David Elginbrod

CHAPTER XIII. THE LADY’S-MAID.

BURNS.

What arms for innocence but innocence.

GILES FLETCHER.

Margaret had sought Euphra’s room, with the intention of restoring to her the letter which she had written to David Elginbrod. Janet had let it lie for some time before she sent it to Margaret; and Euphra had given up all expectation of an answer.

Hopes of ministration filled Margaret’s heart; but she expected, from what she knew of her, that anger would be Miss Cameron’s first feeling. Therefore, when she heard no answer to her application for admission, and had concluded, in consequence, that Euphra was not in the room, she resolved to leave the letter where it would meet her eye, and thus prepare the way for a future conversation. When she saw Euphra and Harry, she would have retired immediately; but Euphra, annoyed by her entrance, was now quite able to speak.

“What do you want?” she said angrily.

“This is your letter, Miss Cameron, is it not?” said Margaret, advancing with it in her hand.

Euphra took it, glanced at the direction, pushed Harry away from her, started up in a passion, and let loose the whole gathered irritability of contempt, weariness, disappointment, and suffering, upon Margaret. Her dark eyes flashed with rage, and her sallow cheek glowed like a peach.

“What right have you, pray, to handle my letters? How did you get this? It has never been posted! And open, too. I declare! I suppose you have read it?”

Margaret was afraid of exciting more wrath before she had an opportunity of explaining; but Euphra gave her no time to think of a reply.

“You have read it, you shameless woman! Why don’t you lie, like the rest of your tribe, and keep me from dying with indignation? Impudent prying! My maid never posted it, and you have found it and read it! Pray, did you hope to find a secret worth a bribe?”

She advanced on Margaret till within a foot of her.

“Why don’t you answer, you hussy? I will go this instant to your mistress. You or I leave the house.”

Margaret had stood all this time quietly, waiting for an opportunity to speak. Her face was very pale, but perfectly still, and her eyes did not quail. She had not in the least lost her self-possession. She would not say at once that she had read the letter, because that would instantly rouse the tornado again.

“You do not know my name, Miss Cameron; of course you could not.”

“Your name! What is that to me?”

“That,” said Margaret, pointing to the letter, “is my father’s name.”

Euphra looked at her own direction again, and then looked at Margaret. She was so bewildered, that if she had any thoughts, she did not know them. Margaret went on:

“My father is dead. My mother sent the letter to me.”

“Then you have had the impertinence to read it!”

“It was my duty to read it.”

“Duty! What business had you with it?”

Euphra felt ashamed of the letter as soon as she found that she had applied to a man whose daughter was a servant. Margaret answered:

“I could at least reply to it so far, that the writer should not think my father had neglected it. I did not know who it was from till I came to the end.”

Euphra turned her back on her, with the words:

“You may go.”

Margaret walked out of the room with an unconscious stately gentleness.

“Come back,” cried Euphra.

Margaret obeyed.

“Of course you will tell all your fellow-servants the contents of this foolish letter.”

Margaret’s face flushed, and her eye flashed, at the first words of this speech; but the last words made her forget the first, and to them only she replied. Clasping her hands, she said:

“Dear Miss Cameron, do not call it foolish. For God’s sake, do not call it foolish.”

“What is it to you? Do you think I am going to make a confidante of you?”

Margaret again left the room. Notwithstanding that she had made no answer to her insult, Euphra felt satisfied that her letter was safe from profanation.

No sooner was Margaret out of sight, than, with the reaction common to violent tempers, which in this case resulted the sooner, from the exhaustion produced in a worn frame by the violence of the outburst, Euphra sat down, in a hopeless, unresting way, upon the chair from which she had just risen, and began weeping more bitterly than before. She was not only exhausted, but ashamed; and to these feelings was added a far greater sense of disappointment than she could have believed possible, at the frustration of the hope of help from David Elginbrod. True, this hope had been small; but where there is only one hope, its death is equally bitter, whether it be a great or a little hope. And there is often no power of reaction, in a mind which has been gradually reduced to one little faint hope, when that hope goes out in darkness. There is a recoil which is very helpful, from the blow that kills a great hope.

All this time Harry had been looking on, in a kind of paralysed condition, pale with perplexity and distress. He now came up to Euphra, and, trying to pull her hand gently from her face, said:

“What is it all about, Euphra, dear?”

“Oh! I have been very naughty, Harry.”

“But what is it all about? May I read the letter?”

“If you like,” answered Euphra, listlessly.

Harry read the letter with quivering features. Then, laying it down on the table with a reverential slowness, went to Euphra, put his arms round her and kissed her.

“Dear, dear Euphra, I did not know you were so unhappy. I will find God for you. But first I will—what shall I do to the bad man? Who is it? I will—”

Harry finished the sentence by setting his teeth hard.

“Oh! you can’t do anything for me, Harry, dear. Only mind you don’t say anything about it to any one. Put the letter in the fire there for me.”

“No—that I won’t,” said Harry, taking up the letter, and holding it tight. “It is a beautiful letter, and it does me good. Don’t you think, though it is not sent to God himself, he may read it, and take it for a prayer?”

“I wish he would, Harry.”

“But it was very wrong of you, Euphra, dear, to speak as you did to the daughter of such a good man.”

