The Clever Woman of the Family

CHAPTER XV. GO AND BRAY

“Alick, I have something to say to you.”

Captain Keith did not choose to let his sister travel alone, when he could help it, and therefore was going to Bath with her, intending to return to Avoncester by the next down train. He made no secret that he thought it a great deal of trouble, and had been for some time asleep, when, at about two stations from Bath, Bessie having shut the little door in the middle of the carriage, thus addressed him, “Alick, I have something to say to you, and I suppose I may as well say it now.”

She pressed upon his knee, and with an affected laziness, he drew his eyes wide open.

“Ah, well, I’ve been a sore plague to you, but I shall be off your hands now.”

“Eh! whose head have you been turning?”

“Alick, what do you think of Lord Keith?”

Alick was awake enough now! “The old ass!” he exclaimed. “But at least you are out of his way now.”

“Not at all. He is coming to Bath to-morrow to see my aunt.”

“And you want me to go out to-morrow and stop him?”

“No, Alick, not exactly. I have been cast about the world too long not to be thankful.”

“Elizabeth!”

“Do not look so very much surprised,” she said, in her sweet pleading way. “May I not be supposed able to feel that noble kindness and gracious manner, and be glad to have some one to look up to?”

“And how about Charlie Carleton?” demanded Alick, turning round full on her.

“For shame, Alick!” she exclaimed hotly; “you who were the one to persecute me about him, and tell me all sorts of things about his being shallow and unprincipled, and not to be thought of, you to bring him up against me now.”

“I might think all you allege,” returned Alick, gravely, “and yet be much amazed at the new project.”

Bessie laughed. “In fact you made a little romance, in which you acted the part of sapient brother, and the poor little sister broke her heart ever after! You wanted such an entertainment when you were lying on the sofa, so you created a heroine and a villain, and thundered down to the rescue.”

“Very pretty, Bessie, but it will not do. It was long after I was well again, and had joined.”

“Then it was the well-considered effect of the musings of your convalescence! When you have a sister to take care of, it is as well to feel that you are doing it.”

“Now, Elizabeth,” said her brother, with seriousness not to be laughed aside, and laying his hand on hers, “before I hear another word on this matter, look me in the face and tell me deliberately that you never cared for Carleton.”

“I never thought for one moment of marrying him,” said Bessie, haughtily. “If I ever had any sort of mercy on him, it was all to tease you. There, are you satisfied?”

“I must be, I suppose,” he replied, and he sighed heavily. “When was this settled?”

“Yesterday, walking up and down the esplanade. He will tell his brother to-day, and I shall write to Lady Temple. Oh, Alick, he is so kind, he spoke so highly of you.”

“I must say,” returned Alick, in the same grave tone, “that if you wished for the care of an old man, I should have thought my uncle the more agreeable of the two.”

“He is little past fifty. You are very hard on him.”

“On the contrary, I am sorry for him. You will always find it good for him to do whatever suits yourself.”

“Alick?” said his sister mournfully, “you have never forgotten or forgiven my girlish bits of neglect after your wound.”

“No, Bessie,” he said, holding her hand kindly, “it is not the neglect or the girlishness, but the excuses to me, still more to my uncle, and most of all to yourself. They are what make me afraid for you in what you are going to take upon yourself.”

She did not answer immediately, and he pursued—“Are you driven to this by dislike to living at Bishopsworthy? If so, do not be afraid to tell me. I will make any arrangement, if you would prefer living with Jane. We agreed once that it would be too expensive, but now I could let you have another hundred a year.”

“As if I would allow that, Alick! No, indeed! Lord Keith means you to have all my share.”

“Does he? There are more words than one to that question. And pray is he going to provide properly for his poor daughter in the West Indies?”

“I hope to induce him to take her into favour.”

“Eh? and to make him give up to Colin Keith that Auchinvar estate that he ought to have had when Archie Keith died?”

“You may be sure I shall do my best for the Colonel. Indeed, I do think Lord Keith will consent to the marriage now.”

