanor daily, and sometimes hourly, for weeks, and under various circumstances which tried her temper and her prudence, and she had always conducted herself satisfactorily, and borne her part with great dignity. Though she had given him but slight encouragement, she had by no means repelled him, and that went for much, he thought, with a woman of her stamp. It was quite time that he spoke openly and to the purpose; he did not wish to linger at Southbourne; his health, which had given way under an attack of fever in the spring, was completely re-established, and he knew from what Mrs. Westbury had said, that she and her young ladies would be returning to town ere long. He would make the venture. Within a few hours Eleanor must become all the world to him, or be put away entirely and for ever; for now that it came to the point, he knew his own heart, and he felt that no middle course of friendship was possible. He loved Eleanor, and she must be his, or they must not meet again for years, if ever.

That afternoon Mr. Esdaile had ridden out by himself, and he had not taken his place at the dinner-table. But when the ladies returned to their own sitting-room, Mrs. Westbury had found a note from him, asking her permission to see Miss Eleanor Phipson alone, on the following morning at eleven o'clock. He would not return till late that evening, but he begged that he might find an answer in his own room awaiting him. Mrs. Westbury was at once in her own element, and she penned a graciously worded little note on perfumed paper, granting her full consent to the proposed interview, and she congratulated herself and Eleanor, that without any scheming or double dealing, the desired result was to all intents and purposes attained.

But for the first time since the commencement of their friendship, Eleanor was cross and out of sorts. Hence her abrupt tone and manner, so unlike her usual style; hence her nervous handling of that unlucky teaspoon, which procured her the gentlest of reprimands.

"Well! it will be all settled to-morrow, and then, Eleanor, my dear, the best thing we can do is to pack up and go home," said Mrs. Westbury, presently. "Let me think--it is October now; I should say your marriage will take place before Christmas; there is nothing to wait for."

"You forget, ma'am, that at this present moment I am disengaged."

"Of course, nominally! But not in point of fact; you cannot doubt Mr. Esdaile's intention--the note is equivalent to a declaration!"

"I know it is, but--but--suppose I do not--cannot say, yes?"

Mrs. Westbury turned round in undisguised astonishment: "My dear Eleanor!--but, of course, you mean nothing! Not that I wish you to meet Mr. Esdaile halfway. Oh, no! I have a horror of anything that is not strictly proper and perfectly delicate. I would not for the world you accepted him with enthusiasm. Even a little, just a little, piquante coquetry at the last moment might answer--but I do not know; I would not advise it; it would not be quite safe with that sort of man. But pray, my dear, whatever you are, don't be missish! When men are turned forty, they get out of conceit with bread-and-butter."

"I never was what you call a bread-and-butter girl," said Eleanor, sadly. "It might have been better for me if I ever had. No! I was a woman of the world at fifteen!"

"Then pray keep up the character," replied Mrs. West-bury with cold hauteur. There was a tremulousness in Eleanor's tone which gave her more uneasiness than she chose to acknowledge. It would indeed be a mortification, if after all, when the goal was nearly reached, the girl herself should fall back. It was the memory of some old love, she supposed, but she was wise enough not to say so.

"Let us all go to bed," was her next speech. "Eleanor is a little tired and vapourish; she will be better in the morning. She must be in her best looks to receive her lover. And, Margaret, you are privately yawning."

The girls occupied one room, and when they went upstairs, Eleanor had evidently determined upon a good talk. She put on her dressing-gown, and let down her abundant hair, but made no further preparations for bed. On the contrary, she settled herself in the easy chair by the window, as if she meant to remain there all night.

"Well, Margaret?" said she, as Miss Deane was folding up her evening dress.

"Well, Eleanor?"

"Don't play the echo!" replied Eleanor, pettishly. "I never can endure it." Then with a change of tone, "Have patience with me, Margaret, I am so very miserable tonight--I am in a wretched temper I know--I have been hoping and expecting this for the last three weeks, and. now that it has come I wish I had never seen Southbourne! and yet, I am not 'missish,' as Mrs. Westbury says. Oh, Margaret, I envy you."

Though at first sight there seemed little reason why Eleanor Phipson should envy Margaret Deane, for Margaret was poor, a dependent on relations, who were neither kind nor generous. Her possessions were few and insignificant. She was not so regularly handsome as Eleanor, and she was not on the eve of what people would suppose to be a most satisfactory marriage. Eleanor was going back to a luxurious home as a bride elect, to be petted and fêted and indulged; while Margaret was returning to work she could not like, to ungenial companionship and to many things which sorely tried her patience. And yet, if all were known, if all were duly considered, Margaret's lot was far preferable to her friend's. And as Eleanor spoke Margaret felt that not for worlds would she exchange with her; no, not to be mistress of the most splendid establishment in the country.

"It is not yet too late," said Margaret. "Dear Eleanor, you are not obliged to accept this man."

"Yes, I am--I have no alternative. I must accept him. It is written in the book of fate that I am to be Richard Esdaile's wife."

"I do not believe in fate, though I do in Providence. And when we wilfully place ourselves in predicaments we ought not to blame Providence for them. You have given Mr. Esdaile every reason to believe that his suit will be successful, and he will have reason to complain if you now refuse him: but still it is better even to pass for a heartless coquette than to marry a man for whom you have no affection."

"But I respect him, and--I may as well speak truth to you, Peggy; it is such a relief to be natural sometimes, and say things out of one's very heart,--I very much respect his wealth and his position. If he were a poor man I should not think twice about him, but being what he is, I feel it my duty to marry him."

"It cannot be your duty, if you do not rightly care for him. Eleanor, I would rather beg my bread to-morrow than marry a man simply for what he could give me. Begging is disreputable, I know; but I should respect myself more as I held out my hand for alms, than I should at the head of the table of a rich man whom I did not love. Besides, as a mendicant I might hope and strive for better days; there is no hope of deliverance, save one, from a loveless marriage. But I thought--I really thought--that you did like Mr. Esdaile."

"I do like him:--at least I do not dislike him. But my liking is not so strong as to reconcile me to the prospect of becoming his wife. Yet I should have been extremely mortified had he not proposed. Oh, what a stupid creature I am, to talk, and what is worse, to feel in this way! I did not think I was half so weak; I had no idea it would be so hard--for it is very hard, Peggy, and I may as well confess it."

"There are a great many 'hard' things that we ought to do, and the harder they are the greater honour and merit in the doing of them. But this is not one of them, I am quite certain. If it is hard to do this thing, it is wrong to do it; and, oh, Eleanor, no good will come of it. You cannot ask God's blessing on it."

"You know I am not religious! I should as soon look at marriage in a sentimental point of view, as regard it in a religious light. You feel otherwise; but sentiment and religion are luxuries in which I cannot indulge. I cannot afford either."

"You will feel so differently some day, Eleanor, I know you will. I am not even sure but that you really feel very differently now. You pretend to be so much worse than you are; you always did at school. Why, you are crying this moment."

"I am so very miserable. I hate myself; I despise myself; both because I will marry this man whom I do not love, and because, having resolved to marry him, cost what it may, I lack the courage to do it bravely, and make this foolish moan, and unprofitable maunder. I am ashamed of myself."

"Eleanor, may I ask one thing?"

"Ask what you like, I may answer you to-night. This will perhaps be the last time I shall ever speak out fully and frankly to you, or to any one."

"You do not care about John Thornton still?"

"Yes, I do. He is worth fifty Mr. Esdailes. I should not cry if I were going to marry him."

"Then why did you not marry him?"

"How could I? If I had been a great heiress I might have done it; I should, too. But I had nothing and he had nothing."

"He had two strong hands, and plenty of brain, and health, and energy, and determination enough for half-a-dozen men. John Thornton will make his way; he will carve out a fortune for himself."

"I wish he had made it, when--But why talk about it? It is all over now. I was very cruel, I know; I led him on; I could not help it--I liked him so much; and then I refused him--and that I could not help either; he should not have asked me to marry him on two hundred a year."

"He did not ask you to marry him then--only to wait for him, for he knew he could in a few years make you a comfortable, cosy home. Already his two hundred has increased to three hundred and sixty; he told Arthur so."

"Who could marry on three hundred and sixty pounds a year?"

"Plenty of people could, and do."

"Ah! but I mean people in our station; not common working people."

"And so do I. Arthur and I will have to marry on less."

"You will starve; you will be wretched."

"That I will not;" and Margaret laughed merrily out of the full content of her heart. "I shall have to live in a small house, to keep only one young servant. I shall have to contrive and to do without all sorts of things I should like; I shall have to look after ends of candles and stale crusts, and to turn my dresses and make my own bonnets, and mend old gloves and old stockings--but I do not think I shall ever have an empty larder; and as for being wretched--wretched in a dear little home of my own! and with my Arthur! That will never be! Even if trouble and trial come, as they will come, we shall be together, bearing together whatever is to be borne, and helping each other in every difficulty. No! God helping us, we shall never be wretched!"

"Do you suppose God troubles Himself about all our petty concerns--about a woman's household cares?"

'I am sure of it--if the birds and the flowers are cared for, so are we. And life, especially a woman's life, is made up of petty concerns. God will help me to be wise and prudent--to make Arthur happy."

"Can you not make him happy of yourself?"

"One makes so many mistakes, and sometimes one does not think. No! one human creature can never make another and keep another continually happy."

"You are the strangest girl, Margaret!'

"Am I? Well, you know, I have not been like other girls. I scarcely remember my parents; I never had a bright, peaceful home; I have had to puzzle out things for myself, and to guide myself, and to be responsible for others."

"Poor Margaret! And yet, I am not sure but that you have had the best of it. I never did think for myself. When I wanted a thing I always had it: I did what I liked and left undone what I did not like; I never put myself out of the way for anybody. But for all that, worries and anxieties came to me. I spent more money than papa liked; I got into debt; I had bills that I did not dare to speak about. I owe, now, ever so much for dresses, dressmaking, bouquets, and ornaments. But my marriage with Mr. Esdaile will put all that straight. Papa will be in such a fine good humour when he knows I am really going to be well married, that he will not mind a little extra expense. And of course he will expect to have to open his purse-strings pretty widely for the first wedding in the family. I shall just tell them--the bothering tradespeople, I mean--to put all that is now owing down to the fresh account. You cannot fancy, Margaret, the misery it is, to appear to be rich, while in reality you are poor! I can assure you, there have been times when I have not known where to find a shilling for cab-hire, and all the while I was elegantly dressed, and I looked as if I wanted nothing! After all, I am not sure but that you have been the happier."

"I think I have," said Margaret, gently; "at any rate I have never been unhappy--that is, not for any length of time. When I have felt disposed to murmur, because I things were so hard to bear, I have tried--as a good minister of the Gospel once recommended--to go over all the comforts and blessings I enjoyed, or had enjoyed, ever since I could recollect. And really I found so many causes, for thankfulness that I could not help being cheerful again. And now that I have this prospect of a dear wee home of my very own, I care for nothing! I may as well tell you--Arthur and I think of being married in the spring. His salary is to be raised at Christmas. And he has been saving money ever since we were engaged. Of course I could not save anything, but I have been very careful of what I had--I could do no more."

"Margaret, I should like to know--but do not answer if you do not like, for I know I am taking an unwarrantable liberty, even with a friend--how much or how little are you and Arthur Mann going to set up housekeeping upon?"

"Upon a hundred and forty pounds a year."

"Nonsense! that would not pay the bills that have so tormented me! That would not satisfy my dressmaker and my milliner, to say nothing of others, who all have some claim upon me. My dear Margaret, don't do it! Nobody could live on the miserable sum you name."

"They could, for they do! And I mean to make both ends meet, I assure you. I know it will be no easy task; but I have been trained to economy, and I think I am--or may be developed into--what the Americans call a woman of faculty! At any rate, I will try; I cannot fancy any greater sorrow than finding out that one's husband has injured himself by marrying. And I am trying to learn all I can about all sorts of things."

"Was that why you took such trouble to find out all about that receipt for stewed beef? I should as soon have thought of learning to cast nets for fishes as to cook cold meat!"

"Yes! That was why I took all that trouble, though it was no trouble to me, but quite the contrary. I assure you, Eleanor, I feel so pleased when I have learned something that will really be of use to me in the new life that Arthur and I mean to live together, if it please God. And I know--at least I have always heard--that husbands do not like too much cold meat."

"I dare say they do not, for cold meat is not particularly nice, unless you have it in summer with plenty of well-dressed salad, and hock or sauterne to drink with it. But what on earth--oh, dear! I am growing as vulgar as Mrs. Westbury--what can induce you to marry a man before whom it is necessary to place a cold joint, unless he prefer it?"

"The inducement of preference for the man himself! I love Arthur Mann--therefore I marry him, and share his fortunes, whatever they may be."

"You cannot know what you are undertaking, you romantic little Gretchen! Well, there is one comfort for me,--I shall know nothing about the cold meats, nor care to know. I can order turtle soup and venison every day if I choose, and ortalans, and whitebait in season, with pineapples and grapes of our own forcing. And I shall go in for the fine arts, I think."

"'An' ye sall walk in silk attire,
An' siller hae to spare,
Gin ye consent to be my bride--
Nor think o' Donald mair,'"

replied Margaret, half in jest, half in sorrow. "Oh, Eleanor, I am glad I am not you!"

"And I am glad I am not you, silly, sentimental Margaret!"

Of course Mr. Esdaile proposed in due form, and equally of course he was accepted by Eleanor Phipson, who next morning seemed altogether ashamed of what she was pleased to call her "sentimental fit." Mrs. Westbury was triumphant, and she congratulated herself, and "the young couple," as she chose to style Mr. Esdaile and his betrothed, and Eleanor's papa, to whom she wrote a most explicit letter, and everybody who could be congratulated, except Margaret Deane. She almost accused Margaret of becoming her guest under false pretences, "for," said she, "you never told me you were already engaged to be married."

"You did not ask me, dear Mrs. Westbury; you simply invited me to accompany you to Southbourne, and I had been so unwell during the hot weather, and I needed a change so much, that I thankfully accepted your kindness. And, indeed, I feel most grateful; for the sea air and the long rest have done me so much good, that now I feel, quite ready for the toils of the coming winter."

"Still, I do not profess to take about with me engaged girls any more than married women."

"They would give you less trouble--the engaged girls, I mean."

"I am not so sure of that! But now, Margaret, my dear, Eleanor's affair being comfortably settled, let me talk to you like a mother. Is this engagement which you have confessed a real thing, or is it mere boy and girl nonsense? Because you are not bound for the sake of a few silly, childish words, to injure your future prospects for life. How old were you when you entered into this--let us call it engagement, for form's sake?"

"I was nineteen, and sober enough for nine-and-twenty, for the thoughtless moods that most girls enjoy never came to me. Now I am almost twenty-one."

"And do the Leighs, your relations, sanction the affair?

"Tacitly they do; they know all about it, for I never made any secret of my engagement to Arthur. And though Mrs. Leigh laughed at me, and said I was a little simpleton, she never forbade our correspondence nor our occasional meetings. Theodora has taken much interest in us since her own betrothal; indeed, she has been very kind."

"Theodora is Mr. Leigh's eldest daughter by his first marriage?"

"The only daughter and child of the first family; and she inherits her mother's fortune. The present Mrs. Leigh has four children--three boys and one girl, to all of whom I am governess, and nursemaid, and sempstress, and whatever else is required; but you know all that."

"I almost wonder they spared you, even to come with me; though, to be sure, I am not accustomed to be refused, and I should have been very much astonished had they replied to my letter in the negative."

"I was so unwell, so worn out,--for the children had whooping-cough in the spring, and they were left entirely in my charge; then I went with them to Betteridge, and there I was housekeeper and head maid, as well as nurse and governess, and it has been such an extremely hot summer. So I was as near as possible breaking down when your kind invitation reached me, and I believe Mrs. Leigh was rather glad that I should go away to recruit. But Theodora managed it; she promised, not exactly to take my place, but to give some kind of superintendence while I was absent."

"I wonder, if you are so useful, as I do not doubt you are, that the Leighs consent to your leaving them!"

"They did demur at first, and wished me to wait several years longer; but that I would not agree to. I had promised Arthur, and my first duty was to him. If I had a father or a mother, and they had wished to keep me longer, it would have been different. As it was, I had no scruples; for though the Leighs are my relations, they have scarcely acknowledged me as belonging to them, excepting, indeed, Theodora, who always calls me her cousin, which I am not, for we are related only through the present Mrs. Leigh. Mr. Leigh said he was afraid it was a very imprudent affair, and he assured me he should be seriously displeased if I married before I was one-and-twenty; but he never forbade it. He had no right."

"And a very imprudent affair it is. And you may depend upon it that you will live to regret having taken the last irretrievable step. I should reproach myself if I did not speak to you very frankly, for if you will take my advice, and at least wait two or three years, as Mrs. Leigh sensibly proposed, I am sure you will be all the happier for it. Wait at least till the young man is in a better position."

"I want to help him into a better position. We have agreed to work together. We think that two are stronger than one. And, God helping us, we are not afraid, however hard and long the struggle may be. By the time we come to our silver wedding-day, should we both live so long, we hope to have achieved something worthy of our pains; for I tell you, Mrs. Westbury, we mean to get on!"

"Getting on is not so easy nowadays, I can tell you. What is your beloved? I forget, if I ever knew."

"A shorthand writer--a newspaper reporter."

"That is far worse than anything I ever imagined. Margaret Deane, I am utterly ashamed of you!"

Margaret flushed a little. She did not mind a few words of contempt for herself, but she was not going to tolerate any disrespectful mention of Arthur, or of his occupation.

"Is there anything disreputable in shorthand, or in reporting?" she asked, in a tone that Mrs. Westbury had learned to understand.

"Well, my dear, not positively disreputable. It is not so bad as billiard-marking, or tax-collecting, or crying 'hot rolls'; but it is not a gentlemanly calling."

"I differ from you there. At any rate, Arthur is a gentleman, Mrs. Westbury, or--though you may not give me credit for being so particular--I should never have encouraged his addresses. I have heard of many--perhaps I ought to speak more accurately, and say, I have heard of several men, now in excellent positions, and more or less wealthy, whose first beginnings were like Arthur's, and of no greater promise. Why, Mrs. Westbury, it is said, and I believe it is true, that our own beloved Charles Dickens, of whom we are all so proud, began life as a reporter."

"But Mr. Dickens never rose, and never would have risen, to fortune or to eminence through reporting, which means taking down notes of meetings, etc., for the newspapers, as far as I understand, and must necessarily take a young man into a great deal of very objectionable company. It is literature that has given Charles Dickens his celebrity, and among a thousand reporters there is not likely to be one novelist. I should not mind your marrying a literary man provided he had already achieved a name, and consequently a liberal income. But does this Arthur of yours write novels, or try to write them? My friend the editor of the Grosvenor tells me that out of five hundred people who imagine they have literary ability, there is scarcely one whose contributions are worth the trouble of editing, nor is there more than one in a thousand who possesses the true literary inspiration! Pray do not encourage your young man in any foolish self-delusions of the sort. He had better stick to his reporting!"

"I do not think it ever occurred to him to write a novel à la Dickens, or à la anybody else; his gift of authorship, if he have any, lies more in the direction of newspaper articles. He thinks he might soon, with a little experience, aspire to the post of sub-editor."

"Well, my dear, you are very courageous and very sanguine, but if I were you I would wait till Mr.--what is his name ?--is something better than sub-editor. I know absolutely nothing of literary hacks--my literary friends all enjoy an assured position, and move in the best society, while hacks such as sub-editors are nowhere. Doubtless they have plenty of work, no honour, and very little pay. Margaret, if you were only sensible you might marry a thousand a year at least."

"I will help Arthur to a thousand a year; we mean to spend more than that, and consequently have more than that by our silver wedding-day."

"You are crazy about your silver wedding-day. I am afraid it will turn out to be only of German silver, and considerably tarnished. Five-and-twenty years is a long time to look forward to. There, I do not like to think of it! I shall be so wretchedly old when this silver wedding-day of yours arrives."

"We do not think of it presumptuously, I hope; we know how uncertain life is, and that all its issues are in God's hands. But we give ourselves five-and-twenty years wherein to attain certain possibilities. And, dear Mrs. Westbury, don't you think it must be very pleasant for husband and wife to look back, and retrace the steps which they have taken together hand in hand, both helping to the result which they enjoy; I shall marry a thousand a year after all, trust me; but I shall help in some sort to get it."

"What do you mean to do,--keep a shop?"

"I had not thought of that, but I could and would do so if it seemed desirable. But there are many ways, it seems to me, in which a woman can work in her own home; I shall have to make the best of everything, to plan and to contrive; also, I shall have to take great care of my husband, seeing that he wants for nothing that I can give him. A man who is hard at work all day needs attention to his creature comforts, which ought to be well considered and secured; he requires the very best his means will permit, and it is the wife's place and pleasure too, I should think, to make the very best of those means, especially on his behalf. It must be all but impossible for a man, whose home is comfortless, and who is worried and teased by domestic cares, to succeed in life. I have heard it said that no man ever did 'get on,' unless his wife helped him."

"I will tell you what you can do to eke out your reporter's income. You can give lectures on 'The Duties of Married Women.' It is unnatural to hear a girl talk in such a strain. Have you learned it all out of some goody book?"

"No, I learned it chiefly, I think, from Anne Aldred."

"Who is she? A dreadful bore, though, whoever she may be."

"She is an old maid, and Theodora's great friend--mine too I hope, for she is one of the best women I know."

"It is too ridiculous, my dear, your taking lessons on married life from an old maid who never had a husband, and whose actual experience is nil. I have not much faith in theories; they sound charmingly till they are reduced to plain practice. You had better, after all, put yourself into my hands, Margaret. Your old maid has probably been after an ignis fatuus, and she would lead you on the same wild-goose chase. Have you no appreciation of your own merits?"

"Yes, I think I have. I do not profess to be ''umble,' like Uriah Heep. But what then?"

"Then you should not throw yourself away. Now, you are not a beauty like Eleanor, but you are certainly pretty: yours is a piquante sort of prettiness that sometimes takes better than absolute accredited beauty. Then you are cleverer than she is, and you talk so well; there is a certain aplomb about you which will always distinguish you from a mere common-place young lady, and which certainly tells in society. Dear me, what a foolish girl it is! Why, I am certain Colonel Peacock was struck; he asked your name the very first evening we were here. I am sure he preferred you to Eleanor; she made no impression at all upon him; I saw that at once. Ah, I see things more quickly than most people! And you turned a deaf ear to his very pleasant discourse."

"Dear Mrs. Westbury, it was not pleasant, and it was he who turned a deaf ear to me; for I could not make him understand anything I said unless I bawled it, so that all the table could hear. Now, I have so much appreciation of my own merits, that I do think I, aged twenty-one, and, as you are pleased to declare, rather pretty and tolerably clever, deserve a better fate than to be the wife of a cross, deaf old nabob, who has nothing but his moneybags to recommend him. No! I could never, even though there were no Arthur Mann to be considered, 'stoop to marry half a heart, and little more than half a liver.' Do you know, as I watched him drink his soup--with a noise, too--I could not help thinking of Bon Gaultier's lines."

"What lines? I never heard of Bon Gaultier. He cannot be an author of any standing."

"I believe his real name is Theodore Martin, and he is an author of repute. These are the lines I was thinking of--they are a sort of travestie--that is the worst thing about them--of Tennyson's 'Locksley Hall.' Listen, then:--

"'As the husband is the wife is--he is stomach-plagued and old,

And his curry soups will make thy cheek the colour of his gold.

'When his feeble love is sated, he will hold thee surely then,

Something lower than his hookah--something less than his cayenne.

'What is this? His eyes are pinky. Was't the claret? Oh, no, no,--

Bless your soul, it was the salmon--salmon always makes him so.'"

"That will do, my dear; extremely vulgar verses, and yet clever. So like you to think of them. And what a memory you have! Well, now, I have done my duty by you. I have warned you, and I have offered to assist you in making a more advantageous choice. But you will not hear, and I make a point of never boring anybody." Margaret was so bored already that she could have cried. "So now, as far as responsibility goes, I wash my hands of you. Though I shall not lose sight of you, notwithstanding the different spheres in which we shall move, and I will give you a suitable wedding-present, to prove to you how far I am from resenting your rash rejection of my counsel."

"Thank you, Mrs. Westbury; you are very kind. Indeed, you have been very kind to me ever since we came here, and before. Please do not think me ungrateful; and, indeed, if I had had any idea that it would make any difference, I would have told you at once that I was engaged."

"Never mind that; but next season I shall certainly inquire of the young ladies whom I secure as companions, point-blank, 'Are you engaged?' And the girl that replies in the affirmative must stay at home. Oh, Margaret, I am so sorry for you."

"Wait till my silver wedding-day," replied Margaret, half laughing, and yet very much inclined to cry. Mrs. Westbury only shook her head, and she looked doleful all the rest of the day, which was their last at Southbourne, only she brightened up when Eleanor and Mr. Esdaile came in from their short ramble, he looking extremely happy and Eleanor animated, beaming, and full of vivacity. "She has evidently forgotten all about John Thornton, and a good thing too, since she has made up her mind to take Mr. Esdaile," said Margaret to herself.

And for the hour, Eleanor had forgotten her old lover, for Mr. Esdaile had been explaining matters to her, and she found he was even more wealthy than she had supposed. He wished the marriage to take place as soon as the necessary preliminaries could be concluded; and Eleanor modestly acquiesced, making but faint remonstrance against "so much haste," but in her heart, resolving that she would do nothing to hinder the speedy celebration of her nuptials; for, not till she stood before the altar with Richard Esdaile at her side could she feel perfectly secure that the rich prize she had drawn would be really hers for life. She knew that her father's affairs might at any time come to a dead lock. Not that that would matter to Mr. Esdaile; he was taking her without a penny, and he knew it, and if misfortune, simply misfortune, befel her family, she was quite sure that he would only the more eagerly desire to shelter her under the ægis of his own name and protection. But Eleanor was shrewd; she knew nothing, but she guessed much; and secretly she dreaded something far worse than pecuniary misfortune--she dreaded disgrace. And Mr. Esdaile was a proud man, and she knew he would expect to be released if that which she feared should come to pass. But once actually married it would not matter half so much, for then release would be impossible, and she must put the best face she could upon the whole disagreeable affair. So it was decided that morning that the wedding should take place the week before Christmas. And Eleanor was in a hurry to get home, for there would be a great deal to plan and to do, and of course she must be married in the style suitable to the future Mrs. Esdaile.

Next day they all went back to town, and Southbourne once more mourned the departure of the popular widow Westbury.

Mr. Esdaile was introduced to the Phipson family, and did not particularly admire them, but he consoled himself with the reflection that he was only marrying his own Eleanor, and neither her father nor her sisters, and that his wife and her family need not be on very intimate terms.

Fanny wondered whether he would ever have proposed to Eleanor had he first known her among her relatives, and she rejoiced to think that he had not been put to the test.

And the younger sisters gloried in their bridesmaids'dresses, and in the bride-elect's costly presents, and hoped the day was not far distant when they, too, should sustain the principal part in the interesting drama. All the sisterhood, from Fanny to Jenny, hoped great things from Eleanor's auspicious marriage. Mr. Phipson trusted that the evil day--the day of collapse and inquiry--was deferred. Fanny had secret aspirations of her own; for Eleanor had introduced Colonel Peacock to her circle, and he had confided to several people who had very loose tongues, that he thought Miss Phipson "a very fine young woman, much handsomer, and far more sensible than the future Mrs. Esdaile." And Eleanor, for the first time in her life, had the magnanimity to rejoice at another being preferred to herself. Had the wealth of all the Indies been her promised dowry, she would still have renounced the yellow, peppery Colonel in favour of Mr. Esdaile, who was a man of whom any woman might be justly proud. So Fanny had the field all to herself, for the Nabob looked on Flo and her younger sisters as mere "chits."

And the preparations went on, and Eleanor, somewhat to her own surprise, found that she had unlimited credit everywhere, and she took every advantage of the novel situation. At least, she had a trousseau worthy of an heiress. Mr. Phipson gravely informed Mr. Esdaile that "on principle he gave his daughters no marriage portion, but that all he had would be equally divided at his death." And Mr. Esdaile as gravely acquiesced; but I must do him the justice to remark, that he had not the smallest expectations from the future division of Mr. Phipson's property. He was marrying Eleanor for her own sake only, and not at all for what she had, or might have in the days to come.

I need not describe the wedding--of course the bride wore white silk, and Brussels lace, and orange blossoms, and the bridesmaids made a most elegant appearance. And plenty of champagne was imbibed, and the bouquets, for the time of the year, were all but miraculous; and every ceremonial required by etiquette or fashion was duly observed, till the bride, superbly arrayed, set off with her husband as fast as a splendid pair of horses could carry them to Victoria Station, en route to Paris, Vienna, and Rome.

And so Eleanor Phipson was "wooed, and married, and a'!" And Mrs. Westbury was at the wedding.

Meanwhile Margaret Deane was happily making her own slender preparations for the same solemn ceremony of "holy matrimony."

Margaret's marriage took place three months after Eleanor's, and for reasons truly inscrutable, Mrs. Westbury chose to invite herself to the wedding. Margaret was the picture of a happy bride, and she looked very pretty, in spite of what some people called her unbridelike appearance. For when Mr. Leigh--a kind man when kindness occurred to him--offered to give Margaret her wedding-dress, she thanked him gratefully, and took the £10 note which he crumpled up into her hand, and which his wife had told him was ample for the occasion--the occasion requiring a white silk dress, and the conventional bridal veil and wreath.

But Margaret stoutly stood out against the white silk, and the veil, and the wreath; the money was her own to do with as she pleased, and Arthur agreed with her: why, then, should she not consult her own judgment? which said--"Buy something that will be useful to you afterwards; do not prank yourself out in finery that does not agree with the rest of your wardrobe; dress yourself as nicely and as prettily as you can, but be consistent!"

So she asked Mr. Leigh if he minded what sort of dress she bought. He laughed, and said, "No." She might buy and wear just what she liked so far as he was concerned; she might wear linsey-woolsey, or grogram--whatever that might be,--or anything else she pleased. The money was her own, to spend according to her own taste; only he would caution her against amber satin and grass-green poplin, which were said to be trying to the complexion.

And Margaret, taking Theodora into her confidence, went one February afternoon to Oxford-street, and bought her wedding-dress--a grey-slate silk, and a fine white llama shawl, and a simple white bonnet, that, stripped of its little spray of marriage flowers, would be serviceable all through the summer.

"For you see," she said to Theodora, "I should never have worn my white silk after the day, and it would have lain by till it was yellow and old-fashioned. Have it dyed? Well, I never like dyed silks, they always look so poor. Now this grey, neither too light nor too dark, will serve me for a best dress for several years. The llama shawl will be equally useful, and that will dye and look as well as new when it loses its freshness. As for a veil and wreath, it is just nonsense; and my bonnet will last me, if I am careful, till quite into the autumn."

Mrs. Leigh was rather displeased, and not a little scandalised, for it seemed to her impossible that any woman not wearing white silk, satin, or Indian muslin, could be properly and duly married; and she felt quite ashamed when Mrs. Westbury asked to see the dress, and wished she had insisted on having her way.

But Mrs. Westbury said--"It was just like Margaret Deane! she was so terribly strong-minded. She wondered the young man was not afraid of an esprit fort." Nevertheless, she gave Margaret the promised "present,"--a rather expensive and showy dinner service for two dozen people; "and," said Margaret to Arthur, "if we had only knives and forks enough, and a few more spoons, and an épergne, and a finer damask, and a long table, and a much larger room than ours to put it in, we might lay covers for four-and-twenty people. If it were not such a gaudy pattern I should not care, for we shall be sure to have breakages, and it would serve us for ordinary purposes for years to come."

And Arthur replied--"It is ugly, my dear, there is no denying it. Perhaps some of the gilt will wash off. Never mind; it was very kind of the old lady, especially as I could perceive that she strongly disapproved of me, to whom her present will legally belong. We will have a new set, costly and elegant, for our silver wedding."

Margaret had not many other presents; people in her position never do have many. The presents chiefly go to the young couples who are wealthy, or at least well-to-do, and who can afford to buy their own plenishing, from a two hundred guinea pianoforte down to kitchen dusters. There are, of course, exceptions; but as a rule the rich are rewarded for their richness, and the poor are made to suffer for their poverty; for "men will praise thee when thou doest well unto thyself." So Margaret's "presents" made but an insignificant show when, on the last evening of her maiden life, they were displayed upon the schoolroom table. Eleanor's had required a large room to themselves, and an experienced packer had spent a whole day in packing them for removal to Mrs. Esdaile's house at Kensington. Margaret put all hers, save the celebrated dinner-service, into a small box, which Theodora was to send away by the Parcels Delivery Company, to the rooms--only three, "and the use of the kitchen," Margaret laid great stress on that--in which the young couple were about to set up housekeeping.

"And she might have had Colonel Peacock, and a mansion at the West-end, and everything that a girl could wish!" sighed Mrs. Westbury, almost in tears, to Mrs. Leigh. "And to think she prefers poking in apartments at Kennington, where nobody lives!"

"Margaret is a strange girl," replied Mrs. Leigh; "she never had any ambition. Of course I shall drop her, though Theodora declares she will not. One could not possibly visit at Kennington--and apartments too! I wanted her at least to wait till Mr. Mann was in a better position; but she had the effrontery to tell me that his position was better than her own--and she living in this house, my house, and used to rooms like these, and to every comfort!"

"But, then, the house was not her own, not a bit of it, you see," returned Mrs. Westbury, drily; she had some common sense after all; indeed, she possessed a good deal of that invaluable commodity, and could make the best use of it when needed. "And one does like a place of one's very own; I think I would rather be mistress--unquestioned mistress--of two rooms than a dependent in a great house. But then, to choose poky rooms when you may have a great house of your own! I must confess I do not understand it! Such chances as some girls have! and to think they fling them away, just as one flings pebbles in the sea! But Margaret has such a notion of helping her husband to get on."

"I know she has. How she will do it I cannot imagine."

"Depend upon it she will repent her bargain before this time next year. Now, Eleanor Phipson's marriage--that is satisfactory. I shall always rejoice when I remember that I introduced them to each other. She will have every luxury as Mr. Esdaile's wife. And such a house! Large, grand, and yet delightfully comfortable--absolutely perfect! Eleanor's boudoir, all pale silk and white lace, is lovely; I have seen nothing like it. Some man came from Paris and did it all. I hope Miss Leigh is marrying well?"

"No, she is not. She might do much better; but she has queer notions, like Margaret. They have mutually done each other harm, I think, and Miss Aldred has largely helped to give them both their foolish views. But Theodora is not my daughter, and I never, from the first, interfered with her; we do not suit. She has money of her own and her father is so easy, he always lets her do what she wishes. Indeed, if I did not keep Mr. Leigh up to his duty he would do strange things, I assure you!"

"I can well believe it. Men want keeping up to their duty. It requires some tact, though, to make them go just the way you wish; for, if they fancy you are getting the whip hand of them, or if they suspect that you have any little scheme for getting over them--as all wives have occasionally; and, for my part, I prefer coaxing and wheedling to storming and goading--they begin to kick at once, and there is your work to do all over again, and you must change your tactics! My poor, dear Mr. Westbury--the best husband that ever put a ring on--gave me no end of trouble. If I scolded him, he lost his temper; if I petted and fondled him, he thought I had some end in view--as, indeed, I generally had, for I am naturally diplomatic; I ought to have been a foreign ambassador! And in married life diplomacy is so useful: don't you find it is, dear Mrs. Leigh?"

"I never try it," replied Mrs. Leigh, grimly. "I keep my husband well in hand!--well in hand, Mrs. Westbury! That's my secret: I never shilly-shally, and I always do what I want, and get what I want."

Mrs. Westbury replied that no doubt it was a very good plan, when the husband would bear it; but husbands differed so much--they differed like--well! like potatoes! you never knew what you were getting. And some men would not stand the curb.

"All the wife's fault! A woman must never let her husband get the upper hand. Of course he will try at first to get his own way--all men do; they are so wilful, and the wisest of them never knows what is good for him. But keep firm, never relent, never yield an inch; don't quarrel, but hold your own, and never swerve from your purpose; and if you are apparently beaten back, take up your old position the next hour, and go on your way silently but resolutely. No! I do not think much of diplomacy: two might play at that game, you know. Have your husband well in hand, and keep him well in hand: that's been my system from the first."

Mrs. Westbury smiled, as if approving: on principle she never argued with people of Mrs. Leigh's stamp, and she was not one of those who feel it their duty to testify against the sins and follies of their neighbours. But in her heart she pitied Mr. Leigh, and no longer wondered at the man's meek demeanour in his own family. But she did wonder greatly, how, under such discipline, Margaret Deane had managed to preserve so much individuality. "And I am not so surprised that she wanted to be married," she said afterwards to Fanny Phipson, who was cultivating her yellow Colonel with great success; "only, when she might have done so much better, that she should choose poverty--downright poverty and obscurity! I cannot understand it."

"There are some things that nobody ever can understand," said Fanny.

She was wondering whether the Colonel would propose that day, and she was not greatly interested in Margaret, who, from all accounts, appeared to be a singularly stupid young woman.

Theodora missed Margaret very much, and she would have missed her more had not her own marriage with Bernard Wingfield been impending; and as Theodora is one of the wives about whom I have a story to tell, let me say a little about her in this place, that you may understand her better further on.

She was, as you know, Mr. Leigh's eldest daughter, and rumour said that she had a good fortune of her own, which came to her from her mother. This was not quite true; she had just £200 a year, and no more. That was good, so far as it went, certainly, but not sufficient to make a bait for fortune-hunters. She was not quite a girl; for she was close upon her twenty-seventh birthday. She was not considered a beauty; her stepmother always spoke of her as being "deplorably plain." She was certainly not handsome, though an artist had once said that she would probably be a very fine woman when was forty. A lover could scarcely call her pretty; and yet there was something about her which made her at times more than pretty, more than handsome. Sometimes her face lighted up to positive beauty; the soul seemed shining out of the shadowy grey eyes, every feature glowed with intense thought and feeling, and a lovely rose-bloom flushed the usually colourless cheeks.

She was clever and affectionate; she was one of those rare but charming natures which unite intellect and sentiment; people--ignorant and vulgar people, of course--called her a "blue stocking," because she could read a little Latin, and could translate both German and Italian. French of course she spoke, for she had been several years at school in Paris. She could play well--indeed, she had quite a gift for improvisations--Mendelssohn, Sebastian Bach and Chopin were her chief favourites; also, she was extremely well read for a woman; and she pondered what she read, and could talk about it most sensibly upon occasion.

But Theodora's greatest gift was her power of loving. She was a thorough woman in gentleness and tenderness; but only those whom she dearly loved knew the full depth and strength of her affection. Her stepmother had never understood her--never tried to understand her; but then she had not persecuted her, nor sought to coerce her in any way. She had left her very much to herself, always deprecating the idea of interfering with Mr. Leigh's daughter, who was grown up when she married the father. There had never been any pretence of affection between them and, on the other hand, there had never been any decided misunderstanding. Theodora deferred to her father's wife, and Mrs. Leigh did not attempt to exercise maternal rule.

No one--save Anne Aldred--knew what was in Theodora Leigh. Her father, perhaps, fancied that she was like her mother, but only Anne Aldred knew what Theodora--the real Theodora--was. No one else knew the girl's passionate craving for love, no one else guessed the innate heroism of her nature; for she was one of those women who would have gone to death rapturously for the sake of one beloved. She had had wooers, of course--once she had been engaged, contrary to the advice of Mrs. Leigh, contrary also to the judgment of Anne Aldred, who said--"Theo, my pet, that man will never make you happy; he cares too much about himself to make any woman happy, and he is not sufficiently your superior."

And a few months proved the truth and more than the truth of all that Anne asserted. The man was not bad, but he was selfish, and he was weak, and, above all, he was fickle and given to change. The engagement was dissolved by mutual consent; but Theodora suffered, though she confessed afterwards that her pride was hurt far more than her affection. Still, "the luckless venture," as Mrs. Leigh called the affair, made her timid and wary, and she had even planned to come and live with Anne Aldred if she could gain her father's consent; and the two were to be friends for ever--two delightful, comfortable, benevolently busy old maids, doing good to everybody, and loved and respected by all the world.

Anne, who was fifteen years older than Theodora, smiled at the scheme, though she would not chill her young friend's ardour. She only said, when Theodora was planning the cottage they were to share, and debating whether it should be in the neighbourhood of London or far away in the real country --"It is of no use, Theo. Heaven has not designed you to be an old maid, take my word for it. You will not long remain an unappropriated blessing."

And Anne was right. Theo, who was an amateur author, had some literary friends, and among them one who lived at Windsor, and to whom she went to pay a long promised visit. She remained with Mrs. Robe six weeks, and towards the end of the time Anne thought there was something rather strange about her letters, which had suddenly grown shorter, less communicative, and not quite regular. And Anne, as soon as she saw Theodora, knew that something had happened:--her face was absolutely radiant, and yet so peaceful; she looked so satisfied. Anne at once concluded that the "cottage" must take its place with other châteaux-en-Espagne; it was well for her that she had never counted upon it. She knew without being told that Theodora had found her alter ego at last.

"What is it you have to tell me, Theo?" she asked, the first time they were alone and secure from interruption.

"What makes you think I have anything to tell you?" asked Theo, looking positively lovely, Anne thought, with the love-light in her expressive eyes, and the red glow of maiden-shamefacedness on her face.

"You have found some one, Theo! You have found the prince!"

"How could you guess? Anne, you are a witch!"

"I read it in your face, pet! Your face, which never puts on a mask for me. Tell me all about it--that is, if I may know."

And Theodora, nothing loth, told the sweet love-story that had come to be part of her life. She could speak freely to her friend--though not quite so freely as before for there was so much now that must be between her and Bernard alone; so much that must be for ever sacred to their two selves. "No! I cannot tell even you all he is to me," she said, when she had finished the tale.

"I always thought you would marry a literary man, Theo; none other is good enough for you."

"Ah! there are literary men, and literary men, just we say 'il y a des femmes, et des femmes.' But to think I should have gained the love of such a man as Bernard Wingfield! Oh, Anne, I am so proud, so happy! What have I done that God should give me this great treasure of precious human love, that He should make me so happy, so entirely happy?"

"You love Bernard very much? You have no doubts?"

"Doubts! the word is not to be named! I could not doubt him, you know; if I doubted him I should deserve to lose him. And as for myself--oh, Anne! I know now that I never loved before!--that foolish girl's fancy was nothing, as you always said it was; but this is for ever and for ever."

"I always knew, dear, that the great depths of your heart were untouched. I knew your capacity for loving; I knew your passionately tender nature, and I felt sure that sooner or later that must come to pass which has come to pass!"

"Which has come to pass!" repeated Theodora, in a sort of quiet ecstasy. "Oh, how sweet it is to be so loved--to be first in such a heart as his! Did you ever see him?"

"Yes, I have seen him twice."

"Is he not--glorious? I can find no other word worthy of him. I wonder what made him care for me?"

"I admired him very much; there can be no doubt that he is wonderfully clever. Everybody is reading his last book."

"Yes; and everybody is praising it, and seeking his society. And to think that I am his own, his chosen one, with the right to tell him my inmost thoughts! And he too is mine. Anne, I never knew till now how much joy one poor heart could hold."

The old maid said nothing, but stroked tenderly the rich curls, which were Theodora's only acknowledged beauty. She could not speak, for her eyes were full of tears; she remembered how once she too had marvelled that life should contain so much pure, unsullied happiness; and how there came a day when life seemed so dark, so empty, so full of keenest pain, that she had entreated the good Lord to take her to Himself. That God who knows us better than we know ourselves--even as the father knows so much better than the little wayward child what is good for him--did not grant her request. And now her heart was at rest, her life was calmly, peacefully happy--happy, too, in others' happiness, which is the most heavenly sort of happiness in this lower world. And yet the unbidden tears came as Theo's new joy brought back the memory of the bitter past.

And there was a fear at her heart, which she must hide there. Theodora was pouring out her whole life at the feet of this man, whom she loved--as few women know how to love. She was venturing her all, surrendering her whole existence! Was it well thus to adore a mortal creature--fair and good and noble as the creature was? Was it well for a woman to risk all on one great throw? At seventeen, one may lose and throw again; but at seven-and-twenty God help the woman who gives her heart's great wealth of deepest, fondest love--for naught!

Of all the profound truths uttered by George Macdonald, there are none truer than this one--"Only God can satisfy a woman." Though how Mr. Macdonald, being a man, found that out it is not so easy to discover.

It was a soft, mild April evening; the day had bee showery and warm, and now the sun was going down in a "daffodil sky," and flinging its pale, yellow beams far and wide over the budding woodlands and springing meads of the fair land of Kent, through which the tidal train from Dover was rushing at full speed. A lady and gentleman were alone together in a first-class compartment, and they were surrounded by all those travelling luxuries which in these pleasant, easy-going days, people who have plenty of money are sure to accumulate en voyage, and which, on the other hand, people who are short of that useful commodity, coin of the realm, must manage to do without. Perhaps they are not so much the worse for that, after all.

The lady and gentleman were evidently husband and wife, for they addressed each other as "my dear." The gentleman read the evening papers and yawned; the lady did not read the novel she held in her hand, but she, too, yawned wearily, and looked bored, and tired, and not a little cross. She had come from Paris that morning, quite against her inclination, for she had intended to loiter there at least another month; and she had wanted to stop the night at Calais, and had been hurried on, in spite of a fresh wind and a rough sea, across the Channel. And not being extremely amiable, and being, moreover, a wife of just four months' standing, she felt that she was quite justified in manifesting her displeasure.

She had begun by being fidgety, and alternately too warm and too cold; she had professed a headache; she had grumbled, not indecorously, but not the less exasperatingly that she did it so genteelly. She had been sleepy and plaintive, and sulky and pettish; and the end of it was that before they lost sight of the towers of Canterbury the gentleman had gone to sleep, and lay back against the cushions with his mouth wide open, snoring as placidly as if he had been in his own bedroom.

This provoked the lady excessively. I need scarcely say it was Eleanor Esdaile, whose husband had committed the great crime of taking a nap in the day-time, and while she was wide awake and wanted to be petted and amused. But the worst of it was that he had not seemed to notice, not even to recognise the fact, that she was "nervous and depressed," which, being interpreted, means out of temper. She had looked miserable, and dignified, and satirical, and angry, and everything else that she could look by turns, and made, as far as she could ascertain, not the slightest impression upon him. She had uttered divers complaints, and he had courteously attended to those he could remedy, and taken no heed to those which were past redress. He had answered her pettish inquiries with the most imperturbable good humour. When she relapsed into offended silence he was silent too; but, far from resenting her taciturnity, he smiled when she frowned. He nodded a careless assent to every foolish speech she made, and, finally, he went to sleep, and slept sound all the way from Canterbury to Sevenoaks. But at Sevenoaks he fairly woke up, rubbed his eyes, drank some sherry from his silver-mounted flask, and did not apologise for his rudeness in going to sleep and leaving his wife to her own dismal reflections.