“Yes, it was.”

“But then, you see, you got angry before you knew who she was.”

“But I shouldn’t have got angry before I knew all about it”

“Well, you have only to say you are sorry, and Margaret won’t think anything more about it. Oh, she is so good!”

Euphra recoiled from making confession of wrong to a lady’s maid; and, perhaps, she was a little jealous of Harry’s admiration of Margaret. For Euphra had not yet cast off all her old habits of mind, and one of them was the desire to be first with every one whom she cared for. She had got rid of a worse, which was, a necessity of being first in every company, whether she cared for the persons composing it, or not. Mental suffering had driven the latter far enough from her; though it would return worse than ever, if her mind were not filled with truth in the place of ambition. So she did not respond to what Harry said. Indeed, she did not speak again, except to beg him to leave her alone. She did not make her appearance again that day.

But at night, when the household was retiring, she rose from the bed on which she had been lying half-unconscious, and going to the door, opened it a little way, that she might hear when Margaret should pass from Mrs. Elton’s room towards her own. She waited for some time; but judging, at length, that she must have passed without her knowledge, she went and knocked at her door. Margaret opened it a little, after a moment’s delay, half-undressed.

“May I come in, Margaret?”

“Pray, do, Miss Cameron,” answered Margaret.

And she opened the door quite. Her cap was off, and her rich dark hair fell on her shoulders, and streamed thence to her waist. Her under-clothing was white as snow.

“What a lovely skin she has!” thought Euphra, comparing it with her own tawny complexion. She felt, for the first time, that Margaret was beautiful—yes, more: that whatever her gown might be, her form and her skin (give me a prettier word, kind reader, for a beautiful fact, and I will gladly use it) were those of one of nature’s ladies. She was soon to find that her intellect and spirit were those of one of God’s ladies.

“I am very sorry, Margaret, that I spoke to you as I did today.”

“Never mind it, Miss Cameron. We cannot help being angry sometimes. And you had great provocation under the mistake you made. I was only sorry because I knew it would trouble you afterwards. Please don’t think of it again.”

“You are very kind, Margaret.”

“I regretted my father’s death, for the first time, after reading your letter, for I knew he could have helped you. But it was very foolish of me, for God is not dead.”

Margaret smiled as she said this, looking full in Euphra’s eyes. It was a smile of meaning unfathomable, and it quite overcame Euphra. She had never liked Margaret before; for, from not very obscure psychological causes, she had never felt comfortable in her presence, especially after she had encountered the nun in the Ghost’s Walk, though she had had no suspicion that the nun was Margaret. A great many of our dislikes, both to persons and things, arise from a feeling of discomfort associated with them, perhaps only accidentally present in our minds the first time we met them. But this vanished entirely now.

“Do you, then, know God too, Margaret?”

“Yes,” answered Margaret, simply and solemnly.

“Will you tell me about him?”

“I can at least tell you about my father, and what he taught me.”

“Oh! thank you, thank you! Do tell me about him—now.”

“Not now, dear Miss Cameron. It is late, and you are too unwell to stay up longer. Let me help you to bed to-night. I will be your maid.”

As she spoke, Margaret proceeded to put on her dress again, that she might go with Euphra, who had no attendant. She had parted with Jane, and did not care, in her present mood, to have a woman about her, especially a new one.

“No, Margaret. You have enough to do without adding me to your troubles.”

“Please, do let me, Miss Cameron. It will be a great pleasure to me. I have hardly anything to call work. You should see how I used to work when I was at home.”

Euphra still objected, but Margaret’s entreaty prevailed. She followed Euphra to her room. There she served her like a ministering angel; brushed her hair—oh, so gently! smoothing it out as if she loved it. There was health in the touch of her hands, because there was love. She undressed her; covered her in bed as if she had been a child; made up the fire to last as long as possible; bade her good night; and was leaving the room, when Euphra called her. Margaret returned to the bed-side.

“Kiss me, Margaret,” she said.

Margaret stooped, kissed her forehead and her lips, and left her.

Euphra cried herself to sleep. They were the first tears she had ever shed that were not painful tears. She slept as she had not slept for months.

In order to understand this change in Euphrasia’s behaviour to Margaret—in order, in fact, to represent it to our minds as at all credible—we must remember that she had been trying to do right for some time; that Margaret, as the daughter of David, seemed the only attainable source of the knowledge she sought; that long illness had greatly weakened her obstinacy; that her soul hungered, without knowing it, for love; and that she was naturally gifted with a strong will, the position in which she stood in relation to the count proving only that it was not strong enough, and not that it was weak. Such a character must, for any good, be ruled by itself, and not by circumstances. To have been overcome in the process of time by the persistent goodness of Margaret, might have been the blessed fate of a weaker and worse woman; but if Euphra did not overcome herself, there was no hope of further victory. If Margaret could even wither the power of her oppressor, it would be but to transfer the lordship from a bad man to a good woman; and that would not be enough. It would not be freedom. And indeed, the aid that Margaret had to give her, could only be bestowed on one who already had freedom enough to act in some degree from duty. She knew she ought to go and apologize to Margaret. She went.