“You have sacrificed yourself on that account?” he said, with irony in his tone, that he could have repented the next moment, so good-humoured was her reply, “That is understood, so give me the merit.”

“The merit of, for his sake, becoming a grandmother. You have thought of the daughters? Mrs. Comyn Menteith must be older than yourself.”

“Three years,” said Bessie, in his own tone of acceptance of startling facts, “and I shall have seven grandchildren in all, so you see you must respect me.”

“Do you know her sentiments?”

“I know what they will be when we have met. Never fear, Alick. If she were not married it might be serious, being so, I have no fears.”

Then came a silence, till a halt at the last station before Bath roused Alick again.

“Bessie,” he said, in the low voice the stoppage permitted, “don’t think me unkind. I believe you have waited on purpose to leave me no time for expostulation, and what I have said has sounded the more harsh in consequence.”

“No, Alick,” she said, “you are a kind brother in all but the constructions you put upon my doings. I think it would be better if there were more difference between our ages. You are a young guardian, over anxious, and often morbidly fanciful about me during your illness. I think we shall be happier together when you no longer feel yourself responsible.”

“The tables turned,” muttered Alick.

“I am prepared for misconstruction,” added Bessie. “I know it will be supposed to be the title; the estate it cannot be, for you know how poor a property it is; but I do not mean to care for the world. Your opinion is a different thing, and I thought you would have seen that I could not be insensible to such dignified kindness, and the warmth of a nature that many people think cold.”

“I don’t like set speeches, Bessie.”

“Then believe me, Alick. May I not love the fine old man that has been so kind to me?”

“I hope you do,” said Alick, slowly.

“And you can’t believe it? Not with Lady Temple before you and hers was really an old man.”

“Do not talk of her or Sir Stephen either. No, Bessie,” he added more calmly after a time, “I may be doing great injustice to you both, but I must speak what it is my duty to say. Lord Keith is a hard, self-seeking man, who has been harsh and grasping towards his family, and I verily believe came here bent on marriage, only because his brother was no longer under his tyranny. He may not be harsh to you, because he is past his vigour, and if he really loves you, you have a power of governing; but from what I know of you, I cannot believe in your loving him enough to make such management much better than selfish manoeuvring. Therefore I cannot think this marriage for your real welfare, or be other than bitterly grieved at it. Do not answer, Bessie, but think this over, and if at any time this evening you feel the least doubt of your happiness in this matter, telegraph to me, and I will stop him.”

“Indeed, Alick,” she answered, without anger, “I believe you are very anxious for my good.”

It will readily be believed that Captain Keith received no telegram.

Nevertheless, as soon as his time was his own the next morning, he rode to Avonmouth and sought out the Colonel, not perhaps with very defined hopes of making any change in his sister’s intentions, but feeling that some attempt on his own part must be made, if only to free himself from acquiescence, and thinking that Colin, as late guardian to the one party, and brother to the other, was the most proper medium.

Colonel Keith was taken by surprise at the manner in which his cordial greeting was met. He himself had been far from displeased at his brother’s communication; it was a great relief to him personally, as well as on Lady Temple’s account, and he had been much charmed at Bessie’s good sense and engaging graces. As to disparity of years, Lord Keith had really made himself much younger of late, and there was much to excite a girl’s romance in the courtesy of an elderly man, the chief of her clan; moreover, the perfect affection and happiness Colin had been used to witness in his general’s family disposed him to make light of that objection; and he perceived that his brother was sufficiently bewitched to be likely to be kind and indulgent to his bride.

He had not expected Alexander Keith to be as well pleased as he was himself, but he was not prepared for his strong disapprobation, and earnest desire to find some means of prevention, and he began to reassure him upon the placability of Mrs. Comyn Menteith, the daughter, as well as upon his brother’s kindness to the objects of his real affection.

“Oh, I am not afraid of that. She will manage him fast enough.”