At Sevenoaks Junction came the inevitable cry of "Evening papers!" and he put his head out of the window, called the boy, and invested in half a dozen fluttering sheets and in a Punch, which he handed over to Mrs. Esdaile.

"I do not care much for Punch," said Eleanor, tossing it away on to the farthest seat.

"Do you not? I thought you did, my dear. Never mind, I'll look at it presently. I suppose you prefer your novel."

"Indeed, I do not; it is quite too stupid to read; besides, I never can read without hurting my eyes in a railway-carriage."

"What a pity! It passes the time so agreeably. Go to sleep, my dear."

"I never sleep when I am travelling; or if I do it makes me ill."

"Then I suppose you had better keep awake. Ha! What's this?--the Ministry probably forced to resign! impending elections! Government defeated?" and the next minute Mr. Esdaile was deep in the Parliamentary columns of his paper. Eleanor could have cried, but crying always spoilt her good looks, and she was not quite sure what effect tears would have upon her husband. They always made her father furious and sarcastic. Richard would never be furious, but she thought he might be sarcastic, and she had no mind to taste the keenness of his wit directed against herself. She felt herself growing worse and worse; she could have quarrelled with the telegraph-posts as they scudded by; and, as another and another small station was passed, she began to burn with a sense of injury.

I suppose all young wives have to go through a disagreeable process of disenchantment early in their married lives. Sometimes suddenly, sometimes by slow degrees, the lover disappears and is lost in the husband, who begins to assert his prerogative of rule. A wise woman comprehends the change, and knows that to a certain extent it is inevitable, and even desirable; people cannot go on love-making--or, as it is inelegantly but graphically termed,--spooning--to the end of their days. Very demonstrative couples .are a nuisance; for what society concedes to lovers it does not permit to married people--for this most excellent reason, that they have abundance of time and opportunity for all their little endearments and rapturous professions of happiness, without boring other people or violating the agréements of good taste. Moreover, when people are so very affectionate in public, bystanders are too often so malicious as to conclude that there is a good deal of squabbling behind the scenes.

But there are some silly women who imagine that because a certain amount of fuss ceases--because particular attentions are omitted--because there is less outward expression of affection after than before marriage, that the affection itself has declined. Men largely exclude sentiment from their love after marriage; women sedulously cultivate it; and the lack of sentiment on the side of the stronger sex is sometimes interpreted by the weaker sex as want of tenderness, want of conjugal devotion; by very exacting women--and, oh! Heaven help the man married to such a woman, for earth cannot help him!--the absence and decay of les petits soins, of the pretty flatteries, and the incessant fondling of courtship and the honeymoon season is exaggerated into unfaithfulness, gross cruelty, and even brutality!

In many ways we women do get the worst of it in married life, and it is to some extent our own fault--though that the blame is entirely ours, I strenuously deny. Our very love is made the source of half of our grievances; chiefly, I think, because it is in our nature to love absorbingly; while men cannot and ought not so to love. A man's love however pure and true and deep, is but a part of his life--a part, I grant, which he would sorely miss, and which, if deprived of, he would languish for; but still only a part--one of the portions which go to make a whole. While the woman's love is her very life; she lives, moves, and has her being in it; it is, as Lord Byron says, her "whole existence." And it is, I think, the most trying period of married life, just when the ardour of courtship has passed away, and the full, profound, trusting affection of marriage has scarcely taken place. Between man and wife there should be friendship, and something infinitely beyond friendship; but unless a man's wife is his best friend, and unless a woman's husband is her best friend, the something beyond, indispensable as it is to that mysterious and sacred love of married life, is pretty sure to degenerate in process of years into something very like indifference or mere toleration. Friendship is the daily bread of married life: it has choicer viands in possession; but it cannot thrive without friendship any more than we, whose bill of fare is rich and varied, can live without the staff of life which comes to us from the baker's. And the more perfect the friendship, the more perfect and the more satisfactory the love.

But Eleanor was not a wise woman, and she thought she did well to be angry with her husband for his want of gallantry. And to say the truth she was far more angry than hurt; for of that terrible pain which seizes a young wife when for the first time she begins to fear that she is not all in all to the hero of her worship, she could have no experience. She did not love Richard Esdaile, though now she was bone of his bone and flesh of his flesh; she only, as she told Mrs. Westbury "liked him very well." Her marriage had been a sin, and she knew it, though she tried to force her conscience to admit that she had only done her duty--her duty to her family, to herself--to John Thornton even; for so long as she remained unmarried he would be hankering after her, and making last appeals; and it was best for him to have his mind freed from what could only be a snare and an entanglement, checking his progress in the pathway of the world. Yet while Mr. Esdaile read his evening "leaders," and luxuriated in the plenitude of political news, in which he had been for some time stinted, his wife, as she sat opposite him, said to herself--"John Thornton would never have neglected me in this way. Heigho! I wonder where John is now, and I wonder how he took the news of my marriage!" And for a few minutes Mrs. Esdaile forgot all about her husband and meditated pensively on certain passages in her life when it seemed probable that she would, in the estimation of her own family, commit the idiotic crime of marrying for love!

"If I had only had the courage!" she whispered herself, as the train thundered through a rocky cutting; "if I had only been as brave as Margaret! But I was so tired of being poor; and besides, men who are making their way ought not to marry; it would have been an injustice to John, a positive injury to him, to have married him. But he was very fond of me--poor John! And I know he would have been so kind and good to me; he would have had his arm round me now, instead of being buried in stupid politics, as he is!" And she cast on her unconscious lord and master a glance of severe displeasure. "Oh! I wish--I wish"--and here she stopped, feeling she was passing from the regions of folly to those of wickedness. She had made her own choice; she had chosen deliberately and with her eyes wide open; neither had she been subjected to anything like coercion, and she had no right to complain. Only it was most unlucky that the man she really preferred, and the wealth she coveted, did not go together.

The wise thing and the right thing for Eleanor just then would have been to dismiss from her mind all thought and memory of her discarded lover; but she was only worldly wise, which is but half-wise after all, however much worldly wisdom may be extolled, and so she indulged in the harmful luxury of recalling words, and scenes, and tones which she herself had put away from her for ever. And once or twice she glanced at her rich dress and her splendid jewels, and remembered other raiment still richer, and other ornaments still more splendid, stowed away in her trunks, and she tried to comfort herself therewith; yet, nevertheless, was constrained to ask, "Are they worth the price I have paid--the price I must pay for them? Have I not bought my position too dearly? "

Too late! too late! Mrs. Esdaile, for such vain regrets; too late for all misgivings! The die is cast; you cannot retrace your steps; you are Richard Esdaile's wife; you are married to a good, true-hearted, generous-souled man, though not the man precisely suitable to yourself, any more than you are his complement, which the wife ought to be to her husband if both are to be happy. You have exchanged vows with him; the law of God and the law of the land have made you one, and all you have to do is to make the very best of him, and strive to be to him a good, true, loving, faithful wife. "Let the dead past bury its dead." Go forward and do your duty by the man to whom you owe all that a woman can owe, and be sure that peace will be your lot, and in due season happiness. Presently Mr. Esdaile looked up, and then she resumed her fretful tone. "I wish we had not come back just yet. How cold it is! And what a miserable sky! I never could bear April."

"April is almost over, my dear; this is the twenty-seventh, I believe. And really I think it is quite warm for the season."

"Ah, for the season! I wish we could have remained in Paris another month."

"My dear Eleanor, you know why we could not stay longer. My mother's health seems suddenly to have broken up, and she wants--very naturally wants--to see me speedily. And I never yet disregarded my mother's wishes."

"You never told me you had a mother till after we were engaged," pouted Eleanor.

"Did I not? I think you must be mistaken. But if I did not, what then? Most men have mothers."

"Few men as old as you are have mothers still living. She must be an immense age."

"One would think you had married a sexagenarian," he replied, still kindly, but with a change in his tone that would have warned any loving wife that she was treading on debatable ground. But in those fine and delicate instincts which a true love creates, Eleanor was of course deficient. "My mother is scarcely seventy," he went on, "a good old age, certainly, but not remarkably venerable. We trust she may long be spared to us. I hope you will love each other, Eleanor; my mother is not difficult to love."

Mrs. Esdaile was silent. She would have liked to say that loving Mrs. Esdaile, senior, was not by any means in the articles she had signed. She did say a very ungracious thing--"I never like old women!" She said it so pettishly that Mr. Esdaile smiled in spite of his annoyance. "I have been spoiling her," he said to himself. "She was not like this before we married. I suppose one may spoil a woman as well as a child. I can stand a little nonsense from one so young and so dear as Eleanor; but she must be good to my mother, and she must not fill our house with her own relations. The more I saw of them the less I liked them. I am sadly afraid there is something shady about the father, and if my Eleanor had been at all like her sisters she would never have had the smallest chance of becoming Mrs. Esdaile. She has not been brought up in a good school, that is evident. I must be patient, and she loves me so much that I can easily mould her, mere girl as she is, to my exact wishes. After all, she is my wife, and the less said about her being Mr. Phipson's daughter the better."

Such were Mr. Esdaile's musings as the fast train swept by Sydenham and Penge, and they were once more in the environs of London. He was heartily glad to be at home again. He had indulged his wife with a prolonged wedding tour. They had been fully four months abroad, having sojourned in Florence, Rome, Naples, Vienna, Berlin, Paris, and other Continental cities; and he was so true an Englishman that he preferred London to them all. It gave him quite a thrill of joy to be flashing by the Crystal Palace, to see the familiar houses of Brixton and Clapham and to know the end of the long journey was almost reached.

"The Thames again!" he cried, as the train came upon the bridge at Grosvenor Road. "Old Father Thames for ever! I'll back him against all the Seines, and Danubes, and Arnos, and Tibers in the world. Is it not good to be at home, my dear?"

"Indeed, I cannot tell you at present; I know nothing about my new home, you must remember."

There was something in her tone that jarred terribly on Mr. Esdaile's feelings. The sense of sweetness which had so filled his heart, at sight of his own familiar river, almost died away. "I hoped you would feel that with me would always be your home," he said, half sadly. What evil spirit prompted her to reply, "Pray, do not be sentimental, I am not in the least romantic"?

He was silent, too much concerned, and too much hurt to answer. Though he was in his forty-fourth year, he had married for love, while the girl, twenty years his junior, had married for all sorts of reasons, among which love did not count. Once or twice during their travels his wife had vexed him, saying things which sounded sadly like the utterances of a practical woman of the world; but there was something now in her look as well as in her tone which caused him inexpressible regret.

"That a wife should feel that with her husband is her home, her happy home, wherever it may be, and whatever it may be, is scarcely mere sentiment," he said, gravely. But Eleanor did not reply; the train was even now slackening pace, and, in another minute, they were on the Victoria platform.

Mr. Esdaile's carriage was in attendance; also two of his servants. It was a new and beautifully-appointed carriage; the liveries were new, the horses were a perfect pair, of high mettle, and splendid steppers; it was by far the handsomest turn-out in the station yard, though several fine equipages were waiting for their owners.

Eleanor took her seat beside her husband with unmingled satisfaction. This was something like being married. This was worth the price she had to pay. Her spirits rose as through the placid starlit night the horses pranced gaily up Grosvenor Place and through Knightsbridge on their homeward way; she even felt grateful and affectionate towards the man who had made her the mistress of that delightful carriage and pair. She was sorry she had been so cross; her chagrin was forgotten, and if she thought at all about John Thornton, it was to reflect that, as his wife, she would have had to trudge on foot, or at best drive about in musty cabs and jolting, crowded omnibuses! Oh! she was quite content to be Richard Esdaile's wife; it was astonishing how that well-hung, luxurious close carriage restored her temper, and made her rational and womanly once more.

But Richard Esdaile himself was strangely silent; he could not forget all that had passed that day, especially the words that had been spoken during the last half-hour dwelt upon his imagination, and, strive as he might to banish the unwelcome idea, it came again and again. What if he had made a second mistake? What if he had done wrong in taking a wife from such a house? If he could have read Eleanor's heart, he would have been far from reassured, for he would have discovered the secret of her newly-born content; he would have known that she was appraising him, not at his own true value, but at the value of his possessions, which were henceforth to be her own. It never occurred to him that the mere fact of sitting in her own well-appointed carriage raised her spirits, restored her equanimity, and, in her own estimation, went far to justify the falsehood of her marriage; for he had been wealthy all his life, and he had never regarded carriages and horses as luxuries. He forgot that the Phipsons always hired when they wanted to drive; and he did not know, though Eleanor did, that the man at the livery stables had refused to let them out another horse or another brougham while his "little bill" remained unpaid.

They were at home at last--"a home any woman might be proud of," she told herself as she walked up to her room. Yes, she would be good; she had behaved abominably that day, she knew she had; she would think no more about John Thornton, and devote herself to her husband and become a thoroughly good and admirable wife.

The worst of it was, all these good resolutions were built upon the rottenest of foundations. She was very like a child who loves you because you give him the very sweetmeats he has longed for. She went down to dinner, and Richard talked pleasantly, and all seemed bright again. Still there was, or so she fancied, a restraint in his manner which she had never before noticed; he fell into meditative fits now and then, and seemed absent, in spite of himself. Altogether, this first evening in her own home, though it in some respects exceeded her anticipations, slightly disappointed her in others.

There was no wedding-tour for Margaret. Neither she nor Arthur had money to spend in travelling, and Arthur could not be out of town for more than a day or two without seriously injuring his modest prospects. But they could have a wedding trip--they could afford to take a very short journey; and Arthur had an aunt living at, or, rather, near Dorking, who had invited him very cordially to bring his bride and pay a pleasant visit. It would not cost much to go down to Dorking third-class, and there would be no other expenses. Arthur, too, could be spared from Friday night till Tuesday morning. So they were married on Saturday, and they had no wedding-cards, nor wedding-cake, nor wedding-guests, except, indeed, Anne Aldred, who was actually staying in the house with Theodora, and could scarcely be reckoned.

But they had the brightest and serenest of spring days--a day full of promise and happy sunshine; and in all the London squares and parks the young buds were glistening on the trees, and sparrows--who might have been in mourning for the celebrated cock-robin of nursery fame--were twittering and hopping from branch to branch, as cheerily if as they had not been town-birds at all. It had snowed on Eleanor's wedding-day, and frozen hard in the evening--so hard that the horses which conveyed the happy couple to the railway station had to be roughed before the short journey could be undertaken. "And snow on your wedding-day is bitter bad luck, miss," said one of Mr. Phipson's maid-servants, who was not at all attached to her young ladies. "I'd rather it rained and poured than snowed, for they say in my country that it shows plenty of money and little love!" And Eleanor laughed. She cared very little about the love if plenty of money was forthcoming; only the cold made her cheeks blue, and her nose red, and her bridal veil was spangled with snow-flakes when she re-entered her father's house, a married woman.

How they did enjoy their brief holiday, those two presumptuous young people, who were bent on making happiness out of the most ordinary materials! Aunt Carson gave them a right hearty welcome, and told Arthur that his wife was a pretty little thing, and looked as good as she was bonnie They had such a quiet, pleasant Sunday, going to the grey old church morning and evening, and taking quite a long walk in the pleasant spring twilight, and coming home hungry as hunters to an early supper. And on Monday they drove all about Leith Hill in Mrs. Carson's rather shabby "pony carriage," which was a queer hybrid sort of thing, compounded apparently out of a farmer's gig and a light market cart. And, of course, it had not C-springs and it jolted a good deal, and was so high that Margaret, lithe and active as she was, had some difficulty in mounting to her seat. But they went along merrily enough, and never minded the ruts; and they drove through bowery lanes that "must be lovely in summer-time," they agreed and they saw the celandine and the coltsfoot in full bloom; and they heard the rooks cawing as they built their nests in the tall, windy trees; and they listened to real bird music--the song of the throstle and the blackbird, and the loud, clear ringing carol of the lark, as he soared far beyond ken in his own proud "privacy of glorious light."

And Margaret was enraptured with the farm. She had never seen farm-life before, and I must say she made a few of the drollest mistakes. She was town-bred, you know and knew little more of the country than what fashionable watering places could teach her, and she had absolutely never been out of London in the spring or early summer. So she took the geese for large ducks, and then for swans; she was surprised to find that hens would not lay eggs every day throughout the year; and butter-making was to her like the revelation of Rosicrucian mysteries. But the dairy, so beautifully clean and cool, with its rows of brimming pans, and its treasures of milk and cream, was delicious. The cheese-room, too, had its marvels, and the clucking hens and their little families were altogether charming How she wished she could keep chickens, and have eggs of her own that cost nothing, and were nice to eat! and how good it must be to live in the country, where the pure milk filled the pails morning and evening, and must be cheap!

It was all one scene of enchantment, and Monday evening came all too soon. Simpler pleasures could not be; and yet how thoroughly they had enjoyed them! Eleanor had not had half the happiness on her grand extended tour because the true source of happiness was wanting. Margaret heard from her several times, and her letters were dated from Venice, and Rome, and Naples, and were full of descriptions of the places she had seen; for Eleanor was a brilliant letter-writer.

But Margaret did not envy her. "Not but what I should like it extremely, if we could go," said she to her husband, as they took their last saunter through the fields; "but, as we cannot, I do not care about it; and this has been more charming than anything. I shall never forget my little wedding-trip and Hawthorn Farm."

"You shall go abroad, Margaret, some day, if we both live long enough. All our pleasures are to come."

"No, no! What can be sweeter than this? I want nothing better. It is a wonderful pleasure to be in the real country, just as all nature is waking up from its winter's sleep! Oh, Arthur! I must get those violets. Are they not fragrant?"

"Aunt Carson asked me if you would like to extend your visit. I must go home to-night; but you might stay on a day or two--if you liked!"

"Did you think I should like, sir?"

"No, I did not! I knew you would not like me to go home alone; no, not for all the primroses, and milkings, and goosey-ganders in the world! But it was only right that I should give you the option of pleasing yourself."

"I shall please myself very much by going home presently; only to think I have a home of my very own!"

"A very humble one, Margaret. I sometimes wonder whether I have done right in making you my wife, when I--that is, we--have only just enough to live on, and pay the small insurance we talked about. I don't insult you by telling you you might have done better, because you love me, and you could not do better than marry the man you love, and who loves you more than he can tell. But if we had waited--I wonder if we ought to have waited!--have I been selfish, my darling?--have I been wrong?"

"Selfish! Wrong! No, indeed! A thousand times no!" And she flushed up till she looked not merely pretty in her bridegroom's admiring eyes, but a real little beauty.

"Are you not paying me the highest compliment, doing me the greatest honour, by taking me to help you from the very first? How much better than taking me in years to come, when you are well into your life! I should not understand it or you half so well if I came to you then. No people can be so close, so much to each other, as those who really begin life together, who bear things together and struggle together, and defy the world together, and toil and moil, if it must be, together--ay, and do everything together, so that their lives inside and outside are truly one. And I will help you, dear; I feel that I can; I have courage and I have patience, and, above all things, I have faith--faith in God and in my husband."

"I am so afraid that, after all, you may miss the luxuries to which you have been accustomed."

"Were they luxuries? Large rooms, in which I lived on sufferance; splendid furniture and ornaments that were not mine, and that gave me a great deal of trouble; the back seat in the carriage when no one else wanted it; the best of eating and drinking, and a place at the family board when there was no company! I think the luxuries are all to come, for the wee rooms and the scanty plenishing will be mine and yours, and I never enjoyed a drive in the park as I enjoyed jolting through those lanes this morning in a vehicle that would have made Mrs. Leigh and Mrs. Westbury swoon upon the spot. I shall be a little stiff, perhaps, but then I have heard the lark sing, and I understand Wordsworth and Shelley ever so much better, and I know a wood anemone when I see one, and the air was so still, and sweet, and pure. And as for our dinners and suppers, you shall see how I can contrive. Anne Aldred gave me the most charming little cookery book, telling one how to do things cheaply and yet nicely, and how to make the best of scraps, and how to do up cold meats and make tasty little puddings. How I wish eggs and milk were not so dear in London."

"When we are rich we will have a house down here, or somewhere about, and supply our own eggs, and milk, and butter, and you shall make cakes and puddings regardless of expense."

"When we are rich it will not so much matter what things cost. I wonder if we ever shall be rich?"

"Yes; or, at least, comparatively rich. I don't care about being a millionaire, my dear. 'Much coin, much care,' you know."

"And 'little coin, much care,' also. Dear! we must pray that prayer of Agar: 'Give me neither poverty nor riches; feed me with food convenient for me.'"

"And we must not make haste to get rich, lest we fall into temptation and a snare. Shall I tell you, Margaret, what I should like to attain to--what I mean to attain to, God helping me and blessing me in my work?"

"Tell me: it would be good to know."

"I should like a really comfortable income, so that I might have the sort of home which is my ideal. I should like to see you well dressed, and going out in your own carriage. I should like to be able to invite my friends, and to travel without being obliged to calculate expenses too nicely. I should like a good library--heaps of handsome books in handsome book-cases; a downright good piano, of course, for our daughters must play and sing, and everything else that is good, and pleasant, and refined, and beautiful."

"It will take a great deal of money to do all that. I shall be content with less."

"So shall I--content. But I shall aim at something more. Margaret, my pearl, we have youth, and health, and strength, and brains--that is our fortune, our stock-in-trade, and we love each other, and we trust in God. Now, my dear, unless we would forfeit our return tickets, and break my engagement for to-morrow morning, we must turn back."

Another hour, and they were on the way to London Bridge, with a large hamper of country fare, Mrs. Carson's wedding present, and a pressing invitation to come again whenever they could spare the time. The young wife had quite won auntie's heart. She had been rather doubtful at first as to the prudence of Arthur's choice, for she had heard that she was a lady living half as a relation, half as a nursery-governess in a wealthy West-end family, and she had been more than doubtful about the early marriage. But now that she had seen Margaret, and understood her character, she changed her mind, and she said to her nephew, while they were waiting for the pony-carriage, which was put once more into requisition to convey their luggage to the station, and while Margaret was gathering a nosegay of spring-flowers in the large, old-fashioned garden--"You were quite right, Arthur; I take back every word I said against your marriage now that I have seen your wife. She is as you told me, quite the lady; what a sweet, low voice she has! And she is prettier than I expected. But she has more than grace and beauty; she has sense, and tact, and goodness, and religion, and she has just the right sort of cleverness--she will find out the way to do everything; she picks up a bit here, and a bit there--why! she was taking lessons from Betty this morning before she went out. She is a woman of faculty, is your charming little bride; and a woman of faculty, if only she is not a scold and a worry, as I am sure Margaret is not, is the very best sort of wife a young man can have. She will help you to get on, unless I am very much mistaken; and when you have got on, she will grace any position you may wish her to fill. I don't think, Arthur, that you will have to complain, as some men have, of your wife's mind standing still or narrowing, while yours is growing and enlarging. When the time comes that you talk about, when you have an assured position and a liberal establishment, you will not be ashamed of a dull little dowdy of a wife, with half an idea, and not half-a-dozen words to express her half idea with!"

"No, indeed! Margaret can talk well. She has great powers of conversation; she can be witty or sensible, or playful or serious; and, best of all, she knows when to hold her tongue, and she will always sympathise with me; I shall never come home to a cross-patch wife and a dull fireside."

"I don't think you will; that sunshiny face is your guarantee. But, Arthur, remember that your Margaret is but mortal, and do not try her too hardly, do not force her beyond her strength."

"Try her hardly! Force her! Oh, aunt, I could never do that. I love my little wifie far too well to vex her willingly."

"You think so now, nephew; but you have been married exactly two days and a quarter! Nay, you need not colour up so furiously; I am not afraid that you will ever beat Margaret, or make a slave of her, or take your pleasure while she is toiling at home. But, Arthur, my boy, I have seen a good deal of married life, and I know that the bearing and forbearing which is so continually enjoined is too much left to the wife's share. Husbands are very trying sometimes. Dear me! the best of them are a trouble now and then. I don't know how it is, but I do think that men always contrive to torture the women they love--just a little. And then, without meaning it, they seem to grow indifferent, and a woman, be she ever so little exacting, begins to feel neglected, and she suffers all the more that she is not one to scold and make complaints. There are two sides to every question, Arthur, and women have a good deal to bear, and they need much tenderness. Love your wife, and show her that you love her, and don't leave her to make all the allowances and bear all the little crosses and play patience by herself. There! I am giving you a regular sermon; you will not be for coming to Hawthorn Farm again. Here she comes--your bonnie little wife. What a light springing step she has, and what a sunny face!"

"It is the face of one whose heart is at peace with God, aunt. The secret of Margaret's sweetness and goodness lies very deep down. She is a real Christian girl, not a mere make-believe, and she lives Christ's precepts more than she talks about them, though she is always ready to speak out for the faith she holds so dear whenever there is occasion."

At parting, Mrs. Carson put half-a-crown into Margaret's hand, saying, "You will have to take a cab because of the hamper, so it is only just that I should pay for it. Don't say a word, niece Margaret! When you know me better you will understand that I especially dislike giving people gingerbread with the gilt off. In plain English, when I make young housekeepers a present--as I often do--I desire that they shall not be put to any extra expense because of it. People do better without white elephants than with them, you know."

It was quite dark when they reached Kennington; but Mrs. Warner, their landlady, had a cheerful fire ready for them, and their little sitting-room looked cosy and comfortable. It was quite a small room, and very plainly furnished; but Margaret felt as proud as a queen when she and her husband were shut into it by themselves; he sitting in the easy chair he had bought second-hand and so cheap at the broker's in Newington Causeway, and she, in the pretty little gay-cushioned rocker which had been Theodora's present. And she felt like a queen too; for this was her queendom, and there was her king, whom she could honour, and reverence, and look up to, as well as love. It must be a sad case when a woman can only love --when reverence, and honour, and wifely pride are but empty names. Margaret had once said proudly, "The man I marry must be my lord and master, or else I shall make him my slave! I must sit at his feet, not he at mine. I could not obey an inferior nature, and I could not long love such a one!"

What a happy evening that was, and how they did enjoy the unpacking of the hamper. There was butter--such sweet, firm, golden butter--enough for a fortnight; ever so many eggs new laid; a bottle of the rich cream they had enjoyed so much at the farm; two fine fowls, one of them ready cooked, for Mrs. Carson said, "You will want your suppers when you get home, and your first meal in your new house shall be of my providing, and Margaret shall keep her bride's state till to-morrow." And there was a nice piece of ham that only wanted one of Mrs. Westbury's dishes to be ready for the table, and half a little cheese, and a cake of that morning's baking, and several pots of preserves, and a jar of honey, and ever so many more nice things, that would all help in Margaret's housekeeping--"a little marriage-portion--quite promiscuous!" as Arthur said when Margaret, with the prettiest little matronly air imaginable, began to arrange her store. It was a wonderful hamper, they thought they should never get to the bottom of it.

"And you do not think the rooms uncomfortably small?" said Arthur, when they had finished their supper and were taking a general survey of the apartments. There was the sitting-room and the bedroom over it, and a large light closet communicating with the bedroom, and of course let with it as a dressing-room, which Arthur had converted into a study, and where he had already put up some plain shelves, on which his books were arranged--not a large collection, indeed, and some old and worn and positively shabby, for they had been nearly all picked up at book-stalls--but they were the nucleus of that splendid library which Arthur intended some day to call his own. Next to his wife he certainly adored his books.

Margaret declared that the rooms were just the right size, quite large enough for the furniture they had bought, which was paid for to the uttermost farthing. "For" said they both, "we will not begin life with even the smallest debt, that would be the climax of imprudence." And they had a few pounds--only a very few though, I am afraid to say how few--in hand, which they did not mean to touch unless in case of emergency. "But if we really need it we will spend it without scruple," said Arthur, when he and Margaret made up their first accounts before they went to rest. "To hoard money that ought to be spent is just as much a mistake as being careless and extravagant. And, Margaret, we will never have any concealments from each other, we will tell each other everything; I will keep nothing from you."

"No, never keep a trouble or a difficulty to yourself, not even to save me pain. Whatever it is let me share it with you."

"And you will do the same by me?"

"Yes, with real troubles. I do not say I shall tell you all my woman's vexations--all the petty worries that come to an inexperienced housekeeper. 'Never tease a man by grumbling about what he does not understand and cannot remedy,' I read the other day. So I don't mean to treat you to a jeremiad, because the chimney has smoked, or because I am tired, or because the pie was burnt in the oven; and when we have a servant I shall never entertain you of an evening with a narrative of her offences, that is a mistake some wives do make, I know; and I can see that it is a very great mistake. But anything that really affects either of us, be it good or evil, I shall be sure to tell you; I dread the thought of a secret between us."

Afterwards they read and prayed together, and they both felt it was a true consecration service, that their homely little home was sweetly hallowed by it. They committed themselves and all their future course to the God and Father whom they loved and served, beseeching Him for Christ's sake to guide them in the way they should go, and so to bless and keep them, that when they had passed through things temporal they might enter on the joy eternal.

Mrs. Leigh kept her word; she quietly "dropped" Margaret, and she spoke of Kennington as if it were miles away in the wilderness. The journey there--"all across London"--would knock-up the horses, and she was quite sure her coachman would never find his way. If people will live in such obscure and out-of-the-world places, they must expect to be dropped by the elite of society!

Margaret, however, bore her kinswoman's desertion with exemplary fortitude; she had never expected a visit from her, and so she was not in the least disappointed; indeed, I am not sure but that the sudden apparition of Mrs. Leigh in South Terrace would have been an unwelcome surprise.

Theodora came a few days before her own marriage, partly, as she said, to pay the wedding-visit, and partly to say "good-bye" to her friend, prior to her departure for an indefinite period. For the Wingfields, having both time and money at command, had resolved upon an extended bridal tour. They were both so much in love that they fancied they could never weary of each others' sole society, and they had a dream of wandering about England and the Continent at their own sweet will, avoiding as much as possible the common resorts of their countrymen, and keeping clear, to the best of their ability, of tourists' tracks.

Theodora was radiantly happy, and she was delighted to find Margaret happy also; but, as she looked round the small room, so plainly and scantily furnished, she privately wondered whether she could be content under similar circumstances. She decided that she could be happy anywhere and anyhow with Bernard; but, at the same time, she felt right glad that her own surroundings were more ample, arid that a very liberal allowance of this world's wealth would fall to her share as Mrs. Wingfield.

"For I am afraid," she said to Margaret, "that I should not make a satisfactory poor man's wife."

"Fortunately, I was born and bred for the express purpose of being a poor man's wife," replied Margaret, brightly; "and I am fulfilling my destiny most happily."

"I knew you would be happy--you are such a good little thing," returned Theodora. "But are you not dull, spending so many hours alone?"

"No! I find plenty to do, and then I have the evening to look forward to, and Arthur reads to me. I am almost sorry the evenings are so light. It was so nice to sit by the fire and sew, and get a good way on with a really nice book. I find I must read, or get mental exercise of some sort, or I shall fall too far behind my husband. Men want a companion when they marry; they want some one to talk to, to share their pursuits, to look forward with them, to enter into their schemes. A mere doll or a mere drudge is not sufficient."

"I agree with every word you say. You, like myself, have chosen to unite your fate with that of a literary man; and for either of us to become a mere woman of fashion, or a mere bustling housewife, would be foolish in the extreme. I mean to share all my husband's labours--to work with him. It is just the life I always longed for."

"I too hope to work with my husband, though I cannot help him in his literary labours. I am not sure either that people would give him the rank of a literary man--Mrs. Westbury called him 'a poor newspaper hack.'"

"Ah, Mrs. Westbury! I am afraid I wickedly dislike that woman. She toadies Bernard because he is a leader in the set she vainly tries to enter. Besides, it is the fashion now to be on intimate terms with eminent literary men; and my Bernard has made a name for himself, and is appreciated in high places. If he were a struggling, though rising author, she would think twice before she accorded him the slightest notice. She had the impertinence to tell me that I expected too much from Bernard, and that in several years' time he would care more for his literary work than for me!"

"It was impertinence, though there was a glimmering of sound sense in what she said. You know, Theodora, I have the advantage of you; I have been a wife nearly seven weeks, and of course, I feel quite matronly, and well qualified to advise young maidens, especially brides-elect."

"Advise away, Gretchen, dear! nothing will please me better than to hear your matronly experiences. You have not had your first quarrel yet, I suppose?"

"No; but, Theo,"--and Margaret looked grave--"we might have had it; we came very near to it, I fancy. If I had not remembered in time what Anne Aldred said to me, and Aunt Carson likewise, I think we should have come to issues."

"Tell me about it, if I may know."

"It came about so simply, so naturally; and I must first remark that Arthur was very little, if at all to blame; it was quite my fault. You asked me if I were not dull during the day while my husband is in the City, and I said no. Well, I am not dull now; but I must confess that for the first fortnight or three weeks I found time hanging very heavily on my hands; and I found myself actually counting the hours, till I could reasonably expect Arthur."

"I am sure I shall always do that when Bernard is away--it is only wife-like."

"It is bride-like, but I am not sure that it is wife-like, and I can tell you that you will find it not only a very unprofitable but a very unsatisfactory way of getting over the hours of solitude. Time lags when we watch it; it goes only too quickly when we are brisk and busy. But, being so silly, I really did feel dull, for the hours passed so slowly I thought the evening would never come; and I got restless and wished for all sorts of impossible things, and so I brought myself into a slightly fractious frame of mind."

"And did Arthur think you were cross? I think all men have a great dread of a woman's temper."

"You shall hear how it was. I had spent a long day--alone, of course, as usual--but I was anticipating an unwontedly pleasant evening; for we had planned that morning (Arthur and I) to take the omnibus from the 'Gate,' and go up to Clapham Common, and enjoy a walk among the furze bushes. I wanted to see if that grand old aspen-tree was in full leaf; and you know the Common is famous for its splendid horse-chestnuts, which were just then coming into bloom. I had set my heart on going; so I got tea all ready. Arthur was to come home early, and I put on one of my prettiest dresses, and laid my bonnet and mantle on the bed, that no time should be lost, and then I sat down there, just by the window, where I can see the corner he has to turn, and watched for him."

"Just what I should have done myself; what I have done many a time already."

"But I watched till I was tired--till I began to grow sick and frightened lest something terrible had happened. The tea-things stood on the table, the kettle left off boiling, the fire went nearly out. The sunshine began to fade, the shadows of evening fell, and it was too late to think any longer of going to Clapham. By the time we got out of the omnibus it would be nearly dark, even if we started at once. But there was no question of starting, for Arthur had not arrived, and I grew sick with apprehension. Hitherto he had always been punctual to his time, and this evening, when he had promised to be earlier than usual, he had. failed me. I grew more and more uneasy. I pictured to myself a hundred different accidents or disasters; and I had just resolved to throw on my shawl and hat, and go round to the corner there, where I could see both the end of the Kennington Road and the Clapham Road, when I saw in the dusk--for the stars were coming out, and the lamps were lighted--a figure I felt sure was my husband's."

"Poor Margaret! What a relief! And the fire was out, and the kettle off the boil, and my lord was angry?"

"It was not exactly that way. I ran out to open the door, and he came in just as usual, and did not even seem to notice that I was distressed. 'Oh, my love,' said I to him, 'where have you been? I have been so anxious.' And he replied, quite coolly--not unkindly, mind, but without being in the least disconcerted--'I have not been anywhere in particular, my dear; I am later because I was so very busy. We have been all sixes and sevens at the office to-day: there was an accident at the printer's, and type had to be re-set, and some of my notes had to be re-written--for there are changes in the Ministry. I cannot make you understand it, Peggy ; but we got behind-hand, and of course, I was detained; and I had no notion till I saw how dark it was that it was nearly so late.' He did not say one word about being sorry for my disappointment, and so I did not, for I felt just a little vexed. Of course, he could not help being kept at business; I was not so foolish as to be cross about that. But I thought he might have expressed his concern that I had been kept waiting fruitlessly so long. I felt as if I had a right to be petted after my unavoidable chagrin. Arthur looked rather blank at the dark room and the smouldering fire. 'Oh, dear,' he said, I fancied impatiently, 'I hoped tea would be ready; I have a great deal to do to-night.' 'It was ready for an hour and a half,' I said, stiffly; 'one cannot keep a kettle boiling the whole evening.' When I had lighted the gas, I saw Arthur looked at me as if he were surprised. I took no notice, but hurried downstairs, where, happily, I found a good fire and boiling water, so that my tea was ready ere long. Arthur looked very tired, and he leaned back in his chair, not speaking, and evidently lost in thought. I had never, either before or since my marriage, seen him so abstracted."

"He was over-tired. You ought to have coaxed him, and been very kind to him. He wanted brightening up a little; men do want cheering very often, I know; I know poor papa often does, and Bernard does, when he has overwritten or overthought himself. What did you do, Gretchen?"

"I felt myself too much aggrieved to do anything save give him his tea in silence. And then, to my intense disgust, he took out of his pocket a roll of those horrid things called proofs."

"I know; but I think them anything but horrid. I always read Bernard's, and I always shall! I feel it to be both my right and my privilege to read what he writes before anybody else has the chance of doing so. Though, I dare say, newspaper proofs are not particularly interesting. Still, proofs are so entirely a part and parcel of literary life that I would not call them 'horrid.'"

"They were horrid to me that night, because it was the first time Arthur had brought them out at the table. He read them with knitted brow--very carefully I could perceive; and he let his tea get cold, while he gave his whole attention to them. And still, not one word deploring my disappointment. At last I said--'I may as well go and put away my bonnet; I shall not want it now.' Then he looked up and stared--'Your bonnet, my dear? No, certainly not to-night; it is too late to go out even if I were not so busy.'"

"'You seem to forget,' said I, 'that we had arranged to go to Clapham Common this evening; I have been waiting for you ever since half-past five!' And he replied, 'I forgot all about it, Peggy, and that was the truth! I thought of it as I went to the City, and I said to myself, "What a nice pleasant evening we shall have!" Then business worries came, and then I had an interview of some importance with Mr. Dixon, retiring sub-editor of one of the dailies, and it was all driven out of my head, this pleasant little scheme of ours. Never mind, my dear, the summer is only just beginning, and Clapham Common will not shift its latitude and longitude, I dare say! Another evening will do just as well.' And once more he was buried in the correction of his slips."

"Why did you not offer to help him?"

"I am afraid I could not; I do not know the printers' signs. And, to tell the truth, I never thought of offering my services; I was too much occupied with the contemplation of my own wrongs and grievances; I felt myself slighted, neglected. Here had I been all day, thinking of him, and anticipating the evening chiefly because he would share my pleasure, and he had put me quite out of his mind, and even now seemed little disposed to enter into conversation. And I said to myself, 'This is the common fate of wives, I suppose. Ah, lovers and husbands are different things.'"

"You were in a very unhealthy frame of mind, let me tell you, my dear."

"I know it, or I should not be making this confession to you now. Theo, I hope you understand I am making a flaming beacon of myself for your especial benefit. Well, I had plenty of time to grumble, or to sulk, or to bewail my cruel fate as a slighted, neglected wife, whose honeymoon had scarcely waned; for while I was washing up the tea-things Arthur lighted up a candle, and said--'I will go to my little study, Peggy; I shall get on better alone, and I have several hours' work to do. I shall not want anything more before I go to bed; and do not sit up for me, my dear; I have no idea when I shall finish, and you look tired.'

"I cannot tell you how I felt, Theodora; before I could think what answer to make--I am afraid some kind of reproach was on my lips--he was gone, and I was left alone with my own thoughts, which were not at all of an enlivening nature. At first I indulged in a good cry, and I half hoped he would come down for something, and find me in tears, and anxiously inquire what was the matter. Happily he did not; or I might have vexed him. All at once I asked myself, 'What am I crying for?' And then it flashed upon me how foolishly I was behaving. I had married a poor man, whose wealth was in his brains and his hands, and who, if he were to succeed, as we had agreed he should succeed, must necessarily be poor in leisure as in coin. And I had been doing my best to throw a stumbling-block in his path. And once I began to take myself to task, my right mind returned to me, and I remembered what Anne Aldred had said to me about the difference between men and women. Women are so engrossed with their love that they put it before everything else, while men get so absorbed in their affairs that they come very speedily to give only their leisure moments to what we are too apt to make the chief business of our lives."

"And our love ought to be the chief business of our lives! I know what Anne Aldred says; but, after all, she is an old. maid, you know, and I have no idea of growing cold and prosaic, and forswearing all romance, as soon as my honeymoon is ended."

"Nor need you! Anne did not mean that. Old maid as she is, she knows a great deal about the ups and downs of married life. Of course, our love, on which our marriage was founded, and in which it exists year after year, is the chief thing. But love shows itself in many ways--not always in caresses, and lover-like attentions, and endearing epithets; you see the men have so much to think about, and it is such a busy, pushing world, that they literally have not time to indulge in any excess of sentiment. But, after all, I am not sure but that their love is not, as a whole, larger and stronger than ours; they love more strongly than we love, but less absorbingly. I hope there will always be a little sentiment in our love, and a great deal of tenderness. And I hope, of all things, I shall not turn out to be an exacting wife. I will not, God helping me! An exigeante woman must wear out a man's patience, however true and kind he may be. So, to end this story, I felt not only ashamed, but truly sorry that I behaved so badly. It was not, perhaps, altogether unnatural, for it takes some time, I can see, to get into the right ways of married life--into its real oneness, I mean. And I suppose it is not unnatural for children to put themselves into passions, and cry and storm for what they want; but they must be checked, both for their sakes and for the sake of others. And we children of a larger growth must check ourselves, if we would not come to most unhappy issues."

"I suppose women are exacting," said Theo, musingly; "but when one gives all, one naturally expects all in return. And oh! Gretchen, we women give so much; we pour out our whole hearts; we make idols, and too many of us find them clay."

"I fancy we all create ideals, and to some extent love ideals, and very probably the men do the same. But then I have heard say that the realities are often better than the idealities. I find now that Arthur is not quite what I pictured him when he was only my lover."

"And are you disappointed?"

"Not at all, but the reverse; for he is much better and grander in many ways than I had fancied him. Theo, understand this; I am quite satisfied, more than satisfied! I would not for worlds change one iota of my lot. I am as much blessed as a woman can be. May God preserve to me the rich treasures He has given me."

"Some good people would preach to you about the sin of making idols, of setting the creature above the Creator."

"I hope I am not making an idol. I love my husband more than I thought it possible to love anybody: so very much more than I loved him before we were married; but I am sure that love which He Himself has hallowed does not come between God and my soul. Like the blind girl of Castel Cuillé, the more I pray the more I love! And the more I love my darling, the more I pray that God will be with us, blessing us, and guiding us, and leading us in His own ways, so that our life together--the sweet life which He has made one--may be to His glory. Oh, Theo! next to the gift of eternal life is there aught so precious as this rich, sacred treasure of wedded love? Oh! how horrible, how profane, how displeasing to the Lord must be a marriage without love."

"Margaret! I only half understand you. You mix up religion and love together; now I keep them apart. I worship God, and I love my Bernard, but the two emotions I never mingle."

"And--which prevails, Theodora?"

"My love for Bernard! I will tell no lies. He is more to me than--no, Gretchen! my dear, I will not shock you, because I know what a sweet little Puritan you are! But Bernard is my God!"

"Then, Theo, my darling, you will suffer."

"I care not, if only I may keep him. Oh, Margaret, you are a loving, tender woman, I know you are; but you can't fathom the great depths of my inmost heart; you do not know what love is to me! Oh, my Bernard, my own Bernard, if I should not make you happy!"

"Theo, dear, I am afraid for you."

"And I am afraid for myself, when my darling's arm is not round me, and when I do not see his face. God help me if I lose Bernard, or if aught come between him and me."

"God will help you, dear."

"But you don't think it will come."

"I hope not! Only whatever betide, weal or woe, may God be with you."

"Amen."

In after days, Theodora remembered that prayer and its solemn "Amen." She remembered it when her heart was broken.

Before the lilacs and laburnums of May had faded Theodora Leigh was married. And now the three young wives were all fully launched on the uncertain sea of matrimony. How would they steer the little barques in which as yet they sailed so merrily? It is one thing to put forth on a sunshiny morning when all the winds are asleep, and only the lightest and balmiest of zephyrs fill the snow-white sails, and the waves are so still that they only murmur lullabies on the happy shore. And it is another thing to come into port, the journey done, the wild waves breasted, the angry storms outlived, the shoals, the quicksands, and the terrible vortex all safely left behind! Life, either married or single, is never all plain sailing; some live in comparative calms, certainly, but no one knows what it is to reach the haven without meeting adverse currents or encountering stormy gales.

How differently these three girls contemplated their future you have seen--Margaret, hopeful and trustful, was sanguine, but not unduly confident; she believed that courage and patience and perseverance would achieve wonders that pass for miracles with indolent, dreamy, inert, undecided natures; and she was right! But she did not expect that the day would be always fair and the skies smiling, and she looked for discouragements, and failures, and temporary defeats. And she and Arthur were of one mind in this respect; perhaps, because they had already known some of life's buffets and crosses, for they had both borne the yoke in their youth, which the Scripture tells us is a salutary and desirable experience.

Theodora--a hundred times more enthusiastic than Margaret--was living in a world of loveliest enchantment. The paradise of love--pure, wedded love--was all her own, and she never dreamed that storms could visit it, or serpents glide beneath the flowers. She was utterly absorbed in her own exceeding happiness: the fervent, devoted affection for which she had so long pined was hers--at last she was loved best! All the sweetness of human love, all the noble joys of intellect, all the refined pleasures of affluence were her very own; and that bitterness could ever mingle with the sweetness, grief cloud the joy, or pain triumph over the pleasure, was not in her thoughts. And yet Theodora had lived in the world for nearly twenty-eight years, and she knew that disappointment is the lot of mortals; she had seen others suffer, she had read of those whose flowers wither ere the dews have dried, leaving only thorns and briers in their path--and yet she fondly anticipated for herself a long day of unclouded sunshine, and radiant, fadeless blossoms, and never silent singing-birds, and bowers of unsullied bliss! Some people, many people, I should say, "fall in love" others quietly walk into it, and abide in it always; while just a few, of whom Theodora was an instance, almost lose their own identity, and live and move and have their entire being in the object of their supreme affection. Theodora Wingfield, when she left her maiden home, felt more like a goddess than a woman, and she would not have changed her lot with that of one of Heaven's white-robed palm-bearing saints. Not one speck of gloom, not one shadow of far-off mists, not one presentiment of future pain, not one doubt or fear dimmed the glory and beauty of the early summer day on which Bernard and his Theodora went forth as husband and wife to tread life's mazy paths together.

