My brother's friend

THE GIRL'S MANNER WAS VERY KIND;
HER SYMPATHY, I FELT, WAS GENUINE.

Thus she explained, and for a while I followed her meaning, taking in the bitter truth that I had tortured myself with a causeless jealousy, since Leonard had been at once the friend of Miss Carsdale and of her lover, and his interest in her arose from his desire to smooth their roughened course of love. But with the knowledge, the pain in my head increased to torture, my limbs grew stiff and numb, whilst about my brow a furnace-like heat seemed to glow. The confused throbbing changed to a roaring in my ears that drowned every other sound; then all consciousness left me, as I felt myself filling backwards, backwards, in a darkness as of night.

How long my swoon lasted I know not; but the pale, agitated faces I saw about me when consciousness returned told me that my illness was deemed serious. Only Mabel remained calm and capable. She decided that I must be got home at once, and would not hear of Mrs. Gower sending for a doctor.

"Dorothy is well enough now to bear the drive," she said; "and as soon as we reach home, I will send for my own medical man."

But when I tried to rise, my head swam again, torturing pain in head and spine returned. It was as much as I could do, with all the help that was given to me, to drag myself to the carriage.

But Mabel's strong will prevailed; and it was well for the dwellers at the Vicarage that it did.

I have but a confused remembrance of that drive home—a memory of hopeless confusion and pain—of Mabel's speaking to me, and of my vainly endeavouring to attach some meaning to her words and answering in an incoherent, senseless way.

But I roused a little from my stupor as we neared The Towers. I remember alighting from the carriage, aided by Mabel and the footman, and staggering into the hall. There was a joyous shout, and little Percy came bounding to meet us. Where was the superior nurse, whose sole duty it was to guard this precious life?

"Run away, Percy! Run away! Keep him back, some one!" cried Mabel, in a voice sharp with fear.

But the little fellow had clutched my gown as I sank on to a seat in the hall, and when I saw the dear, sweet face held up beseechingly to me, I, not knowing what I did, bent and kissed the rosy mouth.

The next moment, Mabel dragged him away, and his childish screams tortured my head. But it was too late. Ah, if I had but known!

For, a little later, Mabel's medical man—not old Dr. Perrow, but a younger practitioner, who had lately settled in the neighbourhood, and whom Mabel had "taken up," extolling his skill at every opportunity, pronounced that I was sickening with scarlet fever. Stupefied as I was, I saw the sudden pallor that came to Mabel's face when the doctor uttered that word of terror, and I knew that it was not for me that she feared, but for little Percy.

The fever had been spreading amongst the poorer houses of Burford during the wet spring, and many little children had died of it. Mabel had had her fears, and had carefully screened her child from every possibility of infection.

Poor Mabel! But her presence of mind did not desert her, alarmed as she must have been. She thought of everything that should be done, and gave calm and clear directions to her servants.

I was removed to the rooms within one of the towers. Mr. Steinthorpe had occupied them in his bachelor days. But since he married, they had been rarely used. The passage leading to them was shut off from the rest of the house by a heavy baize door; so that practically they constituted a separate dwelling, and secured for me the isolation that the nature of my illness demanded.

Salome was summoned to nurse me, and I need not say how willingly my old nurse came to me. All possible care and attention was bestowed on me by doctor and nurse. I lacked no comfort that money could procure; but I soon became too ill to know what was done for me, or who came or went.

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CHAPTER XXII.

SICKNESS AND SORROW.

I longed to cool my parched lips and burning throat with the ice-cold water—longed to lave my hot hands in the crystal stream; but something ever kept me back. My feet would slip, or the scene would recede just as my desire seemed about to be gratified. Edmund or Leonard—for the one often changed into the other—would appear, and, pointing to the stream, urge me to hasten my steps; but my eager longing was ever baffled. I endured the doom of Tantalus. Leonard, Ralph, and Edmund; of all whom the wanderings of my mind brought before me, these three presented themselves most distinctly.

At last, the fever that consumed me burnt itself out. Gradually the terrible heat subsided; a cold hand seemed to be pressed upon my burning brow, cooling, calming, hushing the turmoil within. The haunting, harassing visions vanished; peace came to me and repose.

I awoke from a long, deep slumber, utterly weak and prostrate, but myself again. Yet the scene which met my opening eyes was so unfamiliar that I questioned if I were indeed looking on realities. The rounded chamber in which I lay was strange to me. It seemed inexplicable that I should be there, and still more bewildering was it to see Grace and Ralph standing within a few yards of me.

"It is a dream," I thought, and my eyes closed again.

They soon reopened, however, and now Grace was bending over me.

That she was no figment of my imagination was proved by her raising my head on her arm and gently forcing me to swallow some nourishment. I looked at her with wondering eyes.

"Grace!" I said. And the faint, hollow sound of my voice surprised me.

"Yes, dearest; it is I."

"Where am I?"

"In your sister's house, dear Dorothy. You have been very ill, and I have come to help nurse you."

"Oh! Are you here alone?"

"Yes, dear."

"Then it was not Ralph I saw?"

"Ralph was here a few minutes ago; but he is gone."

"And no one else? Not Leonard?"

"No, dear."

I gave a weary sigh. Grace made me take some more nourishment; then she enjoined silence, and I slept again.

Gradually my strength returned to me, thought grew clear again, and with thought came fresh trouble of mind.

Grace's presence at my bedside was easily explained. On hearing of my illness, she had written to Mabel, begging to be allowed to come and help nurse me. And as she was more skilful than most amateur nurses, having at one time, from love of the art, undergone a course of hospital training, Mabel gratefully accepted the assistance she offered.

Salome was at first disposed to be jealous of her, and to regard her coming as an intrusion; but Grace soon won her liking, and Salome was thankful to have so efficient an ally in the long-continued battle for my life; for the fever had raged its worst in me, and the least failure or lack of caution on the part of my nurses would probably have given me over to death.