“Very likely, and for his good. Nor need you question his being a safe guide for her in higher matters. Perhaps you are prejudiced against him because his relations with me have not been happy, but candidly, in them you know the worst of him; and no doubt he thought himself purely acting for my welfare. I know much more of him now that I have been at home with him, and I was greatly struck with his real consideration for the good of all concerned with him.”

“No, I am not thinking of Lord Keith. To speak it out, I cannot believe that my sister has heart enough in this to justify her.”

“Young girls often are more attracted by elderly men than by lads.”

“You do not know Bessie as, I am sorry to say, I do,” said Alick, speaking slowly and sadly, and with a flush of shame on his cheek. “I do not say that she says anything untrue, but the truth is not in her. She is one of those selfish people who are infinitely better liked than those five hundred times their worth, because they take care to be always pleased.”

“They give as much pleasure as they take.”

“Yes, they take every one in. I wish to my heart I could be taken in too, but I have seen too much of her avoidance of every service to my uncle that she did not like. I verily believe, at this moment, that one great inducement with her is to elude the care of him.”

“Stern judgments, Alick. I know you would not speak thus without warrant; but take it into account that marriage makes many a girl’s selfishness dual, and at last drowns the self.”

“Yes, when it is a marriage of affection. But the truth must be told, Colonel. There was a trumpery idle fellow always loitering at Littleworthy, and playing croquet. I set my face against it with all my might, and she always laughed to scorn the notion that there was anything in it, nor do I believe that she has heart enough to wish to marry him. I could almost say I wish she had, but I never saw her show the same pleasure in any one’s attentions, and I believe he is gone out to Rio in hopes of earning means to justify his addresses.”

Colonel Keith sat gravely considering what he knew would not be spoken lightly. “Do you mean that there was attachment enough to make it desirable that you should tell my brother?”

“No, I could say nothing that she could not instantly contradict with perfect truth, though not with perfect sincerity.”

“Let me ask you one question, Alick—not a flattering one. May not some of these private impressions of yours have been coloured by your long illness!”

“That is what Bessie gives every one to understand,” said Alick, calmly. “She is right, to a certain degree, that suffering sharpened my perceptions, and helplessness gave me time to draw conclusions. If I had been well, I might have been as much enchanted as other people; and if my uncle had not needed her care, and been neglected, I could have thought that I was rendered exacting by illness. But I imagine all I have said is not of the slightest use, only, if you think it right to tell your brother to talk to me, I would rather stand all the vituperation that would fall on me than allow this to take place.”

Colonel Keith walked up and down the room considering, whilst Alick sat in a dejected attitude, shading his face, and not uttering how very bitter it had been to him to make the accusation, nor how dear the sister really was.

“I see no purpose that would be answered,” said Colonel Keith, coming to a pause at last; “you have nothing tangible to mention, even as to the former affair that you suspect. I see a great deal in your view of her to make you uneasy, but nothing that would not be capable of explanation, above all to such a man as my brother. It would appear like mere malevolence.”

“Never mind what it would appear,” said Alick, who was evidently in such a ferment as his usually passive demeanour would have seemed incapable of.

“If the appearance would entirely baffle the purpose, it must be considered,” said the Colonel; “and in this case it could only lead to estrangement, which would be a lasting evil. I conclude that you have remonstrated with your sister.”

“As much as she gave me time for; but of course that is breath spent in vain.”

“Your uncle had the same means of judging as yourself.”

“No, Colonel, he could do nothing! In the first place, there can be no correspondence with him; and next, he is so devotedly fond of Bessie, that he would no more believe anything against her than Lady Temple would. I have tried that more than once.”

“Then, Alick, there is nothing for it but to let it take its course; and even upon your own view, your sister will be much safer married than single.”

“I had very little expectation of your saying anything else, but in common honesty I felt bound to let you know.”

“And now the best thing to be done is to forget all you have said.”

“Which you will do the more easily as you think it an amiable delusion of mine. Well, so much the better. I dare say you will never think otherwise, and I would willingly believe that my senses went after my fingers’ ends.”