And Eleanor? she had all that she had promised to herself, all possible gain that could accrue from her wealthy marriage was hers. She was mistress of a splendid mansion, of servants and equipages; she was surrounded by luxuries of which she had never even dreamed, she was only just beginning to understand what wealth can purchase. No fear now of milliners' bills; no eking out of insufficient resources, no ever-present dread of quarter-day! The purple and fine linen of fashionable life were secured to her; she had jewels that a princess might have proudly worn, and last, and I am afraid, least of all to her, she had a kind, generous, confiding, though unromantic husband.

And yet already there were crumpled rose-leaves on Eleanor's silken couch, and already she began to be weary of her splendid lot. She had been Richard Esdaile's wife now for quite five months, and she had grown accustomed to silken pomps and luxurious surroundings; it seemed ever so long ago, ever so far removed, that weary, vexatious time when she had had to scheme for a new dress, and when she longed for costly jewels as earnestly and quite as hopelessly as a hungry little crossing-sweeper longs for Bath-buns and plum cakes.

And what were the crumpled rose-leaves?

In the first place, there was Mrs. Esdaile, senior, against whom Eleanor had conceived a most unreasonable prejudice. The elder lady never interfered with the younger and she had welcomed her in all kindness and affection though Eleanor was not precisely the person she would have chosen for her daughter-in-law. But then Richard was old enough to choose for himself, and Mrs. Esdaile was not one of those stupid mothers who think that in virtue of the fact of their maternity they must always know what is best for their children, however mature their age. At forty-three, a man may certainly be left to select his wife. And Mrs. Esdaile felt that she had no more right to come between her son and his choice than she had to meddle with the affairs of any of her acquaintances.

She admired Eleanor's beauty and stately grace, but the shrewd old lady at once perceived that something was lacking--an undefinable something which could not be expressed. And a mother's eyes, when the interest of her children is concerned, are proverbially keen.

Eleanor behaved with all due courtesy to her husband's mother, "for," as she said to Fanny, "it is exceedingly bad taste not to be on terms with one's near relations--and my relation she certainly is! But the old lady is a bore! she has such queer old-fashioned notions; she is what is called orthodox in religion; she is stiff as to propriety, and she would make every married couple a mere Darby and Joan."

"I should hate an old woman prying into my concerns," replied Fanny; "thank goodness I shall not be troubled with any venerable Dame Peacock. That is one advantage if you marry a man of seventy, you will scarcely be troubled with an old she-dragon of a mother-in-law. I suppose the Colonel had a mother once upon a time, but he has never spoken of her; and as for his sisters, they are all gone where the good spinsters go! So I have only my Colonel to deal with."

"And quite enough too. Your Colonel will be more than you can manage! Fanny, are you sure you are doing what is best for yourself? Of course you are right to marry, but are you not sacrificing too much? You are going to be that old man's slave, and he has such a temper!

"I must confess I am rather afraid of his temper, but I shall keep out of his way as much as I can. One need not see much of one's husband, I suppose, if one does not like! I wish he would make a will and leave all his money to me, and then die out of the way. I should be sure to have plenty of offers then, and I could choose exactly what I liked. I should be very particular, I assure you."

"Oh, Fanny, that is horrid! It sounds heartless--wicked!"

"Dear me!" replied Fanny, with a sneer--she had deteriorated terribly since Eleanor's marriage--"how very good we are becoming! We shall be going in for practical piety next. Why, you know you care no more for Richard Esdaile than I care for the old mummy I have consented to espouse. You cheated your husband when you married him as much as I am cheating my Nabob. What does it matter whether a man be forty, or seventy, or a hundred, if you marry him for his money? It is all one."

"I suppose so. But, Fanny, I do care for Richard. He is so very kind and generous, and as for love--the real love that books tell about, and that some sentimental people glory in--he has enough for both of us. I like him, and I respect him, and I mean to be a good wife to him."

"I wonder what you call being a good wife."

"Keeping up such an establishment as is due to his wealth and position, taking care that the servants do their duty, treating him kindly, keeping my own temper. Oh, dear, I never was good at definitions; but I am sure I am a very good wife. Our dinners are always successes; I have a splendid visiting list--I'll let you see it; and since we came home we have never 'had a word,' as people say. But there is a great difference, though, between a handsome, good-tempered man like Richard--young for his age, and really fond of his wife--and your piece of yellow parchment pickled in Chili vinegar."

"Don't be spiteful, Eleanor. I know he is a horrible old fright; but it is not kind in you to remind me of it. There has Flo been going on like a Methodist preacher, and Jenny and Kitty, the chits, have been as pert as you please!

"And papa--what does he say?"

"Nothing that comes to anything. Of course, he is glad to have me so well married--two off his hands must be a great relief. How Flo and he will get along together I cannot conceive, for she has not an idea that can be of any use to her in housekeeping, and she always cries if she is snapped at, and really papa is getting as contrary as a crab. I never was what people call domesticated--whatever that may mean--but Flo is far worse. She doesn't know whether things ought to be boiled or roasted; I asked her to order dinner the other day, for the Colonel and I were going to the Academy, and he was to come back and dine with us, and she knew no more than a baby what the bill-of-fare should be; but I know she suggested game! So little Kitty took it in hand, and we really had a splendid dinner, regardless of expense! That woman can cook if she likes to take pains; but then, I am quite sure she cheats. We never can consume all the eggs and butter she charges for. Do you think she is in league with the tradespeople? Jenny says she knows she is!

"Very probably! half of them are! They get a percentage on the payments; it's quite a regular thing. However, I check my tradesmen's accounts every Monday morning, by Richard's desire; it is rather a bother, but not so disagreeable when you come to give your mind to it. Now, the other day my greengrocer put down a lot of things that I was sure were greatly in excess of what was actually sent in; and I at once attended to it. I brought the man and his bill and the cook together, and I found out I was right--he had charged a great deal too much. If I had left the account for several weeks, I should not have been able to ascertain how far I was being imposed upon; I might have suspected fraud, but I should not have succeeded in exposing it."

"And do you really go over those stupid tradespeople's books every Monday morning?"

"I do, really! It is one of the things Richard insists upon; he is generous, but very particular. He would let me spend anything in reason, and I may give away whatever I think proper; but he would be furious if he thought he was being 'done' in any fashion. He paid all the bills directly we came home, and he brought the little red and black books to me, and explained all about them, and told me how I was to keep them and balance them, and how once a quarter we were to go over them together. And when I quite understood, he said, 'Now, my dear, please understand that I wish you to spend liberally, both in the house and as regards your personal expenses. Only, never run into debt. Let everybody be paid promptly and punctually and never grudge the best price for the best article. But, at the same time, do not permit imposition, however slight. Neither the tradespeople nor your servants will attempt it, if they find you are at once kind, and just and vigilant.' So I have to look after things, I can tell you."

"What a nuisance! And, after all, your Richard must be extremely stingy. What can it matter to him if the tradespeople do overcharge him by a few pounds, or if the servants do manage a few perquisites? A hundred or two a year--more or less--can be nothing to him. I dare say he would not miss £300 a year so much as I miss sixpence, and he would not think it worth saving."

"In one way he would not. Of course a trifle like £300 per annum is nothing to us. And Richard would not object to its being properly expended, but if he thought it were wasted, muddled away, or stolen, by hook or crook, he would be extremely angry, and never rest till it was properly accounted for. And he has strange views about servants."

"What are they?"

"He says the servants of wealthy people are generally allowed to squander at pleasure, and to filch at discretion, and he thinks they who permit it are the persons chiefly to be blamed. By allowing evil practices, he says, we tacitly connive at them, and we have no more right to demoralise our servants in this way than by setting them a vicious example; we are doing them as much harm as if we encouraged them in open, shameful sin, for we are lowering their tone, and spoiling their consciences, because we will not take the trouble to look into our own affairs, or because we are afraid of being taxed with meanness. He told me at first there was to be no stint in any department; he gave me a statement of the wages he was paying, at the same time remarking that he wished to increase the stipend of two of the servants, who had been with him five years, and who had proved themselves faithful and entirely trustworthy, but he left me to speak about it. He thought it would be a graceful inauguration of my reign, he said."

"That was very considerate."

"Yes, in that sort of thing Richard is wonderfully considerate, but he is not quite aux petits soins, you understand!"

"You pay good wages, of course?"

"Very good wages, and everything is found, as the servants say, and found liberally; but there are none of the customary 'privileges' or perquisites, and nothing is allowed to be given away, except by my direct permission."

"What are servants' perquisites or privileges nowadays? Ours have few enough, I should think."

"Your cook sells the dripping, which means selling a good many other things besides."

"What is dripping? I have heard of it before; I heard Mrs. Devereux-Marshall tell Mrs. Delany that her cook classed all grease as dripping--from fresh butter at two shillings a pound to tallow-dips! And I did so wonder what she meant, and I quite intended to ask her. Now, you can tell me--what is dripping?"

"Why, don't you know? I think I always knew that! Dripping is the fat that comes out of meat as it roasts. I suppose it is called dripping because it drips."

"Well, I always said you were the clever woman of the family, Eleanor. I should have gone into the kitchen a million of times, and never found out what dripping was. Is it good to eat?"

"No, I don't think it is, but it can be used in cooking. My cook prefers it to lard; if there is more than is wanted--which in a family, she says, never need happen--it can be given away to poor people with my consent. But if she were to sell one pound of it, she would have to go away."

"What for?"

"Because it is against rules. Richard says, to permit it is simply to give cooks a premium for dishonesty--in fact, it is stealing made easy; and for the servants' sake, rather than for his own, he will not allow it. He has got the idea from his cousin, Mrs. Wetherell; you know she is a great authority on all such questions. She is, like Richard, generous almost to lavishness; she gives first-class wages, and very handsome presents, too, if the servants conduct themselves really well; but she is very strict as to perquisites, and she will not be wronged of a halfpenny, though she would give away five pounds!"

"Well! I never could take so much trouble, though, I dare say, it would answer in the long run. There are always persons about our area-steps, and people in the kitchen, too; and I am sure a great deal goes wrong. Do you think we ought to eat twelve or fourteen pounds of butter every week?"

"No, Fanny; and you do not eat it. You pay for it, that is all."

"Does the cook eat it?"

"I should say not, unless she is of Esquimaux descent, and prefers it to train-oil. She simply disposes of it."

"It is too late to make a fuss now. But I had better send her away and get a new one. Only this one can cook, and the last three couldn't, and it made papa so wretchedly cross. They sent up roast poultry and game without made gravy; they gave us such soups! They spoiled the vegetables; they didn't know how to dish, and hadn't a notion of garnish. And I don't believe one of them could have made a soufflé, or a Charlotte Russe, or a lemon cheese-cake, or any sort of cream, and as for their entrées--I was afraid to order one! And papa is so particular, and he used to say it was all my fault. But, Eleanor, I came here to ask a favour--a very particular favour."

"What is it?"

"Can you let me have £30? I hate asking you, but papa won't give me another penny; he says he can't, and I'm afraid that it is true. Now I must have some ready money, and I must give a sop to Cerberus, or there will be a mess, and perhaps the marriage will go off."

'I have not £30 by me, and it would be of very little use to you if I had. Why, the fishmonger was owed £70 months ago. I would as soon throw money into the sea as into the vortex of my father's debts. But you must want money for yourself."

"I do--I do!" cried Fanny, piteously. "All your trousseau is not paid for, and I can't get decent clothes. I don't want much, but I can't go to the Colonel without a few dresses and things; he would twit me with it, if I did--I know he would. Oh, Eleanor, you might help me."

"I would if I could--oh, I know!--but I dare not do it. Richard gave me £40 to pay ready money for some things we want for our grand dinner-party next week. I could get credit; indeed, it is sure to be pressed upon me. But if I could not make it up, and if Richard found it out!"

"Oh, he need never know. You can manage it as we used to manage about our dresses. My last new bonnet went into the baker's bill!"

"Ah! but Richard is not easily deceived, and--"

But in the end Mrs. Esdaile gave Fanny the £40, though not without many misgivings and much compunction. And Fanny went away in high feather; "for now," said she, "I can have that veil and that French grenadine I fancied. I did not think Nelly would be so accommodating. How clever she is! I wonder if Flo knows what dripping is? Oh, dear, I meant to ask her what suet is, but I forgot. Never mind, that will keep; but I think suet is something they put in soup."

The dinner-party was postponed on account of a journey which Mr. Esdaile was obliged to take suddenly to his estates in Cumberland. And so Eleanor had time to reflect upon the best way of proceeding, as to the £40 which had been diverted from its legitimate uses. The more she thought about it, the more uneasy she felt, and the more she regretted the rash impulse which had led her to so imprudent an effusion of generosity. That it would be very difficult to deceive Richard she was perfectly sure; she would have to account for that £40 in the long run, and how was she to do it without telling positive blank untruths, which would be sure to be found out, and which would expose her to her husband's severest displeasure and his contempt likewise ?--for if there was one thing more than another which Mr. Esdaile would not and could not tolerate in his household, or in any one with whom he had relations of any sort, it was deceit and prevarication. He was certainly far from a suspicious man, and he placed implicit confidence in those whom he really trusted; but then he was very keen, very wide awake, and, doubt once roused, he would satisfy himself at any cost.

Eleanor would have been still more afraid had she known her husband better, had she known the history of his first unhappy marriage. She would have learned that he could be intolerant, severe, unmerciful even, under certain circumstances. He could not excuse, he could not bear--more, he could not forgive--deliberate deceit and falsehood. That he was "tremendously particular" she did know, but she really had no idea how infinitely he hated, abhorred, and despised the smallest treachery, either in act or word. He had suffered so deeply from the untruths of one woman--and of one man--once his own familiar friend, that he had grown to dread even the smallest tendency to disingenuousness. But though Eleanor was ignorant of this, she knew quite enough to make her restless and unhappy. How she wished Fanny had kept away, or at least said nothing about the money! "But then," she said to herself, "what is the use of marrying a rich man, if you cannot help your own sister over a difficulty--a temporary difficulty, too?"

Now, that was not a wise way of putting the case; but still the "rich man" would not have denied his wife, had she simply and openly asked him to give her a cheque for her sister's use. He might not have liked it; very few men, do like being called upon to open their purses or their cheque books on behalf of a wife's sister; and Richard Esdaile especially disliked his sisters-in-law, one and all, and Fanny more than the three others. He did not like to tell Eleanor that he would not permit free intercourse with her own family; he was not quite sure that it would be right to interpose a direct barrier between such near relatives; but he secretly resolved to do all in his power to keep the sisters apart, and not to countenance too much intimacy, even in outward seeming; it always vexed him to see Fanny in his wife's boudoir, for Miss Phipson's mingled laziness and flippancy, which she could not disguise, repelled him greatly. He had shrunk from her from the first; but in the earlier days of their acquaintance she had been on her best behaviour, lest she should damage Eleanor's interests; now, he was actually her brother-in-law, Nellie's wedded husband, "safely hooked and landed," as she said to Flo on the evening of the wedding-day, after the bridal pair had left them.

And so she became more familiar, and once or twice showed Mr. Esdaile certain phases of her character which astonished him considerably.

"How thankful I am that my Eleanor is not like her sister!" was his unexpressed thought, after having spent half an hour in Miss Phipson's company; "but if she had been I should never have married--never have dreamed of marrying her. I do wish, though, she had not been brought up in so bad a school. There is something about all the Phipsons I dislike extremely. Mr. Phipson I do and must distrust, without exactly knowing why. I know no evil of him, and that insurance company with which he is connected is eminently respectable. Some of the most honourable and substantial men in the city have to do with it. But he is specious; there is a false ring in his voice, in his look, in the very touch of his hand. Well, I am glad I have my darling safe away from them all. I don't think they have contaminated her in the least, though perhaps there might have been a little higher tone--a little more instinctive delicacy of feeling on some points--if she had lived all her life with quite a different set of people."

If Eleanor had gone to Richard as soon as Fanny had taken her departure, and confessed what she had done, he would have been greatly annoyed, I dare say, and perhaps decidedly angry. He would have been vexed--what man would not ?--at his money being thus unceremoniously appropriated; but he would not have cared for the loss of his £40. He would probably have scolded Eleanor, spoken to her gravely and with authority, then he would have given her another £40, and charged her to use it only for the purpose for which it was intended. But his displeasure would have been transient; his wife would merely have done a foolish thing, which must not be repeated, and he would quickly forget all about it. At any rate, there would have been no concealment, no trickery, no fraud.

"Oh, what a tangled web we weave,

When first we practise to deceive!"

If Eleanor had only known how tangled would be the web she would be compelled to weave unless she adopted the straightforward course of saying boldly, "I have used the money; I am very sorry; but in a moment of impulse I gave it to Fanny, who wanted it badly," I think she would have paused before she committed herself to a policy which could only lead to further complications, and to humiliating disgrace and defeat. Eleanor did not love her husband; but she did wish to retain his good opinion.

But simple, frank straightforwardness was the last thing that occurred to Mrs. Richard Esdaile. It was quite as much her misfortune as her fault; but her first idea in any difficulty was, "how to manage it!" All her life she had been used to petty cheating, and small though grave deceits. What Fanny Phipson said so coolly about her new bonnet going into the baker's bill is quite sufficient to explain the wretched and tortuous policy of the whole family--a policy with which Eleanor was naturally quite familiar, and to which she had been accustomed so long, that she took quite as matter of course certain expedients which would have startled and revolted a mind habituated to a higher standard. And so now she never even thought of taking the straight path, but began to devise for herself a labyrinth of expediency and intrigue whereby she might escape the consequences of her imprudence. Sophistry, too, was Eleanor's fault, and she reasoned with herself thus: "After all, I have done no harm; what is his is mine! What is the use of being married, if one cannot spend one's money freely? And to give strict account of every £5 note is really more than any one ought to put up with. If people will be so needlessly particular, they must expect to be circumvented now and then. He ought not to complain, even if I do spend a few pounds without letting him know their destination. I really do not see that I am so much to blame!"

Very poor sophistry that, and utterly unsatisfactory; for Eleanor knew in her heart that she was to blame, and that she deserved blame. At any rate, Richard would think she was to blame, and would punish her accordingly; so she must try and contrive, and consult with Fanny, as to the best means of getting "out of the scrape." And the postponement of the dinner, for which the money would be wanted, was a great relief, for, instead of five or six days, she had a clear three weeks in which to arrange her tactics. And Richard would be away for quite a fortnight, and she and Fanny would have the coast all clear to themselves. Surely, between them, they might devise some way of escape from consequences. It was, perhaps, rather unfortunate, but on the very same evening, not long after Fanny Phipson had left her sister's house, Richard came in, and began to talk about the dinner-party, for the delay of which no necessity had yet arisen.

This was Friday, and the dinner was to be on the next Thursday. "Can you make room for two more at the table, my dear?" he asked, as he sat down on his wife's sofa, and drew her to his side in true lover-like fashion.

"I really do not know! I am afraid I could not. Our table holds only eighteen comfortably, and you hate crowding as much as I do, and everybody hates crowding. It makes the attendance so much more difficult, and it crushes the ladies' dresses. But why do you ask?"

"Because Maude and her husband are come home. I met Wetherell this morning."

"I thought they were not expected till quite the middle of next month."

"They were not; but the friends they were engaged to visit could not receive them--a death in the family. And they thought they would come straight home at once, instead of staying somewhere by the sea, as at first they intended."

"And you want Mr. and Mrs. Wetherell to be of the party next Thursday?"

"Yes. I asked them at once--that is, I told Harry I should expect him and Maude. Also I said you would call on Maude in a day or two. I think you had better send them a card to-night, Maude would like it better; husbands' impromptu invitations are not supposed to go for much, I know; and you have scarcely established your relations with my family as yet. Besides, one's marriage always necessitates a little extra formality even among friends and kindred. You can make room for them, my dear?"

"But I am afraid I cannot! The whole affair would be spoiled if the table were crowded."

"All your invitations are accepted?"

"Yes--all but one. Mrs. Westbury was already engaged for a Richmond party. I asked Flo to take her place."

"Oh!--you asked Flo!"

"Yes! is that very astonishing?"

"I am surprised you said nothing to me about it. Is Flo coming?"

"Of course she is--at least I suppose so. Fanny said nothing to the contrary. She and papa will both come."

Mr. Esdaile changed colour, and involuntarily withdrew his arm. He hoped Eleanor would have spared him this--would have had sufficient tact to perceive that Esdailes and Phipsons could not amalgamate. How was he to tell his wife that her father and her sister were obnoxious to him, and that he did not care to introduce them into his own especial circle? And this was a very especial occasion, only intimates and chosen friends being invited. But if he lost this opportunity it might never recur; if he did not strike now, it would be too late. The Phipsons, once openly and formally received, could never again lose their footing, nor be relegated to the position which he intended they should maintain as regarded himself and his wife.

"Eleanor!" he said gravely, but quite kindly, "you should not have done this. We made up the list together, and there was no mention of Mr. or Miss Phipson."

"I did not think it necessary to say anything about it. It comes so naturally to include one's own nearest relatives in a gathering of this kind."

"I beg your pardon, dearest, but this is not exactly 'a gathering.' This is a formal dinner-party, the first we shall have given since our marriage. We both agreed that it should be an occasion of ceremony."

Eleanor looked vexed:--"Surely my sister and my father will always be welcome at my table?"Mr. Esdaile was silent, thinking how best he could frame what he had to say to her.

"Why do you not speak?" she said, haughtily, mistaking his silence for irresolution.

"Because, my dear Eleanor, I do not like to give you pain. However, candid dealing is the best, and I do not know that a harsh truth is any the more acceptable for being wrapped up in a few bland sentences that really have no meaning. When I was a boy I always preferred my physic and my jam separately."

"And I preferred not to take the physic at all! Am I to have a dose now? Pray speak out your 'harsh truth,' and let us have it over."

"You must have seen that I do not like Miss Phipson."

"You certainly might have evinced greater cordiality towards her, and towards others of my family. What has Fanny done to offend you?"

"Personally, nothing! But, I must say it, Eleanor, her whole conduct offends me. I have not been accustomed to women of her stamp. She is--"

"Well! what? Do not hesitate. What is my sister Fanny?"

"I hardly know how to say it, but it appears to me that there is in her a want of that fine feeling, that nameless delicacy, which is to a woman's character what the bloom is to the fruit."

"Fanny is careless of speech, I admit. I have warned her that she must be more particular. But she means no harm."

"She speaks lightly of things that I have been accustomed to regard most seriously. There is a frivolity in her tone, a levity in her manner, which I should not like to see exhibited to my friends. Do you know, she gives me an idea of a person without fixed principles, without much conscientiousness."

Eleanor coloured furiously. This was so exactly what Fanny was. A person who had no very definite notion of right and wrong, who would be wicked without positive intent, who had the lowest possible standard compatible with respectability. Indeed, Eleanor was often constrained to wonder whether it was quite compatible with respectability. She had lived in a purer atmosphere since her marriage, and either her own standard was elevated or Fanny's lowered; either she was improved or Fanny had degenerated. One thing was certain, she knew better than ever that the ways of her father's household were not good ways, not honest ways, not ways that would be approved by society generally; and the old system of deceit which she had once so recklessly pursued filled her now with something like abhorrence. And yet she was preparing to plunge once more into the miserable vortex of insincerity.

Mr. Esdaile continued: "And this marriage, if there were nothing else, would be quite enough to make me decide that, in spite of the ties of blood, she is not a fit bosom friend for my wife. Eleanor, I cannot express to you the disgust with which I contemplate your sister's engagement. There are women out there"--and he pointed towards the street--"who are not more degraded than Fanny will be, as Colonel Peacock's wife."

"Pray, do not say such things. I dislike the marriage extremely, but still it is a marriage. She is just flinging herself away, I know--I have told her so; but you must not compare her to those--"

"It is not a marriage in the sight of God. It is a horrible, unnatural contract, which the law of the land legalises. She sells herself."

"Richard, if you say such shocking things, I must go away. I repeat, I do not approve of the marriage; but still, as it is a marriage, it ought to be respected. And she is not so much to be blamed. Papa is tired of having so many daughters at home, and Fanny is getting on, you know; she is turned twenty-five. She might never have another chance if she threw away this one."

"Chance of what? There is no chance about it. It is certain misery and shame."

"I am afraid the Colonel will be too much for her. His temper is something awful. Even papa says Fanny is wonderfully plucky to venture on him. Though, as to that, Fanny is of age, and I do not believe anything that papa or any one else could say would have any weight with her. It is to be hoped the old horror will not trouble her very long."

"Hush, Eleanor! I cannot bear you to say such things. You make me tremble lest the taint has spread. There, do not look so distressed; we will say no more about it. Fanny must marry her Colonel, I suppose, but we cannot, will not, countenance her."

"You do not mean, I am not to speak to Fanny."

"I do not, though, if she were any one else, I should wish the acquaintance dropped--entirely dropped. As it is, friendly and kindly relations must to some extent maintained; but I cannot, indeed, my love, I cannot allow the intimacy which, as sisters, might and, under other circumstances, ought to be between you. If you love me, you will not hesitate, you will not keep up a very close intercourse with any of them in Cadogan Place. You have plenty of good sense, Eleanor, plenty of tact, and you can be kindly and cordial when you meet without meeting too often. There need be no feud, no estrangement; it is simply that, as my wife, I wish you to be guarded in your conduct as regards your sisters, and especially as regards Miss Phipson. You may show the girls many little kindnesses without having them too much with you. As for Fanny, she needs nothing that you can give her, and the less we have to do with her the better; the less frequently Mrs. Esdaile and Mrs. Peacock meet, the better I shall be satisfied."

"We shall give her a wedding present, of course?" faltered Eleanor.

"No! we shall not; I will not countenance so shameful so unholy a contract. You may, if you like, but I had rather you did not. If she were marrying a poor man for love, I would give her anything you wished. As it is, I would as soon give a present to one of those unfortunates whom I could not name to any other woman than my wife as I would buy wedding gifts for Colonel Peacock's bride I only trust you feel as I do; this marriage ought not to be countenanced!"

And Mr. Esdaile went away, leaving his wife to chew the cud of her own bitter meditations. "Oh dear!" she thought to herself--"it will never do to let him know that that money has gone to poor Fanny. Ah! If he guessed how wretched things were at home, he would not be so hard upon her. And as to viewing it in the light he does, it is all sheer nonsense !--lots of girls may be said to sell themselves in this way, and society thinks none the worse of them; and as to putting them on a level with--oh! it is monstrous! But Richard has such queer, old-fashioned notions. Does he really think I married him for love--love, pure and simple--I wonder! Oh, dear! oh, dear! he must never know how it was. I do wish I had those letters."

"Those letters," being her own, written to John Thornton, not so many months ago. When Richard had asked her if she had any serious attachment before her betrothal to himself, she had assured him that she had not. "Oh, no!" she had said, lightly; "'I never cared for any one before."

Oh, if ever he saw those letters he would know that she had deceived him--deliberately lied to him.

She wrote to John Thornton just before her marriage; it was the hardest thing she ever did--half-excusing herself, half upbraiding herself, but begging him to return all the letters written by her during their clandestine engagement, and to burn the one she now was writing. No answer ever came to her; she believed that John was too angry, too furious to write. Then she got Fanny to write, and the letter came back through the Dead Letter-office, with "Not known" upon the envelope.

Her only hope was in Margaret, whom she had not seen since her marriage. Arthur Mann and John Thornton were friends; Margaret would certainly know John's whereabouts, and she would doubtless manage it for her. Margaret had such winning ways; no one could long withstand her. As soon as she heard of Richard's journey--oh! what a relief his absence would be, and how glad she was to find he did not expect her to accompany him!--she resolved to go to Kennington, and pay Margaret Mann the long deferred visit.

And Richard went away to Cumberland, leaving his wife with many tender farewells, and injunctions to take every care of herself.

"I am so afraid you will be dull," he said; "you must go to Maude very often; and could you not ask one of the Harrington girls to stay with you?"

"I do not care for girls," replied Eleanor, languidly. "Girls, with nothing to think about but their beaux yeux, their lovers, and their dresses, are the most uninteresting creatures on the face of the earth. I shall ask Rose and Lily for the day, and I will take them to the opera at night; but I cannot have them staying on in the house, they would bore me."

"Would they? Then do not ask them except for the day. Do exactly as you like with yourself, my dear, only do not mope. I shall write to you every other day at least! and you, I think, with so much time upon your hands, might write to me every day."

Eleanor opened wide her pretty eyes with astonishment.

"Write every day! My dear Richard, what an idea! What could I find to write about? Unless the house should be burnt up, or that new footman abscond with my jewels and the plate, or the Persian cat be ill again, or Elise disappoint me of my new lace dress, there would be nothing to tell you."

"I think, Eleanor, I should always find something to tell you."

"Ah, those who go have the advantage over those who stay. You will have all sorts of impressions to record while I--but I am not sure that I ever have impressions; at any rate, there will be nothing so interesting that I need write it down."

"My dear, did I not know to the contrary, I should be afraid I had married a common-place woman."

"Common-place women make the most satisfactory wives; at least, so say the common-place women themselves. Too much intelligence, too much culture, is not to be desired in the ordinary married woman; she might get to know as much as her husband, you know."

"That would depend upon the husband. A man may always keep ahead of his wife, I fancy, in intellectual pursuits. I should not like a very learned wife, any more than I should like a pretty simpleton. Though why simpletons should be invariably accredited with prettiness is more than I can divine; for my own part, I think it is the exception, rather than the rule, when beauty and want of sense go together. When they do, it is only that mere flesh and blood beauty, which small-pox, or a toss out of a pony-carriage, may deface for ever."

"I never saw the kind of beauty that would survive pits and scars, or a broken nose."

"Did you not? Well, when I come home I will show you a woman whom ill-health has spoilt as far as complexion and other feminine beauties are concerned, who yet is so lovely that she would compel the admiration of a cynic."

"Indeed! I hope she is not young, or I shall be jealous."

"I have no idea how old she is; she is the sort of woman whose years you would never dream of counting. No, she cannot be really young, except in heart. I suppose she was a girl when I first knew her, but that is quite twenty years ago. As for being jealous, Eleanor, my dear, you need never be that. No wife in any age of the world ever held the first place--the only place--more completely than you have."

"I only jested. Jealousy is not in my nature. It is such bad taste, too, to be jealous, and so foolish; it spoils one's looks, it ruins the complexion as fatally as want of sleep; besides, it is such a very bad compliment to one's self. A woman must be quite sure there is something wanting in herself before she is jealous of another. Either she lacks beauty, or wit, or grace, or something or other which her husband values, and she knows it; and that other has what is wanting in herself, and she knows that also. Voila tout!"

Mr. Esdaile looked very earnestly into his wife's face. The light, mocking tone in which she spoke did not exactly please him. Something which he could not define, but which gave him uneasiness, seemed to underlie her careless, laughing words. He wished to speak to her gravely, yet did not know how; for, after all, had she not spoken reasonably?

"And I must recollect," he said to himself, "how young she is. I cannot expect her to feel as I do--I, who have had such miserable experiences--I, who have lived in the world twenty years longer than she has, and the twenty, moreover, which gives one the most knowledge of life, and adjusts one's measurement of things, and shows one the true appraisement both of things and people. What can the first twenty years of life, especially a girl's life, teach her? I must not forget the difference in our ages; I should not expect maturity of wisdom from my daughter; why should I look for it in my wife, who is only a few years older than that poor little baby would have been, had she lived till now? It will be all right presently--only--only, I do trust there is no actual taint, from the deplorable education she has received; I am glad I did not know the family before I knew Eleanor. I am not sure that I should have ventured. One rash marriage is quite enough for any man."

So Richard Esdaile comforted himself, anticipating a time when Eleanor would add a sweet, self-contained gravity of speech and thought to all her other charms. One of his last charges to his wife was respecting the dinner-party, which was to take place the day after his return. "So you will issue all orders, my love," he said: "I leave it in your hands; I give you carte blanche with those tradesmen we agreed to employ. But be sure to pay the florist at once, and the new silver ornaments for the table you will settle for at the same time. You have the money--four £10 notes! That will be quite enough."

"Yes," said Eleanor, faintly, turning hot and then cold all over.

"My dear, how pale you are! you are not well, Eleanor--I could put off my journey till to-morrow."

"No! no! It is nothing; I am tired. I stood in the sun too long this morning, and my head aches. It will all pass off when I have had a sleep."

So Richard jumped into his own hansom, which was waiting to convey him to the railway station, and Eleanor kissed her hand to him as he drove away. But, oh! the load that seemed taken from her when the sound of the wheels died in the distance; the relief of finding herself alone--free to think, to look pale, to cry even if she chose, without being obliged to account for it. She did not cry, however,--she was not a crying woman; but she went to sleep, awoke refreshed, drank a cup of strong tea, took a short drive, and spent the rest of the evening over a new novel, which Mr. Esdaile had purposely brought in for her, that it might beguile her solitary hours.

Next day her spirits returned, and she could quite appreciate all the delights of her freedom. She rejoiced in her liberty--no one to consult, no one to defer to, no one to wait for, and no one to keep waiting. She had never, in all her life, felt so entirely and deliciously her own mistress. She could have revelled in the situation had it not been for that miserable £40, absent without leave from her escritoire, and which every now and then oppressed her as with a sudden nightmare. Also the thought of the missing letters troubled her: what could have become of them? And what had become of John Thornton? She had had no real news of him since leaving Southbourne. Had he gone to Australia or America? or had he, maddened by her perfidy, committed suicide? The bare idea drove the blood from her heart, and made her feel sick and faint, and she sank down sobbing, as though her heart would break.

"Oh, John! oh, John! where are you?"

For nearly five minutes she regretted the decision which had separated her from him, and, looking round her splendid morning-room, she murmured, "Is it worth the price, the dreadful price I have paid for it? Ah! Fanny will be thrice happy compared with me, for she never loved any one more than herself. There is not a man in the world whose name could make her heart beat and her pulses throb. So much the better for her! She pays not half--no, nor a quarter--the price I have paid, and am paying, and shall pay for years and years--perhaps till I die. Let that hideous old spectre vex her soul as he may, she will have no ghosts of dead love and perjured faith to haunt her in her solitude. Dead love! mine is not dead, I wish it were. Richard will not have me consort too much with Fanny, lest she contaminate me. Contaminate me! I am a thousand times worse than she! She sells her youth and beauty for a ring and a name and a splendid establishment. I did the same thing; but I sold, or rather pretended to sell, what she does not and cannot, for she never had a heart. Why had I a heart? Why have I the remnant of a conscience? I could be happy if I had neither. How I hate, loathe, despise myself! If Richard could see me as I am, see into my inmost soul, he could not hate me more than I hate myself; and yet, having paid the price, the awful price, shall I not enjoy to the utmost what I have so dearly bought. I must get the letters. I shall know no peace till I see them turned to ashes. Suppose he should take revenge, could I blame him in my heart? Suppose he should send those letters to my husband! Yet that would not be like John. My John was never cruel and revengeful--he was so noble. But, may I not have changed him? A bad woman, such as I am, sometimes turns a good man into a fiend. Perhaps I have ruined him body and soul; I have heard and read of such things. Oh! why did I do it? And yet"--and she looked round once more on all the costly luxuries she had purchased--"yet I could not have borne poverty; I was not made for a poor man's wife, as Margaret was. Oh! how I honour her bravery, her true womanhood. I should have been wretched myself, and I should have made John wretched by marrying him,--living in a small house, keeping one young servant, turning and sponging my dresses, cold dinners, unpaid butchers' bills, children perhaps, and no nursery. No, I never could have done it! Oh! why was John not rich? Well, it is of no use now; I threw John away, just as I threw away a glove that does not sit well, and I have lost him. The less I think of him the better. Richard is very, very good to me--only he is not John. Dear me, that is a wicked thought, I am afraid; I have just enough conscience to torment me; I wish I was like Fanny and Flo, who have none at all to trouble them. I think I could be easier if I could see John once more and hear him say, 'Eleanor, I forgive you; you were very cruel, but I forgive you, and I am sorry for you!'"

Mrs. Esdaile had thought till her head ached, and she could not eat her luncheon. Should she go and pay her mother-in-law a visit? It would only be an act of grace after the morning's questionable ruminations, and it was a nice drive across the park to the old lady's pretty little house. Yes, she would go, and then she would have something to tell Richard when she wrote to him, and he would be pleased to hear she had paid proper attention to his mother. She felt quite dutiful at once, and ordered the carriage to be round at three o'clock; then she would catch the old lady before her own drive, and just as her afternoon nap was over.

She carried out her programme, according to arrangement, but when she reached Harley Street, Mrs. Esdaile was not at home; she had gone to lunch with her niece, Maude Wetherell. The footman waited for orders. Eleanor's first and happiest thought was to drive on to Mrs. Wetherell's, in Eaton Square; the next moment brought to her remembrance a shop that she wished to visit in Regent Street, and thither she resolved to go. And, now she came to think of it, she had business there, and in Bond Street also; and it was close upon the fashionable hour for Regent Street.

It was five o'clock before Eleanor finished her shopping; and she was driving slowly down Bond Street, which was unusually thronged, when her carriage came to a dead block, not many yards from Piccadilly. She looked ahead, and saw an interminable vista of horses and carriages. There was nothing for it but patience, and she lay back among her shawls and cushions in a sort of dream, careless of the passing time, for there was no one waiting for her at home. Suddenly she raised her eyes; a small pony carriage was close to hers, and in it sat John Thornton and a very young lady. Yes! it was John--her senses did not deceive her; but John changed as she had thought it impossible for him to change. He looked much older, but it was not that which struck her; it was the expression of his face--the look that was in his eyes as they proudly, stedfastly met hers. She knew that after the first sudden flush she was white to the lips, while he sat calm and unmoved, only the very concentration of scorn on his fine features. He despised her; he did not even condescend to hate her. The firm, silent lips said as plainly as if they had hissed it in her ear-- "I am shamed through all my nature to have loved so slight a thing."

And yet those were the lips that were once pressed to hers; those were the same dark eyes, in which she had seen so often a whole world of love. That hand--how often it had been clasped in hers! and now, she knew that if she offered him her hand, he would not take it, or touch it only in barest courtesy. She had played a cruel and a dangerous game, and what had she won by it? Ah! how ashamed, how humiliated she felt, sitting there in her beautiful barouche, her high-spirited horses champing at the delay, her liveried servants on the box before her, herself attired in the most elegant of costumes; and John there, looking quietly on, thankful that she was Richard Esdaile's wife, not his! She began to grow desperate; if he had only bowed, she would have spoken to him, and asked him for her letters--those letters, which were so many abiding witnesses of her infidelity, both to the man she had loved, and to the man whom in God's presence she had falsely vowed to love, honour, obey, and cleave to only. Happily for her, just then the long line of vehicles moved slowly, and John's little carriage fell behind.

She had seen him, then, as she had wished, once more. She could almost have prayed that she might never meet him again, never more see the scorn and the aversion, that was yet not hatred, in those eyes. Forgive her? He would not even take the trouble to be angry with her! He knew her for what she was--a fair, false woman, too weak, too "shallow-hearted," for any good man's love, for any man's regret!

"And some day," she whispered to herself, as her horses clattered along Piccadilly, "some day Richard will know all about it; I feel he will. He will know how I lied to him when I told him I had never been engaged, never loved any man save himself; and he will despise me, as John despises me. Oh! why could I not be true to one of these good men?"

"I shall want you to take me to Cadogan Place after dinner," she said to her coachman, as she reached her own door.

And then she went in to dress, and to go through the farce of dinner. Poor people may at least break their hearts quietly; rich people cannot afford such a luxury, they must keep up appearances. Servants have eyes and ears, also they have tongues, and they can talk; and it does not do--it is not wise, especially where there is anything to conceal--to whet the edge of their insatiate curiosity. So Eleanor took her seat with the solemn butler at the side-board, and a tall footman behind her chair. She wondered whether she might dismiss them--whether, if she did, they "would think anything of it." She had not been brought up to so much state of attendance, and it irked her very often; but she bore the restraint, lest she should betray her ignorance of the style and fashion of the true "upper ten." Mrs. Arthur Mann might have fretted comfortably in her Kennington lodgings, and ignored her dinner altogether, had she been so minded. Mrs. Richard Esdaile must wear a mask before her own servants, in her Kensington mansion, and pretend to eat her dinner, and allow herself to be served with the usual courses.

At that moment the stately lady of Kensington envied the happy, busy little matron of Kennington. Which really was the richer? The world said Eleanor had "married well," and Margaret had "married badly." And the world spoke with authority: but, had it reason? as our French friends say.

So Eleanor sipped her costly wine, and lifted a spoonful of Julienne soup to her quivering lips; and she toyed with the wing of a chicken, and really ate three heads of asparagus. There were salmon cutlets, but she would not look at them; and roast lamb, but that she would not have brought near her; and a tiny lemon cheesecake, crumbled all over her plate, concluded the wearisome performance. Then once more she was free; and the tall footman and the solemn butler departed; the latter telling the cook, in confidence, that "missis was fretting after master already, for she had not eaten enough dinner for a sparrow."

By eight o'clock--for Eleanor had dined early--she was in Cadogan Place. Fanny was at home, and her Colonel not in attendance. The sisters went upstairs to Fanny's room, and locked themselves in, to keep out Jenny and Kitty, who could never be accused of too much ceremony.

"It's never about that unlucky £40 already," said Fanny, quite tartly for her--something had put her out of temper. "Eleanor, you might have managed better!"

"It is not that so much, though that will come!"

And Eleanor told her story,--told it more completely than had been her first intention. And the encounter in Old Bond Street was fully described. Fanny was safe, she knew that; whatever fault might be laid to her charge, she could securely trust her; she could keep a secret, no one better. And she never stilled confidences, as some people unwittingly do. But Eleanor found no comfort in her sister. Fanny scolded her soundly:--"Really, Eleanor, I have no patience with you! It seems to me--only I cannot imagine anything half so idiotic--that you are actually regretting you are not John Thornton's wife. Nothing short of idiotcy could have made you marry him,--presumptuous young fellow! But now that you are so well established, any looking back is nothing short of frenzy!"

"I cannot help looking back, and I dare not look forward."

"If you are sentimental, I have done with you! Romance and love-among-the-roses pay no bills, remember! You chose for yourself."

"Not quite! Did you not press upon me that I should make a wealthy marriage?"

"Of course I did. I have common sense, though I am not clever like you. I begin to think that common sense answers better than uncommon; and my common sense tells me that John Thornton ought to be dead and buried to you."

"He is as good as dead and buried to me. He despises me; I saw it in his face."

"So much the better. And the sooner you despise him the happier for you."

"I shall never despise him. But, Fanny, I must have those letters if they are in existence. Cost what it may, I must have them."

"Are you afraid he will bring them into court?"

"No, indeed! But I am afraid, I scarcely know why, of Richard seeing them."

"What a simpleton you were to write them! Say what you like, but never put pen to paper. A letter compromises you at once. Yes! you had better get them back--if you can!"

"How shall I set about it?"

"Pray don't ask me," said Fanny, contemptuously. "If I wrote to him again the Colonel might be jealous--jealousy is one of his amiable peculiarities. You must manage your own matters."

"I will go to Margaret," said the unhappy Eleanor, "and if she fail me, I must even abide my fate. Oh, why did I ever write those letters, or, having written them, why did not I abide by what they contained?"

And as she drove home in the sweet June twilight, through all the hum of the streets, the words, "I am shamed through all my nature to have loved so slight a thing," kept sounding in her ears.

"Margaret will certainly help me to those letters," mused Eleanor, as she drove through Westminster on her way to Kennington. "Oh, dear, what would I give if I had never written them! How foolish of any girl to put into black and white the silly things that come uppermost when she is, as she believes, in love. I wish I could remember what I did write; nothing to be ashamed of, I know, as regards John and myself. I said nothing that a modest woman should not say to her betrothed, though I dare say it was dreadful nonsense. And yet it would compromise me now that I am married to another man, and that man Richard Esdaile, who firmly believes that I never cared for any one except himself. How absurd men are: jealous even of prior attachments! John! John! why were you not rich, like Richard Esdaile? I could have been a good wife to you, for I loved you. Ah! What a crooked, contrary world it is!"

Kennington was soon reached. It was by no means so difficult of access as Mrs. Leigh had said. Mrs. Esdaile's coachman, at any rate, drove straight, and without the smallest hesitation, to Kennington Park. And now Eleanor's only anxiety was that Margaret should be at home.

She was at home, and came herself to the door, and, at once presuming that Eleanor had come to spend the day, begged that the carriage might be sent away. How bright and happy the little wife looked in her plain gingham dress, with her hair quite simply arranged, and a sweet air of content in every look and movement! She was a veritable beam of sunshine in sombre, dull South Terrace!

"Now, come upstairs and take off your bonnet," said Margaret, as soon as Jehu and the horses had disappeared. "How much we have to say! I have been so wishing for you, Eleanor--or ought I not to say Mrs. Esdaile?"

"No, no! pray let us be Margaret and Eleanor to each other, as of old. I am come to have a good talk."

"That is right. And I am quite at leisure to-day; yesterday I was very busy with--what do you think, Nelly?--literary work."

"You do not mean to say you have turned author?"

"Not exactly. Not at all, indeed. But Arthur is busy about a series of articles he has been engaged to write for the Star. It is very necessary to be accurate on certain points, and he has set me to hunt out authorities, and make notes, and find references."

"And do you like it?"

"That I do! It is charming to be able to help my husband; and what I can do really does save him both time and trouble. My household duties are not very extensive at present, though I generally contrive to be pretty busy. When I have a house of my own, of course I shall be much more occupied."

"You are only in lodgings here? I recollect now. But why did you not settle in a pleasanter place, and in a better style of house?"

"I think the place very pleasant: it is so nice having gardens opposite. And then we are quiet and retired. As to the house--well, I dare say it does seem a poky little place to you; but it is large enough and grand enough for us, and the rent is quite as much as we can prudently afford."

"Oh, it is really very pretty," Eleanor hastened to say, f or she thought Margaret looked just a little mortified, and it struck her all at once that it was scarcely the best taste and breeding to find fault unsolicited with her friend's home. Nevertheless, as she glanced round the sitting room, which really was a bright and comfortable one, the windows looking both ways, she felt that she could never be contented with aught so humble. It was a pretty room. Eleanor spoke truth when she said so, and yet there was nothing costly in its furniture or its adornments. The handsomest thing in it was Theodora's gift, the luxuriously cushioned rocking-chair; the ornaments were cheap but elegant. One may get a great deal of cheap beauty these days, thank God! and one ought to be duly grateful for it, for beauty in any shape is a wayside sacrament to comfort and refresh the weary soul and the vexed spirit tired with the countless little worries and the petty chafings that come with common daily life; for beauty, like all else that is good and sweet, comes to us from God Himself, a pledge of His paternal kindliness and love.