In Margaret’s presence, and in such a mood, she was subjected at once to the holy enchantment of her loving-kindness. She had never received any tenderness from a woman before. Perhaps she had never been in the right mood to profit by it if she had. Nor had she ever before seen what Margaret was. It was only when service—divine service—flowed from her in full outgoing, that she reached the height of her loveliness. Then her whole form was beautiful. So was it interpenetrated by, and respondent to, the uprising soul within, that it radiated thought and feeling as if it had been all spirit. This beauty rose to its best in her eyes. When she was ministering to any one in need, her eyes seemed to worship the object of her faithfulness, as if all the time she felt that she was doing it unto Him. Her deeds were devotion. She was the receiver and not the giver. Before this, Euphra had seen only the still waiting face; and, as I have said, she had been repelled by it. Once within the sphere of the radiation of her attraction, she was drawn towards her, as towards the haven of her peace: she loved her.

To this, it length, had her struggle with herself in the silence of her own room, and her meditations on her couch, conducted her. Shall we say that these alone had been and were leading her? Or that to all these there was a hidden root, and an informing spirit? Who would not rather believe that his thoughts come from an infinite, self-sphered, self-constituting thought, than that they rise somehow out of a blank abyss of darkness, and are only thought when he thinks them, which thinking he cannot pre-determine or even foresee?

When Euphra woke, her first breath was like a deep draught of spiritual water. She felt as if some sorrow had passed from her, and some gladness come in its stead. She thought and thought, and found that the gladness was Margaret. She had scarcely made the discovery, when the door gently opened, and Margaret peeped in to see if she were awake.

“May I come in?” she said.

“Yes, please, Margaret.”

“How do you feel to-day?”

“Oh, so much better, dear Margaret! Your kindness will make me well.”

“I am so glad! Do lie still awhile, and I will bring you some breakfast. Mrs. Elton will be so pleased to find you let me wait on you!”

“She asked me, Margaret, if you should; but I was too miserable—and too naughty, for I did not like you.”

“I knew that; but I felt sure you would not dislike me always.”

“Why?”

“Because I could not help loving you.”

“Why did you love me?”

“I will tell you half the reason.—Because you looked unhappy.”

“What was the other half?”

“That I cannot—I mean I will not tell you.”

“Never?”

“Perhaps never. But I don’t know.—Not now.”

“Then I must not ask you?”

“No—please.”

“Very well, I won’t.”

“Thank you. I will go and get your breakfast.”

“What can she mean?” said Euphra to herself.

But she would never have found out.

CHAPTER XIV. DAVID ELGINBROD.

He being dead yet speaketh.

HEB., xi. 4.

DR. DONNE.

From this time, Margaret waited upon Euphra, as if she had been her own maid. Nor had Mrs. Elton any cause of complaint, for Margaret was always at hand when she was wanted. Indeed, her mistress was full of her praises. Euphra said little.

Many and long were the conversations between the two girls, when all but themselves were asleep. Sometimes Harry made one of the company; but they could always send him away when they wished to be alone. And now the teaching for which Euphra had longed, sprang in a fountain at her own door. It had been nigh her long, and she had not known it, for its hour had not come. Now she drank as only the thirsty drink,—as they drink whose very souls are fainting within them for drought.

But how did Margaret embody her lessons?

The second night, she came to Euphra’s room, and said:

“Shall I tell you about my father to-night? Are, you able?”

Euphra was delighted. It was what she had been hoping for all day.

“Do tell me. I long to hear about him.”

So they sat down; and Margaret began to talk about her childhood; the cottage she lived in; the fir-wood all around it; the work she used to do;—her side, in short, of the story which, in the commencement of this book, I have partly related from Hugh’s side. Summer and winter, spring-time and harvest, storm and sunshine, all came into the tale. Her mother came into it often; and often too, though not so often, the grand form of her father appeared, remained for a little while, and then passed away. Every time Euphra saw him thus in the mirror of Margaret’s memory, she saw him more clearly than before: she felt as if, soon, she should know him quite well. Sometimes she asked a question or two; but generally she allowed Margaret’s words to flow unchecked; for she painted her pictures better when the colours did not dry between. They talked on, or rather, Margaret talked and Euphra listened, far into the night. At length, Margaret stopped suddenly, for she became aware that a long time had passed. Looking at the clock on the chimney-piece, she said:

“I have done wrong to keep you up so late. Come—I must get you to bed. You are an invalid, you know, and I am your nurse as well as your maid.”

“You will come to-morrow night, then?”

“Yes, I will.”

“Then I will go to bed like a good child.”

Margaret undressed her, and left her to the healing of sleep.

The next night she spoke again of her father, and what he taught her. Euphra had thought much about him; and at every fresh touch which the story gave to the portrait, she knew him better; till at last, even when circumstances not mentioned before came up, she seemed to have known them from the beginning.

“What was your father like, Margaret?”

Margaret described him very nearly as I have done, from Hugh’s account, in the former part of the story. Euphra said:

“Ah! yes. That is almost exactly as I had fancied him. Is it not strange?”

“It is very natural, I think,” answered Margaret.

“I seem now to have known him for years.”