The Colonel almost believed so himself. He was aware of the miserably sensitive condition of shattered nerve in which Alick had been sent home, and of the depression of spirits that had ensued on the news of his father’s death; and he thought it extremely probable that his weary hours and solicitude for his gay young sister might have made molehills into mountains, and that these now weighed on his memory and conscience. At least, this seemed the only way of accounting for an impression so contrary to that which Bessie Keith made on every one else, and, by his own avowal, on the uncle whom he so much revered. Every other voice proclaimed her winning, amiable, obliging, considerate, and devoted to the service of her friends, with much drollery and shrewdness of perception, tempered by kindness of heart and unwillingness to give pain; and on that sore point of residence with the blind uncle, it was quite possibly a bit of Alick’s exaggerated feeling to imagine the arrangement so desirable—the young lady might be the better judge.

On the whole, the expostulation left Colonel Keith more uncomfortable on Alick’s account than on that of his brother.

CHAPTER XVI. AN APPARITION.

“Mamma,” quoth Leoline, “I thought a woman must not marry her grandfather. And she called him the patriarch of her clan.”

“He is a cross old man,” added Hubert. “He said children ought not to be allowed on the esplanade, because he got into the way as I was pushing the perambulator.”

“This was the reason,” said Francis, gravely, “that she stopped me from braying at him. I shall know what people are at, when they talk of disrespect another time.”

“Don’t talk of her,” cried Conrade, flinging himself round; “women have no truth in them.”

“Except the dear, darling, delightful mammy!” And the larger proportion of boys precipitated themselves headlong upon her, so that any one but a mother would have been buffeted out of breath in their struggles for embracing ground; and even Lady Temple found it a relief when Hubert, having been squeezed out, bethought himself of extending the honourable exception to Miss Williams, and thus effected a diversion. What would have been the young gentlemen’s reception of his lordship’s previous proposal!

Yet in the fulness of her gladness the inconsistent widow, who had thought Lord Keith so much too old for herself, gave her younger friend heartfelt congratulations upon the blessing of being under fatherly direction and guidance. She was entrusted with the announcement to Rachel, who received it with a simple “Indeed!” and left her cousin unmolested in her satisfaction, having long relegated Fanny to the class of women who think having a friend about to be married the next best thing to being married themselves, no matter to whom.

“Aspirations in women are mere delusions,” was her compensating sigh to Grace. “There is no truer saying, than that a woman will receive every man.”

“I have always been glad that is aprocryphal,” said Grace, “and Eastern women have no choice.”

“Nor are Western women better than Eastern,” said Rachel. “It is all circumstances. No mental power or acuteness has in any instance that I have yet seen, been able to balance the propensity to bondage. The utmost flight is, that the attachment should not be unworthy.”

“I own that I am very much surprised,” said Grace.

“I am not at all,” said Rachel. “I have given up hoping better things. I was beginning to have a high opinion of Bessie Keith’s capabilities, but womanhood was at the root all the time; and, as her brother says, she has had great disadvantages, and I can make excuses for her. She had not her heart filled with one definite scheme of work and usefulness, such as deters the trifling and designing.”

“Like the F. U. E. E.?”

“Yes, the more I see of the fate of other women, the more thankful I am that my vocation has taken a formed and developed shape.”

And thus Rachel could afford to speak without severity of the match, though she abstained from congratulation. She did not see Captain Keith for the next few days, but at last the two sisters met him at the Cathedral door as they were getting into the carriage after a day’s shopping at Avoncester; and Grace offered her congratulations, in accordance with her mother’s old fashioned code.

“Thank you,” he said; then turning to Rachel, “Did she write to you?”

“No.”

“I thought not.”

There was something marked in his tone, but his sister’s silence was not of long duration, for a letter arrived containing orders for lace, entreating that a high pressure might be put on Mrs. Kelland, and containing beauteous devices for the veil, which was to be completed in a fearfully short time, since the wedding was to be immediate, in order that Lord Keith might spend Christmas and the ensuing cold months abroad. It was to take place at Bath, and was to be as quiet as possible; “or else,” wrote Miss Keith, “I should have been enchanted to have overcome your reluctance to witness the base surrender of female rights. I am afraid you are only too glad to be let off, only don’t thank me, but circumstances.”