And Margaret had that gift, which some women so largely possess, of making every place they inhabit look bright and homelike. If she had had only a sanded floor, and Windsor chairs to set to work upon, she would have given them a grace not always to be found with velvet couches and inlaid cabinets. She had what we call "a knack" of doing things prettily and deftly; she saw in a moment what was amiss in a room, and she could, by just quietly shaking out a curtain, grouping two or three flowers or a little fruit, laying a book here and a work-basket there, put the finishing touches to what before was merely neat and clean, but formal and uninviting. All women have not this precious gift of "faculty"; there are those who never notice a picture awry, a table-cloth askew, furniture at wrong angles, dust where no dust ought to be, who even sit contentedly in a room all littered and untidy, with every chair out of place, crumbs and other debris on the carpet, and a hearth all cheerless, and choked with ashes! Such are greatly to be pitied, even as those who know how to make the best of everything, time included, are to be envied. But if every woman cannot be a "woman of faculty," all can cultivate habits of perception, study neatness, and even grace, and by assiduous attention to trifles--such trifles as make home homelike--do much to remedy natural carelessness and apathy, or the deficiencies of education. For a Christian woman, especially one on whom a household depends for comfort, ought not to be careless or apathetic, any more than she ought to be peevish and fault-finding.

As Eleanor looked, she noted something in Margaret's humble sitting-room which was not in her own splendidly-furnished boudoir. What it was she could not define, for taste as well as money had been lavishly expended in all the appointments of her wealthy home; and yet the results were not entirely satisfactory. When she went upstairs, it was just the same. All was so spotlessly neat, so comfortable, so well-ordered. "The bed looks as if you could go to sleep in it, and not have bad dreams," she said, as she admired the knitted counterpane, which had been Margaret's fancy work so long.

"Well, I never know what it is to have what people call 'a bad night,'" replied Margaret. "That is very much, I suppose, because I am quite healthy, and have nothing on my mind; also because, in one way or another, I manage to get pretty well tired by supper time. But do come and see my husband's study!"

"This closet! Why; as somebody I read of the other day said, one couldn't swing a cat in it!"

"And Arthur never wants to swing a cat, and if he wants to swing himself or stretch himself, after several hours close writing, he can come out into the bedroom and exercise his legs and arms, or even run downstairs to see how I get on. But I assure you we are very proud of our 'study'; every now and then Arthur picks up a volume or two cheap at some book-stall, and he brings it home, and exhibits it as a prize, and we consult where it shall stand upon the shelves. And if it is a book at all in my way we read it together. See! we are getting quite a library!"

"You are easily contented, Gretchen. Have you not a spark of ambition?"

"Plenty! as I once told Mrs. Westbury. But there is a wide difference between being discontented with what we actually have, and being contented to remain precisely as we are. No, no, Eleanor, I have plenty of ambition, and I can dream dreams and build airy castles with you or anybody."

"I should like to know what your dreams are about?"

"About all sorts of things, but chiefly of my dear husband's success. I will tell you one of my dreams, which, please God, will come true some day, I cannot but believe. It is of a beautiful spacious library, where Arthur--having made a name for himself--shall sit and write in all literary state. There are books all round the walls--books on all subjects--scarce books, rare editions, precious copies; books bound in calf, in vellum, and Russian leather, and splendidly illustrated; books of reference, map-books, encyclopædias, gazetteers, dictionaries of every kind, books new and old, light and serious, mighty tomes and pretty little volumes--hundreds and thousands of them; a handsome library table also, with all proper appurtenances; an easy writing chair, a Turkey carpet, and, above all, a nice pleasant view from the window. There! is not that very ambitious?"

"Well, looking at this closet and those books in paper covers, etc., etc., perhaps it is. But Mr. Esdaile has all, and more than all, you covet--or anticipate, rather; and he does not seem to care very much about it."

"Ah! that is because he has always had it. Of course, there are great advantages in being born to affluence, but I am not sure whether we, who in the beginning are endowed with only a very moderate share of this world's good things, do not enjoy extra comforts and luxuries all the more because we have not been used to them, and also because we have to get them for ourselves."

"I dare say you do; ah! I am quite sure of it. But though I can appreciate your present content and your laudable ambition for the future, I could never emulate either. Sometimes, Gretchen, I wonder whether, if I had been differently brought up, I should have been as true-hearted and as brave as you are."

"My dear Eleanor, I cannot see wherein my bravery consists. It has never been tried yet; pray God that when it be He may grant me strength to work, to endure, and to wait as it shall please Him. But come downstairs, dear; it is almost my dinner-time; if you will share with me what I have it will do for your luncheon, I dare say. You used not to be very dainty."

"No, I never cared for luxuries in the way of food."

The simple meal was soon despatched, and then Eleanor prepared to disclose the real purport of her visit. "Margaret," said she, trying to speak naturally, "you remember that affair of mine with John Thornton?"

Margaret looked grave. She had always felt that Eleanor had acted unworthily concerning this young man, who was one of her husband's esteemed friends; but only lately had she known how very badly he was treated. Still, the less said about John Thornton by either herself or Eleanor, the better, and she knew that Arthur thought so too. "Yes," she answered, "of course I remember it."

"I wonder whether I should have been happier as his wife than I am as Richard's?"

"I should not wonder, for no good can come of it. If Mr. Esdaile knew that such a thought was in your mind he would be pained--displeased!"

"That is the very thing. It is very stupid of him, Peggy, but I dare say your Arthur is as stupid; it is part of the man's nature, I suppose."

"To be stupid?"

"To be stupid on one point, just as everybody is said to be more or less insane on some one point or other. Richard would be so savage if he knew that any other man had ever been before him--he thinks he is my only favoured lover. He believes, in short, that I never cared for any one else."

"Did you not tell him that it was otherwise?"

"Of course I did not. He knew that I had had lovers and admirers--that I had been courted; but he assumed somehow that I had never encouraged any of them."

"I do not know how far a woman ought to disclose all former passages. I think there are cases where honour would keep one silent, in detail at least. One may have secrets, I suppose, before one is married which one ought to keep, but which one should put away with one's maiden life--bury them, so to speak. Yet I think the safest way would be to say frankly, 'Such and such things have happened to me; there have been certain passages, but they are over and done with. I cannot mention names--it would be unwomanly to betray them; but I wish you to know that so it was, that though you come first now, I have listened to the vows of others.'"

"Would you have said so much yourself, had Arthur Mann been not your only lover?"

"I am sure I should. I would not for the world have begun married life with a secret. It is a pity that you kept silence when Mr. Esdaile assumed the fact of your having had no previous love affair."

"I am afraid I led him to assume it. Also Mrs. Westbury told him that I was heart-whole. And now I must tell you, Margaret, that I am sorely afraid he may find out that I was not so very candid--as you might have been, for instance--and want of candour he calls deceit; and he is very strict in this matter, stricter than you can imagine. He has been deceived once--he told me so; how I do not know, for he said he could not trust himself to tell the wretched story, though some day I should know all about it; but it was such a comfort to him that he could place perfect confidence in me, and rest quite happily in my affection. After he said that, I should have been a brute as well as a simpleton to tell him the real state of things."

"I do not see how it could hurt him to know that there had been once somebody else whom you permitted to be your lover. The very fact of your preference for him--for Mr. Esdaile--ought to have reassured him. I cannot understand any sensible man being jealous of a discarded lover, if only he be certain that the old love is all put away and done with for evermore, and himself first, and as regards time present and to come, alone."

"But that is just what Richard never would be certain of. He does not now know that such a person as John Thornton exists, and he never must know."

"I cannot see why not! Of course, John is nothing to you now--has been nothing ever since you accepted Mr. Esdaile?"

"I am nothing to him ! "said Eleanor, bitterly; "worse than nothing."

"Would you wish it to be otherwise?" asked Margaret, still more gravely. "Do not let us talk of John Thornton; there are some things that are best unmentioned, unexplained."

Eleanor burst into tears.

"Oh, Margaret! do not condemn me; my only hope is in you--only you can help me!"

"I help you! Of course I will if I can; but how can I?"

"You know I wrote letters to John?"

"Yes! I know you did. You were engaged to him; there was no wrong in that. He loved you, and you returned his love; you said you would be his wife. Most people correspond under such circumstances, and even the most censorious cannot blame them. Besides, he wrote to you?"

"Oh, yes! though I must tell you, papa and Fanny never approved of it. I returned all the letters I received from him, and asked him to send back mine."

"And did he not?"

"No! I never heard one more word from him. I wrote to him just before my marriage, telling him--oh! Margaret, I am more afraid of that letter than of all the others--for I admitted that he was my dearest, only I could not marry him. I said it was for his own sake as well as mine; and I implored him not to think hardly of me. I scarcely know how I worded it; I was half frantic, I believe; for when it came to putting an irrevocable barrier between myself and him, I found how much it would cost me. Margaret, do not look so sternly; he was the only man I ever loved, and what is more, the only man I shall ever love."

"Eleanor! you are very wicked. You cannot understand what you are saying. Please not to tell me any more."

"I must! I met John only the day before yesterday; and I shall never forget his look--he despises me. His love is gone, never to come back again."

"It is gone; I know so much, and you ought to be thankful. Eleanor, I implore you, 'let the dead past bury its dead'. Be true to your husband in thought as you are in deed. If you have committed the great sin of marrying a man whom you do not love--worse still while you loved another--pray to God to forgive you, to make you love your husband, and let John Thornton be to you as one dead."

"I am dead to him: I see that."

"You are! He ceased to love you when he discovered your falsehood. And whatever tender feeling lingered died out when you married. John Thornton is too proud, too good, as well as too right-minded, to love, to care for, another man's wife."

"If I could only get those letters, or be certified that they were burnt! I cannot humble myself to write to him again."

"No, indeed, it is not to be thought of: you must never pen another word to John Thornton, save with your husband's sanction."

"Then, will you undertake it? Will you see John, and come to an arrangement with him?"

"I will--if Arthur does not object."

"Arthur! Oh! you will not tell him?"

"I must, Eleanor. Not for my own mother, if I had one, would I keep a secret from my husband."

"Yet once I remember you said that there might secrets--women's secrets--between women, which a wife need not tell her husband?"

"I said that when I was Margaret Deane; and the maiden can never judge for the married wife. Yet to some extent it is true; I might have a secret of yours which I might lawfully keep from Arthur, but it must be one which concerned yourself alone, one which did not in the least affect either him or myself. Still, it is better to hold no such confidences; they may come unbidden perhaps, but I should feel them more as a burden than a privilege. We married women are far better without confidences we cannot share with our husbands, and happier. In the present case, it would be my own secret as well as yours I should keep from Arthur. But do not be afraid; you may trust him, and you may trust me not to say any more than is needful to make matters straight between him and me."

"He will never let you meddle in the affair."

"I think he will; if not, he will undertake it for me. I promise you that one of us will see John Thornton, and beg him to give up your letters--if, indeed, he has not already destroyed them, which is probably the case."

And with this promise Eleanor had to be contented. Margaret would not discuss John Thornton any further; she would not even answer any questions about him.

"Arthur, I have had a visitor, actually, some one to dine with me!" said Margaret Mann when about eight o'clock her husband came home.

"Indeed! you do not often have visitors, little woman. You cannot mean Miss Aldred, for she is out of town; surely our aristocratic relative, Mrs. Leigh, has not unbent at last, and commanded her charioteer to explore the wilds of Kennington?"

"It was not Mrs. Leigh, she would never waste a day at this time of the year on me; besides, she will never come at any time, till we have our handsome house, and our staff of regular servants, and our carriage and pair, and till we meet in what she reverently calls 'society.'"

"And then we shall not wish to renew the acquaintance! Well, my dear, I cannot guess who has been good enough to enliven your solitude, and sensible enough to seek your company."

"Have you forgotten my old friend Eleanor, Mrs. Esdaile?"

"I wish I could forget her, the good-for-nothing jade! She has spoilt one of the best men living; she has ruined John Thornton, murdered his better self. And John was too good for a vain, unprincipled woman's toy. Margaret, I am sorry she came. As she had deferred so long her promised visit, I hoped it never would be paid. Should you mind very much giving up this woman, my dear?"

"Yes, Arthur, I should. If it is your wish, your absolute desire that I give up Eleanor Esdaile, I will; my first duty is to you. But I confess it will cost me something. Eleanor and I are very old friends, and I believe she has been, as far as in her lies, a true friend to me."

"How can you call by the sacred name of friend one who has been so false, so wicked as Eleanor Phipson? It seems to me that she is not only unwomanly and unladylike, but that she has not one grain of true principle in her composition."

"Arthur, love, you judge Eleanor harshly; you do not know her as I do. There was a time when, as girls, we told each other everything; and I can assure you there is--or there was, at least--the making of a good woman in her. But she had a terrible bringing up; she was educated to scheme, and flirt, and be insincere. She had no mother, and her sisters were more worldly, far more worldly than herself; they were supremely heartless. As for her father, I cannot bear to talk of him; he must be a horrid man. He literally drove Eleanor into Mr. Esdaile's arms; and now he is encouraging his eldest daughter in a marriage that is a disgrace to her and to all the family. Mr. Phipson would willingly take his girls into the market and sell them, I am sure, if it were only lawful, and if it would not cause him to be hooted out of society. All is hollow in that house of the Phipsons; everything is a sham. Of course I could not say this to any one but you, but Eleanor has told me frankly that their debts are immense, and ever accumulating, and that there is comparatively no money; though there must be more than she thinks, for that great house could never be kept up on credit only, or even chiefly, and Fanny, who of course is mistress, is fabulously careless and extravagant, and lets her servants cheat her to any extent."

"Serve her right; she is a cheat herself; birds of a feather flock together; and such a dishonest mistress is sure to have dishonest servants;--they cannot be worse than she!"

"Arthur! you speak quite savagely!"

"I am savage, concerning those detestable Phipson women, and still more savage that they should cross your path. All you say, dearest, only makes me feel more strongly the necessity of cutting their acquaintance. You can do them no good, and they may do you harm. I do not mean that they can contaminate you, give you a taint of themselves--thank God! that could not be! they could not soil my white dove, even if they tried their worst; but their name and your name coupled in the world's hearing could not but be injurious."

"Dear! I do not want to have any, even the most shadowy relations with the Phipsons. Fanny and Flo were never my friends, and the younger girls I do not even know by sight. It is only for Eleanor that I plead,--Eleanor, whom I know has good in her, if only it might be developed. Eleanor, who was kind to me in days when I sorely needed kindness; days when I had scarcely a friend in the world; when I did not even know that you lived, dear Arthur. If you will help me, I can do Eleanor good, at least I think so. You shall judge."

"What good can she want that may come from us? She has her husband--her rich, well-born husband; and people say he is a good man, and a kind man, only stern, fearfully stern if he is deliberately deceived. Let him develop the good, which you believe to be in her; it is his work, not yours, not mine."

"May I tell you all I know about Eleanor--about Eleanor Esdaile, I mean? Eleanor Phipson we have done with."

"Unluckily we have not. It is Eleanor Phipson's fault that John Thornton is what he is; that his life is blighted, maimed, spoilt! But tell me what you like--I see you have a story on your lips. Let us talk it over."

And then Margaret told her husband all that had passed between Eleanor and herself, saying, in conclusion: "I think those letters ought to be given up. When an engagement is broken, hopelessly broken as this one is, the letters on both sides are always returned, as well as the presents which have been exchanged."

"It is the usual thing, I know, between honourable men and women. But this woman is not honourable. Still, I dare say she would give her right hand to have these letters in her possession now. Did you say Mr. Esdaile knew nothing about his wife's previous engagement?"

"Nothing! He never, so far as Eleanor knows, heard John's name; least of all does he know that he was formerly her betrothed."

"That was a grand mistake. There is nothing like plain, straightforward dealing in every relation of life. But for husband and wife to set out with a dead secret between them is absolute insanity. Why, John tells me she never actually out-and-out broke with him till three days before her marriage. She was, in point of fact, engaged to two men at the same moment,--a sort of moral bigamy, which must be as displeasing to God as what the world legally calls such. And now she is afraid that Mr. Esdaile may find out her falsehood--her double falsehood!"

"She is very much afraid; it is the skeleton in her grand house, and she goes and looks at it, poor girl, in spite of herself, a dozen times a day. But the falsehood is worse even than you imagine; she let Mr. Esdaile believe--indeed, I am pretty certain she told him plainly--that she had no other attachment, and never had had any. From her own confession, I gather that she told him a downright, deliberate untruth. And deceit is the one thing Richard Esdaile never forgives."

"I don't blame him; one must either trust one's wife 'all in all, or not at all.' And to live with a woman you do not and cannot trust must be as bad as to be shut up for life with a hopelessly smoking chimney! Such a superfluous untruth, too! Why could she not say simply, 'Yes, there was some one else whom I loved, and who loved me, but circumstances forbade our union. It is past, and now I love you, and you only'?"

"Simplicity of speech and action was never Eleanor's forte. Besides, she was a coward; she could tell a point blank lie, but she could never invent a whole story, and she would have had, or so she feared, to give explanations; and not daring to give the true explanation, she had not courage to make up a complicated falsehood. Also, she fancied, that if Mr. Esdaile discovered that he was not her sole lover, she would never be his wife. And she told me she literally dared not break with him--she would never be forgiven at home. She must secure him at any price. I do not defend her--her conduct from first to last was indefensible; but her sad training ought, I think, to make us more gentle with her. Still, if she had those letters, I really believe she might do better, she might devote herself to her husband, and deal henceforth sincerely with him. You see, he would gain nothing if he were undeceived in this instance; he would only know that his wife, who is very dear to him, is a traitress. Nothing that has been done can be undone. She says if she had but those letters safely in her hands, or, better still, if she knew they were burnt, she could and would begin afresh, and have no further concealments. 'But while I think there is something to be found out,' she said, 'I cannot feel good, or try to be better.'"

"It must be horrible to know there is a mine under your feet, which may be sprung at any moment; I would as soon sit upon the safety-valve of a steam-engine under high pressure. What more ghastly ghost could haunt you, than the never-sleeping dread of being found out? Gretchen, I am sorry for Eleanor, but I would advise her even now to tell her husband all the truth. It might part them for a time, but he would have more faith in her than if he discovered things for himself; there would be more hope of reunion and happiness at last. Besides, it is the right thing to do, and the right thing should be done irrespective of consequences--God will take care of consequences."

"We know that, and feel it in our hearts. But Eleanor does not. She has no trust in God."

"Poor thing! Now, my dear, what is it you would have me to do?"

"Help me--I could not do it of myself, unless it were an imperative duty--to get back these letters from John Thornton, or to see them burned."

"That will be a difficult task; John sets his teeth together and looks like adamant when her name is mentioned. He will not go one inch out of his way for Eleanor."

"He is wrong, he is revengeful. That is not like John Thornton."

"The old John Thornton, that you and I knew, that I knew so well--the John Thornton whom poor, weak, worldly Eleanor Phipson knew--no longer exists. He is changed beyond what I should have imagined possible. I saw him to-day, and had a long talk with him. All the gentleness, the chivalry, the generosity of nature seems gone. Even his face is altered, his smile is cold and sarcastic, the lines about his mouth are hard and drawn, his eye is proud and keen, his tone is bitter. Can you wonder?"

"Does he look ill?"

"He cannot look well, though he declares he is quite well now, never better in his life, etc. He has been ill, he admits; very ill, I should fancy, only one can get nothing out of him about himself. But you know we lost sight of him for many weeks in the winter and early spring. Indeed, I should say I saw nothing of him for a clear three months; but I was so happy myself, I scarcely knew how time went, and I forgot about poor John. How selfish one is when one is very happy!"

"Did he tell you he saw Eleanor yesterday--no! the day before?"

"He did. He says the first sight of her in all her beauty--for she is handsomer than ever--gave him a shock; the reins almost dropped from his hands. The last time he saw her--I forget where it was or when, but it was not a year ago--she lay in his arms, with all her splendid dark hair floating about his shoulder; and he kissed her as a man has a right to kiss the one woman in the world whom he has chosen, and who consents to be his own. And she kissed him back again, and spoke sweet honied words, and stroked his hand, and called him'her John.' They never met again till yesterday, when he saw her another man's wife, and surrounded by all the luxurious appliances of another man's wealth. Oh, it was enough to make a man mad--ay, and bad, too, Peggy. Many a bad man is made from a woman's heartless cruelty, I doubt not."

Then Margaret looked straight into her husband's eyes, and said--"Dearest, I do not think that is true. I do not think a man need turn bad because a woman cheats him. It is very hard to bear, of course, and the shock must be very great; but a good man--one who loves God, and trusts in Him--will not permit his whole life to be spoiled because of a false or a weak woman. He will ask God for strength to bear the bitter trial, and God will give it--not all at once, perhaps, but slowly, and at His leisure: for God seldom does things in a hurry. And then he will try to make the very best of his life, which is given to him that he may make the best of it. And his own sorrow will render him very pitiful to others; the love that is forced back upon him he will give to all about him--to all who are helpless, and miserable, and oppressed. If his own earthly happiness is cut down like a tree, he will try to find a sublimer happiness in the content and joy of others; he will live more for others than for himself; and, best of all, he will love the dear God more and more, and kiss the hand that smote him, knowing that the pain and aching of a misplaced affection is an anguish permitted by Him quite as much as loss of health or loss of money. He will come at last to be glad of the fiery trial which he has passed; for the suffering pray best, and so work best; and 'They best can bind who have been bruised oft.' Husband, love! shall we not--you and I--but chiefly you, help poor John to come back to the right way--the way of trust in God, and patience and love for all the world? We might help him, perhaps: I think God would like us to do it, dear; we are so happy, so very happy ourselves, our cup is so full that we may well spare a few overflowing drops to sweeten the bitter portion of another. Don't let us get into a way of living for ourselves alone, Arthur. Shall we help these unhappy people; shall we try, God helping us, to do them good?"

"My darling, you are right, as a truly good woman always is. A really good, true, God-fearing woman has diviner instincts than any man knows of. I am ashamed to think how selfish I have been, and was going to be, if you had not shown me my mistake. I was going to say, 'Let us wash our hands of these two people who were once our friends. Let us not concern ourselves about them; why should we, having so much to attend to on our own account? Let us mind our own business, Gretchen, and leave them to mind theirs!'"

"You might have said so now, dear, but you would have felt differently and spoken differently before you slept."

"The first thing we have to do is to persuade John to give up those letters, I suppose?"

"It seems so to me, but you, being a man, can judge for John better than I can. Do you think he will be hard upon her?"

"I fear he will. She has done him an irreparable wrong, you see, and he feels it cruelly. Indeed, I find it hard to forgive her myself; however it may all end, she has done him present harm; she has shaken his faith in God and in woman--two worse things could scarcely befall a man."

"We must try to restore them. But, Arthur, you don't think John is inclined to 'go to the bad,' as people say?"

"He will not 'go to the bad' in the way you mean; at least, I think not. But, rudely awakened from his dream, he declares he will never dream again. He can never believe in love or woman any more; all he wants now is to succeed in business, to get on, to grow rich; the chief danger is that he may turn out a hard, cold, selfish man of the world, upright and just as the world counts uprightness and justice, but stern, unsympathising, cynical, perhaps unmerciful. That woman has turned his heart to stone."

"And it was such a warm, generous heart once! I can quite understand how great a temptation his possible career may be to him. The race for wealth is never a very safe course, I fancy."

"When it is for wealth's own sake, it cannot be. I know what John feels; he will make the woman who has despised him for his poverty confess how great was her mistake. He will heap up riches, he will strive, and toil, and deny himself till he is richer than her husband; and I am afraid--he talks strangely, I dare only whisper it to you, little Daisy--he would like to get Mr. Esdaile into his power."

"Mr. Esdaile has done him no harm, but he may easily hurt Mr. Esdaile. Oh! I hope it will never occur to him to send those letters to Nellie's husband. It would be mean, treacherous."

"It would be, as you say, and I should be very much disappointed in John if he took such cowardly revenge. Yet, I feel very ill-assured about him. I don't know what to make of him; he is not the same person I have known these seven years and more."

"There must be a certain weakness in his character, or he would not thus have yielded to sullenness and despair."

"Oh, Margaret, you women don't know your own power! you don't know what a man feels when the woman he has loved and trusted, and upon whom he has lavished his utmost tenderness, proves false to him. It is a sort of moral earthquake, the solid ground crumbling away beneath his feet, an anguish worse than death. Oh! it is one of the greatest sins a woman can commit, to play fast and loose, or trifle with a good man's faithful heart. If you had served me so, Peggy, I might have become--nay, I feel sure I should have become for years, perhaps for life, the veriest wretch that ever breathed."

"No you would not. You might have been half mad for a little while, but you would soon have come to your better mind. You would have forgiven me, though you must have despised me. You would have said, it is God's will that I should not keep that which I prized so much. It is He who has unclasped my hold of that which was so precious. His will be done. And then, dear, you would have gone forward manfully, all the better, and none the worse for your great trial."

"Should I? I hardly know, love. But, oh! I thank my God that I was never tried. I thank Him more than ever for your pure, sweet, stedfast love, all the sweeter, all the more satisfying that it comes to me from Him. And now, my darling, I cannot have you perched on my knee any longer; I must light the gas, and read my proofs, I have a whole bundle of them in my bag; there are two or three little things I think you might manage."

"Oh, let me; I am getting quite knowing in the matter of proofs. And then, I have such a nice little supper for you, and a letter from Theodora, that you will like to see; she is in Switzerland."

"My good little Gretchen! How I do pity the young fellows who are not married. I wonder how any man can do without a wife. I suppose some can't manage it; some can't find the right woman, and some are crossed in love, like poor Thornton. Thank God I have won my pretty Gretchen, and only He can ever come between us. There are your proofs; if you won't speak, we will get all done in half-an-hour, and then I shall be quite ready for the wonderful supper you promise me; and if it is something I like very much, I'll kiss you!--There!"

Mr. Esdaile's return was delayed, so once more the unlucky dinner party was put off, and Eleanor was only too thankful for the reprieve. And Fanny was busy preparing for her marriage, and quite inclined to resent any reference to the money which was causing her sister so much uneasiness.

"If I had known she would always be throwing it at me in this fashion," she said to Flo, "I would never have asked her for a shilling. I am tired of hearing of that miserable £4O; and I did not keep it half a day, after all."

"I am sure I do not know how you would have managed without it," replied Flo, in her usual nonchalant style; "for Madame declared positively she would not supply a single article for the wedding, if she had not something on account at once. I only wonder she was content to take so insignificant a portion of the whole. Tradespeople are not so bad, after all; I think ours are really quite obliging. And they must know, if they think about it, that they will never get paid in full."

"That is why they are so exorbitant. Flo, I wonder how you will get on with the housekeeping?"

"Don't talk about it," said Flo, putting out her hand with a despairing gesture. "The house will keep itself, I suppose; you never were much of a manager yourself, you know."

"Still, I have managed. I have contrived and contrived many a time, and said nothing about it; I can tell you I have had my housekeeping purse empty for days, and papa in ever such a temper if I only hinted at the subject of supplies. If people only knew what I have gone through with him--getting money from him in driblets! and what I've gone through with those impudent servants, and the tradespeople clamouring about their 'little bills'! they would not be surprised at my marrying Colonel Peacock."

"Indeed, no! it was the best thing you could do. I would have taken him myself if he had only asked me, though he is a scarecrow, with a complexion to match his curries, and a temper like Chili vinegar, with no end of cayenne stirred up in it."

"A nice prospect for me!" sighed Fanny. "I shall keep out of his way as much as I can."

"Suppose he won't let you keep out of the way?"

"I won't suppose anything so appalling. Of course the wedding tour will be a dreadful trial. I wonder who ever invented wedding tours! Such a stupid and outlandish notion, condemning a man and a woman to each other's society alone, as if we shouldn't have enough of each other under any circumstances. I hope he won't expect me to amuse him. We are going to Paris, that is one comfort, and what with operas, and concerts, and drives in the Bois, one may contrive to get through the time without being tempted to commit suicide. I wish you were going with me, Flo! it would be such a comfort to have some one to speak to, and we might go out together when he was too tired or too cross."

"What a charming idea!" And Flo was quite roused to enthusiasm. "Why shouldn't I go, Fanny, if you really wish it?"

"It would be the greatest relief to me; I shall die if I am constantly left tête-á-tête with that man."

"I'll adore 'that man' if he will take me to Paris, and pay all my expenses; I'll even talk to him! He is deafer than ever, though; if you don't shout and roar, he cannot hear a syllable, and if you do, he scolds you, and declares that you need not raise your voice in the least, if you will only speak distinctly, etc., etc."

"Oh, all deaf people say that; the only thing is not to have anything to say to them. But in this case, you see, I cannot help myself; I am obliged to talk to him sometimes, or he would be offended. Then he is so suspicious; he continually thinks remarks are being made about him."

"And I should say jealous. He got quite purple with anger the other night because you rather devoted yourself to young Fitzgerald, though he might have known that, as mistress of the house, you were only doing your duty. And he actually snubbed you before our friends and before the servants. You will have to teach him manners, Fan; it is horrible to see and hear him sup up his soup."

"I shall not try to teach him anything; he is too old for that. I shall do the best I can for myself, live in society as much as possible, and keep out of his way, when I can.'

"I hope when I marry," said Flo, "that I shall like my husband a little. Of course I do not believe in being in love, and all that sort of missish nonsense; what people call 'an attachment' must be a bore; still, I should think it must be pleasant to begin with a moderate degree of liking. Oh; here comes Kitty! Kitty, what do you say to my going to Paris with Fanny?"

Kitty was a pretty, piquante girl, clever too, though her talents were as yet undeveloped. Both Jenny and Kitty had been a good deal ignored by their elder sisters, and treated--as far as they would submit to such treatment--as children, mere schoolroom girls. Eleanor was the only person who perceived that there was something in "little Kitty"; that she had superior abilities, and could give an opinion on most subjects. Flo and Fanny only knew that she was pert and flippant; and, indeed, reverence for her elders, or for the powers that be in any shape, was by no means an article in the creed of Miss Katharine Phipson. Yet, if Mr. Phipson had a favourite, if there was one of his girls for whom he really had a fatherly feeling, it was his youngest daughter, and she could sometimes coax him into good temper, when Fanny and Eleanor were fairly beaten from the field. As for Flo, she never tried to coax anybody, it was too much trouble, even to get her own way. Jenny had all Kitty's faults, with scarcely any of Kitty's good qualities, and it was quite lately that Kitty herself had begun to think and to reflect that, as a family, they were altogether in the wrong. So, when Flo asked her what she said to her going to Paris with the bride and bridegroom, she replied: "What do I say? Why I say, go, by all means! You cannot do better; Colonel and Mrs. Peacock will stand treat, of course."

"Don't call me that!" cried Fanny, irritably, "I will not be called Mrs. Peacock before my time, such a detestable name!"

"I beg your pardon, I always thought a lover's name was as sweet as music in one's ears; but then I never had a lover, and have had but small experiences of the world's ways. It's just this--if Flo is to pay her own expenses, or any part of them, she might as well dream of going to Kamtschatka, as to Paris."

"Of course, I shall settle all that with the Colonel," answered Fanny, grandly. "That is no business of yours; you were only asked what you thought of the plan."

"As far as Flo is concerned, there can be no doubt about it, if she be willing to put up with the nuisance of being continually de trop. Brides and bridegrooms are supposed to do a good deal of love-making on their bridal tour, are they not? And, in such cases, the old adage that two are company and three are not, holds good, I should imagine?"

"You know nothing about it."

"Of course I do not. I am young and innocent, I only asked for information. Still, I have heard of such a thing as a honeymoon."

"Or a treacle-moon," put in Fanny, crossly.

"Exactly; or a treacle-moon, as you say--molasses and all that, you know. Only treacle isn't nice after you are turned seven; I remember stealing some when I was a very small child, and didn't I make a deplorable mess of myself? and didn't nurse whip me, and put me on rations of dry bread? But not even 'golden syrup' would tempt me now; though I do like honey--a little of it, that is. You'll get tired of your treacle-moon, dear Fan, long before it reaches the full, I am afraid: you will do well to take Flo to share it with you. And, considering the Colonel's rather hasty temper, and his excitable moods, and his irreligious habit of consigning everybody and everything to that region where sulphur is supposed to be indigenous, I shouldn't wonder if you had a brimstone-and-treacle-moon, eh, Fan?"

"Kitty, you are extremely indelicate; you are shockingly vulgar."

"Do you know, Fanny, I am afraid we are a very vulgar family!" said Kitty, with so much gravity, that Flo took it upon herself to answer.

"Never mind the family; if you take care of yourself, that is all that can be required of you; little girls should not be forward."

"I am not going to be a 'little girl' any longer. I am half an inch taller than you are, Flo, and though I am four years younger, I am a good deal wiser, and you'll have to depend upon me for getting you out of scrapes--you know you will. I may as well say at once that I don't intend you to come 'Miss Phipson' over me; I have not left school so long that I have forgotten that little episode concerning the maires-du-palais."

Flo stared; she had not the least recollection of anything she had learned at school. Fanny only said, "Don't talk nonsense, Kitty; you are growing up, of course, but Flo will be mistress when I am gone."

"She may be show mistress if she likes; she may receive company, and pay visits, and be Miss Phipson, for society; but I am going to keep house."

"You are going to keep house?" replied Fanny, in sheer amazement. She could think of nothing else to say.

"Yes, I! Katharine Phipson! and no one else! Who else could do it, I ask you, Fanny? Flo cannot, she might just as well put up for an M.P. as for the real headship of this house. I have spoken to Jenny, and she does not want the responsibility, but she is willing to help; when there is any extra scolding to be done she will undertake it; she is more of a vixen than I am, though I can come out pretty strongly if I am aggravated; still she does it the more effectively, there is no question about it."

"And do you think Flo will submit to you, you impudent little--?" And Fanny stopped short. She was going to say "hussey!" but it suddenly struck her that it was a vulgar word, and she felt instinctively that Kitty would reply, with an air of superiority:--"Did I not say we were a vulgar family?"

As it was, Kitty answered: "Don't call names, Fanny; it is unladylike. Please understand, I do not want Flo to submit to me, and I have no intention of interfering with any of her rights. She can be lady of the house, and take the head of the table, and all that sort of thing; but I am going to be mistress of the kitchen and of the servants, and I shall give orders, and fight with the tradespeople."

"And I am sure you are very welcome," said Flo. "I don't want to have the servants laughing at me; I don't care about keeping the tradesmen's books and the housekeeping money."

"I should think not,"replied Fanny; "you know too well what it is. Those very books and that very money, or the want of it, have driven me to marry a man I cordially detest."

"And I would have gone out sewing or washing at eighteenpence a day before I would have done as you have done, Fanny; I haven't the slightest respect for you, and I never shall have; I haven't much for Eleanor, but I haven't one scrap for you."

"Thank you, Kitty, I feel very much obliged to you, but I think I can survive the loss of your respect. At the same time, I will trouble you to keep your impertinence to yourself. Flo will have a nice time with you."

"She will have as nice a time as any one in this house can have, which is not saying much for her enjoyment; but she will have all the honours and none of the responsibility; I cannot do more for her. Flo and I must conclude a treaty and an alliance. I will not interfere with her if she will not interfere with me. I must have full authority over the regions below; my word must be law downstairs, and when the servants appeal to Flo, as they naturally will, she must reply, 'I have nothing to do with it. You must ask Miss Katharine'; for I intend to be called Miss Katharine in future by the servants; it sounds better."

"You are the most extraordinary girl!" said Fanny, "you really take away one's breath! Of course, if Flo does not object, I do not; it does not matter to me what goes on among you when I am no longer a member of the household. And if I may give an opinion, I should advise Flo to approve for she has not the smallest genius for housekeeping; and housekeeping with us is no sinecure, I can tell you. In the first place, pa will have excellent dinners and everything in style, but he will not find money equal, or anything like equal to the expenditure. You will have to manage the tradespeople--they can be very saucy if their bills run too long, and they won't serve you well either, and they don't care when you find fault. Why, Kitty, only last week I went to the greengrocer's about those peas that made papa so furious, and I complained ever so meekly."

"You 'roared like a sucking dove,' I have no doubt," put in Kitty.

"I didn't roar at all! I only told him we could not eat his peas nor his salads, and he spoke in the most surly, disrespectful way. I had better settle the little account, and withdraw my custom, he said, and then he turned away to serve a dirty little girl with some trifle or other, and he never even asked if I had any orders! Such encounters are far from pleasant, I can assure you, Kitty, and Flo may think herself well out of them."

"I do," returned Flo, with as much heartiness as she ever showed. "There is only one thing, Kitty--be mistress and welcome; I only ask for the head of the table, and for the right to issue invitations, as Miss Phipson. But when you are tired and sick of your work, and want to be quit of it, you are not to throw it up and leave me to the burden after all. If you take the post of housekeeper you must keep it; when you have once assumed the keys of office I wash my hands of the whole affair. We shall all come to grief sooner or later, I know, but I hope I may be married first--something may turn up in Paris; who knows?"

"Who knows?" repeated Kitty, mockingly. Then more seriously she said --"You need not be afraid, Flo, I shall not abandon my post; what I undertake I shall carry out; what I promise I will perform--there is my word for it! As to coming to grief, there is imminent danger of it, I must confess; keeping one's eyes shut will never mend matters, and I mean to have mine wide open and face the truth, let it be ever so gloomy. But I will do my best to save the ship; we will not 'come to grief' if I can help it."

Fanny and Flo both surveyed her with something like admiration, and Flo exclaimed --"Well, I must say you have courage enough. You are the pluckiest girl I ever heard of; and if pluck will serve your turn, you are safe."

"But it won't," was Fanny's verdict. "I know the state the ship is in, too well. She sprang her first leak years and years ago, and it has never properly been stopped; all her timbers are unsound--she is not seaworthy."

"And she lost her chart and her compass when she sprang that first leak," interrupted Kitty, impatiently. "I know all about it, and we will have a new compass, and a new chart, and I am going to be captain, and bring the crazy old thing into port, and have her repaired, and made into a gallant vessel again."

"The captain may have the best will in the world, but he can do nothing without his crew; and if the owners will not find funds, nor pay the crew--"

"As to my crew--the servants--I am going to make a clean sweep of them; I shall give them, every one, a month's notice on your wedding-day. I would give two of them a month's wages instead, if I could; I must think how I can manage it."

"A month's wages, child! You will have to pay them what has been owing to them for many months; you little know, Kitty, what is before you."

"Then I must discover it; the pursuit of knowledge is always praiseworthy. Only let me know exactly what is owed to them, one and all, before you go away. Let me know the very worst, Fanny."

"You shall, and if you are not frightened then, I shall think you are something more than an ordinary woman!"

"That I am a witch? Well, they do not burn witches in these days!"

"But you will not back out of the bargain?" whined Flo, quite miserably. "You'll keep to your word, whatever Fanny tells you?"

"Never fear! Things cannot well be worse than I guess they are."

"But, Kitty, I do think you must keep cook," urged Fanny. "I did think of getting rid of her myself, but I found it would not do; her dinners are irreproachable, and that is the only thing that keeps papa amiable."

"Nevertheless, cook must go; she should go to-day if I had my will."

"You do not know how difficult it is to get a good cook; remember what horrible messes we used to have before this woman came! Salt soup, and peppery soup, and dishwatery soup! vegetables spoilt, entrées like nothing in heaven or in earth, patties like street pies; and as for the joints, and the bread-sauce, and the made-gravies! I should have been in. my coffin if this cook had not come; she can cook."

"And she can cheat."

"I know she can! why, we are supposed to have consumed thirteen pounds of fresh butter last week; and Jenny was out, and the Colonel and I dined at Richmond twice. And what we can want with so many loins and breasts of mutton I cannot think! They never come to table; I suppose they are used to make gravy of!"

"Very greasy gravy would it not be? No! that mutton is made into dripping, not into gravy, or perhaps cook sends it away au naturel, without cooking it at all."

"Still, for all that, you must have somebody who can cook," said Flo.

"And how are you to know when you are cheated?" queried Fanny. "I never knew what dripping was till the other day; Eleanor knew, and I suppose you do."

"Of course I know; I am studying the noble art of cookery."

"Nonsense!"

"I am, though! It is a fact, I assure you. Who do you think made that marmalade pudding that Flo gobbled up so greedily at luncheon to-day?"

"Did not cook?"

"No; I made it! Was it not good?"

"Delicious! but how could you know how to make it? I don't even know what marmalade pudding is made of, do you, Fanny?"

"It is made of marmalade, of course."

"There must be something else in it ; there was custard. What did you put in it, Kitty?"

"Listen to the history and mystery of a marmalade pudding, my sisters. They had one at Mrs. Vernon's the other day; and I found out that Aggie Vernon made it herself. So I thought to myself--or, in the words of the old song, 'I said to myself, as I walked by myself; and I said to myself, said I,' Why should not one girl make a pudding as well as another? It must be quite as amusing, and much more profitable than making bead cushions. So I asked for the recipe--would you like to have it?"

"Yes; I want to know what you put in besides marmalade and pie-crust--there was that, I know."

"Here it is, then. 'Beat into a paste with an ounce of butter, melted, enough orange marmalade to cover the bottom of the tart dish you wish to fill. Line the sides, but not the bottom of the dish, with good puff paste; make a simple custard of eggs and milk, pour it over the marmalade, and bake. If the marmalade be at all bitter, add sugar to suit the taste, and beat it in with the butter. Bake from half an hour to three quarters of an hour, according to the oven.' Well, I beat the butter and the marmalade first, according to directions, and I added a little sugar. Then I made the puff-paste, that was a puzzle; but I had bought a nice shilling cookery book, and that told me how to do it, so I got over that difficulty. Then I beat up two eggs with my milk, poured them over the marmalade, and there was my pudding! I put it in the oven and was going away, when all at once I had a presentiment that something would happen to it; so I took out my crochet work, and sat down and waited and watched, and when my pudding was done, I took it out, and brought it up into Davis's pantry; and when luncheon time came to-day it was put on the table! My three sisters ate it up and said it was very good. That is the story of my first pudding."

"I wonder cook let you stay in the kitchen."

"She couldn't help herself. She did want to turn me out, I know, but I would not go. First of all, she was rude, and flounced about, and made noises, and then she tried patronising. She wanted me to put six eggs instead of two, and to use a quarter of a pound of butter. But I took my own way. She was in a shocking state of mind while the pudding was baking; and I said to myself-- 'Toss your head, my lady ; you will toss it somewhere else ere long.'"

"But you do not mean to go on cooking?"

"I do, though. I have borrowed a great cooking book from the Vernons, and Aggie is going to give me all her private recipes. At least, I shall know what ought to be used in the kitchen. And I mean to do with one housemaid; Jenny and I have agreed to wait upon one another."

Fanny Phipson was married before the return of Mr. Esdaile, consequently Eleanor in her bravest attire disported herself at the wedding. It was a very gay wedding, of course, so far as fine dresses, prancing horses, flowers, and favours went; and the bride looked extremely handsome, and the bridesmaids were elegantly apparelled, and the sun shone, and the officiating clergyman performed the ceremony in a most imposing style. And yet, even to careless lookers on, something was wanting--something, the absence of which cast a cold shadow of gloom over the whole brilliant affair.

It was a sight to see "the gallant bridegroom," as his best man--himself well stricken in years--called him, hobbling out of the vestry, and peering down the aisle to catch the first glimpse of the bride's procession. It was pitiable to note how much he looked like a scarecrow in his jaunty wedding garments, with a white moss-rose-bud in the button-hole of one of Poole's most faultless coats. All the padding and fitting in the world could never hide the shrunken proportions of his lean, bowed figure, neither could the youthful air he tried to assume smooth away the creases and wrinkles in his yellow face, or give light to his dim, bleared eyes, or deceive bystanders, who knew him at once for a septuagenarian, looking every whit his age, if not a little older. And, as the minutes slow]y passed, and the bride and her maidens still delayed their coming, he grew exceedingly impatient; and to be impatient meant with him a great deal of positive and loudly-expressed anger, and it irked him terribly that he could not at the moment give vent as usual to his wrath. There was the clerk going hither and thither, but it would not do to throw a hassock at his head; there was the pew-opener in a big poke bonnet with fluttering bows, and he would have liked to bring the ancient head-gear of that ancient female to speedy ruin. What did the man mean by fidgeting about in that senseless fashion? What possessed the woman to smirk and grin beneath that venerable poke? What made them leave that window open to give everybody their death? What did the fools of people mean by staring at him as if he were a rare specimen just broken loose from the Zoo? And finally, what was Fanny thinking about, dawdling seven minutes and a half past time? "But it was the last time he would have to wait for her; he was not going to have a wife always too late! She should learn by some master-stroke, before she was twenty-four hours older, that by no accident nor under any circumstances was he ever to be kept dancing attendance upon her even for a single minute. Wives were made to wait their husbands' pleasure, and if Fanny did not know what her duty was, why she must be at once instructed, that was all!" And all this he growled to himself almost audibly, looking very much like an elderly, unamiable bear.

But, just when the poor Colonel's patience--or what he called his patience--was exhausted, just as his friend Captain McTaggerty began to be seriously alarmed lest something most scandalous should transpire, arid the whole bridal party be prosecuted for "brawling in church," the bride and her papa, and her four pink-and-white, and her four blue-and-white bridesmaids, appeared at the bottom of the aisle; and Colonel Peacock, pacified for the moment, bottled up his anger, and prepared himself for the ceremony--first, however, taking out, with a flourish, the great gold warming-pan of a repeater, which he carried in his fob, and which he always kept by St. Paul's--Westminster clock having, in some way, given him special cause for offence--and, ascertaining that the bride was exactly ten minutes and three-quarters of a minute behind time, he looked unutterable things at Mrs. Esdaile, who returned his wrathful glance with a proud, defiant, scornful stare, that made the fiery little Nabob almost too angry to stand before the altar-rails.

And then the solemn service commenced; and the man and the woman--there met to plight their troth according to God's holy ordinance--exchanged vows in the face of the congregation gathered together to witness them:--and in another Presence, too; but neither bride nor bridegroom thought of that!

"Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?" said the sonorous-voiced clergyman.

And Mr. Phipson gave away his daughter with inimitable grace, also with an unmistakable air of satisfaction. At last his daughters--his expensive daughters--were "going off!"