"Grace," I said one day, when for some time I had been lying silent, lost in thought, "what made Ralph come to see me? It was running a great risk."

"Not so great as you think, dear," replied Grace. "We both had the fever as children, and it rarely happens that one takes it a second time. And Ralph was sorely anxious about you. He could not stay away when the crisis of your illness was approaching, and we knew that a few hours would decide the issue."

"He should not have minded. I wish he did not care for me so much," I said, beginning to cry, for I was still very weak. "Grace I can't help thinking that perhaps it would have been better if I had died."

"It is not for you to say that, Dorothy," she answered, gravely. "It must be better you should live, since God has willed it so."

But I continued to cry for a while. Presently I asked—

"What have you done with my ring, Grace?—The ring Ralph gave me?"

"He has it, dear. It was hanging loose on your finger when you were sleeping, and he took it."

"He should not have done that," I said, querulously. "When will he give it to me?"

"When you see him, you can ask him," said Grace, sagely.

"Is he coming here again?" I asked, with a sudden palpitation of fear.

"No, dear. He thinks it best not to see you till you are stronger—when you are able to leave here. When I can take you to the seaside, as I hope to do, perhaps we shall see him."

I gave a sigh of relief. Did Grace understand its meaning? There was a pained look on her face as she watched me.

"Grace," I said, uneasily, "did I talk much when I was delirious?"

"Why, yes. You talked incessantly," she said.

"Oh, what did I talk about?" I asked, eagerly. "Did I mention names? Did I talk about any one in particular? Oh, do tell me!"

"You mentioned several names, I believe," she answered quietly. "But, dear Dorothy, it is foolish to recall that now. When the delirium is past, we forget the patient's wandering words."

"Yes, yes; pray forget them," I said, hurriedly. "I daresay I talked great rubbish; I want you to forget everything I said."

"Very well," replied Grace.

But she looked so troubled that I wished my words unsaid.

My recovery was very slow and tedious. The burdens that lay on my heart, the keen, gnawing remorse that came with thought of the past, the doubts and fears with which I looked forward to the future, must have retarded my progress. In my convalescence, I had abundant leisure for reflection. I saw plainly now what a fatal mistake I had made, and how my rash, impulsive action had brought trouble on those, whom I most wished to make glad; but I could see no way of escape from the deplorable position into which I had brought myself. Ah, if I had but laid my case before the Lord and awaited the guidance He never fails to give to those who seek it! Then I should not have known the shame and sorrow I now endured.

After a few days, I saw less of Grace. I had begged her not to imprison herself in my sick-room. And when she left me for hours at a time, I believed that she was resting, or taking the fresh air. I was content to have only Salome's company, for Grace's presence, dear as she was, had now for me the force of a silent reproach.

Mabel did not come near me; I did not of course expect to see her, knowing how desirable it was to prevent the spread of infection in the household. In truth, I thought very little of Mabel. I hardly realised that I was at The Towers, so unfamiliar was the room I occupied. Like most invalids, I was absorbed in myself, marking the stages of my recovery, looking forward to every proposed change, and wondering, sadly enough, what the coming days would unfold. But soon something occurred to rouse me from my selfish lethargy.

One afternoon I was alone for a little while, Salerno having gone below to fetch some needed supplies. I had left my bed for the first time, and was lying on a couch near the fire. My eyes were closed, but I was not asleep, for I heard the peculiar squeaking sound the hinges of the baize door made whenever it was pushed back. Who could be coming to The Towers from the main dwelling? Not the doctor, for he had already paid his daily visit to me; besides, the light step that was ascending the stairs was certainly not a man's. Ere I could wonder long, the step paused outside the door; then the handle was timidly turned, and the next moment, to my utter amazement, Mabel stood before me.

Yes, it was Mabel; but how altered! She was white and haggard; her eyes had the dilated strained look that tells of long sleeplessness; her self-confident, composed air was gone. I had never seen my sister look so before.

"Mabel," I exclaimed, "what is it? Oh, you should not have come. Do you forget the risk of infection?"

"It does not matter now," she said in a hard, unnatural tone. "Nothing matters now. He is dying, Dorothy, dying."

"Dying!" I repeated, aghast. "What do you mean? Of whom are you speaking?"

"Of whom should I speak but of my Percy—my darling, my precious child! Oh, if he dies, I shall be the most wretched woman on earth!"

"Oh, Mabel!" I cried, the thought smiting me sharply. "You do not mean to say that little Percy has the fever?"

"Did you not know? Did they not tell you? He has been ill for days—how long I do not know; for I have lost all count of time. The fever had turned, we thought he was getting better; but now there is some dreadful complication, and they say there is scarcely a chance that he can live. Oh, do not look at me like that, Dorothy! I cannot bear it. Oh, my darling, my darling, how could I live without you?"

I looked away, and was silent. It seemed vain to try and comfort her, so agitated as she was. Yet there were no tears in her eyes. She walked to and fro my room as though too restless to sit down. She wore a loose morning wrapper; her hair was falling in disorder on her shoulders; she looked utterly unlike the bright, dainty little lady she usually appeared.

"Mabel, dear," I said presently, "you must not give way to despair. Surely, whilst the darling still lives there is some hope."

"There is just that much of hope," she replied; "Dr. Evans said so. And now Howard has summoned a physician from London, who is watching the case. They banished me from the room; they told me to rest. But how can I rest? The sleeping draught they gave me had no more effect on me than if it had been water."

I thought that its effect was evident in her wild excited mien.

"Dorothy," she went on, after a moment, "I have come to you because you love him, and you will pray for him. I have tried to pray, but I cannot. God will not hear me. I am too wicked."

"You wicked, Mabel! You were always better than I!"