But what is most worthy of record is, that ever as the picture of David grew on the vision of Euphra, the idea of God was growing unawares upon her inward sight. She was learning more and more about God all the time. The sight of human excellence awoke a faint Ideal of the divine perfection. Faith came of itself, and abode, and grew; for it needs but a vision of the Divine, and faith in God is straightway born in the soul that beholds it. Thus, faith and sight are one. The being of her father in heaven was no more strange and far off from her, when she had seen such a father on earth as Margaret’s was. It was not alone David’s faith that begot hers, but the man himself was a faith-begetting presence. He was the evidence of God with them.—Thus he, being dead, yet spoke, and the departed man was a present power.

Euphra began to read the story of the Gospel. So did Harry. They found much on which to desire enlightenment; and they always applied to Margaret for the light they needed. It was long before she ventured to say I think. She always said:

“My father used to say—” or

“I think my father would have said—”

It was not until Euphra was in great trouble some time after this, and required the immediate consolation of personal testimony, that Margaret spoke as from herself; and then she spoke with positive assurance of faith. She did not then even say I think, but, I am sure; I know; I have seen.

Many interviews of this sort did not take place between them before Euphra, in her turn, began to confide her history to Margaret.

It was a strangely different one—full of outward event and physical trouble; but, till it approached the last stages, wonderfully barren as to inward production or development. It was a history of Euphra’s circumstances and peculiarities, not of Euphra herself. Till of late, she had scarcely had any history. Margaret’s, on the contrary, was a true history; for, with much of the monotonous in circumstance, it described individual growth, and the change of progress. Where there is no change there can be no history; and as all change is either growth or decay, all history must describe progress or retrogression. The former had now begun for Euphra as well; and it was one proof of it that she told Margaret all I have already recorded for my readers, at least as far as it bore against herself. How much more she told her I am unable to say; but after she had told it, Euphra was still more humble towards Margaret, and Margaret more tender, more full of service, if possible, and more devoted to Euphra.

CHAPTER XV. MARGARET’S SECRET.

SHAKSPERE.—Sonnet cxvi.

Margaret could not proceed very far in the story of her life, without making some reference to Hugh Sutherland. But she carefully avoided mentioning his name. Perhaps no one less calm, and free from the operation of excitement, could have been so successful in suppressing it.

“Ah!” said Euphra, one day, “your history is a little like mine there; a tutor comes into them both. Did you not fall dreadfully in love with him?”

“I loved him very much.”

“Where is he now?”

“In London, I believe.”

“Do you never see him?”

“No.”

“Have you never seen him since he left your home—with the curious name?”

“Yes; but not spoken to him.”

“Where?”

Margaret was silent. Euphra knew her well enough now not to repeat the question.

“I should have been in love with him, I know.”

Margaret only smiled.

Another day, Euphra said:

“What a good boy that Harry is! And so clever too. Ah! Margaret, I have behaved like the devil to that boy. I wanted to have him all to myself, and so kept him a child. Need I confess all my ugliest sins?”

“Not to me, certainly, dear Miss Cameron. Tell God to look into your heart, and take them all out of it.”

“I will. I do.—I even enticed Mr. Sutherland away from him to me, when he was the only real friend he had, that I might have them both.”

“But you have done your best to make up for it since.”

“I have tried a little. I cannot say I have done my best. I have been so peevish and irritable.”

“You could not quite help that.”

“How kind you are to excuse me so! It makes me so much stronger to try again.”

“My father used to say that God was always finding every excuse for us that could be found; every true one, you know; not one false one.”

“That does comfort one.”

After a pause, Euphra resumed:

“Mr. Sutherland did me some good, Margaret.”

“I do not wonder at that.”

“He made me think less about Count Halkar; and that was something, for he haunted me. I did not know then how very wicked he was. I did love him once. Oh, how I hate him now!”

And she started up and paced the room like a tigress in its cage.

Margaret did not judge this the occasion to read her a lecture on the duty of forgiveness. She had enough to do to keep from hating the man herself, I suspect. But she tried to turn her thoughts into another channel.

“Mr. Sutherland loved you very much, Miss Cameron.”

“He loved me once,” said poor Euphra, with a sigh.

“I saw he did. That was why I began to love you too.”

Margaret had at last unwittingly opened the door of her secret. She had told the other reason for loving Euphra. But, naturally enough, Euphra could not understand what she meant. Perhaps some of my readers, understanding Margaret’s words perfectly, and their reference too, may be so far from understanding Margaret herself, as to turn upon me and say:

“Impossible! You cannot have understood her or any other woman.”

Well!

“What do you mean, Margaret?”

Margaret both blushed and laughed outright.

“I must confess it,” said she, at once; “it cannot hurt him now: my tutor and yours are the same.”

“Impossible!”

“True.”

“And you never spoke all the time you were both at Arnstead?”

“Not once. He never knew I was in the house.”

“How strange! And you saw he loved me?”

“Yes.”

“And you were not jealous?”

“I did not say that. But I soon found that the only way to escape from my jealousy, if the feeling I had was jealousy, was to love you too. I did.”

“You beautiful creature! But you could not have loved him much.”

“I loved him enough to love you for his sake. But why did he stop loving you? I fear I shall not be able to love him so much now.”

“He could not help it, Margaret. I deserved it.”

Euphra hid her face in her hands.

“He could not have really loved you, then?”