It is surprising how short a time it takes to couple a man and woman together for life; and ere the Colonel had half regained his equanimity, the service was concluded, and the gay throng were in the vestry, and the usual signing was going forward, and Mr. Phipson was

"Washing his hands with invisible soap,

In imperceptible water."

And the Colonel kissed his bride, and then he kissed all the bridesmaids--a part of the ceremony to which they submitted with the best grace they could. Kitty was sorely tempted to resent "the liberty," but wisely controlled her indignation. She contented herself with wiping off the salute rather ostentatiously, saying to herself--"He will never dare to do it again, that is one comfort! I would rather be killed than be Fanny!"

For yet ringing in the girl's ears was the sentence spoken not many minutes before--"Whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder." And Kitty could not feel that the couple just legally married were joined by God. She knew her sister's feelings with regard to the Colonel, but what were the Colonel's with regard to Fanny she could not imagine. Probably he wished to see a handsome woman at the head of his splendid establishment. Fanny would match his curtains and carpets, and silver gilt plate, and his Bohemian and Venetian glass, and his costly china, and all the other fine things which adorned his "capital mansion" in Mayfair. Also, he could not help feeling the infirmities of age stealing upon him; and perhaps he thought a wife would be preferable to a hired nurse, or to any sort of servant, when the days came that he knew were coming all too quickly--days when he would care no longer for the voices of singing men and of singing women, nor for horses, nor chariots, nor for anything that the world, in its exuberance of health and spirits, calls pleasure--days when men-servants and women-servants would flee from him; or, humbly obsequious to his face, make prey and spoil of him, and mock at him behind his back; days when dyspepsia and gout should do their worst; when the doctors should cut off his beloved curries and sauces, and mulct him in his favourite wines, and condemn him to the mildest of mild diets; when there would be nothing worth living for, save only that living meant not dying. And then a wife would be invaluable. She would wait upon him, amuse him, tend him in his worse attacks, take his anger meekly, and never, under the most violent provocation, give notice, or take herself away with due warning.

"Yes, yes!" was the Colonel's comfortable soliloquy; "a wife's the ticket! Nothing like a wedded wife, after all. One can make a servant of her--a body servant--to any extent; and it's of no use her grumbling--no use her being offended. She can't go and get another place as that rascal of mine did a month after I landed in England, just because when I was bilious--dreadfully bilious and nervous one day--I shied a champagne bottle at his head, and it hit him. Servants are so selfish, so ungrateful, and I suppose a wife may be selfish and ungrateful, too; but then she can't leave one in the lurch without ruining herself. Society happily has a prejudice against runaway wives; and the blame of an out-and-out quarrel always rests upon them. Ever since Eve ate the apple, women have got the worst of it in one way or another. Serve 'em right, the jades! We can't do without them, but we can keep them in their places, that's one mercy!"

And Fanny had her soliloquies also, and the Colonel would have been considerably astonished had he overheard them. They did not promise well for the peculiar sort of domestic happiness which he anticipated. He knew that his promised bride was emphatically a weak woman, a silly woman, a woman without any bones to speak of in her character, and he made the very common mistake which supposes that such a woman is more easily governed than a woman of wit and good sense, and cultivated intellect. He did not know that weakness and wilfulness, folly and obstinacy, have natural affinities for each other; he never thought how difficult it might be, even for a really sensible man, to manage a moderately silly woman. He had not read a passage I found the other day in a very clever book about women; it would have made no difference if he had, for people who have shut themselves up in complacent self-sufficiency in their youth and middle age cannot bear even patent truths when they are seventy; but the passage was this:--"There is no convincing a fool! No impression can be made upon her; she returns like water again to the same point, and there is no mis-reckoning like that of the man who marries such a one with the hope of having his own way."

Flo gained her point: she accompanied the happy pair to Paris--that heaven upon earth to fashionable, heartless, aimless men and women! Wendell Holmes says that good Americans, when they die, go to Paris!--a horrible satire upon his countrymen. Colonel Peacock grumbled at first; then he thought that, perhaps, it would be quite as well. Fanny was young and frisky--six-and-twenty is quite infantile, you know, to seventy--and she would want to be going here and there, and driving and riding about, and looking at the shops, and it would not do to tighten the curb too much just at first; and she could chaperone Flo, and they could do as they liked; it didn't matter how much money they spent, and he was not afraid of their getting into scrapes; and he could smoke his hookahs, and sleep peacefully the while. It was marvellous how much sleep he contrived to take; his constitution required it.

So when Colonel and Mrs. Peacock, and Flo--now elevated to the style and title of Miss Phipson--and Mrs. Esdaile, and the other guests had taken their departure, Kitty found herself quite alone with her papa. Jenny had gone to bed with the headache; Mr. Phipson had the headache, too, but he did not go to bed, for of all places on earth he dreaded it most. There he could not sleep, he could only toss about and think, and calculate possibilities and impossibilities, and groan and gnash his teeth in very impotence of misery, and picture to himself the black, hopeless futurity, the pitiless Nemesis who would meet him ere long, who might bar his pathway to-morrow, and pronounce inexorable doom.

He sat still at the bottom of the deserted table, on which still were scattered the remnants of the bridal feast. Crumbs, spilt wine, empty bottles, dirty plates and glasses, scraps of costly pies and patties, lukewarm jellies and collapsing creams, melted ices, stained napkins and tablecloths, dead and dying flowers, faded ferns, and torn-up glitter of gay crackers!--not a very pleasant prospect certainly for the man who knew that he would be expected to pay for it, but that such expectancy would be all in vain. He hated the vain show that was over now: he hated the debris before him; he hated those who made him add to the sum of his already overwhelming responsibilities; and most of all, he hated himself! There he sat, his aching forehead resting on his hands, his eyes closed, that he might not see the wreck upon the table and all about the room. There was not a more unhappy man in all London that night--no, not even in Bethnal Green, nor Whitechapel, nor Shadwell, nor Shoreditch, nor St. Giles's--than Frederick Phipson, Esq., of Cadogan Place, S.W.

"But two are gone--three for the present," he muttered miserably; "they are well out of the sinking ship! If it were not too late--too late!--something might be done now: we might retrench at least. I wonder if I were to marry a sober, elderly, managing woman, with a little money?--But no, a little money would be of no use, and a great deal I dare not try for; heiresses require settlements, and one's affairs get looked into, and that would not suit me. Yet, I have only three girls now; Flo is a fool, and Jenny and Kitty are children, and--"

"What is it, papa?" cried a clear, young voice close to his elbow; "what is it about Jenny and Kitty? Why do you sit here, with those lobster-shells under your nose? Have you the headache? Jenny has; she drank too much champagne, I tell her, and she is gone to bed."

"And you had better go too," replied Mr. Phipson, crossly; "quite time you children were in bed and asleep."

"Children, indeed! I like that! Why, I am the mistress of the house, and I have got to look after no end of things."

"You the mistress!--a child like you! Go and play with your dolls, Kitty."

"Papa, my dolls have all gone where the good dolls go, long since. Please to look at me; I am not a little girl; I have left off short frocks and tuckers; I am a woman grown, and, what is more, I am, as I said, mistress of the house."

"What do you mean, child? I tell you, Kitty, I am in no mood for nonsense to-night; you must keep your jest till another day."

"Papa, I never was more serious in my life. I want you to listen to me for a few minutes. I have been thinking lately that we are all in a terrible mess."

"Mess enough, Kitty. I wish you could think to some purpose."

"Perhaps I can. Papa, couldn't we spend less money in the housekeeping? Couldn't we even stint a little till the bills were paid, and then try to keep out of debt? I had a talk with Fanny yesterday, and she gave me all the books and bills, and said I might try, but that it would be of no use."

"Of course you can try while Flo is away; but she will head the table when she comes home; it is her right."

"We have settled all that. Flo is to have all the honours, and I am to have the work; we shall not quarrel about that. She is the Miss Phipson for the world; but I am queen of the kitchen, and autocrat of the store-room and larder, and the servants are to obey my orders."

"But, my dear child, what do you know about housekeeping?"

"Not much, but more than you imagine. Besides, I shall learn by practice. The more I housekeep, the more I shall know about it; I don't suppose it is much more difficult than music and perspective. And Jenny will help me, she promises; she will do all she can, only she will not be the responsible person. So, if things go ever so wrong--and I am afraid I shall make lots of blunders--you must not scold her, please; I am ready to receive all the blame as well as all the praise. But you must give me full authority."

"There is no one else to assume the reins of government, since both Flo and Jenny retire. But, Kitty, I warn you, it will only be trying to prop a falling house that, sooner or later, must come crashing down. And the servants--will they obey you? You are such a chit!"

"They shall obey me, or walk out of the house. I am not going to keep any of the servants we have now, except little Genders, the page, as we call him. To-morrow morning I give them all a month's notice to quit."

"It is easy to give them notice, Kitty, but they will not go without their wages, and I have no money for you, save just a little to rub on with."

"If we could but pay them! Are you sure you cannot manage the wages? It would be such a relief, such a saving, to get rid of those people, especially the cook; and I am going to do with one housemaid and no parlourmaid, and I heard the other day of a nice respectable young woman whom I could hire as cook at moderate wages."

"But can she cook? This woman can send up a dinner that no one need be ashamed of; her gravies and soups are perfection."

"They need be, for I am convinced they cost at least four times as much as other people's gravies. It is horrible what she consumes, or pretends to consume. To see the bills, one would fancy we were twenty in family, and lived entirely on eggs and butter! Only the same mistake might be made in pretty nearly everything. We must eat up no end of oxen, and sheep, and lambs in the year, to say nothing of poultry, and game, and fish! One would suppose you kept a monster boarding-school; and yet I do not know that any of us are gormandisers. Flo has the best appetite, but then Flo's would not account for the extraordinary consumption of every article of food."

"The woman is a thief, most likely."

"We are sure she is! Fanny knew it quite well; but she said they were all alike, and we had better have a competent than an incompetent thief. But I should not like to think Fanny was right; indeed, I am sure she was wrong; and then our loose way of doing things must be bad for servants; it must do them harm. I feel certain there are good servants--real, good ones that one could trust, if only one knew where to find them. Why, Mrs. Vernon has kept her cook twenty years, and she can leave everything in her charge; and that nice housemaid they have had ever since Aggie was quite a little child. Good mistresses make good servants, I suspect."

"I have no doubt they do, Kitty, and you talk like a rational woman; I will not call you a 'chit' any more. But, my dear, I fear--indeed, I am sure--you are undertaking a task beyond your strength."

"If you would only help me, papa!"

"I help you, child?"

"Yes! if you would only--only--order in fewer things till we get straight? And if you would not give dinner parties for just a few months? Jenny and I are content to live very quietly while Flo is away from home, and we need not buy anything for ourselves. Only, papa--if you would go with us in taking care, and if only I could give that dreadful cook her wages and send her off at once."

"My poor Kitty, it is all in vain; you might get the housekeeping matters all square, for I really think you have the sense and the patience to effect it; but it is business that is wrong, my child. I need not say you must keep this a profound secret, but things get worse and worse. Ill-luck follows us in every venture, and nothing goes right; any day the whole concern may collapse, and to retrench as you suggest--to give fewer and less costly entertainments--would only hasten the evil day. Men would be suspicious if they perceived any alteration in our way of living. I must keep up a certain show in order to keep up my credit."

"Well, papa, if you must, you must. Of course I do not understand business, but it seems to me an odd way of saving credit, to get deeper and deeper into debt. But I may do as I like about the servants?"

"You may do just what you like, provided there are no obvious differences to make people talk. I admire your courage, Kitty; I always said you were the flower of the flock, though you will never be as handsome as your elder sisters. I only wish, my dear, I could bid you hope for success."

"We shall see, papa. Oh, we must get out of debt! It is shameful to go on owing money right and left, year after year; it makes me hot all over when I think of it. I tell you what, papa; I will sell my watch and chain and the brooch Colonel Peacock gave me, and the bracelet Mr. Esdaile gave me, and the pearl set my godmother left me, and I will pay the servants at once. Never fear, papa; all will come right yet. I think, perhaps, if I try to do right for right's own sake, God will tell me what I am to do. There, cheer up, papa; we will begin a new life to-morrow morning."

In the sitting-room of a small cottage skirting Hampstead Heath, sat John Thornton. It was late in the evening, and his lamp was lighted, and he himself very busy with papers and account-books. It was a pleasant enough little room in which he sat; it was very simply but very neatly furnished, and scrupulously fresh and clean. A vase of flowers stood on a side table; there were blooming plants, perlargoniums and fuchsias, in the window, which was wide open, letting in the cool night air, and the moonlight, and the sweet breath of mignonette, with which the garden-beds were crowded.

But the room looked dull and desolate:--perhaps it was the gloom cast by the lamp-shade, perhaps it was the lateness of the hour, and the faint sighing of the low wind among the acacias close at hand, or perhaps it was the weary, absorbed look of the room's sole occupant; certainly there was something strangely depressing in the picture any one looking into that dimly-lighted parlour of Acacia Cottage might have seen.

It drew near midnight, and still the young man toiled on, twelve struck from the clock in the kitchen, and from the church steeple near at hand; and the wind, being due south, bore on the silence the faint sounds of other clocks far away in the great city; even a murmur of Big Ben's solemn tones died on the hushed air, in musical reverberations. But another half-hour sped on ere John Thornton, with a sigh of relief, closed the huge folio, upon which, since seven o'clock, his attention had been fixed. He had succeeded at last in detecting the error which had so puzzled and so annoyed the rich and enterprising firm of Dugard and Heberden for many months. An error had crept into their books--an error calculated to cause grave and unpleasant surmises, and which hitherto had baffled all endeavours to penetrate it. John, who had been several years in the employ of Messrs. Dugard and Heberden, was now a confidential clerk; and lately, in going over some old entries with the cashier, it had struck him that there were some discrepancies which might have occasioned the mistake. He said so much to Mr. Carrick, and that gentleman could not believe but that the books were perfectly balanced. He, however, suggested that John should go through them according to a method which he considered to be the best test of accuracy; and the issue was that he did spend several evenings in Fenchurch Street after office hours, poring over long rows of figures, and calculating fractions, on a system of his own, till his eyes ached and his head swam, and the result was nowhere. Finally he obtained leave to take home several of the books, especially one, which he felt sure contained the germ of the error; and over the closely covered pages he bent hour after hour, till at last patience and perseverance were crowned with success, and he could put his finger on the slightly erroneous entry which had caused all the trouble. He went through it again and again, and knew that he was right; and he triumphed--as who would not, under the circumstances? But it was a gloomy triumph, for he had no one to tell it to. And looking into his face, though one could discern a glow of satisfaction, one felt sorry to see how grave and stern a face it was for him who had but just completed eight-and-twenty years. He slowly wiped his pen; then methodically he arranged his papers, and put them carefully away; he closed the heavy books, and placed them ready to carry up into his bedroom; he drank a glass of water; last of all he drew aside the flower-stand, and stepped out into the moonlight.

The garden in which he stood was a very small one; tall white lilies, Canterbury-bells, and mignonette were its chief productions. The cottage itself was small, inhabited only by John, his landlady, a widow, and her niece, who assisted in the housework. Mrs. Layton and Jessie had been in bed these two hours, and doubtless were fast asleep. John felt as if he had all the world to himself. He had been very ill, as Arthur Mann suspected, and as soon as he began to get better his doctor sent him out to Hampstead Heath for country air. He liked his quarters at Acacia Cottage so well that he determined to remain in them, even after his health was fully established; pure air morning and evening he believed to be essential if he would preserve the bodily strength and vigour necessary to the arduous course he intended to pursue. So he took a second-class season-ticket on the North London line, and though it was an expense he would willingly have avoided, he felt that it was, after all, the most prudent course he could adopt. A great work lay before him; this brain was equal to anything; he knew that quite well; also he knew that he could be patient, plodding, unwavering, cool, determined; all the elements of success lay within his grasp, and he had made a fair beginning, for his feet were firmly planted on good solid ground, and he saw the way before him. Only--he must have his health; he could not afford to be delicate or ailing; he had no leisure for playing the invalid; therefore the season-ticket, the quick walk to and from the station; therefore substantial, wholesome, but perfectly plain food; therefore he never smoked, and was almost entirely a water drinker. The widow Layton told her friends that she had a treasure of a lodger; steady as an old man, always ready with his payments, so quiet, he never disturbed her; so respectful, gave so little trouble, and seemed always satisfied with what she provided for him. Best of all, he never defiled her pretty lace-curtains with smoke, nor dropped cigar-ashes on her green moss-patterned carpet, nor invited rollicking young fellows to his rooms on Sunday, as had been the obnoxious practice of his predecessor, who had the impertinence to chuck Jessie under the chin and call her by her Christian name--liberties never permitted to the lodgers at Acacia Cottage--and had gone away at last without settling his laundress's bill. No wonder that Mrs. Layton and Jessie White thought John Thornton one of the best young men who ever lived in apartments.

After looking out over the heath for a minute or two, he left the narrow bounds of the garden, and went where he could pace to and fro upon the turf, keeping the window of his parlour in full view. There was no fear, however, of any marauder, for it was almost as light as day, and John could see that there was no living thing in sight; he had that piece of the heath all to himself, and could promenade and soliloquise aloud at pleasure. If you had listened, you would have heard him saying:--"I am glad I have done it; I knew I could; I only wanted time and quiet. I think I can do most things if I try. To-morrow I fancy it will be decided about this journey to Turkey. If I go--and I am pretty certain that I shall--that is a step in the right direction. Mr. Dugard said pointedly the business could only be entrusted to a confidential person, and to one on whose ability they could rely, since large and important interests were at issue. If I go to the south, and manage this affair, as I know I can and will manage it, with consummate tact and judgment, they cannot possibly ignore my services. Also, having once served their turn, I shall go again and again, and all the secrets of the firm will be in my keeping; and the way to a partnership is not a long one; and then--"

The next few words were unspoken, and John took longer and firmer strides upon the turf. Then he burst out again--to the furze-bushes apparently--"I will be rich; nay, I will not be merely rich, I will heap up riches till I can no longer tell them. Lands, houses, possessions of all sorts--servants, equipage, all that money can buy, that luxury can invent, that taste can devise, shall be mine! and she shall own that she was a fool as well as a traitress when she threw over the man who would have died to save her one sorrow for the sake of wealth and grandeur! Ay, she shall know and bewail the mistake she has made! Forgive her? Oh, my God, Thou knowest what this woman was to me and I to her, for she did love me! I am as certain of it as I am that yonder moon shines full upon my face. She loved me, and she left me--for what? That remains to be seen, Eleanor Esdaile. All is not gold that glitters. Forgive you? No, I cannot. You have darkened all my days, you have spoilt my life; for let me gain the wealth of nations, I shall still be poor! You have emptied my heart of all its faith and hope and joy. Henceforth few are the men whom I shall trust, none the women. Neither can I trust God as once I trusted Him, for what had I done that He should turn to bitterness the sweet, rich draught He let me just taste--no more? Love you? No; I love you no more. I scorn you, half hate you. If you were free once more, and would come to me and share my lot for better or for worse, I would bid you go! I would sooner take the meanest beggar girl to my arms than you who have sold your beauty to the highest bidder. Ha! I am blustering like that idiot in 'Locksley Hall.' I, too, could cry from my soul--

'Cursed be the social wants that sin against the strength of youth!

Cursed be the social lies that warp us from the living truth!'

I wonder if Tennyson was ever jilted! I should say he was; the poem is so intensely bitter, so horribly real, it must have been the outcome of an actual experience."

He went back to the cottage; the mignonette was sweeter than ever, and the tall white lilies gleamed like silver in the moonlight; they, too, were full of fragrance, and when he stepped into his room, it was odorous with the grey heliotrope and other flowers which Jessie had placed there that afternoon. But John cared no longer for flowers or perfumes: he cared neither for man nor woman, he told himself; he cared only for success, for wealth,--such wealth as the world should wonder at. And he would toil day and night, and live on bread and water, if need were, but he would gain his ends. Nothing could turn him from his purpose, nothing soften or touch him any more. And he muttered to himself, as he went up the narrow stairs, without a light, and with the heavy books of the firm in his arms--

"'Thou hast lost the key of my heart's door,

Lost it ever and for ever,

Ay, for evermore!'"

The next evening, instead of rushing to the railway-station as usual, John went straight to Gracechurch Street, to look for a Clapham or a Brixton omnibus; either would carry him to Kennington, whither he was bound, to wish Margaret and Arthur "Good-bye," before his departure for the continent; for it was arranged that he was to take the journey to Constantinople, and the sooner he reached his destination the better for the business to be transacted. And John, as you may imagine, was not the man to let the grass grow under his feet. When the partners asked him how soon he could be ready, he promptly answered, "By this time to-morrow, or to-night, if it is necessary." But to-morrow would do, and as he had but slender preparation to make, and had already received his instructions and credentials, he thought he would see the Manns once more, and tell them of his good fortune. Indeed, he had not seen Margaret since her marriage, and something, in spite of his scorn for womankind, drew him still towards his friend's wife, who had been so right sisterly to himself and so true to Arthur. And yet he wondered at himself as, on the top of the omnibus, he saw again the familiar crowded thoroughfares of transpontine London; he wondered still more as he dismounted, and found himself in the modest shades of Doddington Grove, through which, as Arthur had specially informed him, lay the nearest way to South Terrace. What could possess him to trouble these people, who, no doubt, were entirely occupied with their own concerns? What made him waste his precious time, "mooning about" miles from Acacia Cottage, where his immediate duties lay?

But Doddington Grove is not extensive, and a sudden turn brought him directly to South Terrace, which was not so long but that he came in half-a-dozen seconds to the house he wanted. Even then, as he stood on the top of the steps with his hand on the knocker, he doubted whether he would not turn and hurry back to London Bridge. He knocked, however, half hoping that, as it was a beautiful evening, Margaret and her husband might be out. But when he asked if Mrs. Mann were within, he was told "Yes," and in another minute he was in Margaret's pleasant room, and there was the bride of March, looking at once so girlish and so matronly that he involuntarily said in the old tone, "How do you do, Gretchen?" and then apologised for his undue familiarity. She was so curiously like the bright girl who had been Eleanor's chief friend, and who was so closely associated with all his memories of her; and yet she was changed--for she was every inch a wife, and looked and bore herself as Mrs. Arthur Mann.

She scarcely heeded his apology, she was so eager to welcome him, and to express her regret that her husband was not at home. "And do you know," she said, "you are just the person we were wanting to see! We were even talking of hunting you out in the wilds of Hampstead on Saturday afternoon, which Arthur tries to keep for me. I am so truly sorry, John, that he is out, and, what is worse, that I am not expecting him in just yet; I am afraid he will be very late to-night; he will be really grieved to have missed you. Perhaps you could stay, though? I know we could manage some sort of shakedown for you that would not be too uncomfortable. Will you, can you stop? Oh, do!"

"No, thank you," replied John, not ungraciously--the cold, weary shadow was upon his face again by this time. "I only came for an hour just to say good-bye--I am off to the Golden Horn to-morrow morning by way of Hamburg."

"Off to Constantinople! Really, John?"

"Really! I am going for the firm, of course; I shall probably have to spend several weeks in Greece, and perhaps proceed to the Ionian Islands--there is some sort of difficulty at Corfu."

"How long will you be absent?"

"I have not the remotest idea. I shall try to conclude the negotiations which are pending as speedily as possible, for my own credit's sake; but I should say it will be quite autumn when I return."

"How vexed Arthur will be not to have seen you."

"He is making his way, he tells me; he has done nothing but prosper since his marriage, he says."

"Yes, things have gone, and are going, bravely with us, thank God. We could if we liked move into a house of our own, but we think it will be as well to stay our year out here; we are very comfortable, and I am sure we shall never be happier than we are now."

"Then you do not regret your marriage?"

"How can you ask, John? Regret, indeed!"

"Why, you did not marry to better yourself, as the servants say."

"Did I not? But I did, sir; I was a lone woman, a poor relation in a great desolate house, where I lived on sufferance. Now, I have a nice little nest of my own, and I have a dear, good husband of my own. I am lonely no longer. I am queen consort in these magnificent apartments, and Arthur is my king. I have been nothing but a gainer by my marriage."

"But you might have gained far more by marrying a richer man. You might have secured all sorts of grandeur--like your friend--had you only played your cards properly at that cursed place down yonder by the sea."

"John, do not speak like that, and do not look like that. I should have lost, not gained, had I married any other than Arthur, for I can never love any other man."

"Ah, you were sentimental enough to fancy that love and matrimony were inseparable."

"They ought to be, John! do not make me sorry that you came; do not make me glad that Arthur is spared the pain of hearing your bitter words."

"I don't want to make you sorry, Gretchen ; but have I not cause for bitterness?"

"Bitter turns to sweet, if only it is taken in the right spirit."

"But my right spirit, or what you would call so, is gone. Margaret, I am changed. I am not at all what I used to be when we were all such friends together months ago. The less you see of me the better. I shall only vex and grieve you. You belong to my past, my cruel, mocking past; between it and me there is a great gulf fixed. I wished to say this to you, and then never again to revert to what might have been."

"That is the wisest course, as things are. But, before we put the seal on that unhappy past, I have something to say to you concerning it. Arthur and I have both been anxious to say it. You keep all Eleanor's letters."

"Well! they are my own property."

"Legally, yes; honourably, no! It is a point of honour in such cases as yours to return all gifts and correspondence."

"Do not mention honour and Eleanor's name in the same breath. Margaret, it will save trouble if I tell you at once that I will never give up Eleanor's letters; nor will I destroy them. If any one could make me alter my decision it would be yourself, or Arthur; but here I must confess you are powerless. Those letters I have, and I mean to keep them, though I hate the sight of them. I had as soon put my hand into a nest of snakes as draw them from their hiding-place."

"Then why keep them?"

"Simply because she wants them. She knows the use I may make of them; she knows how utterly they would reveal her perfidy, not only towards myself, but towards the man whose name she bears, whose honour--the worse for him, poor fool!--is in her keeping."

"But you would never do anything so horrible, so mean, as make the use you infer of them? Why, it would be revenge, John!"

"And revenge is only natural, Margaret. I tell you this woman has spoiled my life. She has turned the whole course of my existence. I might have been as good, as God-fearing, as your Arthur, only a false woman came and poisoned my mind, my heart, my soul!"

"And I tell you, John, that you are weak and cowardly to let any woman spoil your life. Your life cannot get spoilt unless you will it to he spoilt. It has been God's will that this trouble should come to you. Bear it manfully, and wait His good time for happiness; but do not torture yourself, as I see you are doing; and do not torture the poor, erring woman who has done you all the wrong. Forgive her; she has put herself out of your life--let her remain out; be brave, dear John, and it will all come right at last. Only be merciful and tender, and don't shut your heart to all sweet and gracious influences. Cast this heavy burden on the Lord, and He will show you how to carry it so that it shall hurt you least; and some day, when you least expect it, you will find it gone, and your heart will be full of joy, and praise, and thanksgiving. And ivy grows over ruins, you know; even a past that is full of wrong and pain may find its consecration. Do be strong, John; it is not strong to be bitter or to be stern. Oh! if only Arthur were here, he would speak to you so much better than I can; but I know he would say, 'Be strong, John!'"

And for the moment John was softened, and he said to himself--"Not all women are treacherous, and fickle, and mercenary,--she is truth itself." But though he thus owned Margaret's gentle influence, he still remained steadfast to his first decision. He would not be persuaded or convinced; he would not give the one promise his friend sought from him. He took a kindly leave of Margaret, and left an affectionate message for her husband; but his last words were--"Tell Eleanor that neither her letters nor her photograph will be returned. They are my own, to do with as I shall choose."

After all, Mrs. Esdaile's frequently postponed dinner party took place, though at the very close of the season. The florist and the person who had supplied the table ornaments remained unpaid; but, then, they would not send in their accounts till Christmas, and long before then Eleanor felt assured she would be able to discharge their claims. To save the money out of her housekeeping was naturally her first idea; but she had very quickly to give it up. With those tradesmen's books so constantly checked and so regularly audited, it seemed impossible to do anything; and what Richard called her petty cash always melted away in some mysterious manner, long before she had paid for actual necessaries. As to saving £40 or only half that sum, out of her own private allowance, by the close of the year, it was not to be thought of. Unlike some men, who when the novelty of possession is over lose all the ardour of their affection, Richard Esdaile was much more in love after than before his marriage. It seems strange that such a man should have given all his heart to such a woman, but so it was; there is no accounting for tastes, least of all for the tastes of men and women as concerning each other. And Eleanor was charming, and could be very sweet and winning if she chose, and she was very much admired in society; and Richard was not insensible to the satisfaction to be derived from being the husband of the most brilliant and best-dressed woman in a crowd of elegantly-arrayed and well-born beauties! Besides, with the strange perversity of men--who always expect to receive more than they are prepared to give--he found infinite content in the assurance, which he never doubted, of Eleanor's first and only love being given to himself. For some inexplicable reason, he who had loved another woman so passionately that her unfaithfulness had well-nigh broken his heart, and ever afterwards influenced his own nature--he, who had been husband and father both--chose to make it an essential ingredient in the cup of married happiness, the virginity of his wife's whole heart and soul till he himself possessed them.

"I would as soon have married a widow," he said to his mother one day in the early summer, "as a woman who had had another lover, or at least an earlier love"

And his mother, being a wise woman, did not laugh at him; but she answered, "That is one of your weaknesses, my dear, and it surprises me the more because you are a man of sense and of experience. However, as you have what you prefer, it does not matter. Only, suppose you were mistaken?"

"There is no supposing; I know it for a fact. I asked Eleanor plainly whether she had ever loved before, whether there was any man in the world whom she would prefer to myself, circumstances being propitious to that other man; and she told me distinctly, 'No!'"

"But surely, if she had said 'Yes,' you would not have receded from your promise?"

"I don't know--I'm glad I was not tried. It would have been very hard to give up Eleanor."

"And very dishonourable, for such a reason! Many a woman has had her first dream of love, and had it over by the time she is one-and-twenty, and made none the worse wife for that, Richard Esdaile! First love is not of necessity the love of one's life. Girls often have an 'affair,' as it is called, which is really very sincere and sweet, and more or less profound, which is not, after all, the great love of the heart, which only is equally pure, passionate, tender, and reverential. The second love may be first in quality, though not first in order."

"You are a wise woman, mother,--far wiser than many of the women of my own generation, to say nothing of that to which my daughter might have belonged, and I dare say you are right; but for all that I cannot take kindly to second-hand affections."

"Do you remember those lines of our favourite Adelaide Procter?--

'Some gentle spirit--Love--I thought
Built many a shrine of Pain,
Though each false idol fell to dust,
The worship was not vain;--
But a faint radiant shadow cast
Back from our love upon the Past.'"

"All the same, mother dear, I am very glad that my Eleanor has had no false idols."

Now, as I have just said, Mrs. Esdaile, senior, was a wise woman, and, what is more, she was a highly-principled one,--not one of those foolish, dangerous women who say out at once whatever comes uppermost, regardless of the consequences. They call this candour, and value themselves on the transparency of their character, which is rather mere stupidity and reckless indulgence of the lips; there are no people in this world more mischievous than those of whom one feels constrained to say, "They meant no harm!" No, they did not mean it; they only did it! Perhaps, if they had meant it, they would not have done it so effectually. A child at play may burn down a house quite as completely as an accomplished incendiarist; and it is not much comfort to you, when you have lost all your worldly goods, and are weeping over the horrible fate of your kindred who have perished in the flames, to be told that the child never meant to do the mischief--it was only pleasing itself!

Now, Mrs. Esdaile knew the world, as any rational and tolerably clever woman of seventy who has lived her life--not droned it--must know the world. And she knew something of the Phipson family; and, though nothing had reached her ears derogatory to Eleanor herself, she had heard the girls as a whole spoken of in terms that were not respectful. The worst that was said of them was that they were fashionable schemers--vain, heartless flirts! And that worst, to a high-minded, religious woman like Mrs. Esdaile, seemed about as bad as it could be. She despised a flirt on principle; but, as she well knew, there are flirts and flirts--some who are merely silly and inconsequential, and who hurt nobody so much as themselves; and others--with all the grades between--who are downright wicked and vicious, who are sure to cause wretchedness in any circle they frequent. It is a pity they cannot be labelled like other subtle poisons which are fair enough to look at, but deadly in effect if tampered with. And it is wonderful how skilful this kind of flirt can be, how prudent, how guarded, going just to the boundary of what a not over-scrupulous society permits, yet never leaping the barrier--that fatal barrier to those who do pass it--a barrier which one of our recent and popular writers has referred to as a hedge of thorns, half hidden by the gaudy but envenomed flowers that hang about them. "A few scratches, and the boundary is past; but when the desperate wanderer pauses for a moment on the other side to look backwards, behold! the thorny hedgerow is transformed into a wall of brass that rises to the very skies, and shuts out earth and heaven." But--and I say it advisedly--those who only just pause on this side the hedge are equally to be shunned by all right-minded, sensible people, with those who do brave the thorns. The full-blown practised flirt--she is rarely very young--is a courtesan in her soul; and though her hands are clean as the world holds cleanness, her heart is not. No truly chaste woman ever gave herself up to actual flirtation, which is as far removed from the light-heartedness and gaiety of youth--though often confounded with it--as are the healthful breezes of the shore from the deadly miasma of the Roman marshes.

And this was very much Mrs. Esdaile's feeling. She had no opinion of the Phipson girls; but, as her Richard had married one of them, she would as soon have cut off her own right hand as have spoken aught to their disparagement. And, though she felt certain in her own mind that her son had been deluded, she did not foolishly try to rouse him from his delusion. She loved him too well to tell him--to hint to him--that the wife of his bosom was not as pure and true as he took her to be. It would have been a great relief to her to speak out just what she thought, but not on that account would she indulge herself; she was too unselfish to purchase any sort of comfort to herself at another's cost. There are times when self-control and guarded speech are to the full as primary virtues and as obligatory as honesty, integrity, and purity. You may refrain from lying, from slander, from unkind words, and yet sin with the tongue; simply because you do not, and will not, recognise the law of Christian charity, which bids you withhold the truth--if that truth will wound, perhaps past healing, another person's heart. Never say that which is untrue; but never say that which is true, if no good can come of it. If you cannot "speak the truth in love," keep silence. It is difficult to say which is most displeasing to God--the lie positive, or the truth spoken in wrath, or cruelty, or mere selfish lack of self-control.

No truth spoken in love or hatred could avail now to make Richard Esdaile's fate other than it was. He and Eleanor were husband and wife; and no one, not even the mother who bore him, and loved him as her own soul, had any right to come between them. With the two lives wrought by God's ordinance into one, neither friend nor foe, kinsman nor stranger, might intermeddle. All Mrs. Esdaile did say was, "I am not at all sure that you had any right to ask Eleanor the question you did; had she volunteered such a confidence it would have been different. You belonged to each other from the moment of your betrothal, but you had no claim to each other's past, to each other's private past at least. It was enough to know, to believe, I should say, that each was worthy of the other."

And Richard answered, "You are right, mother, as you always are! I ought not to have asked Eleanor so much; but, having received the answer I did, I am most thankful that I did ask. A nature less sweet and frank than hers might have resented the inquiry; as it is, her perfect goodness and ingenuousness only draw me closer to her, and make another bond between us."

Oh! how little dreamed the confiding Richard Esdaile of the existence of such a personage as John Thornton!

"It is all settled now," said Mr. Esdaile to his wife, a week or two after the eventful dinner party, as he drew the necessary cheques. "These which are owing I will pay myself; the rest is done with. You paid the florist and the other man, the silversmith, with whom we have no regular account?"

"Yes," said Eleanor, quietly. She had nerved herself so long to tell this lie, that when the time came for it she was surprised to find how small was the effort it required to tell it. She did not even blush, till Richard, in his characteristic business tone and style, added, "And you have the receipts quite safely?"

And again she answered, "Yes!" Most devoutly she hoped he would not ask to see them; she grew sick at the bare notion of being found out. She breathed freely again when he passed on to another and a more agreeable subject.

But she did not altogether escape! The season was quite over, the parks were brown and dusty, the glories of Regent Street were in decadence, and London was undergoing its annual process of being "emptied," which said process leaves it deserted by all its inhabitants, save a matter of two millions, or thereabouts! And the Esdailes were going to the English Lakes.

One morning, when Eleanor and her husband had been loitering over their breakfast-table, talking pleasantly of the journey they were to take, and arranging certain little matters as to luggage, route, and stopping-places, Richard suddenly looked at his watch.

"Oh, dear!" he cried, "how the time has slipped away this morning; and I have an engagement in the City at half-past eleven! My love, put away those maps, will you, and don't forget to order Miss Martineau's guidebook to-day. And let me have your housekeeping-books, and those receipts you hold; I wish to see that all is straight and square before I leave home, and to balance my banker's account. If we do, as we propose, make a tour through Wales when we leave the lakes, and visit Devonshire and Cornwall, it will be almost winter before we return."

Eleanor gave a sort of inarticulate assent, and her husband continued--"I shall be back to luncheon; and at four o'clock I am due at that private meeting of directors. We shall all dine together, I expect; so do not wait for me, and don't sit up for me, unless you like to, for we shall not break up till late. Let me have the books all ready, and don't forget the receipts--I want to file them. Not your own private receipts; of course, you take care of those, and I have nothing to do with them."

Once more Eleanor assented, and in another minute she was alone, and free to think what she should do. The books were not in a very satisfactory state, but that was not of much consequence; if Richard looked grave over them, she had only to coax him back into a pleasant humour. But the receipts which she had told him she had, she could no more produce than a title to the Crown estates. Yet something must be done. Suddenly she thought of what seemed to be the most natural and likely expedient--the Peacocks were home again, and Fanny must have plenty of money at command, and, of course, she would not object to refund.

"She promised me she would pay it as soon as she was married," said Eleanor to herself, as she rang for the carriage; "that will make it all right at once; and, if I can get out of this scrape, I will not get into another if I can help it."

Then she went and laid the books where Richard would find them when he came back from the City; as to the receipts which she hoped to procure, she must say she had forgotten them. She wished she really could forget them.

She found Fanny at home, and with her both Flo and Jenny. Indeed, Flo had not yet returned to Cadogan Place, and had no intention of returning thither, so long as she could remain an inmate of the Peacock mansion. "Mayfair suited her health," she said; and perhaps it did, for she looked a perfect Hebe, though rather stouter than it behoved Hebe to be. Fanny was looking very well, but florid and rather coarse, Eleanor thought. Jenny--who, of all the sisters, had the least claim to beauty, and the most vixenish temper--had evidently been saying sharp things. But, unamiable as she was, she was extremely fond of Kitty, whose interests she invariably espoused. In fact, the two younger girls had always clung together, and made common cause against the elder trio, who perpetually snubbed them, and would have kept them in the nursery, even after Kitty came home from school, a "finished" and grown-up young lady. There had been some passages between the sisters--Jenny versus Fanny and Flo--just before Eleanor came in.

"Does not Jenny look like an amiable thundercloud?" said Flo, when they had all exchanged salutations.

"What is the matter, Jenny?" asked Eleanor.

"Nothing unusual. Flo and Fanny laughing at Kitty and me--as if Kitty was not worth a hundred thousand Fannys, and an ocean full of Flo's, any day!"

"And how many Eleanors?" asked Mrs. Esdaile.

"Oh! you are not so bad; you never were," replied Jenny, who was certainly speaking the truth, though not in love. "Only, you never were half so brave, nor half so clever, as Kitty. Well, I'll say Kitty is worth about fifty Eleanors--not more."

"I am sure I am much obliged to her," said Eleanor, more amused than angry. "Has Kitty been distinguishing herself? I heard she was bent upon undertaking the housekeeping. How does she manage?"

"Just listen!" said Fanny, wrathfully.

"It's disgraceful!" put in Flo. "Kitty is the disgrace of the family. I shall be ashamed to show my face in Cadogan Place."

"Then don't show it; we don't care about seeing it,"was Jenny's retort.

"What has she done?" And Eleanor turned to Jenny.

"I'll tell you. She's determined to get out of debt, if possible; if not, to run up no more accounts. Well, there was no keeping out of debt with that cook; so Kitty, with papa's consent, determined to be quit of her, and of all the other servants too, except little Genders, whom we are going to train up in the way he should go."

"She was right there--only there was the question of wages; you can't give servants notice, and not pay them their due."

"There was the rub, of course! That cook has had ten times her wages, I dare say, but that did not alter our position as her debtor; her wages had to be paid. So, early next morning--the day after Fanny's wedding--Kitty came to me and asked me to go with her into New Bond Street to sell her jewels, that she might pay the servants. I was not going to be outdone on all hands, so I contributed my share, and we got ever such a nice lot of money--crisp bank notes, and bright new sovereigns; and then we came back, and Kitty attired herself en grande tenue, and sat down in the morning room, and ordered up all the servants. You should have seen how struck they were! Cook sent up word she could not come, she was busy with the dinner! Kitty sent down word she must come, she wanted her more than all the rest. So she came, wiping her elbows with her greasy apron and looking quite prepared to be saucy."

"I can well believe that. Everybody has been afraid of that cook ever since she came."

"No one will be afraid of her again, for she is gone. I expect she will apply to Fanny for a character, for Kitty will not give her one."

"I wonder she did go!"

"She could not help it. Kitty, with the utmost gravity and coolness, and with as much assurance as if she had been discharging servants for the last fifty years, said--'I think, cook, this is what is due to you; please to count it!' Cook looked greatly amazed, as well she might; but she counted the money twice over, and tried the notes and the sovereigns, and signed her name in the wages-book. Then Kitty gave her more money, saying,--'And here are a month's wages in advance; we are making changes; you will, therefore, leave immediately, to-night!'"

"'That I shan't,' replied cook; 'your pa may have told you to pay the wages, which is only the right thing to do, seeing how long they've been owed! but as for sending away valuable servants at a moment's notice, no one but a child, stuck-up by playing the missis, would do such a thing! I don't accept your notice, miss; I knows my duty to the family too well.' 'Jenny, just beg papa to come here for a minute,' said Kitty. Luckily he was in the house. He came, and cook appealed to him; he just replied--'My daughter has full authority to discharge you all--she is sole mistress here, and she no longer requires your services. Take your wages, and a month's pay in advance, and go, every soul of you! If the house is not clear in two hours I'll have in a policeman.'"

"And they went?"

"Yes, they went scared enough, especially cook, who cried and went off into kicking hysterics. By five o'clock all were gone, except Genders. Papa dined out, and we did well enough on the reversion of the wedding feast, which was nicely packed up ready to be sent away. A man came for it just at dusk; he did not know of our domestic exodus of course, and Kitty gave him audience. Oh! we have been pillaged right and left; something shameful comes to light every day!"

"But what do you do for servants?"

"We have some--only two though, besides Genders, and that is what makes Fanny and Flo so angry."

"But the cooking?"

"We have a very respectable young woman, who takes pains, and is willing to learn."

"Who is she to learn from?"

"From Kitty! And when Kitty is in difficulty she goes to Mrs. Vernon, who is very kind to us. Papa dined from home at our request, the first few days; now, between us, we serve up a very nice little dinner daily, and no fault found. Kitty and I both like cooking; it is quite as amusing as tatting. Of course we make mistakes, but we are getting better every day; and it's wonderful how little we contrive to do with. We pay for all we have, and we do not owe a penny for the housekeeping since Kitty took to it."

"Is it not disgusting to be own sister to two cooks, or rather to two maids-of-all-work?" said Flo.

But Eleanor did not seem so much disgusted; indeed, she was longing to change the subject and turn at once to her own necessities,--and the time was slipping by.

"First catch your hare," says the respectable Mrs. Glasse in her immortal cookery-book, and "first catch your opportunity" was Mrs. Esdaile's thought, when just as she was approaching her subject--the subject which had brought her to the house in Mayfair--she heard the Colonel stumping upstairs, and shouting as he came. He seemed to be quarrelling with someone in the hall below, and he made so much noise, and uttered such awful threats, and gave vent to such dreadful imprecations, that Eleanor turned pale and trembled, lest he should come into the drawing-room and treat them to the echoes of the storm, or, perhaps, to something worse. "What is the matter?" she asked her sister.

"I have no idea," replied Fanny, carelessly; "he is always getting up a disturbance with his people, as he calls them. I make a point of never interfering; it is a nuisance, but it cannot be helped."

"And does he always use language like that?"

"Always! It seems to be his native dialect, to which he naturally returns whenever he wishes to be impressive! just as we always used to burst into English when we quarrelled at school, though we were scrupulously keeping rules, and speaking French when the row began."

"But swearing and cursing can't be a gentleman's native language! I suppose he was not brought up in Seven Dials or Petticoat Lane?"

"I am sure I don't know, he might have been. He is not a gentleman, you know, I never thought he was. I dare say he rose from the ranks; he is very close about his early life. I only know that he was born in London some time last century; he has plenty of money; how he came by it is another thing: 'loot,' he says, whatever that may be!"

"It's plunder!" said Jenny, pertly; "what an ignoramus you are, Fanny."

"You are not disappointed in his income, then?" asked Eleanor.

"Oh, dear, no! but I am disappointed in being permitted to finger so little of it! The old wretch is a miser--who would have thought it? I believe he counts the candle ends; only last night he scolded and lectured me because I left my toilet candles burning when I was not in the room. And this morning at breakfast, while he was eating devilled something, that seemed to be made entirely of cayenne, he told Flo that she ate a great deal too much. For her figure and complexion, he added, but I know he meant for his pocket."

Jenny shrieked with laughter.

"Flo has an appetite!" she said; "there is no denying it."

Flo flushed up, and was going to recriminate, when Eleanor, feeling desperate, began:--"I must be going home, Fanny, and I came here purposely to ask you to--"

But ere she could finish her sentence the door was poked open with a stick, and the Colonel himself, yellower than ever, and certainly not in the sweetest of tempers, burst in upon them. He did not appear to notice Eleanor--at any rate he did not acknowledge her presence--but without any preamble "opened fire," as Jenny called it, and treated his wife to a torrent of mild abuse!

"Madam!" he shrieked, at the top of his wiry voice, "did I not last night, and again this morning, request, desire, and command you to put away that extra plate which we had out the day before yesterday ?--yes, the day before yesterday, and there it has been ever since lying about to tempt the servants, who are very easily tempted, no doubt, and to become the prey of the first marauder who gets scent of its whereabouts. If servants are not thieves themselves, they are always in league with thieves! Why was not that silver--massive silver, too!--properly attended to the first thing yesterday?"

"I am sure I do not know; I suppose no one thought of it," replied Fanny, with a yawn.