"Dorothy, you must not say that; you do not know me. Oh, I knew from the first that he would die; I had no hope from the hour when they told me he had taken the fever. I am not worthy to be the mother of such a pure, innocent little child. God has judged me unworthy. He will punish me for all my worldliness and pride. Even in my religion, I was worldly, thinking chiefly of what was correct and in good taste."

Could it be Mabel who poured out these confessions? This humble, despairing woman, the proud, queenly sister, who had been so ready to admonish and reprove me! But I ceased to wonder in my longing to give her comfort.

"God is love; God is merciful," I whispered.

   "'If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins.'"

And as I said the words, my own sins rose before me, all my past follies and perversities, and I knew that I, even more than Mabel, needed to implore the merciful forgiveness of God.

"You must not give up hope," I continued. "I do not. We will pray, and God will hear our prayer."

"But, Dorothy, remember how we hoped to the last for poor Edmund. And we prayed that he might live, and yet he did not."

"I know," I said, half-sobbing; "but oh, it cannot be that darling Percy too will be taken; oh, I cannot think that that will be!"

"Then pray, Dorothy. Ask God to save my child. Ask Him now."

She had cast herself down beside me, and clasped my hands in hers, as she looked up at me with appealing eyes.

There was no barrier now between my heart and Mabel's. She needed me now, needed my sympathy, my prayers. It was as if we had been carried back to the days so long gone by, when we had childish griefs in common and prayed together in simple, childish words with childish faith.

A little while before, I should have said it was impossible that I could breathe a prayer in Mabel's hearing. But in hours of supreme trial, the reserve, self-consciousness or pride, which isolates our spirits, separating us even from those most dear, breaks down, and we are conscious only of our common needs and sorrows.

So I prayed, beseeching the Lord to spare the little life so dear to us, whilst Mabel knelt by my couch, still clinging to me. When I ended, tears, blessed tears, came to her relief. Her strained, excited mood gave way, and she clung to me sobbing. It was more than I could bear to witness her abandonment of grief. In a few moments, I, too, should have lost all self-control, had not Salome come to my help. She was amazed to see Mabel crouched on the floor beside me.

"Miss Mabel, Miss Mabel," she exclaimed, her manner displaying the old, stern authority with which she had ruled us in our childhood; "you should not be here; you will make your sister worse if you cry like that. Come, come with me."

And, as firmly, but not unkindly, Salome laid her hand on her arm, Mabel rose and passively let our old nurse lead her from the room. She went away wan and bowed, with a sad, stricken look on her face; but not so utterly hopeless, I think, as when she came.

After a while, Salome came back to find me crying helplessly. She made me take a restorative, and forbade me to speak. But I could not keep quiet long.

"Why did you not tell me that little Percy was ill?" I demanded, presently.

"Because it was better you should not know. You would have fretted and gone back. You should not have heard now if I could have prevented it."

"I would rather know," I said; "and now you must tell me all, Salome. I cannot bear to have things kept from me. Is he really so very ill? Do you think he will die?"

Salome shook her head solemnly. "Who can say! He is as ill as ever child was. There's a mighty fine doctor come from London; but I have not much faith in doctors."

"I have heard you say that it is wonderful what little children will come through."

"So it is, Miss Dorothy, so it is. I have seen poor folk's children persist in living, when everyone had given them over; but rich people often cannot save their children with all their grand doctors, and nurses, and everything that money can buy. Life is full of trouble, my dear, and no one can escape the common lot. Those that have all this world can give them are made to suffer in other ways."

"Poor Mabel!" I sighed. "It will break her heart if she loses her boy. And I feel as if I could never forgive myself, for I must have given him the fever."

"Nay, child; it was none of your doing. This stroke is from the Lord. Small or great, He loves us too well not to chasten us. And the sorrows He sends us are less painful than those we bring on ourselves."

"Ah, that is true!" I said, involuntarily.

"Poor Miss Mabel was always so haughty-proud," continued Salome; "she seemed to think the world was made for her and trouble could never touch her. Even as a little child, she had always a grand air. And the Lord hates pride; He humbles the haughty."

"But He forgives those who confess their faults," I answered; "He hears us when we pray."

"Ay, to be sure; there's no doubt of that," Salome answered.

But her manner was not encouraging. I saw that she had made up her mind that little Percy would die. How I longed for Grace to share my burden with me! But I knew how she was occupied; I could understand now why I had seen her so little of late.

"Is Mrs. West nursing Percy?" I asked.

Salome nodded. "I don't know what they would do without her," she said; "when he was wild and fractious, she could manage him better than any one. A real God-send she has been to us. I never saw her equal in a sick-room."

Such praise from Salome was rare, and it showed that Grace was displaying no ordinary skill.

What a long, long evening it was that followed! My thoughts dwelt constantly on my darling nephew, and again and again I prayed God to spare the precious, young life. Fear was strong within me; the saddest possibilities pictured themselves before my mind; I could get no rest for sore anxiety.

From time to time I sent Salome to make inquiries, but she brought back ever the same report. The child was just the same, no better, and every hour the faint thread of hope seemed to grow slighter. And still I prayed and tried to hope, though my heart sickened under the long suspense.

For a long while I resisted Salome's desire to get me to bed, saying that, since it was impossible to sleep, I would rather remain up. But at last, worn out, I yielded, and lay in bed staring blankly at the fire and at Salome's gaunt, upright form seated stiffly beside it, till at last sleep surprised me.

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CHAPTER XXIII.

A PLEDGE OF FRIENDSHIP.

I SLEPT, and towards morning I dreamed. In my dream, I was again amongst mountains; but not now in snow covered regions. I was treading an Alpine glade of emerald green, gemmed with flowers. The sun was shining brightly, birds were chirping and singing in the bushes, little silvery rills flashed in the sunlight, and the sky was blue overhead. I felt no fear, only joy, when I saw Edmund descending the green slope of a mountain side.