“Which is better to believe, Margaret,” said Euphra, uncovering her face, which two tears were lingering down, and looking up at her—“that he never loved me, or that he stopped loving me?”

“For his sake, the first.”

“And for my sake, the second?”

“That depends.”

“So it does. He must have found plenty of faults in me. But I was not so bad as he thought me when he stopped loving me.”

Margaret’s answer was one of her loving smiles, in which her eyes had more share than her lips.

It would have been unendurable to Euphra, a little while before, to find that she had a rival in a servant. Now she scarcely regarded that aspect of her position. But she looked doubtfully at Margaret, and then said:

“How is it that you take it so quietly?—for your love must have been very different from mine. Indeed, I am not sure that I loved him at all; and after I had made up my mind to it quite, it did not hurt me so very much. But you must have loved him dreadfully.”

“Perhaps I did. But I had no anxiety about it.”

“But that you could not leave to a father such as yours even to settle.”

“No. But I could to God. I could trust God with what I could not speak to my father about. He is my father’s father, you know; and so, more to him and me than we could be to each other. The more we love God, the more we love each other; for we find he makes the very love which sometimes we foolishly fear to do injustice to, by loving him most. I love my father ten times more because he loves God, and because God has secrets with him.”

“I wish God were a father to me as he is to you, Margaret.”

“But he is your father, whether you wish it or not. He cannot be more your father than he is. You may be more his child than you are, but not more than he meant you to be, nor more than he made you for. You are infinitely more his child than you have grown to yet. He made you altogether his child, but you have not given in to it yet.”

“Oh! yes; I know what you mean. I feel it is true.”

“The Prodigal Son was his father’s child. He knew it, and gave in to it. He did not say: ‘I wish my father loved me enough to treat me like a child again.’ He did not say that, but—I will arise and go to my father.”

Euphra made no answer, but wept, Margaret said no more.

Euphra was the first to resume.

“Mr. Sutherland was very kind, Margaret. He promised—and I know he will keep his promise—to do all he could to help me. I hope he is finding out where that wicked count is.”

“Write to him, and ask him to come and see you. He does not know where you are.”

“But I don’t know where he is.”

“I do.”

“Do you?” rejoined Euphra with some surprise.

“But he does not know where I am. I will give you his address, if you like.”

Euphra pondered a little. She would have liked very much to see him, for she was anxious to know of his success. The love she had felt for him was a very small obstacle to their meeting now; for her thoughts had been occupied with affairs, before the interest of which the poor love she had then been capable of, had melted away and vanished—vanished, that is, in all that was restrictive and engrossing in its character. But now that she knew the relation that had existed between Margaret and him, she shrunk from doing anything that might seem to Margaret to give Euphra an opportunity of regaining his preference. Not that she had herself the smallest hope, even had she had the smallest desire of doing so; but she would not even suggest the idea of being Margaret’s rival. At length she answered:

“No, thank you, Margaret. As soon as he has anything to report, he will write to Arnstead, and Mrs. Horton will forward me the letter. No—it is quite unnecessary.”

Euphra’s health was improving a little, though still she was far from strong.

CHAPTER XVI. FOREBODINGS.

Faust. If heaven was made for man, ‘twas made for me. Good Angel. Faustus, repent; yet heaven will pity thee. Bad Angel. Thou art a spirit, God cannot pity thee. Faust. Be I a devil, yet God may pity me. Bad Angel. Too late. Good Angel. Never too late if Faustus will repent. Bad Angel. If thou repent, devils will tear thee in pieces.

MARLOWE.—Doctor Faustus.

Mr. Appleditch had had some business-misfortunes, not of a heavy nature, but sufficient to cast a gloom over the house in Dervish Town, and especially over the face of his spouse, who had set her heart on a new carpet for her drawing-room, and feared she ought not to procure it now. It is wonderful how conscientious some people are towards their balance at the banker’s. How the drawing-room, however, could come to want a new carpet is something mysterious, except there is a peculiar power of decay inherent in things deprived of use. These influences operating, however, she began to think that the two scions of grocery were not drawing nine shillings’ worth a week of the sap of divinity. This she hinted to Mr. Appleditch. It was resolved to give Hugh warning.

As it would involve some awkwardness to state reasons, Mrs. Appleditch resolved to quarrel with him, as the easiest way of prefacing his discharge. It was the way she took with her maids-of-all-work; for it was grand in itself, and always left her with a comfortable feeling of injured dignity.

As a preliminary course, she began to treat him with still less politeness than before. Hugh was so careless of her behaviour, that this made no impression upon him. But he came to understand it all afterwards, from putting together the remarks of the children, and the partial communications of Mr. Appleditch to Miss Talbot, which that good lady innocently imparted to her lodger.

At length, one day, she came into the room where Hugh was more busy in teaching than his pupils were in learning, and seated herself by the fire to watch for an opportunity. This was soon found. For the boys, rendered still more inattentive by the presence of their mother, could not be induced to fix the least thought upon the matter in hand; so that Hugh was compelled to go over the same thing again and again, without success. At last he said:

“I am afraid, Mrs. Appleditch, I must ask you to interfere, for I cannot get any attention from the boys to-day.”