"No one thought of it! And pray, who ought to have thought of it? Who ought to have seen to it but the mistress of the house? What's a married woman fit for, if she does not guard her husband's property? That plate's worth seven hundred guineas, madam, if it's worth twopence halfpenny! And you are letting it toss about, and get scratched and tarnished, as if it were the commonest Britannia metal that ever came out of Brummagem! Those candelabras were wrought at Delhi, Mrs. Peacock; do you know that?"

"I think I have heard you say so!"

"You think!--you think!"

And the irate Colonel turned up his eyeballs, and rolled them most horribly; he looked as hideous as one of his favourite Indian deities, which, report declared, he really worshipped, having been converted, or perverted--which you like--to Hinduism during his residence among Orientals! It was even said of him, that he boasted of being a professed heathen, and referred to his creed as coolly as if it had been Romanism, or Methodism, or Quakerism, or any other of the numerous "isms" of Christian countries. If people looked aghast, so much the better; it was one of his particular recreations to startle decent English folk. But when he had done rolling his eyes, he began to utter expletives, which I may not repeat. If the earth had opened and swallowed them up, Fanny would not have been so very much astonished. Flo stopped her ears and ran out of the room; Jenny and Eleanor sat appalled. He finished up with--" By all the furies and fates, madam, what do you mean by sitting there, gaping in my face like a fool as you are, and telling me 'you think!' Ugh! I'll teach you to think to some purpose, Mrs. Peacock. What do you think I married you for, eh?--you! with not a penny to bless yourself with!"

"I didn't know you married me to be a servant," sobbed Fanny.

"Then you know it now! If a wife isn't a servant, she's good for nothing! I don't want you to scrub the floors and clean the pots, nor to do the cooking--you couldn't, poor wax-doll that you are! But I require you to do those things which every good wife takes a pleasure in doing; to look after certain things, to use your hands and your eyes, and your brains, if you have any. I am not going to let servants touch my dragon china, nor my gods, nor my Indian-wrought plate, nor my ivories, and when I'm ill, I shall expect you to wait upon me hand and foot, day and night. And the first thing you'll do, is to clean those candelabras."

"I clean them!" cried Fanny--"I never cleaned a spoon in my life."

"Then you must learn."

"But I can't! What hands I shall have! Ladies don't clean plate in England. I thought in India ladies did nothing at all but amuse themselves."

"Perhaps they don't! You are not in India, and if you were, I would find you something to occupy your time. In England or in India, at the Poles or the tropics, 1 won't have an idle wife. You can call cleaning the candelabras amusement, if you like; but clean them with your own hands you will!"

Fanny cried, and wrung her hands, which were beautifully white, to be sure. Playing on the piano in very desultory fashion, and working languidly in German wools and beads, were the hardest tasks they had ever tried; for Fanny and Flo were constitutionally lazy, and liked nothing better than a perpetual dolce far niente. And the more Mrs. Peacock wept, the more the Colonel stormed; till at last, Jenny, under pretence of administering sal-volatile, whispered, "You goose! leave off crying, and say you will do them. I will show you how. It won't hurt your hands to clean a little silver; you can wear gloves."

The Colonel, being at length somewhat pacified, or perhaps being tired of "rowing his womankind," as he elegantly expressed it, deigned to accost Eleanor, and inquire after her husband. Eleanor would have liked nothing better than to sweep out of the room, not deigning a reply; but she had the wisdom to perceive that by so doing she would not serve her sister's cause, but rather aggravate the difficulties of her position. So she replied coldly, but still politely, longing all the time to go away, yet dreading to depart without having first despatched the all-important business on which she came. The Colonel did leave the room at last, informing his wife as he did so that he should expect the candelabras to be brought for his inspection at five o'clock, when he came in from his ride. Jenny went and fetched one of them up; but it was clearly a silversmith's job. It required a practised hand to deal with that fine and exquisitely wrought metal, which was sadly tarnished with long disuse and imperfect packing during the homeward voyage. Jenny had cleaned their own chased silver tea-kettle only the day before, and Kitty had cleaned the epergne--much neglected under the late administration--with great success ; but these delicate filagree candelabras were quite another thing, and Jenny admitted that she dare not undertake them. Fanny began to cry again, and would have cried till five o'clock probably, had not Eleanor began once more "Fanny, I am sorry to trouble you just now when you are upset, and I must say Colonel Peacock is very rude and extremely unreasonable; but I must ask you to return me that £40."

"If ever I knew anything so unkind, so unsisterly!" moaned Fanny. "You see I'm not in a condition to attend to anything of the sort,"

"But you must attend, Fanny, for I am in extremity!"

"You in extremity! with your indulgent husband, and your handsome allowance, and lots of money for everything! Come, that won't do, Eleanor!" put in Flo, who had come back again now that the coast was clear.

"Flo, my business is not with you, and I'll trouble you not to interfere with my concerns; unless, indeed, you can lend Fanny a few pounds, should she be short of the whole amount."

Flo shrugged her shoulders with the true Parisian shrug which she had learned abroad, and made no reply. Fanny answered pettishly, "I can't think what you mean, Nellie; you cannot mean that you want, really want, the money."

"But I do, Fanny; and I must have it, if I ask the Colonel for it."

Fanny gave a little shriek--not an affected one, for she was really frightened. "You would not do such a thing; such a cruel, spiteful thing! I should run away and drown myself in the Serpentine if you did! You can't want the money, Eleanor!"

"But I do, Fanny," and Mrs. Esdaile began to lose patience; "you borrowed it on the express condition of paying it back after you were married, and you have been married now almost two months. You must have as much money by you."

"Pray why? when you, with your rich husband, are driven to dun me for it?"

"My husband is not so rich as Colonel Peacock, and he would give me the money twice over, if I dared ask him for it; but I dare not."

"Nonsense!"

"You know why I dare not, Fanny."

"Indeed I don't! If I had a husband like yours, I should not mind what I asked him."

"Yes, you would! You would mind asking him for the same money twice over--for money which you had told him was duly paid, and for which you pretended to hold the requisite acknowledgments."

"And you have told him that?"

"I have: I could not help myself. He asked me plainly if certain bills, for which that £40 was to provide, were settled; and what could I say but 'yes'? Then he inquired had I the receipts; and again I said 'yes'! To-day he asks for those receipts; he wants to file them, according to his invariable practice; he is waiting for them at this moment, I am afraid. And you know I cannot find them, because I have them not, and never had them! And the bills will be sent in at Christmas, if not at Michaelmas. I should not care half so much if I had not told him that lie--those two deliberate lies! And there is nothing he hates like a falsehood. I have heard him say there is not anything he could not and would not forgive, save deceit and lying."

"Really, Eleanor, you are very coarse," put in Flo; "one never talks about lies in polite society."

"No; we only tell them," replied Eleanor, bitterly. "Oh! that I had dared to tell Richard the truth! I should dare now to tell him I had spent the money, if I had not assured him that the accounts were paid, and the receipts in my own Davenport."

"Why not lose the key of your Davenport?"

"He would send for a locksmith, or perhaps find a key of his own to fit it. What would I give if I had not told my husband those two--well, falsehoods, if the other word disgusts you!"

"Lose the receipts, then! Really, Eleanor, how dull you are! Tell Mr. Esdaile you thought you had them in your Davenport, but you find they are not there; you have mislaid them, but they will turn up!"

"I cannot! I cannot deceive him any further; I cannot look into his kind, trusting face, and tell him any more lies."

"Crams!" suggested Flo.

"But something must be done," said Fanny, dolefully. "Eleanor, if I had the money, or only half of it, you should have it. But the Colonel keeps everything in his own hands, and gives me scarcely anything; and I paid a little bill for Flo, that she was in trouble about, only yesterday. And ask him for it, I dare not! I would as soon go into the lion's den, or pick up one of those snakes in the reptile house at the Zoo; I would indeed, Eleanor."

"He would not kill you, and he could not say worse than he has said this morning. If you asked him, he would give you £40, I suppose?"

"I am pretty sure he would not. He vowed he would not pay any of my debts contracted before marriage without being sued in a court of law for them. No! he would not kill me because he dare not, and I don't think he is tired enough of me for that. But he might beat me; he told me quite gravely, before we had been married a week, that he approved of wife-beating to a certain extent; that it was the only way to keep some women submissive, and make them attend to their duties!"

"The wretch!" exclaimed both Flo and Eleanor.

"And when I told him I hoped he would not beat me, he said, quite composedly, that would depend entirely upon myself; he should be extremely sorry to resort to personal correction, but still it might be necessary."

"The old heathen! he will find wife-beating does not answer in England. But once more, Fanny, what is to be done? I cannot go back without the money."

"Then you will stay here till Mr. Esdaile comes to look for you, I am afraid; for give you the money, or even £5 of it, I cannot!"

"Marrying for money does not appear to answer," remarked Jenny, drily. "Kitty and I do not seem to be worse off than you two, with your wealthy husbands."

Eleanor sighed, and Fanny cried a little more. Flo bade Jenny be silent, or speak sensibly.

"What shall I do?" said Mrs. Esdaile, mournfully. "I ought to be at home now."

"Just go home," returned Fanny, "and look as if nothing was the matter; and, when Mr. Esdaile asks you for the receipts, say you could not lay your hand upon them, but you will give them to him the moment you find them. I am sure that is true enough, without a word of fibbing."

"He would take it for fibbing, and it is fibbing."

"Yes, it is," cried Jenny,--"it is fibbing, and don't do it, Eleanor; it will only get you deeper and deeper into trouble! I don't believe in all this scheming, and prevaricating, and evading difficulties, neither does Kitty. We have seen enough of it, and we mean to be upright and downright, and go on our way straightforwardly."

"Dear me! how edifying," sneered Flo. "You will soon be equal to that pious boy, 'who never said nothing that wasn't a fact,' and hoped 'when he died he'd be put in a tract.'

"I wish I had never said anything that wasn't a fact," sighed Eleanor. "I would give my best bracelets and ear-rings to unsay what I have said about those unlucky bills. But I can't; the only way seems to be to go on deceiving--putting off the evil day as long as possible. Come it must!"

"It need not, if you only exercise common prudence," said Fanny.

"Eleanor, don't!" said Jenny, very earnestly. "I am not a good girl, for I have a temper like a lucifer match, and I've told hundreds of crams in my time; but I'm going to mend, and so is Kitty. And if I were you, Nellie, I would try the straight path."

"And I would, Jenny, if I were only out of this miserable tangle."

"You will never be out of it while you go on plotting to deceive your husband. Eleanor, your only way is to confess--to tell the truth to Mr. Esdaile."

"I cannot! oh, I cannot!"

"You can, if you will; a short, sharp agony is better than slow torture, especially when the agony is sure to come at last. Do, Nellie, summon up your courage; tell Richard you have done very wrong, and beg him not to be too angry; and then tell him all about it. There is great excuse for you; you have been so used to doubling and quibbling about money matters."

"He would not deem there was any excuse. He would say I had only to ask him for money and have it. I wish I had told him at first that I gave Fanny the £40. He would not have been quite pleased, perhaps, and I dare say he would have lectured me a little, but it would all have been over long ago; and I should have dared to look him in the face, which now I dare not do."

"Good gracious!" cried Fanny, who was still bathing her eyes with eau-de-Cologne and water; "what a goose you are, Eleanor! I declare it is you clever women who do all the nonsensical things. I believe, on my conscience, you have fallen in love with your husband."

Which was just about the truth. Slowly, and almost unconsciously, Eleanor was learning to love Richard Esdaile. She had been glad when he went away to Cumberland, and left her to her own devices--chiefly glad because she was left free to pursue the crooked policy which, just then, to her warped judgment, seemed imperative. But she missed him; after the first two or three days she missed him sorely, and when his return was postponed from day to day, and from week to week, she grew strangely anxious lest any evil should befall him. He wrote her such affectionate letters, too--letters that told her how dearly she was loved, how fully trusted--letters that taught her to know him as she had never, through all the months of their married life, learned to know him. And when at length he did come home, it was a sort of jubilee to her. She arranged his dressing-room herself, and ordered and countermanded so many things for dinner that her paragon of a cook almost lost her temper. Then she went to Euston Square to meet him, and her heart beat with joy when she saw the train approaching.

In those first hours of re-union, Eleanor had been more purely and intensely happy than ever before in her life, only there was the shadow between them, the remembrance of the rashly appropriated money, and the memory of those passages with John Thornton of which those letters were the evidence.

And now, as time passed on, Eleanor respected her husband more and more; she became very proud of him, she studied his tastes, she dressed to please him--the obedience which at first had been merely irksome, was fast becoming a delight. In short, Eleanor, at last, loved her husband, as he fancied she had loved him from the beginning. Could he have looked into her heart he would have seen there only a tender and ever deepening affection for himself, and nothing remaining of the old romantic passion for John Thornton.

She made no reply to Fanny's taunt, but she recognised the truth of her words, and she felt that it was not so much her husband's righteous anger she dreaded as the loss of his esteem and his trust, for with trust and esteem she knew full well his love would go also. "Yes," she said to herself as she went home, "yes, I love him! This is love! And I never knew it before. He is all the world to me, my own dear husband, and I must love him. He will never forgive the deceit, he will never have any confidence in me again! And can I blame him? No, I cannot; I have been a traitress from the beginning, and when he knows it he will spurn me from him, and cast me out of his noble heart. Oh! why did I not feel all this before? Now, my love--my very love which ought to be the crown and pride of my life, will punish me for my loveless marriage! What a wicked marriage it was; worse, far worse than poor Fanny's; and Richard thinks so ill of her. I remember Margaret telling me that a pure, true love, was like a new existence. And it has come to me too late--miserable me! I might have been the happiest of women had I only told the truth from the beginning! Dare I tell it now? Dare I confess, as Jenny advised? I could bear the shame, the humiliation of confession. I would bear it, if that were all; but oh! to see the blank horror in his face, to watch the disdain, the dread, the contempt creeping over it; to see him turn away coldly, bitterly, knowing that all that is best and sweetest in marriage is over between us--over before it has fairly begun; for I have only just found out what the joy of such a life as mine might have been, is like."

And so she bemoaned herself till she reached, all too soon, her own door, still undecided what course to pursue in this matter of the receipts. And in five minutes, or less, she must meet her husband, and answer somehow such questions as he should put.

After all, Eleanor was spared the ordeal she so much dreaded. She had loitered away so much time with her sisters that Richard was already dressing when she ran upstairs to take off her bonnet. He came into the room as she entered it. "Why, my love, where have you been?"he asked, as she sat down tired and breathless. "I waited luncheon for you in vain."

"I have been to Fanny's," she replied. A few weeks before she would have said she had been shopping, or making calls, or anything else that sounded plausible, rather than tell a disagreeable truth to her husband, who so strongly objected to the Peacocks. "Do not go there oftener than you can help, my dear," was his answer, as he went up to her and took her in his arms. She burst into tears, for she was not very strong or very well, and the worry and anxiety of the morning had tried her. Never had her husband seemed so inexpressibly dear; never before had she realised how horrible, how hateful was the deceit she had practised towards him. Oh! if she might only go back and begin her married life again! How wretched now appeared to her the tangled web, the tortuous policy to which she had been so long accustomed; and, being once involved in the cruel meshes of falsehood, how impossible was escape!

"My darling! what is it?" asked Richard, tenderly, soothing her. "I have not vexed you, surely?"

"Oh, no! no!" she sobbed; "you are too good to me, Richard. I shall not want to go and see Fanny again; I felt I must go this morning, but I shall not go again till I can help it. You were quite right, Richard--it is a horrible marriage. You are quite sure you are not angry with me, Richard?"

"Angry, dearest! What could make you think of such a thing? You are over-tired, Eleanor; I cannot have you excite yourself in this way; you are quite hysterical! There! leave off crying, there's a dear. Shall I call your maid?"

"No, please, don't!" was all Eleanor could say.

She was not a fine lady, and so she tried to swallow down the lumps that rose in her throat, and struggled to be calm; and she succeeded. The demon hysteria may nearly always be exorcised if no countenance be shown him at his first appearance. It is the welcome he too often receives, and the petting and the fuss, that encourages him to stop and make himself obnoxious.

So Eleanor, like a wise woman, dried her eyes, and lay down at her husband's bidding, while he fetched her a glass of wine and a biscuit. He had a supreme contempt for camphor-julep, chloric ether, sal-volatile, and all the fashionable remedies for these maladies our grandmothers called "the vapours"; and he believed stoutly and most unsentimentally in eating and drinking.

"I must leave you now, dear, or I shall be too late," he said, when Eleanor was quite composed. "Lie still awhile, and get some sleep if you can; then have a good dinner, and go early to bed. Do not think of sitting up for me; I shall not be home much before midnight."

He stooped down to kiss her, and once more the ready tears burst forth.

"Oh, Richard, you are sure you Jove me?"

"You know I do, Eleanor! Why should you ask me? I am not a man of many professions; but do I not show my love continually? Can you not perceive, without any words of mine, that nothing in this world is half so precious to me as you are? But, if you want words--yes! I love you more than life!"

"And I love you more than I thought it was in me to care for any one," she murmured, "and if you left off loving me, I should die. I could not live without your affection now, Richard!'

Mr. Esdaile looked and felt greatly puzzled,--all this was so unlike Eleanor. He took a chair by her sofa, and said, "I will stay a few minutes longer till you are quieter. My dear, I cannot think what you mean! Am I likely to cease loving you, or to love you less? You have been reading some silly novel I suspect, some pathetic story, in which a wretch of a husband coolly breaks his wife's trusting heart!"

"No, no, indeed."

"Then you have been brooding over those lines you showed me the other day?:--

"'Thus, if thou wilt prove me, dear,

Woman's love no fable,

I will love thee--half a year,

As a man is able.'"

"No, no! I am not so silly," said Eleanor, half laughing. "That is a very stupid verse, and I don't believe in it, nor in any of those rhymes about men being 'deceivers ever,' and 'to one thing constant never.' At any rate, I do not class you with common men."

"Thank you, my dear; I think I may assure you that I shall never deceive you any more than you will deceive me."

Eleanor gave a great gasp; she could not help it. Something seemed to pierce her heart as he uttered those words with so much security, such evident faith in her truth. Oh, if only he knew! She felt half inclined to tell him that she had already deceived him, that till lately her whole married life had been a lie, but she could not summon up the courage to risk so much so speedily. Besides, he was in a hurry, and she must not detain him, she told herself. She could only say, "I am not half good enough for you, or to you. Some day you will see me as I am, and then you will not love me--so much!"

"When that day comes, we will talk about it," he said, merrily; "you are quite good enough for me at present. Now go to sleep, there's a dear child, and wake up your own bright bonnie self!"

And this time he really left the room, and very soon the house; but as he drove to the offices of the "Royal and Imperial Anglo-Franco Life and Fire Insurance Company," of which he was the chairman, he held a short conversation with himself to this effect:--"I wonder what is the matter with her! I never saw her at all like this before, though I have noticed a change in her ever since I came back from the north. My mother shall see her to-morrow, and have a talk with her; she is decidedly hysterical! One thing is certain, she loves me with all her heart; I will never complain to myself again that she lacks depth and tenderness. Bless her, my darling! she has made me very happy--far happier than I supposed I could be after all those wretched experiences of my earlier life, and I will make her life--please God--all peace, and joy, and sunshine! She shall never know a care; I will shelter her from every grief; for her sake I will even, if she wish it, be cordial with those uncomfortable relatives of hers!"

And Eleanor lay on the sofa when her husband left her, trying vainly to do his bidding and go to sleep. She thought till her head ached, and still reached no conclusion. "If he were only less unsuspicious," she said--"if only he did not trust me so implicitly; if only he were not so completely satisfied with his sorry bargain, it would not be so dreadful. There is something so base in deceiving one's own husband, and such a husband as mine; but having once begun, there is no leaving off. If I could only be brave enough to tell him all the truth, to risk the loss of what I value most in all the world, he might forgive me, he loves me so much--yes! I think, in time, he would forgive me; but he would never trust me again; he would never more believe what I told him. There would be estrangement and coldness between us; and, oh, how bitterly he would be disappointed! I cannot bear to inflict on him the pain he would endure in knowing my unworthiness, and I cannot bear the pain that would fall to my own lot in losing his full trust and perfect love. I never was trusted before--yes, poor John trusted me. How ill I behaved to him! what a wretched creature I am! I know now I never really loved him, though I quite thought I did. I shrank from facing poverty for his sake, but I would face anything rather than part from Richard. I would be a poor man's wife, and rejoice in every privation, if Richard were the man, and all was straight between us, and no need of wretched concealments. Now I understand Margaret's quiet constancy. I will go to Margaret and consult her again; I have great faith in her judgment and fullest confidence in her goodness. It will be some comfort to tell all to her; it is horrible to bear this weight alone!"

Now it chanced that Eleanor had written to Margaret, telling her of her speedy departure for the north, and begging her to come to see her before she went. And Margaret, having special business in the Strand, got into a Hammersmith omnibus and came on to Kensington, so that when at last Eleanor fell asleep, she was presently awakened by her maid, who stole quietly up to the sofa with a visiting card in her hand.

"I cannot see any one," said Mrs. Esdaile, impatiently; "I told you, Judkins, I was not at home to any one."

"But this, ma'am, is the lady I heard you telling my master you wished so much to see; and she said it was arranged that she should come to Kensington one day before you left town, and to-day is the only day she could spare."

"Give me the card," said Eleanor, quickly. "Oh, yes! I will see her, of course; you were quite right not to deny me to Mrs. Mann. Put my hair straight; no, you need not dress it at all, only make it decent."

In five minutes Mrs. Esdaile was in the drawing-room welcoming Margaret with effusion. "You could not come at a better time," she said; "my husband will not be home till late, and I should have been quite alone all the evening if some prosperous gale had not wafted you hither. Besides, Margaret, I do want to talk to you."

"And my husband will not be home at all to-night, business detains him; so I thought I could not do better than pay the long deferred visit. I am so glad to have found you alone; but you are not looking well, Eleanor!"

"I have had the headache; I tired myself this morning, and I have been sadly worried. But, first of all, let us have some tea. You have dined, I suppose?"

"Hours ago," said Margaret, laughing. "I had my dinner at half-past twelve, to suit my own convenience. I can call it luncheon, if it shocks you very much. What is your dinner hour?"

"Eight, I believe; though it is sometimes later."

"Well, when I want to be fashionable, I shall call my dinner luncheon, and my supper dinner; it will all come to the same thing."

"That it will; only I suppose late dinners suit some people. It is all habit. We will have our tea in my boudoir, Margaret; it will be more cosy than in this vast drawing-room; besides, no one will disturb us upstairs. I am not at home to-day."

"The servants said you were 'not at home,' replied Margaret, gravely. "Luckily, I thought of sending my card to your own maid, or I should have had to take the next omnibus, and go back to Kennington as best I might."

"A general 'not at home' has its disadvantages, certainly."

"The chief disadvantage being that it is untrue."

Eleanor coloured.

"Everybody understands it. It only means that you are engaged."

"It would be quite as easy to say so."

"So it would; only one does what other people do. But I will think of what you say, Peggy"

Eleanor felt quite revived when she had had two cups of tea, and she made Margaret eat some chicken and tongue, for it was almost five hours since her very early dinner, and she must be hungry. And Eleanor herself enjoyed a sandwich, and tasted with approbation the new apricot marmalade cook had sent up. Altogether, the impromptu high-tea at five o'clock was a success.

When the tea-things were carried away, and the two young women shut in together, Margaret was the first to break silence. "Eleanor," she said, "what a beautiful house you have! And this room seems to be the gem of all the house; everything in it is perfect."

"Yes; Richard chose everything in it, and he has exquisite taste. Turning the balcony into a conservatory was a masterpiece of design, though I am told it disfigures the outside of the house."

"Never mind that. It is delicious to sit here among these ferns and flowers. You must give me a handful of mignonette and heliotrope to take home with me, Eleanor."

"You shall take home a bouquet the size of a besom if you like; we have plenty of flowers. Margaret, I went to see Fanny this morning."

"Is Mrs. Peacock quite well?"

"As well as she can be under the circumstances, which seem to me about as shocking as circumstances can be. Fanny is not at all squeamish, or she would not be where she is; but even she finds that things are worse than were expected, and almost intolerable. She has put herself into the power of a tyrant--a cruel, unprincipled despot--who cares only to pamper his own whims and vices, and fears neither God nor man." And Eleanor gave some account of her morning in Mayfair, not omitting the episode of the forty pounds, for--to Margaret at least--she determined to make a clean breast of it, and conceal nothing. She told her all, without reserve.

Margaret was greatly shocked. "And you really have told your husband those deliberate falsehoods?" she said, at last. "Oh, Nellie, how could you?"

"How could I, indeed! But Margaret, my eyes are only just opened. For the first time in my life I hate myself for not having spoken the truth. I would give all I have to give if I could unsay those few fatal words--those two affirmatives which will for ever compromise me in my husband's eyes, and perhaps exclude me from his heart."

"You can unsay them; you must unsay them, unless you mean terrible mischief to ensue."

"I meant that I wished they had never been said! I meant that I wished I had said--'Richard, forgive me, but I have violated your trust; I have spent the money; I gave it to Fanny.' As for unsaying it, in the sense you mean, it seems to me, the more I think about it, the more impossible."

"It would require an effort, I know--a very painful effort; but God would help you to do it if you asked Him."

"I cannot ask Him. It would be hypocritical, for I do not wish to make the effort. But do not condemn me too strongly, Margaret. It is not that I dread the shame and humiliation of confession. I would not shrink from any punishment but the one which I know will fall upon me. It is not my pride, but my heart, that must suffer, when this thing is made known to Richard. He will cease to love me, he will spurn me from him; I shall be for ever disgraced in his eyes."

"And that will be a great grief to you--touching your affections rather than your pride."

"Yes, Margaret; for I love my husband! I love him as I suppose you love Arthur Mann; for, if Richard were as poor as he is wealthy, I should choose him now, out of all the men in London--aye, in all the world! I know now that I never loved John Thornton. Margaret, if the positions of those two could be reversed, and if I were free this hour to choose again, I should not hesitate a moment. It is Richard, my husband, whom I should take, and think myself the happiest of women."

"Thank God!" said Margaret, deeply moved; "thank God for that! Now I have hopes that all will yet be right."

"But do you not see how my love may turn to my punishment? If I cared for Richard no more than I did when I was so wicked as to marry him, his displeasure could not hurt me a tenth part so much. It is only the anger of those whom we fondly love that grieves us to the heart."

"I know that; but, Eleanor, you have sinned, and sin invariably brings its own punishment. In some way or other we are certain to suffer the consequences of wrongdoing. Is it not better at once to face the penalty, to bear the burden, trusting to God to lighten it, and remove it in His own good time?"

"It may be better; but to tell me to go and confess to Richard, is like asking me to sharpen the knife that is to cut off my own right hand."

"And if there were gangrene in the hand it would be safer to have it cut off, even if you had to assist in the operation. Better lose the hand than lose your life: better willingly resign something than have to give up all! Nellie, do let me persuade you; tell all without reserve to Mr. Esdaile."

"You do not know Richard. He is good and noble, and, oh, so loving! But deceit is the one thing he abhors, the one thing he never pardons."

"What a blessing that with God our Father there is no one thing which He never pardons! But, Nellie, never is a long day! You might have to suffer your husband's displeasure for awhile, you might feel most painfully his coldness and his natural distrust, but if he truly loves you he cannot put you out of his heart, he cannot continue to be angry. Besides, he is more likely to forgive you speedily, and to trust you again, if you voluntarily tell him the truth, than if you leave him to find it out, as he certainly will do in the long run."

"I will never, no, never, tell him another untruth!' said Eleanor, in an agony. "It is the untruth, not the money, I care about now. Of course, it was not right to appropriate it to my private use, without asking his permission, but that he would overlook if I told him I was sorry; that I had done it--as I really did--in a moment of impulse, and that it should not occur again."

"He may even yet ask you for those receipts; probably will. What will you answer?"

"I don't know," said Eleanor, wringing her hands in her distress. "I can't tell the truth, and I can't bear to tell him another lie."

"You must tell him the truth, Eleanor; it is your only remedy, and if you are wise you will tell him unasked. Oh! cannot you see that your whole happiness for life, and his too, depends upon your conduct in this emergency? Another falsehood will lead to another and to another, and sink you still deeper in the mire; and silence only aggravates the first offence. What shall I say further to convince you?"

"Nothing! for I am convinced. It is only that I cannot--dare not do the right."

"Then God help you!" said Margaret, mournfully; "for a long and bitter suffering is before you."

"Suppose I could manage to pay the money?"

"But you cannot, you say?"

"There would not be time to save it out of the housekeeping. You see I have not an allowance, and I could not very well tamper with the tradesmen's books."

"And you would not, surely? To cheat in that way would be too dastardly, too detestable."

"Nevertheless, that is what we girls did; we thought nothing of it. But papa was so easily hoodwinked. We all did it, we three elder ones. Jenny and Kitty are going on quite another tack. But if I would do it with Richard, I could not; and he 'always settles accounts with crossed cheques, payable only to the tradesman to whom they are due. And he goes over the accounts too; your Arthur, with less than £200 a year, could not be more particular."

"My Arthur never troubles himself at all about the accounts. He gives me the money I require, and I do the best I can with it; but then we have no running accounts; a weekly bill at the baker's and butcher's is all I permit. I never owe anything on Saturday night, and I nearly always have something in hand when my husband gives me a fresh supply."

"Then do you hold with what is called a 'private purse'?"

"Indeed, I do not! I never knew a private purse come to any good; and unless you are unhappily married to a drunkard, or a gambler, or a spendthrift, you have no right to keep one. But Arthur knows exactly what I save, and what it is for."

"What is it for?"

And then Margaret, colouring, half with young matronly pride, and half with something that is very like maiden shamefacedness, whispered her secret to Eleanor.

"When will it be?" asked Eleanor, grasping her friend's hand tightly in her own.

"In the early spring, I think, if all go well, God will send us a little child. Oh! Eleanor, it is almost too much happiness. I scarcely dare to trust myself to think of it, it makes me so intensely happy."

"Does it? The same thought makes me unhappy. Richard will not love my child, he will say--'it will be like its mother, it will deceive me as soon as it knows how.' He will not care for it. I know he was not sorry that that other little child died, years ago--he said it was better so, than if it had lived to darken his life, as its mother did. Poor Richard! it is very hard upon him, that he is never to have a wife whom he can trust! Yet, if bygones might be bygones, he might trust me--I would never, no, never, deceive him again, not even by a hair's breadth! If I could only get straight now! Could I not sell some of my jewels?"

"You could not sell any that your husband gave you; it would not be right."

"And I have nothing of any worth that he did not give me. My old watch and chain I gave to Flo, when I married, because Richard gave me this costly little thing, set with diamonds in enamel, and this valuable chain. If I sold every trinket I possessed as Eleanor Phipson, they would not fetch £15; for most of my handsomest looking ornaments were only good imitations--Palais Royal toys and Burlington Arcade trifles. It was all of a piece with the rest--nothing true or solid, nothing genuine; still, if I could pay those bills, so as to have the receipts to show when I was asked for them,--it would be such a relief!"

"Receipts are generally dated--the date would betray you."

"So it would; it seems to me there is no way of escape."

"Except the simple one of telling the truth. Nellie, do you remember one of our French copies at Crosby House-- 'fais ce que tu dois, advienne que pourra'?"

"Do one's duty, betide what may!" replied Eleanor with a sigh. "Oh, if I only dared to--'ce que dois!'"

"It is the only thing left to do."

"But I have not bravery enough for the advienne que pourra.'"

"Trust that to God. He will make it right. You may be sorely tried, but all will be well at last. Oh, Nellie, dear, do what is right at any present cost. In the years to come you will never repent the price you paid for that you have secured."

We have forgotten Bernard and Theodora Wingfield too long. While Eleanor was queening it in her stately Kensington mansion, and while Margaret was equally queening it in quite another style in her humble, happy home at Kennington, Theodora and her husband were expatiating on foreign soil, following no beaten route, respecting neither Murray nor Baedecker, but consulting only their own sweet will, as they wandered about Germany, the Tyrol, and Northern Italy. It was the end of September now, and they had talked, though only vaguely, of wintering at Rome; they were still in Florence.

It was the close of a beautiful day, and the glare and heat of the vintage sunshine was over. The red lights still burned in the purple west, but the east was already flooded with a pale silver radiance, as of the rising moon, and Theodora said to herself, as she stood out in the grey stone balcony, looking over the Val d'Arno and Monte Morello, "It will be a glorious night; we will sit here again as we did last night, if only those horrid mosquitoes will not be too troublesome."

And presently she went into the saloon, and brought out a small table, on which she proceeded to arrange a flask of Falernian wine, a basket of delicious grapes, and another of golden green figs, rich and luscious to the taste. Then she placed two chairs close together, and sat down upon one of them to watch for her husband, who had gone to visit, for the last time, the church of Santa Croce; for they had talked of going on to Siena in a day or two. Theodora had been out herself in the heat of the early afternoon, and was too tired to accompany him. He had promised to be back in little more than an hour, but now full two hours had elapsed and he had not yet returned. Theodora wondered where he could be, and she felt impatient at his prolonged absence; not anxious, for there was really nothing to be anxious about, but vexed that he stayed away from her; willingly she would not have been separated from him for a minute, and she had let him go alone with some reluctance, and would have insisted on accompanying him, had he not rather authoritatively bade her rest, and get rid of the headache which the sun had given her.

The red glow faded, and flushed again upon the hilltops, and then died out with the deep purple of the calm night sky. One by one the stars shone out, and the moon rose high in heaven, full-orbed and lustrous, flooding the fair valley and the olive slopes with a pure mellow light that was neither silver nor golden, but something between the two; and still there was no tall figure to be seen on the white, winding road below the villa; no sound of longed-for, familiar footsteps advancing on the rocky path; no sign of that for which she watched and waited, at first patiently, but at length in an agony of nervous expectancy. The hour grew late--later, and later still, and yet no Bernard Wingfield came. The servants entered and lighted the lamps in the saloon, and she herself grew chilly as she sat straining her weary eyes into the shadowy distance, and fancying continually that she heard afar off the first faint footfall for which she listened.

At length she went indoors, taking back the fruit and wine she had brought out nearly two hours before, and she took a book and tried, in vain, to read; she could not feel the smallest interest in the page before her, though the subject treated was one to which she had lately given much attention. She was too restless to sit still; now and then she read like Hamlet--"Words, words, words," the sense of which she could not take in; and every few minutes she stepped out into the balcony to look and to listen for signs of Bernard's approach.

"I will go and look for him," she said, presently, when the sweet bells of Florence filled the air with the melody of their late chimes--it was already half-past ten! "Oh, my darling! something has happened to you, for you would not stay away from me so long. Oh, my God! what shall I do if any evil has befallen Bernard--my own Bernard?"

Theodora was what the world at large would call a religious woman, inasmuch as she performed all those religious duties which society demands of us. She went to church twice every Sunday; occasionally she went to morning prayers during the week; she always "said" her own prayers--that is, she had a certain prescribed form of private devotion, which she never neglected, even when hurried or sleepy; and on a table in her dressing-room were a Bible, a Book of Common Prayer (for of course Theodora was a "Churchwoman," so called), a "Christian Year," a "Sacra Privata," and several other good little volumes which she was supposed to study in the hours of her retirement. But of true religion Theodora was as destitute as a beggar of silver and gold--the form of Christianity was all she possessed; and it never even struck her that there was anything further to be enjoyed. She believed in God as the Ruler of the world, and she called Him "our Father," when twice a day, and oftener on Sundays, she repeated the Lord's Prayer. She would have told you if you had asked her, that salvation came by Jesus Christ; for she had been duly instructed in all the Christian faith, and she thought it quite proper to receive the Holy Communion at Easter and on Christmas-day.

But God, her Father, her Friend, her Guide, she did not know. Christ her Saviour, her Redeemer, her risen Lord was as much a stranger to her as if she had been brought up in the creed of Brama. In her early years she had sometimes wondered how people could talk about the comforts of religion, and she had asked herself whether such religion as she had were worth anything at all. And, when she read the hymn which tells us

" 'Tis religion that can give,
Sweetest pleasure while we live;
'Tis religion must supply
Solid comfort when we die,"
she came to the conclusion that it could not be the kind of religion she had been taught, and which she professed. Her religion certainly did not give either pleasure or sweetness to her life, and what solid comfort it could yield in the hour of death she could not imagine. And yet--there was Margaret! her religion surely had something to do with her happiness, and she talked to her about it, and Margaret talked to her and told her of the rest which is found in God alone, and of the peace which passeth all understanding. But she spoke a strange language. Theodora was as one who hears only with the outward ears, and she could not understand her cousin, as she always called Margaret, though there was no tie of blood between them. It sounded very well, very sweetly indeed; but she might just as well have listened to a treatise on acoustics, or on any of the ologies in which she was not much interested. She supposed the difference lay in the form of religion, for Margaret was a Dissenter--"a sort of Methodist," according to Mrs. Leigh, who, in common with many others of her class, called everything Methodism which was not Episcopalianism.

Then came a change in Theodora's life. She knew and loved Bernard Wingfield, and was soon his promised wife: and her love for him so absorbed every thought and feeling that she ceased to think of everything and anything which was not closely associated with him. The days of her courtship were blissfully happy, and her bridal-days were happier still. "Who says there is no such thing as perfect happiness in this world?" she said one day exultingly to her husband; "can anything be fuller and deeper and more satisfying than our love for each other?"

And Bernard kissed her and told her that she had made him very happy, and that he would not for worlds have aught otherwise than as it was. He was perfectly satisfied with his life, for he was very much in love, as men of his type generally are at least once in the course of their lives. Even Theodora's exacting nature--exacting only where love was concerned--was satisfied, "more than satisfied," she often told herself, for she found in Bernard so much more than she had supposed could be found in any living creature! Her married life was so gloriously, blissfully happy! and that it would be so to the end she never doubted. And all this while--this sweet, happy, unshadowed while--she had scarcely thought of God; she had had no need of Him. Even the outward forms had been neglected. God was not in all her thoughts. He was scarcely in her thoughts at all. She never thanked Him for the unspeakable blessings she enjoyed, and yet the moment sorrow touched her she called to Him to help her! Long afterwards, when all was darkness, and anguish, and weariness of spirit, she read these lines:

"And were it wisely done
If we who cannot gaze above, should walk the earth alone?
If we whose virtue is so weak, should have a will so strong,
And stand blind on the rocks to choose the right path from the wrong?
To choose, perhaps, a love-lit hearth instead of love and heaven.
A single rose for a rose-tree which beareth seven times seven?
Until in grieving for the worst, we learn what is the best?
.....Dear God, and must we see
All blissful things depart from us or ere we go to THEE?
We cannot guess Thee in the wood, or hear Thee in the wind;
Our cedars fall around us ere we see the light behind.
Ay, sooth, we feel too strong, in weal, to need Thee on the road,
But woe being come, the soul is dumb that crieth not on GOD!"

She had read them before, of course, and she had felt their true poetry; but then, for the first time, she understood them; they became the utterance of her own sad soul, and she remembered that sweet September night when under the vintage moon she had kept watch so long, and cried in her wild, vague dread of she knew not what coming evil, "Oh, my God, what shall I do?"

The clocks were striking eleven when at last Bernard did come home; and Theodora had on her hat and scarf to go and seek him, and was taking one final look over the balustrade, when at last the well-known form was seen upon the moonlit road. He came upstairs quickly and entered the room looking rather tired, but still quite animated. Theodora rushed at once into his arms, crying, Oh, Bernard, where have you been?"

"Why! what is the matter?" was his response, as he returned her caress.

"I thought something must have happened, you stayed so long--so very long."

"Is it so late? Dear me, I had no idea it was ten o'clock! And so you frightened yourself, Dora?"

"Yes! You promised to be back in about an hour!"

"An hour or two, I said, darling; and everybody knows that an hour or two means an indefinite period."

"Then nothing has happened to you?"

"Nothing! I have not even been so unlucky--according to the Italian notion--as to sneeze; nor do I think the evil eye has been upon me. What were you afraid of, Dora? Had you visions of fierce banditti lurking under those low vineyard walls? or did you picture to yourself a foe in ambush, with a stiletto in his hand? or did you fear that I had been seized on suspicion of Carbonarism and hurried off to the state prisons?"

"I did not know what I feared, only you stayed so long, and I got so frightened about you. And--and--you knew I was quite alone!"

"My pet, I forgot the flight of time. You know I wanted my last look of Santa Croce to be by moonlight. Well, in the first place, the moon had not risen high enough to light up the church, and so I waited for her ladyship. And while I waited, and loitered in the piazza, I heard voices talking in English, and voices that I thought I knew, and so I looked, and there were my friends the Marshalls. Marshall and his wife, and two daughters, and a son, besides Miss Fotheringham, Mrs. Marshall's sister--a very charming and superior woman! Of course we had a great deal to say to each other, and then the moon having risen sufficiently to serve our purpose, we went into the church and had a talk about the octagonal shape of the pillars, and discussed Alfieri and his countess, and Galileo, and all the rest of the worthies whose ashes repose in the Santa Croce. And then, when we had taken our fill of seeing and criticising, and were once more in the open air, Mrs. Marshall insisted that I should have a cup of coffee with her, at her lodgings in the Via Larga, close to the Riccardi Palace--and I went, of course. Marshall and I were always great friends, you know, and I like his wife, and his sister-in-law, Dorothea Fotheringham. By the way, her Christian name and yours are the same, only hers is reversed. I have promised to take you to see them to-morrow."

"Are they going on to Rome?"

"Yes! in a few days--in a fortnight at the latest. They have engaged rooms in the Piazza di Spagna, and mean to stay all the winter, till next Easter, I believe."

"We shall see enough of them, then!"

"They are very nice people--you will like them, I am certain."

"I am sure they are very nice, or you would not cultivate them. But, Bernard, is it very, very silly?--we have been so very, very happy alone together, that I shrink from anything like a return to society. We have been all the world to each other. Have we not?"

"No doubt we have, and in some sense we always shall be, I hope. But, my dear child, this delicious, easy-going, Elysian life we have led so long cannot possibly go on! You must know that. And don't you think, pet, it is quite time we went back to rational life? We have had a four months' honeymoon, have we not?"

"I suppose so! Yes, it is four months since we married. But is this life of ours so very irrational, that you talk of returning to a rational state of existence? We have not been a silly couple, doing nothing but make love like a pair of turtle-doves; we have read together, and studied together, and sketched and botanised, and discussed politics. I do not think we have been so very irrational."

There were tears in her voice, though there were none in her eyes, and something in her tone jarred, though slightly; it was difficult to say whether Bernard noticed it or not. He was looking quite amiable, but decidedly preoccupied.

"Must we go and see the Marshals to-morrow?" said Theodora, presently.

"Of course you need not if you do not like; but I want you to know my friends, and I want to show them my wife. Dora, my darling, I do think it is quite time we began to acknowledge the claims of the outer world."

"You are tired of connubial bliss?"

"No! no! not tired of our life together, dearest! But I have been idle so long, I begin to feel a longing for my work."

"You have been working! Why, your notebook is full--to say nothing of those papers you wrote in the Tyrol."

"Mere amusement, my dear. Literature is a dame who will not be coquetted with--she will have more than promiscuous attentions; she is the most jealous mistress in the world, except, perhaps, Art. I dare say Art is quite as exacting."

"But mistresses must give way to wives."

"Not such mistresses as Literature and Art, and I recognise no others. I have an idea that I want to carry out, and I must forthwith begin the scheme of another volume. I am eager to find myself, pen in hand, once more with a settled purpose in my mind."

"I shall like you to write another book my dear. I would not for the world that men should think you deteriorated by your marriage. You don't know how proud I am of your works--of your celebrity as an author, Bernard; nobody writes as you do."

"You stupid little thing, there are plenty of people who write far better and more ably than I do or can write. There are many more popular authors than I!"

"More popular, yes! I should not care for you to be simply popular! Popularity is not the true test of worth."

"It is one that the world at large recognizes, however."

"Never mind the world, it has not a proper appreciation of the best and highest form of genius. I wish we might live out of the world."

"In some modern Patmos where we might enact Mr. and Mrs. Robinson Crusoe?"

"Or in some quiet, secluded Eden of our own, where we might forget the world, and the world might forget us. I would be quite satisfied with your society, Bernard. But I suppose men are different from women."

"Decidedly," replied Bernard, with some emphasis. "My love--and you are my love!--I could not play Hercules to your Omphale, nor Sardanapalus to your Myrrha. I must do my work in the world; I must mix with the world; I must be of the world in which I have won my place. I must study men as well as nature. I must progress. On the giddy stair of literature one cannot stand still--one must climb, climb, climb, or submit to be jostled a few steps lower down by other and more determined climbers."

"Are there no little landing-places on the stair where you might rest awhile, and neither go forward nor fall back?"

"To be sure there are! And on such a happy landing-place I have rested these four months, nay, Dora, I might say six months; for I did little to any purpose save correct the proofs of that new edition for several months before I married. Marshall asked me to-night what I was writing, and when I replied 'Nothing!' he said, 'Ah! they do say artists and literary men should never marry; either they make bad husbands, or they are lost to their profession.'"

"Mr. Marshall must be a very impertinent and unpleasant person."

"He is neither, my dear; be is a very well-bred, highly-cultivated, noble-minded man. He and I have been friends and allies ever since we were at school together, and we always did, and always shall, I hope, speak freely to each other."

"For all that I do not like your Mr. Marshall." And Theodora looked almost cross, and positively plain; for, as I told you, her beauty depended almost entirely on expression. "It was a very unkind and a very unjust thing to say," she went on, "knowing as he did, that you were a married man. You will not be lost to the literary world, I am certain, and still more certain I am that you will never make a bad husband."

"I hope not," and Bernard laughed at her impetuosity, and told her to pour him out some wine. "Oh, dear!" be sighed, as he ate some curious little cakes, "how I should like some cold roast beef, or the breast of a fine fat English barn-door chucky, with a slice of York ham, tonight. If I lived here ten years, I should never get reconciled to Italian cookery."

"I do not like it, the garlic is so unpleasant, and things are so greasy. But I don't mind it; perhaps it will be better at Rome."

"Dora, should you very much mind giving up Rome, or going there only for a few weeks?"

"I should not mind anything that was for your comfort and convenience."

"My own good wifie. Well, I do want--I want vehemently to get back to England. I shall have the Swiss mal de pays, or the German Heimweh, if I stay much longer abroad. All this scenery is very delightful, and I appreciate to the full the soft, warm climate, and the pure sunshine, and the purple skies, and the churches, and the pictures, and everything else that one goes touring to behold; but I am getting home-sick."

"How long have you felt so?"