He came with fleet steps, and I saw that he carried in his arms a little child. Hurrying to meet him, I found that he held little Percy. Ah, how the child's golden curls shone in the sunlight, how the blue eyes smiled, how angelic was the look of the sweet, innocent face!

Edmund put him in my arms saying only,—

"Take him back to Mabel. He will be a blessing to her; he will lead her upward."

And in my dream, I seemed to know that the child had been lost and was found. Pressing him close to me, I turned to seek Mabel with the feeling that I was bringing her joy after great sorrow, when a voice close beside me said—

"We must thank God."

With that, mountains, green vale, flowers, the child—all vanished. I opened my eyes to find the sun shining brightly in at my window, swallows twittering from beneath the turret, and a light soft breeze fluttering the white curtains. And full in the sunlight stood Grace, pale and worn from her night's watching, but with a glad light in her eyes; her whole countenance expressing a heartfelt thankfulness.

"Percy!" I exclaimed, starting up.

"Is better," said Grace. "There has been a change in the night, and now the doctors think that he may recover."

"Oh, thank God!" I cried.

And then we embraced each other and wept together.

It was the first real spring day, and all nature seemed to echo our hearts' deep thanksgiving. Easter, a cold, wintery Easter, had come and gone whilst I lay in the unconsciousness of fever. Spring had long delayed her coming; but now, when the month was all but over, came this true April day, with warm sunshine and soft showers, making the birds sing melodiously, and the shy flowers unfold their buds without fear.

During the day, Howard sent me a little knot of sweet violets, the first to be found in our dear old garden at the tannery. I was delighted with them; but I wondered greatly that he should have thought of showing me such a kind attention. Surely the joy of relief from sore dread must have opened his heart and enlarged his sympathies to a wonderful extent.

But my weary days of confinement were drawing to a close. Spring having come, the doctor advised my speedy removal to the seaside. A little house was taken for us at Southend, this place being fixed on because it was conveniently near to Burford, and we could drive there direct from The Towers without risking the fatigue to myself and possible peril to others that a long journey by rail would involve. Salome and Grace, who by this time needed a change as much as I did, were to accompany me for the first week, at the end of which Mabel hoped to be able to join us with little Percy.

Southend in those days was a quaint, almost rural little place, unspoiled by the visits of London holiday-makers. Our house was on the high cliff, open to the strong sea breezes and commanding a fine view of the tossing waves when the tide was high. It was delightful to see the sea again and to breathe the fresh air with the feeling that each breath gave me strength. Those who have experienced such a period of convalescence will know the new joy in life that comes with returning health.

But for me that joy was shadowed. Little Percy's danger had shaken me out of myself for a time, and I had ceased to trouble about the future that lay before me. But now, with returning strength, the whole crowd of doubts, fears, and regrets assailed me afresh.

I think Grace saw that there was a cloud on my mind that marred my enjoyment of the lovely spring days. Doubtless she understood its nature; but she asked no questions and did not attempt to force my confidence. Only her gentle, never failing kindness told me of her sympathy.

One bright, breezy afternoon, we were returning from a stroll upon the beach, and ascending the somewhat steep path to the cliff, when I saw a gentleman looking down on us from a point almost opposite the house in which we were dwelling.

Grace saw him at the same moment and exclaimed, "Why, it is Ralph!"

I needed not to be told that. My heart had sunk at the sight of him, my limbs were trembling, my breath growing short; it was all I could do to keep on walking.

He had seen us and was making his way to us by a steep rugged zig-zag that cut into our path.

We paused at the junction, and in a few minutes he was beside us.

"How are you, Dorothy?" he asked, in the kindest manner, holding my hand in his as he studied my looks with affectionate, anxious interest.

"I am much better; almost well indeed," I said, falteringly.

"Is she really gaining strength, Grace? She looks very frail. Has she never more colour than this?"

"She is tired now," said Grace, evading the question; "we have, perhaps, been a little too far."

She knew as well as I knew that it was his sudden, unexpected appearance which had driven the colour from my cheeks, and for the time robbed me of strength.

With that, he made me lean upon his arm as we slowly continued the ascent, and, tremulous and breathless as I was, the support of his strong arm was most acceptable.

Sparing me, he talked to Grace, telling her all the home news she was eager to hear. Bright and ready were his words, and yet there was a change in him, a change not easy to define, though I had been aware of it at the first glance. A look it was that told of past suffering and present sorrow, held in check by a strong will.

When we reached the house, Grace led me into the sitting-room, put me into an easy chair by the fire, removed my hat and jacket, and insisted on my resting for awhile. Then she went away, leaving me alone with Ralph.

He had taken a chair near me; but, for what seemed to me a terribly long time, he said not a word. I suppose he thought that I should rest better in silence; but the stillness was to me slow torture. In desperation, I broke it at last.

"You came to see me when I was ill," I said; "you should not have done so; it was running a risk."

"A very slight one," he replied; "but I should have done the same however great the risk. Nothing could have held me from you when your life was in danger; unless, indeed, the fear of making you worse. But as you were unconscious, that was impossible. And now I am thankful that I watched at your bedside when you were so ill," he added, in a tone of peculiar meaning; "as thankful as I am, dear Dorothy, to see you well again."

His words, and even more, his tone, frightened me. What could he mean? I turned hot and cold, and looking down began twisting my fingers in nervous, school-girl fashion. Then, prompted by the sight of my ringless fingers, I rushed, as I was wont in moments of embarrassment, into impulsive speech.

"Grace tells me that you have my ring," I said, holding up to view the hand that lacked it. "I missed it almost as soon as my senses returned to me. Will you not give it to me now?"

"Do you really wish to wear that ring again, Dorothy?" he asked, very gravely.