“And how could it be otherwise, Mr. Sutherland, when you keep wearing them out with going over and over the same thing, till they are sick of it? Why don’t you go on?”

“How can I go on when they have not learned the thing they are at? That would be to build the chimneys before the walls.”

“It is very easy to be witty, sir; but I beg you will behave more respectfully to me in the presence of my children, innocent lambs!”

Looking round at the moment, Hugh caught in his face what the elder lamb had intended for his back, a grimace hideous enough to have procured him instant promotion in the kingdom of apes. The mother saw it too, and added:

“You see you cannot make them respect you. Really, Mr. Sutherland!”

Hugh was about to reply, to the effect that it was useless, in such circumstances, to attempt teaching them at all, some utterance of which sort was watched for as the occasion for his instant dismission; but at that very moment a carriage and pair pulled sharply up at the door, with more than the usual amount of quadrupedation, and mother and sons darted simultaneously to the window.

“My!” cried Johnnie, “what a rum go! Isn’t that a jolly carriage, Peetie?”

“Papa’s bought a carriage!” shouted Peetie.

“Be quiet, children,” said their mother, as she saw a footman get down and approach the door.

“Look at that buffer,” said Johnnie. “Do come and see this grand footman, Mr. Sutherland. He’s such a gentleman!”

A box on the ear from his mother silenced him. The servant entering with some perturbation a moment after, addressed her mistress, for she dared not address any one else while she was in the room:

“Please ‘m, the carriage is astin’ after Mr. Sutherland.”

“Mr. Sutherland?”

“Yes ‘m.”

The lady turned to Mr. Sutherland, who, although surprised as well, was not inclined to show his surprise to Mrs. Appleditch.

“I did not know you had carriage-friends, Mr. Sutherland,” said she, with a toss of her head.

“Neither did I,” answered Hugh. “But I will go and see who it is.”

When he reached the street, he found Harry on the pavement, who having got out of the carriage, and not having been asked into the house, was unable to stand still for impatience. As soon as he saw his tutor, he bounded to him, and threw his arms round his neck, standing as they were in the open street. Tears of delight filled his eyes.

“Come, come, come,” said Harry; “we all want you.”

“Who wants me?”

“Mrs. Elton and Euphra and me. Come, get in.”

“And he pulled Hugh towards the carriage.

“I cannot go with you now. I have pupils here.”

Harry’s face fell.

“When will you come?”

“In half-an-hour.”

“Hurrah! I shall be back exactly in half-an-hour then. Do be ready, please, Mr. Sutherland.”

“I will.”

Harry jumped into the carriage, telling the coachman to drive where he pleased, and be back at the same place in half-an-hour. Hugh returned into the house.

As may be supposed, Margaret was the means of this happy meeting. Although she saw plainly enough that Euphra would like to see Hugh, she did not for some time make up her mind to send for him. The circumstances which made her resolve to do so were these.

For some days Euphra seemed to be gradually regaining her health and composure of mind. One evening, after a longer talk than usual, Margaret had left her in bed, and had gone to her own room. She was just preparing to get into bed herself, when a knock at her door startled her, and going to it, she saw Euphra standing there, pale as death, with nothing on but her nightgown, notwithstanding the bitter cold of an early and severe frost. She thought at first she must be walking in her sleep, but the scared intelligence of her open eyes, soon satisfied her that it was not so.

“What is the matter, dear Miss Cameron?” she said, as calmly as she could.

“He is coming. He wants me. If he calls me, I must go.”

“No, you shall not go,” rejoined Margaret, firmly.

“I must, I must,” answered Euphra, wringing her hands.

“Do come in,” said Margaret, “you must not stand there in the cold.”

“Let me get into your bed.”

“Better let me go with you to yours. That will be more comfortable for you.”

“Oh! yes; please do.”

Margaret threw a shawl round Euphra, and went back with her to her room.

“He wants me. He wants me. He will call me soon,” said Euphra, in an agonised whisper, as soon as the door was shut. “What shall I do!”

“Come to bed first, and we will talk about it there.”

As soon as they were in bed, Margaret put her arm round Euphra, who was trembling with cold and fear, and said:

“Has this man any right to call you?”

“No, no,” answered Euphra, vehemently.

“Then don’t go.”

“But I am afraid of him.”

“Defy him in God’s name.”

“But besides the fear, there is something that I can’t describe, that always keeps telling me—no, not telling me, pushing me—no, drawing me, as if I could not rest a moment till I go. I cannot describe it. I hate to go, and yet I feel that if I were cold in my grave, I must rise and go if he called me. I wish I could tell you what it is like. It is as if some demon were shaking my soul till I yielded and went. Oh! don’t despise me. I can’t help it.”

“My darling, I don’t, I can’t despise you. You shall not go to him.”

“But I must,” answered she, with a despairing faintness more convincing than any vehemence; and then began to weep with a slow, hopeless weeping, like the rain of a November eve.

Margaret got out of bed. Euphra thought she was offended. Starting up, she clasped her hands, and said:

“Oh Margaret! I won’t cry. Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me.”

She entreated like a chidden child.

“No, no, I didn’t mean to leave you for a moment. Lie down again, dear, and cry as much as you like. I am going to read a little bit out of the New Testament to you.”

“I am afraid I can’t listen to it.”