"For some days. The idea of Rome has been growing hourly more distasteful to me ever since I received the last packet of the Times. And to-night the sound of those English voices made me long to hear them all around me. I am tired of the foreign jabber, and I yearn most unromantically for the Cockney twang. I am unsentimental enough to pine after London gas, and London pavements, and London crowds. I want to see the omnibuses and the cabs of my own metropolis; I want my club; I want the British Museum; I want my own library; I want ribs of beef and legs of mutton; I want the Thames, the bridges, the bustling streets. In fact, I am a real Londoner, and nothing short of London in all its fulness can satisfy my soul. I lack everything here, save yourself; and you will go with me, and make my home life complete, as it has never been before."

"We will go back to London, my dearest, as soon as ever you choose. I will begin to pack up in the morning, if you like. Italy is a glorious land, but, after all, Old England for me. I, too, have a most thorough and loyal affection for my London. I am ready to go home, Bernard, any day you choose to name,"

After all, Theodora and Bernard Wingfield went to Rome for a fortnight with the Marshalls, who were certainly very charming people, as Theodora was obliged to confess. "Only," she said, "they were so often in the way when she wanted to say something particular to her husband." Bernard laughed, and advised her to keep a little notebook in her pocket, and put down therein all the interesting things she had to say to him, which must be reserved for a private occasion. But Theodora did not laugh back again, she looked grave, if not a little sullen; once or twice lately Bernard had made light of her most sacred feelings, or so she believed, and she was beginning to fear that after all he did not quite understand her.

When two people who live together, and who must continue so to live, find out that they do not understand each other, a certain amount of apprehension and uncomfortableness is certain to ensue. The first twelvemonth of married life is always more or less trying, however true and strong may be the affection between the wedded pair. Without the smallest intention to deceive, they have probably shown to each other only the best side of their character; and that everybody has a worst side, I suppose, will not be disputed. Hitherto they have been lovers, perhaps; once wedded and accustomed to each other's society, they may be lovers still, but they are also something more. Their common comfort, their peace of mind, their temper even, become strangely dependent one on the other; they find out curious little unsuspected traits in each other's character, little peculiarities of temper, certain prejudices, certain foibles, and certain weaknesses which never before made their appearance. Husband and wife have to learn each other afresh, and they are either the more closely united for the experience, or they drift away from each other and go their ways together, yet apart, for many weary years, perhaps to the end. Theodora was right; her husband did not understand her; she was one of that unfortunate class of women who really are difficult to understand, inasmuch as they too frequently misunderstand themselves. But neither did she comprehend her husband, though she told herself that she knew his very soul, and shared his every sentiment.

In November the Wingfields at last reached their home--a pretty, pleasant, handsomely-furnished house at Richmond; that is to say, it would be very pleasant when the mistress had made all her arrangements, and when the fogs and mists which shrouded the beauty without were lifted from hill, and mead, and river. Theodora had been over the house before her marriage, but she knew very little about it. She was not of a practical turn of mind, and she troubled herself very little about those small but important concerns which go so far to make any home happy or miserable. No home can be happy without love; but love alone will not suffice for lasting happiness. The old adage says, that "when poverty comes in at the door, love flies out of the window." It is true, and it is untrue--that is, it has two sides, as all such propositions have; for many men, and nearly all women, love more deeply and more unselfishly than ever in the day of adversity; whilst, at the same time, it must be admitted that the wear and tear of such sordid cares as arise from the want of means tends greatly to sour the temper, and make, "like sweet bells jangled out of tune," the associations which have been, till worry and perplexity came, so happily harmonious. Anne Aldred had done her best for Theodora. It was she who suggested that the dining-room chimney smoked.; it was she who insisted on an inspection of the drains; it was she who looked after sash-lines, decayed piping, leaky cisterns, and everything else that required to be looked after when a house was about to be taken upon lease. Theodora was sublimely indifferent to it all; but she took immense interest in Bernard's book-cases, and she insisted on his having a Turkey carpet for the library, which was to be his working room. Also the handsomest and softest cushion she had among her wedding presents she selected for Bernard's own sofa.

Mrs. Leigh had given her advice in the purchase of drawing-room and bedroom furniture--she was an authority in these things--and Anne Aldred had undertaken the kitchen department; for if matters had been left to Bernard and Theodora themselves, the kitchen must have furnished itself how, where, and when it could. There would not have been a salt-box, or a flour-dredger, or a gridiron, or a rolling-pin in the house, had it not been for Anne Aldred, who attended to everything, from the cooking-range down to wooden skewers.

"I almost thought we should find Anne Aldred here," said Bernard, as they sat down for the first time at their own table. But Anne knew better; she was quite sure Theodora would not wish any visitors that evening. She understood her friend far better than Bernard understood his wife

Dinner being over, they dismissed the boy who had waited, and drew up to the fire. Bernard took possession of his own comfortable arm-chair, which had been his in his old bachelor days, only it had been newly covered, to match the rest of the furniture. Theodora had her own pretty lounging-chair too; but as soon as they were alone she took the footstool, and seated herself upon it, at her husband's feet.

"Oh! I am so glad we are at home--in our own home, Bernard" she said. "It was time we gave up rambling, and settled down, for we are quite old married people now. Oh dear! I am afraid we shall have calls and visits of ceremony, and all that sort of thing, to go through."

"Certainly we shall! That was one reason why I hurried home--that we might get over all that sort of thing before Christmas, and begin the New Year with good, hard, steady work. I shall only make notes and arrange my papers while this year lasts."

"But why should we trouble ourselves about this sort of thing at all?"

"Because we are not living in the Bush, seven miles from our nearest neighbour. My dearest child, we must conform to the common usages of society, unless we desire that society should cut us altogether."

"I should not much mind if society did."

"I should mind it very much. I should detest what is called a fashionable life; at the same time I should be very far from satisfied if I were cut off from intercourse with my own kind. A backwoodsman's life would never do for me, nor for you either, little one. You used to like to go out visiting."

"Ah! that was because I found more congenial people outside my own home than in it. But, now I have all I want in my own house, I shall not care to roam. Still we must, as you say, conform to usage in some respects; so I suppose I shall have to make up my mind to receive and to return calls, and I shall not mind giving a dinner-party or two, if you wish it, lest people should say I have turned you into a hermit."

' Two hermits would never agree, I am afraid. And I think I should like you to have 'an evening,' Dora. You see I have such a large circle of friends and acquaintances that, unless we give very large parties, we shall never see them all. Now, just receiving informally once a week, or even once a fortnight, puts all straight. And I do not see why you should not have as brilliant 'evenings' as any of the queens of society. Shall it be Tuesday, Wednesday or Thursday?"

"Oh, never mind now, dear! And I should not like to be one of the queens of society."

"You are a little bit perverse to-night, my darling."

And, though the tone was soft and the look kind, there was something in the words that said they were not spoken in mere jest. Theodora scarcely knew why, but she felt inclined to cry a little. To think that Bernard should call her "perverse," just because she wanted no other society than his, and on the first night of their coming home! But she wisely checked her tears; she had a vague impression that men did not like them, and she had once heard Bernard say that he should never be conquered by them, though what he meant when he said it she scarcely comprehended. She began to talk about something else; and so an hour passed. Bernard had a little nap, and woke up yawning.

He looked at his watch. "Half-past eight! And we dined at six. Is the fire gone out in the library?"

"I am sure I don't know. But we need not go there to-night; we are very comfortable here."

"I want to read my letters. I looked in while you were dressing, and the table was heaped up with them."

"Must you read them to-night?"

"I wish to read them to-night. We can't go to bed yet. Why should we waste a whole evening?"

And he walked out of the room, and upstairs to the library, which was on the first floor. Theodora had letters of her own, a whole basketful, awaiting her; but she did not trouble herself to open them. She had a new railway novel in her travelling-bag, and she might have done a little unpacking, or looked about the pretty new domain which called her mistress. But she did absolutely nothing; she sat still before the fire, gazing into it dreamily, her eyes filling every now and then with tears. She did the very worst thing she could do; she sat and nursed her grievance--or, rather, her imaginary grievance--for certainly she had nothing to moan about at present. Bernard had left her to read his letters, and he had shut himself up in the library--that was all.

"I hope I am not ill-tempered," she said to herself, when nearly an hour had gone by. "No; it is that I am too sensitive; and then I love Bernard so dearly, and he did speak a little crossly, I am sure he did. If ever he should be really displeased with me, I should break my heart. I care little for the displeasure of indifferent people; but I could not endure the anger of any one I loved; especially of the one I loved best of all."

And then a bright thought struck her; she would go and try her new piano. It was a present from her father, and when Bernard heard the music he would come out of his sanctum. Surely he must have read all the stupid letters by this time. She had not seen how many there were. She went into the drawing-room and turned on the gas; a bright fire blazed on the hearth, and helped to light up the pretty, elegantly furnished room--a room of which any young married lady might have been proud. She played several of Bernard's favourites, expecting each moment to see the door open and her husband enter; but at the end of the third piece, as she was still alone, she commenced "The Moonlight Sonata," which he always very much enjoyed. She got through five or six pages very well, then her attention flagged, she lost her interest in what she was doing, and presently discovered that she was not in the mood for playing. And still Bernard did not come; and it would soon be ten o'clock. At last she resolved to go to him.

She found him seated at his table, letters, papers, and bills strewn all around him in the wildest confusion. He was very much absorbed in the letter he held in his hand, for he did not hear his wife gently open the door and steal in behind him. She came so softly, too, treading lightly on the thick carpet, and she wore a dress of some material which did not rustle. Suddenly he started, for two little white hands--his wife's, of course--were placed over his eyes. No one else in all the world would have dared take such a liberty, for as a slight liberty Mr. Wingfield took it.

"My dear," he said, irritably, "how you startled me. Pray do not do so again; nothing jars my nerves like a sudden shock; besides, it is childish."

"I beg your pardon," said Theodora, deeply hurt; "but I never knew you nervous before. I had no idea that you were nervous at all."

"That shows how little you know about me. I am extremely nervous, when I am at work, especially if I am disturbed. Well, what do you want?"

"It is nearly ten o'clock."

"I know it is; I looked at my watch a little while ago. I do not mean to go to bed before eleven. That cup of coffee made me feel quite brisk again. If you are tired, my dear, do not wait for me; indeed, I wish you never to wait for me; keep your own hours irrespective of mine. There is no law that man and wife should go to bed at the same hour, or rise together."

"You must find your letters very interesting!"

"They are very important, some of them; and here is one from my publishers which calls for immediate attention. I must answer it to-night. You had better go to bed, Dora."

"I will if you wish it, certainly; but I have not been told to go to bed since I was a little girl."

"I am not telling you to go to bed; I am only advising you for your own comfort. Stay up as long as you like, only allow me the same freedom; if you feel inclined for an hour's reading--why, please yourself, and I shall be pleased. That is a fair arrangement, is it not?"

"It sounds like it, at any rate," returned Theodora, calmly; her words and her tone were quiet, but a very tempest of discordant elements was raging in her soul. She felt herself slighted, neglected, positively ill-treated, though she would have been extremely puzzled to make out a case. A lurking suspicion that she was unreasonable did not tend to soothe her ruffled feelings. But Theodora, with all her love, was proud--a certain kind of vehement love and a certain kind of lofty pride are nearly always inseparable in a certain kind of woman. And she determined that Bernard should not know he pained her; if he was indifferent, she would be indifferent also--at least, in outward seeming. "I am not inclined to go to bed so early," she replied, as carelessly as she could; "if you're going to be occupied, I may as well have an hour of reading."

"All right," he answered, unconcernedly; and again he was absorbed in his papers, and jotting down memoranda. Theodora went up to the book-shelves, and began to examine them; she took down first one book, and then another; she turned over the leaves of one volume, and then looked through a second, and she opened the doors of the closed bookcases where Bernard kept his more costly editions, and though she moved very quietly, as was her wont, she disturbed her husband, who was bent on an intricate calculation, not a little. He looked up once or twice, hoping that she would soon subside, and settle down to her reading; but still she fluttered round the booklined walls, humming a little tune to herself as far as ever apparently from making a selection. At last he said, "My dear, I wish you would choose your volume, and go into the drawing-room; you fidget me to the last degree. I shall finish much sooner if I am left alone.'

She took the first book that came to hand without in the least knowing what it was--Tennyson's poems; a treatise on Conic Sections; a volume of an Encyclopædia, or even a dictionary; it was all one to Theodora, just then. Without another word, she left the room. Surely Bernard did not mean to exclude her from the library when he was there! It was to be his workshop she knew, and she intended that it should be hers also. She had the scheme of a pretty little tale in her head, and she meant to write it at once, and offer it to one of the leading magazines. She had looked forward so much to their reading their compositions to each other, and to all the little friendly criticisms they would make. And now Bernard positively treated her as if she were an intruder.

She sat a long time in the drawing-room, not reading a word, not knowing even the title of the book she had taken. The fire went out, the room grew chilly, even the gas seemed to burn less brilliantly. She was quietly but intensely miserable, brooding over the disappointment of what she had so often pictured to herself, during their six months' wanderings--their first evening in their own English home. And yet she never thought it was mainly her own fault, that she had really nothing to be miserable about, that she was behaving far more like a foolish spoiled child than as a reasonable woman, and a wise, good wife.

She went off to bed at last, shivering and weary to the last degree, so weary that she dropped asleep almost as soon as she laid her head on her pillow. She had quite intended to lie awake; she meant to tell Bernard when he came that she never could sleep till she was certain of not being disturbed, but when a little before one o'clock he did come to his own room, he found his wife soundly asleep, and she knew nothing of his arrival till the morning. And he was glad that she was asleep, and he was careful not to wake her, for he was half afraid of some sort of expostulation, or even a mild curtain lecture.

"She was over-tired," he said to himself. "And that made her a little tiresome and exigeante--poor child! I dare say she did feel rather lonely, she has been left to herself so little since we married. Still, it will never do to go on playing Damon and Phyllis all our days. A man can't go on making love, and fondling, and petting week after week, and month after month. I believe women never do tire of it. I think they would like life to be one long courtship. I must make Dora understand at once that we are going to be a reasonable couple; I shall never control her, and she must not try to fetter me. Marshall said 'a literary man should never marry!' I hope he was not right."

And then Bernard began to think of his new work, and while he was trying to pursue an idea that floated dreamily through his brain, he too fell fast asleep. And so ended what Theodora called afterwards the first chapter of the book of her married life.

"What shall we do to-day Bernard?" said Theodora, as they sat at breakfast next morning. Her night's rest had done her good; like a tired child, she had felt a little cross and fretful the evening before, but now she had regained her equanimity, and felt quite happy and contented again.

It was a chilly morning, but the sun was shining, and the mists that floated over the river were golden. The sky was clear above, and there was every promise of a fine day.

"I am going to London by the next train, my dear," was Mr. Wingfield's answer. "First of all I am bound for the city, and later in the day I have an engagement at the West-end."

"Are you going to be away from home all day?" asked Theodora, feeling as if the sunshine were suddenly dimmed, and as if the golden haze on the winding Thames had paled into a mere dull fog.

"I shall be back to dinner. Seven is to be our dinner hour, I think."

"Yes!" For worlds Theodora could not have uttered another syllable.

"Dora, what is the matter with you?"

Then there was a great sob, and the tears would come.

"Dora, are you ill? I wish you would just speak, my dear.

"No," she replied, presently, trying to control herself, "no, Bernard, but it seems so hard that you should go away from me, the very first day."

"The first day! My dear child, we were not married yesterday, were we? Really I am afraid your long honeymoon has spoilt you, Dora; you could not possibly imagine that we were to go on through life in the same Arcadian style--I playing the shepherd to your shepherdess, with nothing to do but to wreathe our crooks with flowers and sing madrigals together?"

"It is only nine o'clock now, and I shall not see you till seven--ten hours! almost a whole day!"

"Theodora, I did not think you could be so childish; continually hunting in couples would not suit either of us. Do you expect me to follow you into your kitchen and store-room all the morning, or should you wish to go with me to town, and see my lawyer, and my banker, and visit my publisher, in his own peculiar sanctum, where I dare say his own wife never comes? I have no doubt Adam and Eve sometimes wandered into different quarters of their Eden. My dear wife, we have each our own work to do, and we cannot do it hand in hand. When once you are settled to your regular occupations, you will find the day go only too speedily, and the dinner-hour come too soon. The mistress of a house has always so many things to attend to, and generally so many engagements. I know my own mother used to be as busy as a bee; she was the cheerfullest, happiest little woman imaginable, a downright sunbeam, for she both warmed and gladdened us all. But I shall lose the train, if I loiter; give me another cup of tea. Quite cold, do you say? never mind, I cannot wait while you make more. Now, you know, you have your unpacking to do, and all your pretty things to arrange; when you are once at work, you will be thankful that I am well out of the way. Men are always a nuisance in a house, when the women-folk are busy. Good-bye, my dear; I have not ten minutes. I have no season ticket yet."

Theodora went with her husband into the hall, and mechanically she brushed his hat, and helped him on with his greatcoat; but she did it so gloomily that she might have been assisting at an execution rather than sending her own good-man off for a day's business in town. He kissed her tenderly before he went, though his moments were precious, and his last words were--"Now, be a good girl, and be quite happy till I come back again. I shall expect to see my own Dora's brightest face at dinner-time. You had better go out while the sun shines; we have so few sunny days at this time of the year. Goodbye, dearest."

And Theodora clung to him, and kissed him, as if he were going away for a week at least. And then Bernard, knowing how time was slipping by, almost ran down the road, forgetting to take his umbrella; and, when he reached the station, hot and breathless, he dashed into the ticket-office, and would not stop to receive his change, and finally came on the platform just in time to see his train moving slowly along the rails to London; and the next train that served his purpose would not start for twenty minutes! He felt quite savage; for nothing more annoys a man who has plenty of business on his hands than just losing a train by about a quarter of a minute. If Theodora had only acted sensibly, he would have been in time, he told himself, as he stamped up and down the platform, scowling at the smokers, and feeling at feud with porters and other functionaries. Bernard was not the most patient man in the world, and this morning he was more than usually impatient. As he paced from end to end of his tether, he said--'This will never do--never do! I must put an end to this. I love her--love her dearly--God knows I do! But I can't let her spoil my life as she will spoil it, if I let her go on unchecked. Bless the women. I do believe one half of them think that there is nothing in the world to do but to make love, and fondle, and caress, and say pretty, tender things. They forget that men have the real business of life on their shoulders, and that if they don't bear it, and carry it straightly, they will get pushed off the course. A man can't be always thinking of a woman, even if he adores her, simply because he has so many other things to think about. Besides, he cannot have his mind narrowed by dwelling incessantly on one topic. That is why it is, I suspect, that women generally are mentally so little and so defective; they get hold of a single sentiment, and they live upon it, and cherish it, to the exclusion of all else."

Once fairly en route to Waterloo, Bernard began to forget his irritation. His thoughts went back to the subjects which had occupied him the night before, and he took out his notebook and read several pages of memoranda, and added to them, and finally became so absorbed that he forgot all about Theodora, and started to find himself at Clapham Junction.

The day passed only too quickly for Bernard. Once at his journey's end, he found more than enough to occupy every minute of his time, and to take his whole attention. A man who lives his life in London cannot be six months absent from the centre round which he naturally revolves, without finding on his return a vast accumulation of affairs of all sorts to which he must immediately address himself. And in the present day we live so fast that six months dreamed away comes to more than six years lost or missed half a century ago.

Bernard found that he had to some extent--a very small extent certainly, and quickly recoverable--lost his place among the men with whom he had habitually consorted. He went into the Bank parlour to speak to one of the partners who was proud to be on more than business terms with a man of literature like Bernard Wingfield; he sat awhile in the private office of his lawyer, in Lincoln's Inn; he made arrangement with a famous stockbroker, with whom he usually transacted certain affairs; he spent half-an-hour in an editorial sanctum in Fleet Street, and he talked literary gossip in several dark, dingy rooms in Paternoster Row. And in each and all he was conscious of an uncomfortable behindhand feeling, a sort of behind-the-times sensation, that was far from agreeable to a person like himself. It was simply that he had been dreaming in Switzerland and Italy, getting only the echoes and the reflections of what was going on post-haste in the great world of politics, literature, and religion. Pastorals were all very well in the olden time, but unless a man wishes utterly to merge the epic in the pastoral, he cannot now spend too much time in working out his idyll. In short, if you live for a little time in the Vale of Tempe, occupying yourself with songs and lutes, and nymphs, and garlands, and the nectar and ambrosia of the gods, you find yourself you don't know where, when you go back to the Bourse, or the Stock Exchange, and the counting-houses, and the newsrooms and club-houses of Babylon!

Bernard felt himself lagging behind in all that he heard and saw during the day, but it was worst of all when be reached his club about half-past four in the afternoon. There he found his compeers in full force, there he heard discussed the freshest subjects of the day, the newest debates, the last piece of political hearsay, the last tittle tattle of the House, the last opera, the last new book--not his, alas !--the last brochure, the last startling leader in the Times, the last everything, from what the Bishop of London said in Convocation, to what was gossiped about the latest engagement in high life. And he said to himself, "I must awake. I must rouse all my energies; it won't do to be Hercules in Omphale's chamber any longer. This is my real life, all the rest is a mere addendum; in the world of culture, of letters, of politics have I my being; and I must live my life, not drone it, or dream it, or I shall be one of the most miserable of men. Heigho! It is good to be here once more! It is good to hear the roar of the streets, to see the mighty human stream flow onwards ever, to mingle with the crowd, to listen to converse that deals with the whole world in its amplitude, and yet hammers away at the latest piece of intelligence. London with its masses and its universal massiveness for me! And yet I am belated as it were, I am nowhere in the race! Never mind, I must buckle on my armour, and rush into the mêlée as of old. One can always make up for lost time if one is determined to do it. Indeed! one may always do anything if one is stedfastly and sternly resolved on the doing. To some minds, and to some powers, there is no such word as impossible!"

In truth, Bernard was very much like an old war-horse, who has been out at grass for ever so long, and who all at once hears the din of battle, and the thunder of the guns, and straightway disdains his pleasant pastures and his still waters, and longs to rush that instant to the fray.

"Back again, Wingfield?" said one of his friends, coming up to him, Times in hand. "We began to think you had expatriated yourself. Seen this pamphlet?"

"No, I have seen nothing English as yet. We only came home last night."

"We? Ah! I remember. I beg pardon; you are married! I hope Mrs. Wingfield is quite well."

"She is very well, thank you. I say, old fellow, we shall expect you down at our little place at Richmond. We are going to receive one evening in each week; I am not sure which yet. We shall have a sort of literary 'free and-easy,' and my wife will give us some good music. She is said to play and sing superlatively well."

"Ah, yes; Mrs. Wingfield was Miss--?"

"Miss Leigh."

"Ah, yes. I quite forgot at the moment," said Mr Bradbury, the celebrated novelist--the truth being that he had never in his life heard of such a person as Miss Leigh. "I shall be very happy to come," he resumed, "only let me know the evening. But you must read this pamphlet; it's the best brochure we have had out this year, and that is saying a great deal, for the year is so near its end. It's John Potter's." Bernard seized it with avidity. John Potter was a man who never put pen to paper but when he had something to say; and what he wrote was written with consummate skill and peculiar force. He was a politician, a critic, an essayist; cabinet ministers liked to have him on their side; when he spoke he was always listened to; altogether he was a man of mark, and any subject which he took up at once acquired status and importance. Moreover, he belonged to Bernard Wingfield's clique, or perhaps it would be better to say Bernard belonged to his, for certainly John Potter was the greatest celebrity of the two. The pamphlet was on the everlasting subject of Irish Reform, and it advocated the disestablishment of the Irish Church, which in those days seemed established as fast as the British monarchy itself. And John Potter was one of the first who dared to speak out, and advance measures, the mere mention of which threw the opposite party into convulsions, and called down anathemas deep and loud on the heads of those who had had the rashness to propound them. Little cared John Potter for the storm; the more his opponents raged, the louder he laughed; and far worse than that, the more eloquently and the more trenchantly he wrote. "I am like the man who let his wife beat him, on the ground that it amused her, and did not hurt him," he said one day to a cluster of his warmest friends, who were kindly telling him--as friends will occasionally--all the bitter and scurrilous things that had been said and written about him. "Never mind!" he said, when he had heard the worst; "the sharper the storm, the sooner it's over! They may pelt me with words as much as they like, so that they don't pelt me with mud. The dogs bark at the moon, but she goes on shining all the same. 'Let them rave,' as Tennyson says, I shall not fret myself into an untimely grave."

It was meat and drink to Bernard's soul. As there gathered round him and Mr. Bradbury half a dozen men of political acumen, well known in the literary world, and, discussed first this and then that stirring topic of the day, he wondered how he had existed so long without this sort of thing. And presently John Potter himself came in--he was a member of the club--and then the circle was complete. And Bernard had much to say on the Italian governments, and he was listened to eagerly, for he was just fresh from the head quarters of Pio Nino himself. And so the time swiftly glided by.

"You dine here, of course, Wingfield?" said John Potter.

"No! I dine at home. I promised my wife that I would be home to dinner."

"Ah! you are married! I did congratulate you, I believe. Do you know, Wingfield, I never thought you would turn Benedict. I used to say, as one after another of our set deserted us, and vowed himself to Hymen, 'Bernard Wingfield will not leave us, he was born to live and die a bachelor.'"

"Why, pray?" asked Bernard, by no means pleased or complimented.

"You seemed, like myself, to have no time to devote to the amenities of private social life; your books, your works, and the circle of your friends, seemed to satisfy you. Of course, I was mistaken, and you never made any protestations. You are half lost to us, you know, Wingfield."

"I do not see why I should be. A man need not give up literature and politics because he is married, any more than a medical man or a lawyer need relinquish his profession when he takes a wife. At any rate, I am not going to lose my place in the world; I shall hold it, I hope, all the more closely--and there are advantages in being a married man."

"Certainly, certainly!" said John Potter. "Far be it from me to advocate principles of an anti-matrimonial character. I am always pleased to hear of my friends' happiness. I only ask to be excused from it myself."

"I really do not know what you would do with a wife, Potter," said a gentleman, who just then joined the party. "You have no leisure for love-making, and the women want so much of it, both before and after marriage."

"Indeed I have not. My bride is Literature, and I mean to be faithful to her. She is coy enough sometimes, but never ill-tempered--never disappointing. And she does not rob me of my freedom. The liberty of a bachelor's life, without, of course, its licence, is to my mind the most perfect, though not perhaps the most honourable estate that man can fill. Now, here is Wingfield cannot dine with us! It does not matter whether I put in an appearance at my house to-night or not. If I go home my servants have all in readiness for me; if I do not, no one supposes I am drunk, or disorderly, or garotted; no one wonders where I am, and no one has the right to inquire; also, no one goes into hysterics on my account."

"That is one side of the picture, doubtless," said Wingfield; " and it certainly has its attractions; but when you go home, tired and depressed, there is no bright face, and there is no sweet voice to welcome you. You sit by your solitary hearth, you have no one to whom to tell your triumphs, no one with whom you can share your anxieties, and who can soothe you when the world outside has vexed and wounded you. And when you're ill you must trust to servants, or to the tender mercies of Mrs. Gamp. I had a slight attack of indisposition when we were at Munich, and really I felt almost sorry to be well again so quickly; it is so charming--provided you are not too ill to enjoy it--to be nursed by your own wife; and even at the worst, it must be, I should say, an unspeakable comfort, and a wonderful alleviation to one's sufferings. Now I must wish you all good afternoon. I shall expect you at Richmond as soon as we begin to see our friends. I count upon you, John Potter?"

Potter, be it remarked, was a man whom everybody called by his Christian name. There are some men to whom the prefix of Mr.--never comes naturally, and of such was John Potter, Esq.--critic, journalist, and political pamphleteer. He was always spoken of as simple plain John Potter; and the plainness and simplicity of such style and title pleased him well. "Yes!" he replied "you may count on me; I want to see the fair lady who has won you from your allegiance to the chaste mistress Literature, to whom I fancied you were pledged for ever. And--should you mind my bringing a friend with me?"

"Any friend of yours will be as welcome as yourself--one of the poor struggling authors whom you are always helping up the ladder, I suppose?"

"No! no author. He never wrote a line, save in a ledger, to my knowledge. But he is a fine fellow, in a very dismal state of mind. He has been madly in love, and he has been jilted, or so I gather from words he has let fall--he is not one to make confidences, like a woman. He is cynical, severe, sardonic; and yet I like him, and I think a little good society would be for his benefit."

"Is he in business, do you say?"

"Yes; he is confidential clerk in the employ of Dugard and Heberden, of Fenchurch Street. He has done the firm great service, and they will take him in as junior partner soon, I fancy; and they will do well for themselves, while they favour him. I first met him at old Dugard's, and got interested in him. You know, in spite of my old bachelor proclivities, I have a genius like a miss in her teens, for swearing eternal friendship?"

"I know you have a genius for befriending the unfortunate, for helping those who need a helping hand; for comforting those who mourn! I shall be very glad to see your friend, John Potter."

"Thank you, his name is John Thornton, and he knows a friend of yours, by the way, and one of whom I predict great things--Arthur Mann."

"Ah, Arthur Mann! Yes, he married my wife's cousin Margaret Deane. Mrs. Mann and Mrs. Wingfield are very much attached; all the time we were abroad, they corresponded. Be sure you bring Mr. Thornton, John Potter."

And then Bernard rushed away, and called the first cab he met, and ordered the man to drive express speed to Waterloo Station. It was too late already for the train by which he intended to return; but there was another almost due, that would bring him to Richmond, only a quarter of an hour behind time. That was an express train and that he lost, by an hair's breadth, as had been the case in the morning; for it went steaming out of the station as he came upon the platform. The next train was a slow one, and when, at length, Bernard rang the bell at his own door, it was past eight o'clock. Would the dinner be spoilt, and would Theodora be miserable?

Christmas was near at hand, and Eleanor Esdaile had contrived to save nearly five pounds towards the forty which she wanted. Only five pounds! and in a few weeks the tradespeople would be sending in their bills, and Richard would come to her full of innocent surprise that men of business should be so careless as to send in their accounts twice over. Then he would, of course, ask her for the receipts, and what could she say? To prevaricate and deceive any longer she felt to be impossible; she was sick of falsehood, she was beginning to loathe it inexpressibly; if it had been anything short of her husband's affection and regard which she feared to lose, she would have risked it willingly, for anything was better than the sense of self-condemnation which oppressed her, and the apprehensive dread that haunted her continually. To confess to Richard would have been an unspeakable relief, and there were moments when she almost made up her mind to tell the whole truth and venture all. "Fais-ce-que-tu dois, advienne que pourra" was frequently in her thoughts. And one day, when Margaret came again to see her, she said, "Eleanor, this miserable affair is injuring your health. It is doing you grievous bodily harm, and you have the best reasons for taking every care of yourself. Why not put an end to it at once? If Mr. Esdaile should be angry for a month you could not suffer more. I wonder how you can live under the burden of concealment."

"And I wonder, too! Yes, Margaret, it is telling upon me, all this wretched scheming and fear of discovery; and now there is the certainty of exposure in a very few weeks."

"At least you might tell your husband before the bills come in. It is a sort of insult that his own wife should leave him to learn the truth from tradesmen."

Eleanor gasped; it made her heart beat to think of that terrible hour when her husband should require from her the explanation of her conduct, and when he should say to her--as she knew he would say, with such a look of agony and misery in his face--"Eleanor, you have deceived me, I can never trust you again."

It was not that she had misappropriated the money; oh! no, he would scarcely reprove her for the bare fact, especially when she owned her fault, and promised that it should never occur again. It was that she had told him two different and deliberate falsehoods and had continued so long to persist in the untruth.

"No" she said, sadly, "I have not the courage yet--I have not the strength; I cannot face the consequences; I cannot 'fais-ce-que-dois.'"

"Cannot you simply do the right, and leave it to God to put things straight?"

"But will He? Is He not very angry with me?"

"He is angry with your sin; but I am sure He is sorry for you. I do not mean that God would at once, if you asked Him, release you from the immediate consequences of your fault, because that might be the worst thing for you. I think it is good for us to know and to feel that we cannot do wrong with impunity, and that sin must bring suffering of some kind. But God, your Father, would make things straight for you, if you trusted all to Him; He would give you strength to bear the trial of your husband's just displeasure, and, as you believe, his alienation; and in His own good time, when you had learned all those lessons which are good for you, for me, for all of us, He would restore you to far more than the happiness which you had lost only for a time. God is so loving, so tender, Eleanor; I wish you could feel that; no earthly father could be half so kind! If, because of your sin, and that you may not go on wandering into paths of evil and certain sorrow, He empties your cup of all its sweetness, it is only that He may fill it again to overflowing with so pure and rich a draught, that you will wonder how ever you could find satisfaction in any other."

And Eleanor answered:-- "Margaret, I wonder if I ever shall be religious! I am beginning to like to do right for right's own sake; is not that a sort of religion?"

"It is a very near approach to religion, I am sure; because when we begin to love that which is good and pure, for goodness and purity's sake, we cannot be far from loving God, who is the Source and Centre of the perfect good, the perfect purity."

"Love to God involves obedience to Him, I know."

"Surely it does. But there are two kinds of obedience you know, Nelly; the one is called obedience, though it is only subjection--the miserable subjection of the slave to the stern master. The obedience of love is the only true obedience; the real spirit of obedience does not say, 'I dare not do this,' or 'I must do that, lest I be punished; but 'This I will not do, for it would grieve my dear Lord; this will I do, for it is to His glory.' You know we pray every day that God's will may be done on earth as it is in heaven; and if we are not ourselves striving to do that will in little things, as well as in great ones, our prayer is only a mockery."

"I am afraid I do not know what prayer is."

"Oh! yes, you do, you must! One cannot help asking God for things when we know He has them to give, and is waiting to give them to us. Did He not say, 'Ask, and it shall be given unto you'?"

"Christ said that. We read the New Testament regularly at school, you know; and lately I have been reading some of it every day."

"It is all one! It was God made manifest in the flesh who said that. God was in Christ, you know, reconciling the world--you and me as part of the world--to Himself. Christ said plainly, 'I and My Father are One.'"

"There is so much in theology to puzzle one. I never shall forget our preparation for confirmation."

"We were in bad hands at that time. We were taught all sorts of dogmas and doctrines, that had nothing, or very little, to do with Christianity. I remember we were told that we became God's children in baptism."

"And did we not? I thought that was quite true?"

"Will your child become your child only when it is registered?"

"My child is my child, and its father's child, from the first moment of its existence."

"And so we are God's children from the first hour in which we have any being. Baptism--which is Christ's own Sacrament--declares the fact, but it does not create the sonship. If I was not born God's child, whose child was I? Not the devil's, as some would say; that would give the devil a clear right to me for ever; he would have a parent's claim upon me if he had ever been my father."

"But if we commit great sin--if we live in sin, are we not then the children of the devil?"

"Only by a figure of speech! He may be our adopted father, and we may serve him; but for all that we are still God's children. He, and He alone, has any right to us. The prodigal son did not lose his sonship--Christ never said that he was no longer a son--though he forfeited all the rights of a child for the time being. Still, his father was his father through it all; the wanderer suffered, as all such wanderers must suffer, and the suffering is only a part of God's mercy; but he came back to his father--his own father, against whom he had sinned so ungratefully, and his father went out to meet him, you know; when he was yet a great way off he saw him, and ran and fell on his neck, and kissed him. If any one but Christ had told us the story we could not have dared to believe in it, we could not have accepted it. People are always preaching about the prodigal son. I wish they would not, sometimes; all human words seem so poor, so imperfect, after Christ's own utterances. The thing is so perfect I scarcely like it to be touched. As to explaining it, one might just as well gild pure gold, or paint the natural rose and lily."

"I am afraid I have made the devil my adopted father; he is the father of lies?"

"You have made him your tyrant, and you have been his slave. But your own Father will break the chains if only you will come back to Him; He will set you free--free to serve Him, to praise Him, to live for Him. But the devil cannot be your father. You may be an erring child, an estranged child, a rebellious child--and wandering, estrangement, and rebellion always bring bitterness and shame with them--but still you are God's child; and while you cry to Him, 'My Father, help me!' no devil can hurt you, no power of darkness claim you for his own."

And Eleanor listened, and longed to come back to her Father's house, and be at rest. Still, she could not resolve upon taking the only straight path which would lead her there. The best thing, as far as I can see, would have been that all she most dreaded should come to pass; and it did not.

About a fortnight before Christmas, Mrs. Westbury came to pay Mr. and Mrs. Esdaile a long-promised visit. She had been to Southbourne, as usual, and since then she had been staying at Cheltenham. Now she arrived to pass her Christmas at Kensington. She quickly discovered that all was not right with Eleanor, for Mrs. Westbury was a woman of perception, and after the first week she set herself to discover what might be amiss. It was not mere bodily indisposition, she was quite sure of that, though, no doubt, Eleanor's physical weakness just then and her mental distress reacted upon each other, and produced complications. It was not that she had any disagreement with her husband, for, to Mrs. Westbury's great surprise, she found that the eligible marriage she had "arranged" had turned out a veritable love-match!

That Eleanor's whole heart was given up to Richard was evident, and that Richard was devoted to her was quite as clear. She laughed as she remarked this, and declared that she had not bargained for so much sentimentality, for sentimental romance was what she never could understand. Which was quite true; nobody living could accuse Mrs. Westbury of having ever shown the smallest sentimental tendency, albeit she used to sigh sometimes when talking about the follies and caprices of youth, and say --"I was silly enough when I was sixteen!"

And it was well known that with the widow Westbury "silly" and "sentimental" were synonymous.

And surely Eleanor had all that heart could wish! Dress and jewels, and the most beautifully appointed establishment. Unlike poor Fanny Peacock, she had a liberal allowance and it was understood that the housekeeping was to be on the most generous scale, compatible with the avoidance of extravagance. She had no cares, for the servants were trustworthy, and knew their work. It seemed as if no life could be more "rose lined from the cold", more free from anxiety, more untouched by sorrow than Eleanor Esdaile's. What then could it be that cast a shade so often on that lovely brow, that filled those fine eyes with sudden tears, that seemed to haunt; as with some fell presence, the happiest moments of the fair young matron, whose life, to mere beholders, looked like a pleasant fairy tale? Mrs. Westbury determined that she would not leave till she had fathomed the mystery. Also, she determined, if possible, to set right that which was wrong, for she was really kind and good-natured, and could not endure to see any one with whom she was closely associated in any trouble which she could personally or by proxy remove. She was shrewd too, and she knew the world--at least, she knew men and women very well, and she guessed that Eleanor's uneasiness had something to do with money.

So one miserable morning, when it was sleeting, and snowing, and raining mud upon the drenched and dirty roads and streets of Kensington, Mrs. Westbury prepared herself for the task. Mr. Esdaile had gone to Lombard Street, and it was not likely that any one would call. The two ladies were alone, and were not expecting to be disturbed.

"Eleanor, my dear," began the widow, as she contemplated her own fashionable morning dress before the mirror, "you do not seem quite the thing, and you have not been quite the thing ever since I came; and Mr. Esdaile says you are making him very anxious. Had you not better see your doctor?"

"I have seen him, and there is nothing the matter, he says. I am to keep quiet, and take moderate exercise, and live upon the fat of the land. If he came again, he would give the same prescription."

"Then, Eleanor, if it is not your health that makes you so lugubrious, you have something on your mind."

Eleanor coloured, and was silent. Mrs. Westbury went on: "If you have been getting into any scrape, you had better tell me. Young wives do get into scrapes occasionally. I knew one girl who absolutely fretted herself into her grave over her milliner's bill; and her husband, when it was too late, vowed he would rather have paid ten times the amount, and more, than that she should have had an hour's such misery as she must have suffered. I am aware you have a handsome allowance, but things run up and make a frightful total without your knowing it. Then your credit must be so good that you ought not to be inconvenienced. Milliners and linendrapers are, on the whole, extremely accommodating people, if only they are pretty sure of their money in the end. Indeed, I often think we of the upper classes might learn many a lesson from our tradespeople. Now, my dear, tell me your little secret."

"Indeed, I owe my milliner nothing which I cannot easily pay her, and the linendraper has had ready money all along."

"Then you have been tempted with some costly ornament! I remember getting into sad trouble myself about a lovely diamond and ruby butterfly that I had set my heart on, and poor dear Mr. Westbury was more seriously displeased than ever I saw him before or after. I thought he never would forgive me; for, of course, he had to pay for the thing--husbands always have, you know; and, on the whole, it's a comfort, though it makes them horribly savage at the time."

"I have not fancied, much less bought, any ornament for many months. My husband makes me so many presents. I have more jewels than I care to wear."

"Then, my dear, what is it? You had better tell me before you worry yourself to death. I am sure, notwithstanding what you say, that it is money."

"Yes, it is," replied Eleanor. She knew Mrs. Westbury would give her no peace till she had obtained the confidence she sought. "I had forty pounds from my husband--for a purpose. I had to order some things for which he wished ready money to be paid, and I kept the cash--that is, I gave it to Fanny--and got the goods on credit; and now the bills will be coming in, and Richard will find it out."

"Is that all? A matter of forty pounds is nothing to Mr. Esdaile, I am sure. And he does not seem stingy in the least."

"He is most generous; but he is very particular about money matters."

"And quite right too. Did Fanny ask you for forty pounds?"

And then Eleanor told her story, adding--"I did not know my husband then as I know him now, or I should have told him the simple truth at once, and all this trouble would have been saved. He would have been vexed, but he would not have been lastingly angry, as be will be now."

"Of course he will be annoyed at your trying to conceal the transaction from him--that is only natural; but, under the circumstances, he will not be very severe, I fancy."

"That is not all; as I have told you so much, I may as well tell you the rest. It is not only concealment of which I have been guilty: I have told Richard two deliberate falsehoods. He asked me if I had paid the money, and I told him that I had; and then he asked me if I had thereceipts safely, and again I answered 'Yes.'"

"Indeed, my dear, that was very naughty of you. Many people think nothing of a little white lie, I know; but I never could say anything in defence of fibbing. It is wrong, quite irreligious, you know; and though the world winks at such peccadiloes, it is severe enough if any unfortunate creature manages so badly as to be found out. In fact, the world never forgives a person who has been found out."

"The sin of the thing is the same, I suppose, whether you are found out or not. A hidden murder is just as criminal as a murder that the law hunts out and exposes."

"Very likely; but do not let us talk about murder; it is an unpleasant subject, and so is fibbing; but with the latter we have to do just now. If I understand you aright you are afraid of your husband's anger on account of the--of the deceit you have practised upon him: not on account of the money being diverted from its lawful uses?"

"Yes, that is it. The giving the money to Fanny was only an imprudence; the untruths told about it are quite another thing."

"Of course; I see your difficulty, my dear, and I know too, that Mr. Esdaile has most ultra and quixotic notions on the subject of truth. Are you sure the bills must be sent in?"

"Quite sure. I have not a quarter--no, nor a seventh--of the money. And I might as well beg a stranger in the street to lend me what I want as ask Fanny to pay mr back again. It is not that she refuses--she really cannot do it; the Colonel is dreadfully mean, and so harsh with her that she is afraid of giving him the smallest cause of offence."

"Poor Fanny! I never liked that match. Please to remember, Eleanor, that it was not one of my arranging and I told Fanny she would repent it if she became Mrs. Peacock. No, she dare not ask him for the money; I quite understand that. What a pity you did not at once say --"My dear, I have spent the money you gave me, and I am very sorry."

"A thousand pities! Ah, if I had only not committed myself by those two wicked falsehoods! How could I tell Richard a lie! It was mean, base, detestable to deceive my good, kind husband, who trusts me so implicitly!"

"Well, my dear, I think I can arrange it; only, you must promise never to do it again."

"I would not do it again for all this world can give me."

"Very well! Now, how much money do you require to pay the two bills you speak of?"

And Mrs. Westbury unlocked her desk and drew out her cheque-book.

"Oh! Mrs. Westbury," cried Eleanor, starting up.

"Lie still, child, and don't agitate yourself. You shall have the money and welcome, and when you are in funds you can pay me back again. I cannot have you fretting your life away for the sake of a few paltry pounds! It is all the dirty money is good for, to make our friends and ourselves happy. Now then, my dear, what do the two accounts come to?"

"They come to more than thirty-eight pounds. Richard gave me the forty, but he would not wish me to account for the few shillings which remained. Then I have saved out of my own private funds a five-pound note, and a little more. If I had thirty-three pounds that would put all straight."

Mrs. Westbury opened her cheque-book, then paused.

"Stay! I think I can do it in a better way. I will go myself and pay those bills, and I will go immediately, if you will order your brougham round in a. quarter of an hour. Get me the accounts, please, while I put on my bonnet. It has ceased raining and snowing; the drive won't hurt me, and your coachman and your horses must put up with it."

In less time than Eleanor had expected, Mrs. Westbury came back.

There, my dear," she cried, as she laid the two bills receipted in full on Eleanor's lap. "I thought it was unadvisable to pay away cheques--cheques may tell tales, you know, and it is well to be on the safe side. Also, I thought of the date of the receipts; that would tell a tale also. So I bade the man at the florist's, and the silver-smith, receipt the bill without any date. In each case I said, 'Don't put to-day's date, or any date, the bills were to have been paid as soon as sent in, and there has been a mistake!' The silversmith offered to date the acknowledgment as far back as I liked, but I would not let him do it. I thought we would have no more stories told, if we could help it. There! take the precious papers, child and lock them up, and don't ever get into such a mess again; and for the future, never say a word to your husband that is not the very truth! I am glad you have fallen in love with him, it makes things so much pleasanter. There, don't cry!"

For Eleanor was sobbing violently, and the tears ran down her cheeks in streams.

"How can I ever repay you, Mrs. Westbury? You don't know what you have saved me from!--from an agony worse than death! Oh! I will be good, now! I cannot thank you as I ought, but--"

"Then do not try; there! let 'the dead past bury it dead,' and don't take crooked paths any more." And Mrs. Westbury cried a little herself, being overcome by the sight of Eleanor's emotion.

"And now," thought Eleanor, "if I were but certain those letters were destroyed, I could be quite happy. Well, I do not suppose they will ever turn up to my injury and that untruth I told before I was Richard's wife."

Theodora's "evenings" were a success. This was partly owing to her efficiency as a hostess, and partly to the delightful people who were only too well pleased to be on intimate terms with Bernard Wingfield; it became quite the fashion with a certain set to go out to "The Sycamores" on Tuesday evening.