And I could not answer him. His searching eyes, his grave tones, arrested me, and made it impossible to utter anything save the very truth. Then he stretched out his hand and took mine. It was cold, and it trembled in his clasp.

"My poor child," he said, tenderly, his voice vibrating with strong emotion, "do I frighten you so much? Oh, what a mistake I have made! I thought I could make you happy, Dorothy. I meant to guard your happiness with jealous care; and see! My very presence alarms you, makes you turn cold and white."

"No, no," I faltered; "it is not so. I am not afraid of you."

"Then why does your hand flutter in mine like a frightened bird? Dorothy, let us be frank with each other. Believe me, it is best. I know now what a mistake we have made—a mistake that would have been fatal to your happiness and mine. We must thank God that we have found it out in time. Dear, when I stood by your bed you uttered words in your delirium that revealed to me your heart's secret. Nay, do not shrink so. You said nothing you need blush for—nothing that was not honourable to you. Only I wish you had better understood my love; I wash you had trusted me fully."

He spoke gently, calmly; but the effort it cost him so to speak was apparent with every word. My heart was wrung with pain as I listened. I wanted to speak, but words would not come to me.

"If I had known that there was another," he added, after a pause, speaking not bitterly, but with somewhat of reproach in his tone.

"Indeed, indeed, I did not mean to deceive you," the words stung me into saying; "I thought that was all over and done with; I thought I could put an end to it, or I would not have promised to be your wife. Pray believe that."

"I do believe it," he replied, gently. "I know you meant to be true to me. I do not blame you, dear; it has all been a sad mistake."

"I meant it for the best," I sobbed. "I thought I could make you happy, and I knew it was what dear Edmund had wished."

"Yes, because he thought that you could love me; he was so sure that there was no one else you cared for. He would not have wished it otherwise."

"Oh, I might have known—I might have known!" I cried bitterly. "I can never forgive myself for what I have done, for the pain I have caused you. And yet—oh, I did want to make you happy!"

"Do not grieve, child," he said, tenderly. "You shall make me happy yet. Do you remember telling me that you should find your happiness in mine? Now I say the same to you; if you are happy, I shall be happy."

"I shall never be happy," I sighed; "for I can never forget. My life will be one long regret."

"No, dear, that must not be. For my sake, you must embrace happiness when it comes to you. You must be happy, for I want to be happy, and I cannot be unless you are. Remember that when you are inclined to make yourself miserable on my account."

How bravely, almost cheerfully, he spoke, and yet every word told me of the pain I had caused him! I responded only by tears. He drew from his pocket a tiny leather case, which he placed in my hand.

"There, dear, is your ring. You will keep it for my sake? Don't put it on now; but at some future time, wear it for the sake of your friend. For, Dorothy, I cannot renounce our friendship. I shall ever be your friend and the friend of all whom you love, not for your sake alone, but for your brother's sake—that friend of mine that lives in God."

So saying he held out his hand. It still bore traces of the burns he had received when he heroically rescued me from the fire. The sight of those scars reproached me keenly. I owed to this man my life, and in return, I had thus pained and wronged him. I gave him my hand and he pressed it to his lips.

Then, still holding it, he said, "And now good-bye, Dorothy; I am going away for awhile. In another month I sail for Jamaica to transact some business for my father there. When we meet again, this painful episode in our lives will have ceased to trouble us, and you will welcome me as your friend, will you not?"

"Yes, yes, my best friend," I murmured.

It was all I could say under the pressure of overwhelming emotion. And yet how much more I should have said!

I longed to thank him for his noble forgiveness, to assure him of my undying gratitude, to tell him that henceforth he stood apart and sacred in my life, as a friend, honoured and prized above all friends, a brother, worthy of the best love and reverence a sister's heart can know. But I had no power to speak, and the next moment he was gone.

I heard him leave the house; he would not stay even for a word with Grace, and I knew that he had gone forth to sorrow, heart-hunger, loneliness. Well might I weep, who had brought such suffering to this true and noble man.

Grace came in ere my sobs were stilled. She was amazed to find her brother gone, but in a moment, she understood.

"I have sent him away!" I cried, wildly. "Grace, you ought to hate me; I have made your brother wretched; I have spoiled his life."

But she did not hate me. She put her arms about me and kissed me.

"He will suffer," she said, speaking with deep emotion; "but you have not spoiled his life. It is sin, not sorrow, that ruins human lives. And you suffer, too, my poor Dorothy."

And so she could bear the burden of each, feeling keenly for us both.

For many days the thought of Ralph weighed on my heart and retarded my advance to health. At the end of a week, Grace returned to Beechwood, where, by this time, her presence was earnestly desired. Mabel came down to Southend, bringing Percy, his nurse, and a younger maid. The child had already made rapid progress towards recovery, but he needed great care, and Mabel watched over him with anxious, jealous solicitude, trusting little to servants, and guarding him herself by night and by day. I think she was glad to have her child all to herself, and to live a simple, quiet life for a little time. She was looking very worn and ill when she came to Southend, but soon, as Percy grew rosy and strong, her looks also began to improve.

It was amusing to watch the child's wonder and delight when first he saw the sea. He loved to see the waves rippling on the sandy beach, and never tired of playing there. Mabel and I spent many an hour with him by the shore. The nurse's duties were light indeed, for we generally took Percy out and had him with us for the greater part of the day. Our common love for the little darling, our delight in marking his development, planning new pleasures for him, and laughing over his precocious ways, formed a strong bond between me and Mabel. We were very happy together. Our old sisterly affection renewed itself; Mabel was softened by her recent experience; she had lost her dictatorial manner, and was more gentle and loving than I had ever seen her.