“Never mind. Don’t try. I want to read it.”

Margaret got a New Testament, and read part of that chapter of St. John’s Gospel which speaks about human labour and the bread of life. She stopped at these words:

“For I came down from heaven, not to do mine own will, but the will of him that sent me.”

Euphra’s tears had ceased. The sound of Margaret’s voice, which, if it lost in sweetness by becoming more Scotch when she read the Gospel, yet gained thereby in pathos, and the power of the blessed words themselves, had soothed the troubled spirit a little, and she lay quiet.

“The count is not a good man, Miss Cameron?”

“You know he is not, Margaret. He is the worst man alive.”

“Then it cannot be God’s will that you should go to him.”

“But one does many things that are not God’s will.”

“But it is God’s will that you should not go to him.”

Euphra lay silent for a few moments. Suddenly she exclaimed:

“Then I must not go to him,”—got out of bed, threw herself on her knees by the bedside, and holding up her clasped hands, said, in low tones that sounded as if forced from her by agony:

“I won’t! I won’t! O God, I will not. Help me, help me!”

Margaret knelt beside her, and put her arm round her. Euphra spoke no more, but remained kneeling, with her extended arms and clasped hands lying on the bed, and her head laid between them. At length Margaret grew alarmed, and looked at her. But she found that she was in a sweet sleep. She gently disengaged herself, and covering her up soft and warm, left her to sleep out her God-sent sleep undisturbed, while she sat beside, and watched for her waking.

She slept thus for an hour. Then lifting her head, and seeing Margaret, she rose quietly, as if from her prayers, and said with a smile:

“Margaret, I was dreaming that I had a mother.”

“So you have, somewhere.”

“Yes, so I have, somewhere,” she repeated, and crept into bed like a child, lay down, and was asleep again in a moment.

Margaret watched her for another hour, and then seeing no signs of restlessness, but that on the contrary her sleep was profound, lay down beside her, and soon shared in that repose which to weary women and men is God’s best gift.

She rose at her usual hour the next day, and was dressed before Euphra awoke. It was a cold grey December morning, with the hoar-frost lying thick on the roofs of the houses. Euphra opened her eyes while Margaret was busy lighting the fire. Seeing that she was there, she closed them again, and fell once more fast asleep. Before she woke again, Margaret had some tea ready for her; after taking which, she felt able to get up. She rose looking more bright and hopeful than Margaret had seen her before.

But Margaret, who watched her intently through the day, saw a change come over her cheer. Her face grew pale and troubled. Now and then her eyes were fixed on vacancy; and again she would look at Margaret with a woebegone expression of countenance; but presently, as if recollecting herself, would smile and look cheerful for a moment. Margaret saw that the conflict was coming on, if not already begun—that at least its shadow was upon her; and thinking that if she could have a talk with Hugh about what he had been doing, it would comfort her a little, and divert her thoughts from herself, even if no farther or more pleasantly than to the count, she let Harry know Hugh’s address, as given in the letter to her father. She was certain that, if Harry succeeded in finding him, nothing more was necessary to insure his being brought to Mrs. Elton’s. As we have seen, Harry had traced him to Buccleuch Terrace.

Hugh re-entered the house in the same mind in which he had gone out; namely, that after Mrs. Appleditch’s behaviour to him before his pupils, he could not remain their tutor any longer, however great his need might be of the pittance he received for his services.

But although Mrs. Appleditch’s first feeling had been jealousy of Hugh’s acquaintance with “carriage-people,” the toadyism which is so essential an element of such jealousy, had by this time revived; and when Hugh was proceeding to finish the lesson he had begun, intending it to be his last, she said:

“Why didn’t you ask your friend into the drawing-room, Mr. Sutherland?”

“Good gracious! The drawing-room!” thought Hugh—but answered: “He will fetch me when the lesson is over.”

“I am sure, sir, any friends of yours that like to call upon you here, will be very welcome. It will be more agreeable to you to receive them here, of course; for your accommodation at poor Miss Talbot’s is hardly suitable for such visitors.”

“I am sorry to say, however,” answered Hugh, “that after the way you have spoken to me to-day, in the presence of my pupils, I cannot continue my relation to them any longer.”

“Ho! ho!” resnorted the lady, indignation and scorn mingling with mortification; “our grand visitors have set our backs up. Very well, Mr. Sutherland, you will oblige me by leaving the house at once. Don’t trouble yourself, pray, to finish the lesson. I will pay you for it all the same. Anything to get rid of a man who insults me before the very faces of my innocent lambs! And please to remember,” she added, as she pulled out her purse, while Hugh was collecting some books he had lent the boys, “that when you were starving, my husband and I took you in and gave you employment out of charity—pure charity, Mr. Sutherland. Here is your money.”

“Good morning, Mrs. Appleditch,” said Hugh; and walked out with his books under his arm, leaving her with the money in her hand.

He had to knock his feet on the pavement in front of the house, to keep them from freezing, for half-an-hour, before the carriage arrived to take him away. As soon as it came up, he jumped into it, and was carried off in triumph by Harry.

Mrs. Elton received him kindly. Euphra held out her hand with a slight blush, and the quiet familiarity of an old friend. Hugh could almost have fallen in love with her again, from compassion for her pale, worn face, and subdued expression.