Among others who found their way to these pleasant reunions were Eleanor and her husband. Mrs. Wingfield and Mrs. Esdaile had known each other in their unmarried days, but they had never got much beyond a mere exchange of civil speeches; they met occasionally, but not often; for Eleanor, as Miss Phipson, had not the entrée to those circles in which Theodora Leigh naturally moved. But now they met under very different auspices, and seemed quite inclined to cultivate, if not a friendship at least an intimacy; the more so as their husbands were already on the best of terms, and more than willing that their wives should be continually associated.

It was still early in the new year when Bernard said to Theodora--"My dear, I should like to gather an extra number of our friends next Tuesday evening, for we shall have several literary stars with us then; I want you to write a few invitations--they had better he sent out at once."

"I thought we had arranged that it was to be just an 'evening,' and nothing more; no invitations given, and none accepted, and the people at liberty to stay as long or as short a time as they please. To send out regular invitations would be to alter the character of the whole affair."

"Certainly it would; but these are irregular invitations and you need not word them formally; just say, Kingscote, and Trelawny, and Miss Ingleby, and Mrs. Ridley, and the others are coming. I am not so certain about Dickens, he only promised conditionally."

"Very well! I understand. Is John Potter coming?"

"Of course he is; it is understood he comes as often as he can, and I spoke to him at the club yesterday, and he will be here, and Bradbury, and Ritchie,--the historian, you know, who is bent on proving all past history to be untrue,--and one or two more. John Potter will stay all night, I suppose you can find room for him?"

"Yes, if he can put up with bachelor quarters, for the best room must be for the Esdailes, they cannot possibly go back to Kensington. I wish we were not quite so far apart."

"Dora, my dear, I had no idea you would be so brilliant a leader of society. If I had known for certain what a charming circle we should gather round us, I should not, I think, have decided upon Richmond as a place of residence. However, we shall reap the benefit in the summer; we can give literary garden parties."

Theodora had not found "society" so disagreeable as she had expected. She had little idea of her own powers till they were called forth. In her father's house she had never taken her proper place, and Mrs. Leigh had encouraged in her a sort of bashfulness which made many people think and speak of her as dull and awkward and extremely proud, although there were always a few who knew better, and could testify to Theodora's gifts of speech and manner when she was quite sure of her company. The assumption that Theodora, as a sort of blue stocking, was incapable of attending to the duties of everyday life, had gone very far to make her so. She had been told so often that she was dreamy, and lived in a wonder-world of her own, that she, knowing that such was frequently the case, came at last to the conclusion that "dreaming" so called was her own peculiar province, and that it was useless for her to try to take any part in the common realities of life. Thus the defects in her nature were sedulously cultivated, while some of her highest qualities were suffered to languish for mere lack of air and of room in which to expand themselves. If it had not been for Anne Aldred, Theodora would have had but a very poor chance indeed.

Anne understood her better perhaps, than she understood herself. She pitied the lonely girl in her loveless, ungenial home; under the shyness which people criticised so freely there was so much hidden impetuosity; under the apparent apathy so much sensitiveness; under the undemonstrative exterior such depths of enthusiasm and passion. Especially Anne recognised in her young friend the power of loving intensely as very few women, married or single, ever do or can love. There was a depth of tenderness and self-devotion in her nature which would go far to imperil her happiness should she ever--as so many women do, alas! and especially women of her stamp--venture her all in one throw, giving all the wealth of her pure, strong affection; and longing--oh! how vainly--to receive back measure for measure.

Bernard was an ardent lover. When a literary man finds leisure to fall in love, he generally does it very completely; and Bernard Wingfield was for the time being as thorough a Romeo as even Juliet could desire.

"Now I have found my ideal; now my heart has found its rest," said Theodora.

And Bernard thought, "Here is the one woman in all the world whose love I care to win."

It was now for the first time that Theodora came out in her true colours, and Mrs. Leigh was astonished, and also a little chagrined. Theodora, as the mistress of "The Sycamores," as the lady of her own house, as the wife of a man who was generally applauded, and more than well received in society, was a totally different woman from the over-reticent, unassuming, taciturn girl of other days. And when Theodora found that her husband was proud of her, she strove to shine. Not for vanity's sake, but for that sweeter and tenderer motive which makes a woman receive all tribute of admiration, not as incense offered at her own shrine, but as a crown and glory to him, without whose commendation all the praises in the world would be mere empty flattery! So the visiting and receiving which Theodora had almost dreaded became a source of pleasure; she pleased her husband, and therefore she pleased herself. Nevertheless, she was always glad to throw aside the character she sustained so brilliantly, and devote herself entirely to Bernard; and those early days at Richmond, though very unlike those Theodora had pictured to herself in the first months of her marriage, were on the whole extremely happy. There came a time, indeed, when they were looked back upon with wild, passionate regret; when they were to Theodora as the land just fading from sight is to the shipwrecked mariner floating on a spar.

"One thing more," said Bernard, coming back to the morning-room, just as he was about to retreat to his library and his work, for he had begun now to write in earnest; "I want you to put Miss Fotheringham down on your list."

"What is the use--the Marshalls are still in Rome?"

"The Marshalls are, but Dorothy Fotheringham is not. She has been back nearly a month."

"Indeed."

"Yes, I saw her the other day. She is living with her brother and his wife; very ungenial people! Kind-hearted, or good-natured, or whatever you like to call that sort of thing, but dreadfully vapid and soulless. The woman reads the most trashy novels, the man reads nothing--save the morning papers, and the Field when he is in the country. And they go out nowhere and live nohow, though they are in very good circumstances."

"Did Miss Fotheringham tell you all this?"

"Of course she did: I don't know the other Fotheringhams from Adam! How such dummies of men should come to have such lovely spirituelle sisters as Henrietta Marshall and Dorothea Fotheringham I cannot imagine! All the beauty and wit seems to have gone to the female side of the family."

"I wonder she talked so about her relations--her own brother, too!"

"She would not have talked so to a stranger, but she has known me so long, and she has always been unreserved with me."

"Indeed," returned Theodora, drily. She did not quite like the idea of any other woman than herself being "unreserved" with Bernard. And this speciality of unreservedness she had noted disapprovingly during their brief intercourse at Florence, and afterwards in Rome. Mr. and Mrs. Marshall Theodora liked extremely; she could not help herself, for they were singularly charming and clever people, and as good as charming, as kind as clever. Mrs. Marshall she could have loved; she was so beautiful and refined, and as she felt, so true. People who are really and absolutely true have an instinct for recognising each other's truth. But Mrs. Wingfield did not, and could not like Miss Fotheringham, though why she hardly knew. She was more classically beautiful than her sister, Mrs. Marshall; more brilliant, more graceful; possibly more intellectual; but, in Theodora's estimation at least, she lacked all that which made Mrs. Marshall so sweetly good and true. And Dorothy, or Dolly, as she was familiarly called, had ways that Theodora could not approve. She was coquettish, to say the least of it, and some people accused her of being a flirt; certainly, there was a freedom in her manner that might be interpreted according to the mind of the interpreter, as proceeding from an innocent naive nature, or from objectionable boldness and carelessness of the rules of strict propriety. Theodora was not at all sorry to leave her behind in the Piazza di Spagna.

"Do you not like Miss Fotheringham?" asked Bernard.

"No, I do not," replied Theodora; "I do not trust her."

"Why? What has she done to forfeit your approval?"

"I do not know. Bernard, I cannot tell you, for I could not tell myself, why I dislike--nay, that is too strong--why I do not like that girl. She inspired me with distrust in the very first hour of our intercourse. I could not help it."

"She seems to me ingenuous in the extreme; if she has a fault, it is over-candour. You cannot say she is not frank."

"She is frank enough in one sense. I like a little more reticence in a woman."

"Ah, you women! you women! how you do carp and cavil at each other."

"You asked me if I liked Miss Fotheringham; would you have had me tell you an untruth? My dear Bernard, I cannot like all women, any more than you can like all men."

"But men have reason in their likes and dislikes; women take antipathies which are grounded upon nothing."

"It was a man, I believe, who wrote, 'I do not like you, Dr. Fell,'" said Theodora, archly.

"That is a mere old rhyme."

"Women have instincts which are sometimes safer guides than the reason. There is a sort of intuition in some women which causes them at once to recognise the sentiments and characteristics they admire, and with which they sympathise. Now in the very first hour of our acquaintance, I felt, though I did not then acknowledge it to myself--but I know now that I felt I had found in you all that through life I had been seeking. It was a sort of magnetism, I suppose; for there is an affinity between souls, whatever the matter-of-fact prosers who deny poetry to real human life, may say."

"My dear, you cannot be more convinced of it than I am myself. Our present relations and our mutual experiences go very far to establish the fact. But it would be unsafe to take these subtle impressions as infallible. Instincts are not invariably true; they cannot and must not be entirely relied on, or confusion and cruel injustice will be the result. We will talk it over another day. I want to get to my work before I lose all my bright ideas. But about Miss Fotheringham?"

"I will ask her, of course, if you wish it. I have really nothing against her. It is just that I do not take to her."

And then Bernard went away, and Theodora sat down to her Davenport and wrote the notes required, leaving, however, that for Miss Fotheringham to the last. She paused a long time with the pen in her hand, musing somewhat after this fashion:--" I believe I am very silly, but I would much rather not invite this girl; there is something in her which repels me; there is something which bids me keep aloof from her; yet I suppose most people would admire her. Her beauty is beyond dispute, and she talks well, and seems to be very good-tempered, I hope I am not the least bit jealous--I should be ashamed of myself if I were. Did I feel that she outshone me? In looks she certainly did; she always looked lovely, it mattered little what she wore. But what of that? I am sure I do not care to be thought beautiful by any one but Bernard; if I please him that is all I care about; and I appreciate to the full the beauty of other women. I like to look at Eleanor Esdaile, she is like a picture--only fairer than any picture I ever saw, and I love to see my little Margaret, with her soft dove's eyes, and her delicate bloom, and those pretty half-wild curls of hers, that are so much more artistic than my own thick, heavy tresses. It is not that I envy superior charms, I am quite sure of it; it is not that I object to Bernard being occupied for awhile with someone else:--in short, I do not know what it is, but I dislike and shrink from this Dorothy, and I would give much if I were not obliged to ask her to come here. I have a notion that if she once gets a footing, we shall never be clear of her. And yet I can't explain to Bernard why I would rather not include her in my visiting list. I wish Margaret knew her; I wonder what she would think of her, and what she would advise me to do!"

But Margaret being absent, Theodora wrote her note without counsel. It was stiff and formal, and as cold as the dictates of common courtesy permitted; her only hope was that there might be some prior engagement which would necessitate a refusal. "Though I have a presentiment that she will come, and come again and again," said Theodora, as she addressed the envelope. "And if Bernard likes her society, why should she not come?" she continued, trying to reason herself into a more contented state of mind; "it does not follow that he is to be limited in his choice of female friends because he is married. He will allow me full liberty, I know! I may be as intimate with Mr. Esdaile, or Arthur Mann, or John Potter, as I choose, because he trusts me fully, and is quite sure that I wish no other friendship than his own. And of course, I trust him; I should be utterly ashamed of myself if I did not; I should deserve to be punished. But it is just this difference--and I fancy it is not peculiar to ourselves; it is common to all married people--wives are so much more absorbed in their husbands than husbands in their wives. I suppose it is that we love more engrossingly than they; perhaps, if our lives were busier, we should be more like them. Are we really different, I wonder, or is it only that we have different ways of showing our affection? Is it that our natures are essentially diverse in this matter of loving, or is it only that circumstances make us appear so?"

Theodora was right; Miss Fotheringham did accept the invitation; so, indeed, did all the others who were asked for that special Tuesday evening. Mrs. Wingfield was only apprehensive lest her rooms should be inconveniently crowded. She wrote to Margaret, and asked her to come with her husband; but Margaret was not well, and Arthur had to come alone.

"I did so hope Margaret would change her mind, and come with you," said Theodora, as Arthur made his appearance, one of the first arrivals.

"She will come and spend a day quietly with you," replied Arthur; "she is not quite equal to this kind of thing."

"She will be rather lonely, will she not?"said Theodora, thinking in her mind that Arthur was neglecting his wife, and that she should feel herself quite wronged and forsaken if, under the same circumstances, Bernard had left her to spend an evening in solitude.

"She would not let me remain with her," replied Arthur; "she insisted on my coming--she is so anxious that I should enjoy as much recreation as falls to my lot. She had a new book, and a piece of work to finish; and I promised her to return early, so you must help me to keep my promise, Mrs. Wingfield. I shall slip away before ten o'clock, and catch the train that stops at Vauxhall; and even then I am a long way from home."

"I think Margaret is the most unselfish person in the world."

"That she is!" replied Arthur, heartily. "She thinks so little about herself, and I believe that is one secret of her happiness. No one but myself knows what Margaret is. If ever I am a rich man.I shall feel that I owe much of my success to her. Indeed, I believe a man, however persevering and however talented, never can 'get on' if he be not ably seconded by his wife in the struggle which he must make in order to reach even a moderate height in the golden steep of prosperity. Given a man with an average amount of ability, few opportunities, and little ambition, but with a wife who is loving as striving, practical as affectionate, and also unselfish, bright, and genuinely pious, like my Margaret, and I will back him against the man with twenty times his advantages, who has not such a wife, but a woman who rather hinders than aids him in all his efforts, because of her vanity, and self-love, and indolence."

"You cannot say too much of Margaret's goodness. I was always sure that, as a wife, she would be unexcelled, and I always knew that you were a very fortunate individual, Arthur Mann."

Theodora was called away by the entrance of other guests, who came now in quick succession; and her rooms were soon as full as they could be--and perhaps rather fuller than was desirable for comfort and convenience. Eleanor was seated near the conservatory for coolness. She was looking very lovely, and she had made quite a grand toilet in honour of the literary constellations who were to grace "The Sycamores" that evening. She was also looking very well and very happy; the weight which Mrs. Westbury had removed from her mind had been more to her than any medicine, and she had given herself up to the full happiness of loving and being loved--a happiness so exquisite and so new that she wondered how she had contrived to live so many years in the world without it. As for John Thornton, she had almost forgotten him. "I may never see him again," she said to herself when she did think of him; "our paths are not likely to mingle: he and Richard will never meet. I will not trouble myself any more about those silly letters. It is most dishonourable of him to retain them."

So it was; but Eleanor did not remember how dishonourable had been her own conduct with regard to this young man who had once trusted her so entirely.

"Who is that beautiful woman?" was asked several times that evening; for there were many present who did not know the Esdailes.

"Where is this superb beauty I hear them talking about?" demanded a dark, slender, cynical-looking man of his friend, John Potter.

"I thought you did not care for handsome women?"

"I care for them as I care for splendid pictures. I like to contemplate beauty. I mean to have a magnificent wife of my own some day--not yet awhile--when I am rich enough to buy one!"

"Man alive! you are not in Turkey. You can't buy a wife in England, any more than you can legally purchase a slave."

"All women are bought, or may be bought; the most virtuous matron has had her price, and she sets what she believes to be a true value on her young daughters. I have no faith in women."

"So it seems! you have been demoralised in Turkey."

"I was demoralised before I ever left my native shores; but where is the beauty?"

"Come this way,--there! that lady near the large fern! She wears a white silk dress with silver stars sprinkled about it, and her jewels are something wonderful! She is talking to a slight, good-looking young fellow, a friend of mine."

"I see! your friend is my friend, Arthur Mann. And the 'beauty' is Eleanor Phipson. I beg her ladyship's pardon--Mrs. Richard Esdaile."

"Then I need not ask Mrs. Wingfield to introduce you."

"You need not! I will go and renew my acquaintance with the lady of the diamonds and of the silken sheen. It will be so pleasant to talk about old times!"

And John Thornton turned away from Mr. Potter, and made his way with difficulty through the crowd gathered around the sofa, where Eleanor sat in all her state and beauty.

How it came to pass Eleanor never exactly knew, but from that evening she and John Thornton met frequently. Somehow,--it was through John Potter she supposed,--her husband and her former lover struck up an intimacy, which was as inexplicable as it was unpleasant to herself. John Thornton was always meeting Richard Esdaile in the City, making appointments with him, and not unfrequently returning with him to Kensington, when, to her extreme dissatisfaction, she was obliged to play the hostess.

When she and Mr. Thornton met at Theodora's soirée her first impulse was to get up and run away and hide herself; terror and burning shame overpowered her, and she would have fled to the other end of the world, had it been possible, rather than meet the cold, cynical gaze of the man whom she had so cruelly deceived. But flight being out of the question, she could only maintain her composure, and speak with as much dignity and severity as she could assume. Had he come to reproach her? she asked herself as she saw him making his way to the sofa, on which she sat, surrounded by her friends. Would he upbraid her publicly? would he denounce her as a base, false, heartless woman? did he come to express his unutterable scorn and contempt? For she saw in one instant that the love of old time was dead and buried; the light that burned in those dark eyes now was more like the lurid flame of an inextinguishable hatred than aught else. She was thankful for his sake, as well as for her own, that he no longer regarded her with affection; she was more than contented that the old passion should be extinct; any thought or look of the love that once had been, would be, she felt, a wrong and dishonour to her husband; but it gave her infinite pain, and filled her with dismay and a vague fear, to find that she was not only unloved but positively hated. For if ever there was fierce hatred in a man's face, it was in John Thornton's as he approached the woman to whom he had last spoken as to his own affianced wife. Vivid blushes covered Eleanor's face, as she remembered their parting; then they had kissed each other as true lovers who were going to spend life together; then their hands had clasped closely and lovingly and his arm had been round her. Now they met under far different auspices; would it be as strangers or as foes? That it could be as friends she could not, dare not, hope.

She had to make a desperate effort before she could reply to his greeting, which was commonplace enough and such as all the world might hear. Her fear that he would there and then denounce and humiliate her was altogether groundless--and that she soon perceived. But there was a certain assumption in his tone, an undefinable something, which implied an understanding between them; and it jarred painfully on Eleanor's nerves, and offended her sense of propriety. It was true that his words were those of a mere acquaintance; but the ease with which he accosted her bordered, or so she thought, on insolence. There was a veiled contempt, a cool assurance in all he said, that inexpressibly annoyed her; her only comfort was that her husband was in another room, and that Theodora Wingfield, whose perceptions were of the keenest, was not just then present.

"Well! Mrs. Esdaile, and how goes the world with you?" was his accost. There was wanting in his tone and manner that air of deference, that delicate respect, to which she had been of late accustomed: even Richard spoke to her less familiarly in public. She could only falter out an assurance that she was quite well.

"It is long since we met," he continued, seating himself by her side as one who had a right to take the place. "Let me see! How long is it since you and I said good-night to each other in that pleasant Chelsea lane--by moonlight wasn't it?"

"It must be nearly eighteen months ago, I think," she replied gravely, trying to appear unmoved.

"No longer than that?" he answered. "It seems to me like many years; but, then, I have not been so fortunate as yourself: my time has been occupied with hard toil and harder reflections; and I have been lonely, very lonely, till of late, when I determined to enter society, and take my pleasure therein. You have been so happily situated; you have been taking your ease, and enjoying all those triumphs which fall to the share of wealth and beauty. No wonder that time has passed more heavily with me than with you. And who would have said when we parted that we should so meet again?--you married, and I--well! I thought of marriage in those days, you know; but there's many a slip between the cup and the lip, is there not? I suppose I was a presumptuous fool--a poor, hard-working fellow, like myself, thinking of a beautiful, fashionable belle for my wife. But, then, you see, I did not know my sweetheart as she really was. I gave her credit for being--well, for being what she was not--loving, faithful, and true. What idiots we men are when we fall in love!"

"And women, too," said Eleanor, quite unconcernedly, as she imagined; but, though she managed admirably, she could not help a slight tremor in her voice, and her fingers were nervously clasped, under shelter of her embroidered handkerchief.

"And women, too, as you say," resumed her companion. "But they come to their senses more quickly than we do; they find out, while still mere girls, that it is their duty, almost a part of their religion, to marry eligibly; that is, to marry wealth and position, and, if possible, rank. As to the man himself, it is of very little consequence; he may have certain attributes, or he may not; he may be old or young, a philosopher or a fool, a philanthropist or a knave, an Adonis or a Caliban, amiable or unamiable, moral or immoral; but he must be rich--the richer the better; for riches beat charity all to nothing; they cover nearly all the sins that ever were committed. And he must have a certain position in society, and allow his wife carte blanche at her milliner's. That is about it, is it not, Mrs. Esdaile?"

"Not entirely," faltered Eleanor; "there are women who do not marry for an establishment."

"Oh, yes, of course. There is that silly little thing, Margaret Mann, as happy as a queen, in her little two-penny-halfpenny rooms, with paltry surroundings, and a literary hack for her husband! But, then, she was always romantic, and our hostess is a very romantic person, only her romance has been of a more fortunate character. Bernard Wingfield is a man who might be expected to marry well. But, you understand, I thoroughly approve of the women who marry for money."

"Do you?"

"Most certainly! I am a rational person now, having lived through the delusions and infatuations of my youth, and come to a right and just appreciation of things in general, and of women, matrimonially considered, in particular. A woman ought to do the very best she can for herself--she should better herself, as the housemaids say, by marrying--better herself substantially, you know; not in any high-flown, ridiculous sense, such as is intended when people are said to harmonise with each other, or to hold communion of spirit--such rubbish! And if, in the first. impulsiveness of her girlhood, having read too much poetry and too many novels, you know, she has committed herself by plighting her troth--that is the correct term, is it not ?--to some poor fellow such as I was, when in my ignorance I really imagined that a young couple might rub on quite happily on a couple of hundreds a year, and be supremely content and satisfied on the magnificent income of three hundred and fifty; she is more than justified if she leaves him in the lurch. Utterly absurd, was I not, Mrs. Esdaile?"

"Now, no young lady would be half so silly, even a school-room miss would know better; girls are so well trained by their mothers and governesses now-a-days. The moment a young man begins to pay them attention they ask, How much has he a year? where does he live? how many horses does he keep? Such prudence in early youth is most commendable. It is a pity boys cannot be trained on the same wise principle. They go about the world spooning, while the girls are making their calculations and advising with experienced matrons as to the matrimonial engagements they shall make. Talk of women's intellectual inferiority! Why, the woman is a far more sagacious animal than the man; but then so many men are troubled with hearts--women never, I believe!"

"You are utterly mistaken," returned Eleanor, with some indignation. "I imagine that the world's heartlessness is pretty equally divided between the sexes. There are heartless men and there are heartless women. Let us talk of something else; we have said quite enough on that subject."

"I beg your pardon; I thought I was expressing your own sentiments exactly. Very well, we will dismiss the heartless ones, much as I admire them--heartless being only another name for prudent, you know. But how about the faithless ones? Which is naturally the more faithless creature, the man or the woman?"

"Indeed I cannot say; the question does not interest me. I never cared for statistics."

"Of course one has first to determine what faithlessness really is," pursued Eleanor's tormentor. "Now, I think, as there are some customs more honoured in the breach than in the observance, there are also some promises which are better broken than fulfilled."

"I think so too. There are exceptions to every rule."

"I am glad we agree for once. Now I do think when a silly boy and girl, who know no better, make promises to each other--promises which a lifetime only can redeem--and break them, simply because, in their youth and innocence, they have made a huge mistake, they are rather to be commended than blamed. Why should a blunder committed at sixteen and eighteen be perpetuated for years?"

"Why, indeed?" replied Eleanor, absently. She was wishing that her companion would go away. Yes, wishing that he would go, and never more appear before her! Ah! strange perversity of the human heart. And not two years back this man's presence had turned her earth to heaven! But now he was a ghost to her--the ghost of her old love--and nobody in a wholesome state of mind likes ghosts. The sooner they are laid the better. Eleanor would have given much to lay his ghost, but she did not know how to do it, and much she feared that she was going to be haunted perpetually.

"Why, indeed?" echoed the darkened figure at her side. He had picked up her bouquet by this time, and was diligently occupied in destroying the lovely exotics of which it was composed. It was Richard's gift, and she hated to see it in those hands, but she dared not exasperate this man, once so loved and trusted, now so dreaded, by taking it away from him. "But," he continued, speaking slowly, while he as slowly crumpled up a spray of delicate wax-like Erica, "it is quite another thing when the boy and girl have grown to be man and woman, when they have had some experience of life--when the woman is three-and-twenty, say--and the man some years older! If then either plays the other false, the traitor deserves severest punishment."

"People may change their minds. There are some things we cannot help."

"There are. But any one can help being utterly base, and false, and cruel. Can you find any extenuation for her who deliberately, for the sake of gold, forswears herself? And not merely so, but lets her victim dream on and on, till the inevitable thunder-clap awakens him--not even deigning to be off with the old love before she is on with the new; virtually compromised with two men, pledged to the one before the world, secretly affianced to the other? in the arms of one man to-day, in the arms of another to-morrow? What can you say for such a woman--such a wicked, worthless jilt?"

"Nothing," replied Eleanor, firmly. They were almost alone now, for everybody had thronged to the pianoforte, which stood quite at the other end of the room, and some noisy operatic music, with harp accompaniment, was in progress. "Nothing, Mr. Thornton. Such a woman deserves the severest condemnation; but it is not generous to taunt her with a fault which she can only confess, but for which she can never make amends."

"Of course, I only speak of an ideal woman: I should not presume to censure a lady--a lady like yourself, let me say."

"Mr. Thornton, drop this mocking, I beseech you. For all the wrong I did you--and it was bitter wrong, cruel wrong; it was next to murder; I see it now--I beg your forgiveness. I cannot right the wrong; I am another man's wife, his dear and honoured wife, and his love and esteem are more precious to me than my life. Be merciful, be magnanimous; forget me, despise me if you will, if you must--but forget me. And may some worthier woman give you back fourfold the happiness of which I deprived you."

"Thank you, Mrs. Esdaile; but I do not intend to marry till I am a rich man. I shall not again 'make love,' or its counterfeit, till I am a millionaire. Then the fairest, the purest, the sweetest blossoms of maidenhood will be at my disposal. As to forgiving you, I scarcely know what you mean; there were some passages between us once; there was a time when I had the audacity to play with those lovely brown ringlets, and to fondle those white, gem-glittering fingers; and I thought I had a right--the right of a future husband. Now both ringlets and fingers are Richard Esdaile's; but you had a perfect right to dispose of them to the best advantage. I could never have placed pearls, and emeralds, and opals, and diamonds on that fair hand! That spray of brilliants would never have shone among your tresses had I been the purveyor of your ornaments. Be assured, I applaud you! I admire your fine discrimination. I appreciate your preference for rose-diamonds over rose buds. I have come to be quite of your way of thinking. I am not satisfied with bread and small beer. I want perigord-pie and champagne, truffled turkey, and sparkling Burgundy. I don't care for 'Ah, che la morte,' droned on a barrel organ; but I like to lounge on velvet cushions and listen to prima donnas at Her Majesty's Opera House. I am not satisfied with an eight-roomed house at Camden Town or Camberwell; I require a mansion in Belgravia, and a country seat besides. In short, I want the best of everything, and, what is more Mrs. Esdaile, I am going to have it! And then, no woman will play me false!"

Eleanor's heart beat wildly; she determined to make an effort, and ask for her letters. They could be nothing to him now; they ought to be nothing. Why should he keep them against her will? Louder and louder sounded the music; they were to all intents and purposes alone. If she missed this opportunity, she might never have another, and any moment her husband might return, or some one might be tired of the music, and come to the recess where she and Thornton sat together.

"Mr. Thornton," she began, and then stopped for want of breath. The scent of the flowers overpowered her, and the gaslights burnt dimly; even the singing and playing seemed suddenly very far away. And forthwith there came a vision of the lane at Chelsea, of huge lime-trees overhanging a mossy ancient wall, and of two figures lingering in the deepest shade, with clasped hands, and eyes alight with love, unwilling to speak the farewell which must be spoken--yet knowing not that it was "good-bye, sweetheart, good-bye," for ever.

"Yes, Mrs. Esdaile, I am all attention." And he inclined his head with a mock deference that stung Eleanor to the quick. There was sharp, covert sarcasm in every look and movement. His apparent courtesy might veil his real feelings to lookers-on; she knew that under it lurked scorn and disrespect, if not positive rudeness and intended insult. Every word he uttered was a taunt, every glance a sneer, but so carefully disguised that she could say nothing. "I think you were about to make some remark," he continued; "to bestow upon me some confidence. I should be extremely flattered." He saw how her lips paled and quivered, and how the roses faded from her cheeks; but he was merciless. He knew what she wanted to ask him, yet he would not help her in the least.

"Mr. Thornton," she began again, more boldly, "you have some letters of mine; they can be of no value to you; may I beg you to return them to me. I wish them destroyed."

"I am sorry that I cannot grant your request."

"Why not?"

"Because I have promised and vowed, and sworn to myself, that I will keep them in remembrance of that little episode of my life. I read them occasionally to refresh my memory; I find them extremely interesting, I assure you. The last one, especially, that one I had the honour to receive from you just before your marriage, is a charming epistle,--so eloquent, so frank, so forcibly put! Indeed, I cannot part with it, or with any of the letters. Ask me any other little favour, and I shall be so proud to oblige you."

"John! John! give them to me!" implored Eleanor. "If you ever loved me, be kind to me now."

"If I ever loved you!" he returned, in a loud, angry voice, that made her tremble.

"Oh, hush! hush! they will hear," was all she could reply.

"Listen, Eleanor Esdaile," he said, sternly. "I did love you; I would have lain down my life for you! Now I do not love you; I am ashamed that I ever did love you. You made me suffer cruelly; you tortured my heart. But you did not break it, you only turned it to iron. Nay, cease those imploring looks, they are useless now; though once one such glance would have melted all my soul, and made me as soft as clay in your hands,--besides, Mr. Esdaile may come in at that door and feel displeased. Understand, because I did love you, and because now I no longer love you, I will not give you back those letters. I know why you want them, you wish to destroy all evidence of your past. But I am determined that your past shall live. I keep those letters."

"At least promise that no eye save your own shall ever see them?"

"I promise nothing, for I have a stupid trick of keeping my promises; and what I may choose to do with those letters of yours I cannot at present tell. Publish them, perhaps, in a novel, and make my fortune at once."

"You are ungenerous, dishonourable, unmanly."

"Very likely. I have been in a bad school. There, they have finished that interminable quartette. And here are Mrs. Wingfield and Mr. Esdaile coming this way. I wish you a good evening, madam."

An hour afterwards Eleanor saw her husband talking with John Potter and John Thornton. A week afterwards they both came to dine at her house, and very soon John Thornton became a frequent and unceremonious visitor, and there were few days in which he and Richard did not meet, either in the City or at Kensington. And there was no man in all London whom Eleanor would not rather have seen at her table. And John Thornton knew it, and he enjoyed the situation.

It was on a cold, snowy day in February that Margaret's baby was born. Arthur left her in the early morning to attend to certain imperative duties, which could not be postponed; no fine lady and no petted child being half so exacting and tyrannical as a daily newspaper. When late in the afternoon, he reached his home in South Terrace, he found the door knocker elaborately muffled with a cast-off white-kid glove. Not having had any experience in the mysteries which are supposed to attend the event of birth, Arthur's heart gave a great leap of terror when he beheld the mystic symbol; and he rushed at once to the conclusion that Margaret was in peril of her life. People never tied up the knocker so unless somebody was very ill indeed; and he looked round, half-expecting to see straw or tan laid down before the house.

He knocked so gently, so timorously, that if Mrs. Warner and her handmaiden had not both been on the look-out for him, he would certainly have been unheard. As it was, the landlady came immediately to the door, her face as full of solemn importance as the occasion demanded. Also she looked a little severe. Husbands must expect to be treated with due severity under such circumstances; when the monthly nurse rules the house, the master must resign himself to make frequent repasts on that most unpopular dish called "humble pie"--It is only in the fitness of things that now and then--just for a treat--women should have the ascendancy, and the men creatures sink into submission, and retire into the background. Mrs. Warner quite intended to torment Arthur a little, for she had him completely at her mercy, and she knew it. But being naturally kind-hearted and sympathising, she could not withstand the pale, imploring face that gazed into hers, as if she represented Providence. So, without any circumlocution, she answered the questioning glance. "Yes, sir; you're a par!"

"A what, Mrs. Warner?"

"A par, sir! You've got as beautiful a little girl as anybody need wish for! She was born at ten minutes to two exactly by the kitchen clock, which is a minute and a half behind Westminster; but Big Ben's too fast; he mostly is, for our clock keeps the true time, always. So you may say ten minutes, sir."

"And my wife--how is my wife?"

"Very nicely, sir; as nicely as could be. And the baby is as perfect a beauty as ever I saw. Oh, no, sir! you mustn't go upstairs till I have spoken to Mrs. Cragg."

Now, Mrs. Cragg had not the smallest objection to Arthur's visit, but she chose to keep him for a little time on the tenter hooks of impatience. She was an excellent nurse and a kind woman, but it was her supreme pleasure to snub husbands and to keep the men in a state of meekness and subjection. It was almost a quarter of an hour before she condescended to emerge from the sanctuary of her mistress's chamber, and then she looked so exceedingly prim and dignified, and so capable of holding her own against any married man, that Arthur trembled lest exclusion from his wife's presence should be his inexorable sentence--a sentence which he would be compelled to recognise as that of the Medes and Persians. But Mrs. Cragg, after she had made a favour of it, and given the young father more injunctions than he could possibly remember, graciously permitted him to visit his own wife, and to behold his first-born child. And Arthur meekly and thankfully availed himself of the permission.

Margaret was wonderfully well; she knew that her husband had returned, and she was listening for his footstep on the stair. On her arm lay a little warm, moving bundle, over which she had just been crying for very happiness. She only wanted Arthur to make her joy complete.

"Isn't she a beauty?" said the pale, proud young mother: "and I think she will be just like you, Arthur. Nurse says she does not know when she has dressed so fine a baby, and just see what a quantity of hair the little thing has. Mrs. Warner will have it that it curls already! Oh, Arthur, I am as happy as a queen."

"And I am as happy as a king--if kings and queens are exceptionally happy. Thank God my darling, I have you safe! the baby is a treasure, but I would not have lost you for five hundred babies. Now, let me look at the little creature."

"Will you lift her up, and take her in your arms?"

"No, I think not; I might hurt her. I never touched a baby in my life, except once, when a woman in the omnibus dumped one down on my knees, while she collected no end of parcels. I held it out of sheer humanity, but I trembled in every limb, till she took it into her arms again. No! I will only turn back the flannel and look at her. What tiny hands, no larger than a doll's! Are all babies as small as this one, dear?"

"This is quite a large one--a very fine baby! Ask nurse and Mrs. Warner, or the doctor when he comes."

"That baby in the omnibus was much larger."

"Silly boy! I dare say it was three months old, at least. People don't travel in omnibuses with new-born infants. And babies grow tremendously for the first few weeks of their lives. But, Arthur, is she not a darling?"

Arthur was quite ready to admit that "she" was. Indeed, the longer he contemplated his daughter, the more he admired her, and the more wonderful she seemed. And so the silly young people cried together over their baby, and thought themselves more blessed than any other married couple on the face of the earth. And no doubt they said the very silliest things--only such silly things are sometimes infinitely better than wisdom, and the moments in which one indulges in such sillinesses are perhaps the very richest and sweetest of one's life. Truth to tell, they forgot everything but each other and the baby, the only drawback being that "baby" would not open her eyes, even for a second, that her papa might see how dark they were. Happily nurse knew her duties, and came back to her scene of government, and coolly ejected Arthur, in spite of every protestation and humble entreaty that he might remain. Nurse was inexorable, and Mrs. Warner seconded her with--"Indeed, sir, you must go down this very moment--and keep down, too, or I won't answer for consequences. You don't want to kill your dear lady, or the little one either, I suppose? There's been too much talking already--more than I should have allowed. Now, go you downstairs like a dear, good gentleman, and I'll bring in your tea, and as nice and tender a bit of rumpsteak as you could wish."

But Margaret was none the worse for Arthur's visit. She got well as fast as possible, and the baby throve from the very first; it was not possible to get up any anxiety about either of them. And Margaret herself was blissfully and yet peacefully happy; she grew stronger, her joy in her babe increased and her heart overflowed with gratitude and love; and often when she was alone, or when Nurse Cragg was taking her forty winks in the easy-chair by the fire, she talked in low, fond whispers to the unconscious little creature nestling in her close embrace. "Our dear little baby!" she would say --"our own dear little baby! you come to us from God, you pretty creature, with your pure, white soul, and your perfect innocence. Ah, baby, we must be very good, your father and I, now that we have you; we must live nearer to God now that He has sent us such a precious treasure; we must trust our Heavenly Father more than ever, now that we have you, baby darling, to nurse and train for Him. For, baby, you must love Him and serve Him; you were God's little child before you were ours, and your spirit is fresh from Him. I am so glad, baby, that He said, 'Suffer the little children to come unto Me.' One must be a mother before one can feel all the fulness and blessing of those sweet words,--the Saviour's own words, my pretty little one! I will tell you all about Him when you are old enough to understand, and to love Him just a little. Oh, my God, how good Thou art to us poor, weak women, thus to give us the mother-rapture, which is like no other happiness in the world. I wonder how the Blessed Virgin felt when she held the Holy Child to her heart. It is so good to know that Jesus was born of a woman, that He was once a little, frail, helpless baby, like you my sweet one; and God must have been in the dear Christ-child, even as He was in the Christ-man."

One of Margaret's first visitors was Theodora. She came as soon as she thought she could be reasonably admitted, and she was so delighted with the baby that it was with difficulty she tore herself away.

"I never thought a baby could be so interesting," she said, as the little creature lay sleeping in her lap. "I never cared much about my stepmother's infants; I only regarded them as so many nuisances, interfering with the peace and comfort of the house."

"I am afraid I was not much better; and Mrs. Leigh's little ones were always fretful. Perhaps it was bad management, or it might be they were not very healthy children. But to have a child of your own is to enter on a new life, Theodora. To hold your own baby in your arms, and to feed it, and to watch all its funny, tiny ways, is a pleasure so exquisite that no words can ever describe it. Oh, it is a wonderful joy to be the mother of a living child!"

"I never saw you look so happy, I must confess. And what does Arthur think about it? Is he pleased with his daughter?"

"Pleased! He is far more than pleased. He feels with me that now our happiness is complete!"

"Can the happiness of married life never be complete, then, without children? I have a presentiment that I shall not have any myself."

"I would not say so much, though just now it does seem to me as if baby brought with her a completeness, a sort of perfect finish to all our other sources of happiness, of which we had not dreamed before. Still, married life cannot, any more than single life, depend for its real happiness upon anything which we cannot ourselves control. Children are the gift of God, and He sends them to us as He sees fit, or He withholds them. Why, we cannot tell; only we may be sure it is all right and best. But I am very, very thankful that God has not willed that I should be a childless wife."

"That is what I shall be to my life's end."

"Nonsense, Theodora! You have no cause--no right to say so. Here is my baby; Eleanor's will come soon; and yours will follow in due season, I have no doubt. What can make you say so foolish a thing?"

"Nothing! Only I have a presentiment that I shall never know this sweet, pure mother-joy of which you speak, and which I can read in your eyes, and in every look you give this little soft creature on my knees. Margaret, motherhood has wonderfully improved you; it has given you a Madonna air and grace that I never saw in you before."

"It is a grave joy to be a mother; exquisite as the bliss is, it is chastened by a thousand fears. Last night, when I was nursing our baby, I wondered how others whose hearts could not rest in the Great Father could possibly bear the load of anxiety that must, sometimes at least, press upon them. If I did not know that my darling was God's baby, the pain would be almost as great as the joy."

"Mrs. Leigh would think it her duty to warn you that all infants are born the children of wrath--in fact, children of the devil."

"I am glad she will not come and tell me so, for she would make me very angry. Christ does not tell me so, for He says--and to every mother He says it afresh--'of such is the kingdom of God'; and 'whoso shall receive one such little child in My name receiveth Me.' And we are told to take heed that we despise not one of these little ones. Oh, no; my babe came to me from God; her pure little spirit is fresh from His hand. She may wander from Him as her life goes on; she may forget Him even; but He will never forget her, and she will be His at last."

"How do you know this?"

"I have faith; I have committed my baby to God for all time and for eternity. And the promise is to us and to our children. I am not afraid, neither is my husband; though it is a terrible responsibility to be a parent. I have heard of a mother whose every waking breath was a prayer for her child. I do not wonder at it."

"But I am sure you will bring up this little one so nicely, so piously. The little Leighs owe much to you, Margaret, and they will know it some day."

"I could do so little for them, because their mother and I, on nearly every point, differed so very widely; and they were difficult children to impress. Perhaps I did not go the right way about it."

"It must be the great thing to make religion lovely to a child, and to give it, as soon as ever reason dawns, the true idea of God. I think I might have been religious, if I had not early learned to distrust people who made a profession of piety, and if I had not been taught to dread hell rather than to love God, or to aspire to be with Him."

"That must be dreadful, to set your child a bad example, to exert upon her an influence for evil. How careful one ought to be in little things, when one has a dear child, whom one is unconsciously moulding. To give way to temper in its presence--to show that we are soured, or cross, or impatient--to wear a gloomy aspect, must be so bad for it. How much harm we may do in one single hour of selfishness! A child's wrongs are the cruelest wrongs of all."

"I think so, indeed; and I believe we never quite forget or overget the wrongs of our childhood. The world to a child is good and pleasant, and it is cruel to spoil his enjoyment of it by telling him that it is full of wickedness, and under God's curse."

"You must help me, Theodora, with my little girl; you must help me to educate her, to train her up in nearness to God, in all that is sweet and pure and lovely."

"I help you! No, no, Margaret; I am not half good enough; I am not at all good."

"I wonder what you mean by that?"

"Of course I do not steal, or lie, or wilfully cause my fellow-creatures pain; but there is something wanting. I know that, Margaret. Oh, Margaret, I have known that now for some months, ever since last autumn."

"That which is wanting is communion with God. No human soul can be satisfied without God; it may do without Him, so far as its own inner consciousness goes; it may even enjoy a feverish and intermitted happiness, or something which stands for happiness. But its portion, out of God, is unrest, dissatisfaction, and a weary sense of emptiness. It is well that it should be so; well that no one should be abidingly happy, even in this life, whose first joy and whose strongest confidence is not in God."

"It is true; I am often so weary that I could lie down and weep without knowing why. A purely intellectual life does not satisfy me."

"But yours can scarcely be a purely intellectual life; there is the love of your husband, and all your happy home-life together."

"I see so little of my husband."

"Indeed! Is he so much from home?"

"No, it is not that; but he is so completely absorbed in his literary work. He lives in it; he shuts himself up with it. Hours and hours he remains alone; and when he comes to meals he is often so abstracted that he scarcely knows what I say to him. Even on Sunday he is thinking about his book, though he does not actually go on writing it. He is not unkind, not in the least; only sometimes the thought will come to me--and it is a bitter one--his work is more to him than I am."

"Theodora, I think all women who are married to literary men have something of this kind to bear. I know what you feel, for I have gone through something of the same sort myself. My husband's work is not exactly like Mr. Wingfield's; but he is often quite absorbed by it, and then he is tied to time, you see. I was very much inclined when I first felt myself put aside, to be naughty, and to worry Arthur a little; but, happily, I did not, for if we had once begun with reproaches, and explanations, and small quarrels, and reconciliations, I don't know where we should have ended; and by-and-bye I began to see that I was unreasonable. In order to understand men properly, one must be married; and it takes a little time to come to the full comprehension of those differences which naturally exist between the male and female mind. There are some lessons a married woman has to learn--lessons which, as a girl, she could not learn; and the sooner she learns them the better, for so much the sooner will she be a happy wife."

"No doubt; but are there no lessons for the husband to learn?"

"There must be; but we have only to learn our own lessons; in fact, we cannot learn them for other people, not even for our own husbands. The first lesson I learnt was that I must not be too exacting, nor expect my husband to be exclusively occupied with myself, or always thinking about the love that is between us. Also I learned that men and women, each loving as truly and deeply as the other, yet loved differently."

"I should think they did," returned Theodora, with an unconscious bitterness of tone that made Margaret start. "I could never shut myself up for hours, almost days together, and forget all that lay on the other side of the door. I could never willingly absent myself from Bernard when I knew that he desired my presence; or if he came to me when I was ever so busy, my work would never be to me more than him. I should always lay down my pen, and have words and smiles for him."

"And has he not for you? Oh, stop--I beg your pardon; that was a question I had no right to ask. I should not like any one to ask it of me."

"Nevertheless, I will tell you that he has not; that he seems disturbed when I go to him for just a few minutes' talk. His work seems sufficient to him; he does not want me."

"Not at the moment, perhaps; but the love is there, all the same. We as women love absorbingly; it is our nature so to love, for our natures, as a rule, are more instinctive than passionate. Men love far less absorbingly than we, and that is their nature, too; and considering the man's place in the world, it is quite as well it should be so. I would not trouble myself about mere seeming neglect, Theodora; and, above all, I would not if I were you tease Bernard with petty complaints and small importunities. Nothing vexes a man like being charged with unkindness when he means none. And think how proud you will be of his work when it is finished and given to the world!"

"I thought we should do everything together, I thought I was to help him in his work, and be of so much use to him. He might just as well have married one of those doll-women, who read three books per year, exclusive of novels. He did not want an intellectual wife."

"Hush, dear, hush! If you say any more you will be sorry for it afterwards. There! you have awakened baby with your vehemence."

"I am so sorry."

"So am not I. She has had a charming long sleep, and it is quite time she had some food. Give her to me, please."

"What is her name to be?"

"That is not quite decided. I wanted Theodora, not only because it is your name, but because it has so beautiful a meaning--the gift of God! But Arthur says our eldest daughter ought to bear her mother's name, and I am afraid there will be confusion with the two Margaret's."

"Call her Margaret Theodora."

"No; Theodora is good enough to stand by itself. If I ever have another girl she shall be your name child."

"Why not christen her Margaret, and let her be called Daisy or Pearl?"

"The very thing! I never thought of 'Daisy.' Margaret the first and Margaret the second would clash sometimes, I am sure. Arthur dislikes Madge and I dislike Maggie; Peggy may do privately now and then, but I should not like everybody to call my little maiden 'Peggy.' Then Gretchen is un-English, and it has, to everybody who has read 'Faust,' unhappy associations. But Daisy is just right--such a sweet, quaint, innocent flower name. There, little one, your Aunt Theodora has given you your proper name. You will be auntie, won't you, Theodora? That was a girlish promise, you know, that we should be aunts to each other's children."

"I expected nothing else. I always looked to be Aunt Theodora, if I might not be Mamma Theodora. Do you hear, little Daisy, I am your auntie?"

"The only one she has, save Arthur's sister in Australia." And so it came to pass that the baby was christened "Margaret," and grew up to be called "Daisy."