Only once was the harmony of our intercourse broken. It was when I told Mabel that my engagement to Ralph Dugdale had come to an end. This was a sore blow to her pride, since she had plumed herself on the good marriage I was about to make. She thought I had done very wrong, guided by foolishly romantic notions, and that I should live to repent my folly. It was not strange that she should think so, for I could not tell her all that had led to my parting with Ralph. I shrank from mentioning Leonard Glynne. I had never named him to Mabel; it had been an astonishment to her to learn in the vicarage drawing-roots at Dunsted that I had some acquaintance with Mrs. Gower's relatives.

Not for the world would I have had Mabel even suspect my heart's secret; for I still looked upon it as a weakness to be overcome, a thing to be buried and forgotten. I had no hope in connection with it; I should have held it base to cherish such a hope whilst that painful parting with Ralph was still so recent, his suffering so vividly before my mind. No; I said to myself that I should never see Leonard Glynne again. Much as I loved Mrs. Lyell, dear as Grace was to me, nothing should induce me to go to Weylea or Beechwood till many years had passed.

Mabel was somewhat mollified when I told her that Grace approved of what had taken place. She had felt the influence of Grace's pure, unselfish character. A gentle, almost sad expression came to my sister's face with the memories her name recalled.

"She is a good woman," she said with a sigh, "a good and noble woman. I believe that I owe my child's life to her devotion and skill. I wish there were more such women in the world."

Mabel had intended to stay but a few weeks at Southend; but in the end, we spent nearly the whole summer there. Sea air and sea water were considered so desirable for little Percy that Mabel determined he should enjoy them as long as possible. She went back to The Towers once or twice for a short visit, but she seemed glad to return to the quiet, simple life at the seaside.

Howard Steinthorpe used to ride over every Saturday, and stay with us till Monday or Tuesday. How much he made of his boy on these occasions! How glad he was to see the child who had been given up to death growing ruddy and strong in the summer sunshine!

And his manner towards Mabel was marked by a grace and tenderness which it had lacked before that season of sore suspense and dread which they had endured together. They had loved each other when they married, and their love had not died, though the strain of a commonplace, worldly life had worn it very thin. It was blooming into new beauty and strength in the light and joy which had succeeded the gloom cast by the dread shadow of death.

The first time Howard came to us at Southend, he surprised his wife and me by producing from his coat pocket two little packets, exactly alike, one of which he tossed to each of us.

"A little keepsake from me," he said.

And the keepsake proved to be a memorial locket, beautifully wrought in gold, black enamel, and pearls. Opening mine, I saw on one side a miniature photograph of my brother, and on the other a lock of his hair. The likeness was excellent; it was one Edmund had sat for a short time before his health began to fail. It was a lovely gift, and must have cost a considerable sum; but I cared less for its intrinsic worth than for the unexpected kindness and thoughtfulness Howard evinced in giving it to me.

Mabel was delighted with her locket, and exclaimed at its beauty; but I was so touched by the sight of mine that I hardly could speak.

"I don't know how to thank you," I said, looking at Howard through tears.

"I don't want thanks," he said, rather brusquely; "I am glad if it pleases you. I always meant to be a friend to you and your brother, Dorothy, if you would have let me."

And doubtless his words were true. He had meant to befriend us, but, like many persons in similar circumstances, he wished to do so in his own way, and had no desire that we should be unconscious of our obligations to him.

"I believe you," I said, putting out my hand to grasp his. And then, thank God, the old rancour died out of my heart, and I could forgive Howard Steinthorpe all that had seemed hard in his dealings with me and mine in the past.

——————

CHAPTER XXIV.

WRITE A LETTER WHICH I AM NOT ALLOWED TO SEND.

IT was September ere we returned to The Towers. By that time I was as strong and well as ever I had been—nay, stronger, for I was enjoying the delightful sense of well-being, the wonderful rejuvenescence which not seldom follows as an agreeable consequence of fever. With it, there came a longing to employ my energy.

Before we left Southend, I had settled to a course of steady study, for there was danger for me in an idle, dreamy existence. Mind and body craved occupation. I felt it would be well for me to lead a bustling, active life, so I wrote to Miss Carefull, asking her to help me to find a suitable situation. I did not mind what sort of work it was, I said, so long as I had plenty to do. She sent me a kind reply, promising me all the assistance she could give, and advising me still to aim at self-improvement, and be content to begin with a small salary, if the employment left me leisure for study.

I DOUBTED THE EVIDENCE OF MY SENSES.

My seeking a situation did not at all accord with Mabel's ideas. It was bad enough that my engagement to Ralph Dugdale should be broken off; but that I should persist in "going out as a governess" shocked and dismayed her to the utmost. How was it that I could never see things as she did? What would people say if they heard that I was not to be married, but had "taken a situation"? Why could I not make my home at The Towers? Little Percy would soon be old enough to receive instruction, and I could teach him if I was so anxious to be a teacher.

Mabel could not understand why I resisted her persuasions. It was impossible to show her that the life she pictured would be the worst possible for me. I was sorry to cross her; the more so since she bore with my perversity, as she deemed it, more patiently than she had been wont to do.

We had not been many days at Burford when I received another note from Miss Carefull. It was written in haste.

Her younger governess had just given her notice that, owing to the ill-health of her mother, she would be obliged to leave the school at Michaelmas. Miss Carefull said that she hardly liked to offer me the post; but since I had affirmed that I was ready to undertake anything, she thought there would be no harm in proposing it. I knew what were the duties of her younger governess, so she need not go into details. She could not give me time for consideration; but must ask me to let her have a line by return of post to say whether or not I could agree to her proposal.

I did not hesitate for a moment, though I was aware that the duties of Miss Carefull's younger governess were not of the most pleasant nature. She had to teach the youngest pupils, superintend the practice of juvenile strummers on the piano, walk out with the boarders, keep order in the schoolroom during silence hour, and do all that the superior, more accomplished governess disdained to do. A dreary position it had seemed to me in my schooldays, yet now I was eager to fill it. The greater trials I had known since those days made the petty annoyances of a teacher's life seem of small account.