Mrs. Elton went out in the carriage almost directly, and Euphra begged Harry to leave them alone, as she had something to talk to Mr. Sutherland about.

“Have you found any trace of Count Halkar, Hugh?” she said, the moment they were by themselves.

“I am very sorry to say I have not. I have done my best.”

“I am quite sure of that.—I just wanted to tell you, that, from certain indications which no one could understand so well as myself, I think you will have more chance of finding him now.”

“I am delighted to hear it,” responded Hugh. “If I only had him!”

Euphra sighed, paused, and then said:

“But I am not sure of it. I think he is in London; but he may be in Bohemia, for anything I know. I shall, however, in all probability, know more about him within a few days.”

Hugh resolved to go at once to Falconer, and communicate to him what Euphra had told him. But he said nothing to her as to the means by which he had tried to discover the count; for although he felt sure that he had done right in telling Falconer all about it, he was afraid lest Euphra, not knowing what sort of a man he was, might not like it. Euphra, on her part, did not mention Margaret’s name; for she had begged her not to do so.

“You will tell me when you know yourself?”

“Perhaps.—I will, if I can. I do wish you could get the ring. I have a painful feeling that it gives him power over me.”

“That can only be a nervous fancy, surely,” Hugh ventured to say.

“Perhaps it is. I don’t know. But, still, without that, there are plenty of reasons for wishing to recover it. He will put it to a bad use, if he can. But for your sake, especially, I wish we could get it.”

“Thank you. You were always kind.”

“No,” she replied, without lifting her eyes; “I brought it all upon you.”

“But you could not help it.”

“Not at the moment. But all that led to it was my fault.”

She paused; then suddenly resumed:

“I will confess.—Do you know what gave rise to the reports of the house being haunted?”

“No.”

“It was me wandering about it at night, looking for that very ring, to give to the count. It was shameful. But I did. Those reports prevented me from being found out. But I hope not many ghosts are so miserable as I was.—You remember my speaking to you of Mr. Arnold’s jewels?”

“Yes, perfectly.”

“I wanted to find out, through you, where the ring was. But I had no intention of involving you.”

“I am sure you had not.”

“Don’t be too sure of anything about me. I don’t know what I might have been led to do. But I am very sorry. Do forgive me.”

“I cannot allow that I have anything to forgive. But tell me, Euphra, were you the creature, in white that I saw in the Ghost’s Walk one night? I don’t mean the last time.”

“Very likely,” she answered, bending her head yet lower, with a sigh.

“Then who was the creature in black that met you? And what became of you then?”

“Did you see her?” rejoined Euphra, turning paler still. “I fainted at sight of her. I took her for the nun that hangs in that horrid room.”

“So did I,” said Hugh. “But you could not have lain long; for I went up to the spot where you vanished, and found nothing.”

“I suppose I got into the shrubbery before I fell. Or the count dragged me in.—But was that really a ghost? I feel now as if it was a good messenger, whether ghost or not, come to warn me, if I had had the courage to listen. I wish I had taken the warning.”

They talked about these and other things, till Mrs. Elton, who had made Hugh promise to stay to lunch, returned. When they were seated at table, the kind-hearted woman said:

“Now, Mr. Sutherland, when will you begin again with Harry?”

“I do not quite understand you,” answered Hugh.

“Of course you will come and give him lessons, poor boy. He will be broken-hearted if you don’t.”

“I wish I could. But I cannot—at least yet; for I know his father was dissatisfied with me. That was one of the reasons that made him send Harry to London.”

Harry looked wretchedly disappointed, but said nothing.

“I never heard him say anything of the sort.”

“I am sure of it, though. I am very sorry he has mistaken me; but he will know me better some day.”

“I will take all the responsibility,” persisted Mrs. Elton.

“But unfortunately the responsibility sticks too fast for you to take it. I cannot get rid of my share if I would.”

“You are too particular. I am sure Mr. Arnold never could have meant that. This is my house too.”

“But Harry is his boy. If you will let me come and see him sometimes, I shall be very thankful, though. I may be useful to him without giving him lessons.”

“Thank you,” said Harry with delight.

“Well, well! I suppose you are so much in request in London that you won’t miss him for a pupil.”

“On the contrary, I have not a single engagement. If you could find me one, I should be exceedingly obliged to you.”

“Dear! dear! dear!” said Mrs. Elton. “Then you shall have Harry.”

“Oh! yes; please take me,” said Harry, beseechingly.

“No, I cannot. I must not.”

Mrs. Elton rang the bell.

“James, tell the coachman I want the carriage in an hour.”

Mrs. Elton was as submissive to her coachman as ladies who have carriages generally are, and would not have dreamed of ordering the horses out so soon again for herself; but she forgot everything else when a friend was in need of help, and became perfectly pachydermatous to the offended looks or indignant hints of that important functionary.

Within a few minutes after Hugh took his leave, Mrs. Elton was on her way to repeat a visit she had already paid the same morning, and to make several other calls, with the express object of finding pupils for Hugh. But in this she was not so successful as she had expected. In fact, no one whom she could think of, wanted such services at present. She returned home quite down-hearted, and all but convinced that nothing could be done before the approach of the London season.