But how Mabel opened her eyes when I showed her Miss Carefull's note, and told her how I meant to answer it.

"You do not mean it, Dorothy," she said; "you cannot think what you are doing. You forget what a miserable drudge Miss Carefull's junior governess always was."

"I know she had a lot to do," I replied, "but that is what I want; I should like plenty of work."

"Oh, Dorothy," said Mabel, with a kind of despair, "but what work it is. I would not be in such a position for all the world. Have you forgotten poor Miss Tyner, and how the girls persecuted her?"

"Miss Tyner was a weak creature," I answered. "I shall take care the girls do not treat me as they treated her."

"Well, how you can choose to spend your days in teaching stupid children to do their sums and write their copies, in contending with tiresome school-girls, and taking wearisome marches behind the school, when you might stay her with me and Percy, and watch the darling's growth and all his pretty ways, is past my comprehension," said Mabel.

"I am afraid I have always been a puzzle to you, dear Mabel," I said, gently; "but, believe me, I am not ungrateful for your kindness in wishing me to stay. I would do so, indeed, if I could."

"I cannot understand you," she said, with a sigh; "but I suppose you must take your own way."

I sighed too as I went away to write my letter to Miss Carefull. There was no pleasure for me in thus taking my own way. I expected no joy in the situation I chose to accept, but only that life would be made more endurable by constant, regular occupation.

I seated myself at one of the tables in the library and wrote my reply in clear, concise terms, finding a sort of fierce satisfaction in binding myself to an irksome, monotonous life.

The library was in the front of the house. Its windows looked out on the sweep of the well-kept carriage drive and the velvet lawn beyond with its multiform beds brilliant with bright-hued flowers. I had written and sealed my letter, and was idly resting on my elbow and gazing through the window nearest me, when the sound of a horse's approach reached my ears. It sent a sudden thrill through me, bringing vividly before my mind a vision of Leonard mounted on Ariel. I had time to calm myself and reflect that it was probably Howard returning from the mills for luncheon rather earlier than usual, ere the rider came in sight.

Then another thrill, like an electric shock, passed through me. For, though the horse was not Ariel, the rider, seemed to me, was Leonard Glynne. But in a moment he had passed the window, and in the bewilderment and tremor, I doubted the evidence of my senses. The sunlight had dazed me, a resemblance had misled me; it could not be that he was here!

I heard the house-bell ring; heard the visitor being shown into the smaller reception room at the other side of the hall, caught even, for my hearing seemed to become preternaturally acute, the footman's subdued, respectful tones, and the firmer, deeper voice that spoke to him. Then I heard the door close, and with heart fluttering and every nerve a quiver I waited, my ear following the servant's movements as he went here and there and finally upstairs in search of someone. I had time for many sensations, fears, surmisings, though it was but a minute or two ere he appeared at the library door.

"A gentleman to see you, Miss Carmichael."

Mechanically I took the card extended to me on a salver. The hot blood surged up in my face as I read the name of Leonard Glynne.

"Have you told Mrs. Steinthorpe?" I said, somewhat unsteadily.

"No, miss; the gentleman asked for you. Do you wish me to tell Mrs. Steinthorpe?"

"No, no," I said, hurriedly, ashamed of the confusion I was betraying to the servant's keen eyes; "it does not matter."

A few minutes later, I was shaking hands with Leonard Glynne. I could not greet him with the old friendliness, I was nervous, and nervousness gave to my manner an unusual coldness. I was aware that I was producing a poor imitation of Mabel's stately demeanour towards an undesirable acquaintance, whom she wished to keep at a distance; but I could not help it, though I saw Leonard's countenance fall with a look of pain and disappointment.

He, too, became cool and dignified. We sat a distance from each other, a table loaded with bric-à-brac between us.

"I am staying a few days with my cousin at Dunsted," he said.

"You have come for the shooting, I suppose," was my reply.

"Yes; at least I have been amusing myself a little in that way. I thought that as I was so near, I should like to ride over and inquire how you were. Mrs. Lyell will be pleased to hear."

"Thank you," I said, austerely; "it was good of you to forsake the guns this fine morning on my account."

"Oh, as for that, I am not much of a sportsman. I like well enough to go with the other fellows, but following the dogs across the fields becomes monotonous after a while, when you cannot bring down much."

"How is Mrs. Lyell?" I asked.

"Very well, thank you. She would have sent some message, no doubt, if she had known that I should see you."

"Your cousin, Mrs. Gower, is well, I trust? I had the pleasure of making her acquaintance just before I fell ill with scarlet fever."

"She was telling me how your illness almost began at her house. She is very well. I hope you are quite strong again, Miss Carmichael?"

"I am perfectly well, thank you. I am afraid I alarmed Mrs. Gower very much that day."

"Oh, I should not think so; Marion is not easily put out."

These polite commonplaces having passed, a pause ensued. I had time to observe that Leonard had altered somewhat since I last saw him. He was thinner and looked older; he had lost the air of cheerful satisfaction with himself and his surroundings, which had distinguished him when I made his acquaintance.

The stillness was broken by the sound of hoofs on the gravel outside. A groom was leading past the window the horse Leonard had ridden. I started up, reminded of the duties of hospitality.

"The man had better take your horse to the stable," I said, advancing to touch the bell, "and my sister shall be told that you are here. You will stay and take luncheon with us, of course."

"No, thank you; indeed, I cannot think of it," he said, with a hurried movement, to prevent me from carrying out my intention of ringing the bell. "Pray do not disturb Mrs. Steinthorpe. I must ride away almost immediately; I only wanted to say a few words to you."

He spoke nervously, unsteadily. I moved back to my place, and sat down in considerable tremor. Clearly it was not easy to say what he wished. Another silence fell.

"We heard of your illness from Ralph Dugdale," he said, abruptly, at last. "He rode over from Beechwood to tell Mrs. Lyell. I was at my aunt's, and saw him."

"Indeed!" was all I could say. My face flushed hotly; a terrible confusion seized me at the mention of Ralph's name.

"He came again after he had seen you; he came several times. We had some talks together. He is a good fellow, is Ralph Dugdale."

This was dreadful. What had Ralph said? Had they talked of me? Oh, surely he would not betray my secret?

"He told me," Leonard continued, seeing that I had nothing to say—"I hope that you will not mind my knowing—he told me that you were no longer engaged to him."

"And I have no objection to anyone's knowing that," I said, haughtily. "It is true; we are no longer engaged."

And I looked at him with an air of defiance, as though I would say, "What of that? Do you suppose that because I have sent him away, I shall be ready to receive you?"

So Leonard understood my glance. His face fell; I saw his lips tremble.

The triumph of my pride brought me no satisfaction. The next moment I was full of remorse and pain.

When he spoke again, his low tones seemed to breathe despair.

"Of course it could make no difference," he said, brokenly. "I might have known."

With that, he rose to go.

Then a terrible pain wrung my heart. Why did he not say what he meant? Why did he go thus without giving me a chance of explaining?

He stood before me, but I did not put out my hand, nor did I look at him. My eyes were following the movements of a bee, which was circling round and round an épergne filled with flowers that stood on the table. Suddenly the bee flew straight into the heart of a rose. I think that large creamy rose carried both our minds to Weylea.

"See," I said, rising and leaning over the flowers, "this is just like one of the roses in Mrs. Lyell's garden, those that grow against the wall by the greenhouse. Do you remember?"

"I am not likely to forget," he said, his voice betraying strong emotion. "Dorothy," he added, in quick, tremulous tones, "do you remember how you once refused a rose I offered you? Tell me, did you really think that day that I cared for Miss Carsdale?"

"Of course I did," was my reply.

"But how could you? You might have known there was nothing of that sort. She was dear to me as my cousin Henry's 'fiancée,' that was all."

"How was I to know that?" I asked, half-laughing, yet with tears burning beneath my eyelids. "You might have told me."

"I would have told you, but it was their secret. And I thought that Rose would tell you herself, perhaps, if you would make a friend of her. And then—then it seemed to me it did not matter, for I was sure that you preferred Ralph Dugdale to me."

"Oh, how could you?" I began, but checked myself in shame-faced confusion.

Then, as our eyes met, each read the heart of the other. We clasped hands, and somehow, without much explanation, we arrived at a perfect understanding.

After that, Leonard needed little persuasion to remain to luncheon.

I had difficulty in making Mabel comprehend what had come to pass, and when I succeeded, she was not altogether pleased. She received Leonard graciously, but her looks revealed to my experienced eyes that she was wondering how I could prefer this young man, who was only "something in the City," to Ralph Dugdale, who came of such a good family, was so clever, and had such a grand career before him in all probability.

"Here is one comfort in it," she remarked to me, "you will not now think of being Miss Carefull's junior governess."

And when I showed Leonard the letter I had written that morning, he decided that it must not go, and I must send in its place another sort of reply.

Thus it came to pass that, in spite of my preparations, it was some years ere I had any experience of a teacher's toils.

Leonard was of Mabel's mind in wondering how it was that my heart chose him in preference to Ralph.

"Such a noble fellow," he would say; "so clever, and sure to make his mark some day. You will regret it, Dorothy, when you find what a stupid, commonplace mortal you have chosen."

"No, no, I am not afraid," was my reply. "I know Ralph is great and noble, but he was too much above me. I should have been a disappointment to him. Now you and I, Leonard, are more on a level; we suit one another exactly. And though we can never be brilliant and famous, we will always aim at being good."

Let it not be supposed that in my happiness in Leonard's love, I forgot the pain I had caused another. No, the memory of my great mistake lay on my heart as a dark shadow of regret through all the brighter days that followed. I regret it still, though so many years have passed; and I have written this story of my girlhood in the hope of warning other girls from committing the errors into which I fell.

My young days, vividly as I remember them, seem to have receded to a great distance now, for I have girls and boys of my own growing up around me, and begin to feel myself an old woman, though my husband says it is absurd of me to use such an expression.

Our home is near Beechwood, where Ralph Dugdale lives with his sister. Mr. and Mrs. Dugdale, also my dear old friend, Mrs. Lyell, have passed beyond the veil of death. We are very proud of our friend Ralph Dugdale—Uncle Ralph, our children call him—for he has won an honoured name in the world of politics as a bold worker for righteousness, the champion of all who are weak and oppressed. Faithfully has he kept his promise to be a friend to me and mine. We have no friend like him, so interested in all our concerns, so devoted to our children, so ready to sympathise and help in every trouble. Leonard owes much to his wise counsels and his stimulating influence. As for our children, they adore him and dear Grace, and deem no family festival perfect unless it is gladdened by their presence.

Mabel's husband, too, is in Parliament. They have a town house, and spend part of each year in London. Mabel is a pretty woman still, although she begins to look rather worn and harassed with the care of her two establishments, her children, and her numerous servants. She comes to see me as often as her many engagements permit. She seems to enjoy a quiet day with me in my country home—for our house stands amidst green fields, although not many miles from town. I fancy she thinks sometimes that I, in my simple life, have the happier lot.

And truly the lines have fallen unto me in pleasant places. I am not without cares; but I can enjoy that content that Shakespeare says is "our best having." I would say to any girl who may read these pages, Aim at contentment. Do not be restless and anxious, do not be impatient as you look forward to the future. Let your life come to you as God may order it, and trust your happiness to the Father's care. Wherever your lot may be cast, and whatever your experience may be, it will be well with you if in all your ways you acknowledge Him that He may direct your paths.