Rachel’s principles revolted at the quantity of work demanded of the victims to lace, and Grace could hardly obtain leave to consult Mrs. Kelland. But she snapped at the order, for the honour and glory of the thing, and undertook through the ramifications of her connexion to obtain the whole bridal array complete. “For such a pleasant-spoken lady as Miss Keith, she would sit up all night rather than disappoint her.”

The most implacable person of all was the old housekeeper, Tibbie. She had been warmly attached to Lady Keith, and resented her having a successor, and one younger than her daughters; and above all, ever since the son and heir had died, she had reckoned on her own Master Colin coming to the honours of the family, and regarded this new marriage as a crossing of Providence. She vainly endeavoured to stir up Master Colin to remonstrate on his brother’s “makin’ siccan a fule’s bargain wi’ yon glaikit lass. My certie, but he’ll hae the warst o’t, honest man; rinnin’ after her, wi’ a’ her whigmaleries an’ cantrips. He’ll rue the day that e’er he bowed his noble head to the likes o’ her, I’m jalousin.”

It was to no purpose to remind her that the bride was a Keith in blood; her great grandfather a son of the house of Gowanbrae; all the subsequent descendants brave soldiers.

“A Keith ca’ ye her! It’s a queer kin’ o’ Keiths she’s comed o’, nae better nor Englishers that haena sae muckle’s set fit in our bonny Scotland; an’ sic scriechin’, skirlin’ tongues as they hae, a body wad need to be gleg i’ the uptak to understan’ a word they say. Tak’ my word for’t, Maister Colin, it’s no a’thegither luve for his lordship’s grey hairs that gars yon gilpy lassock seek to become my Leddy Keith.”

“Nay, Tibbie, if you find fault with such a sweet, winning young creature, I shall think it is all because you will not endure a mistress at Gowanbrae over you.”

“His lordship’ll please himsel’ wi’ a leddy to be mistress o’ Gowanbrae, but auld Tibbie’ll never cross the doorstane mair.”

“Indeed you will, Tibbie; here are my brother’s orders that you should go down, as soon as you can conveniently make ready, and see about the new plenishing.”

“They may see to the plenishing that’s to guide it after han, an’ that’ll no be me. My lord’ll behove to tak’ his orders aff his young leddy ance he’s married on her, may be a whilie afore, but that’s no to bind ither folk, an’ it’s no to be thought that at my years I’m to be puttin’ up wi’ a’ ther new fangled English fykes an’ nonsense maggots. Na, na, Maister Colin, his lordship’ll fend weel aneugh wantin’ Tibbie; an’ what for suld I leave yerself, an’ you settin’ up wi’ a house o’ yer ain? Deed an’ my mind’s made up, I’ll e’en bide wi’ ye, an’ nae mair about it.”

“Stay, stay,” cried Colin, a glow coming into his cheeks, “don’t reckon without your host, Tibbie. Do you think Gowanbrae the second is never to have any mistress but yourself?”

“Haud awa’ wi’ ye, laddie, I ken fine what ye’ra ettlin’ at, but yon’s a braw leddy, no like thae English folk, but a woman o’ understandin’, an’ mair by token I’m thinkin’ she’ll be gleg aneugh to ken a body that’ll serve her weel, an’ see to the guidin’ o’ thae feckless queens o’ servant lasses, for bad’s the best o’ them ye’ll fin’ hereawa’. Nae fear but her an’ me’ll put it up weel thegither, an’ a’ gude be wi’ ye baith.”

After this Colin resigned himself and his household to Tibbie’s somewhat despotic government, at least for the present. To Ermine’s suggestion that her appellation hardly suited the dignity of her station, he replied that Isabel was too romantic for southern ears, and that her surname being the same as his own, he was hardly prepared to have the title of Mrs. Keith pre-occupied. So after Mrs. Curtis’s example, the world for the most part knew the colonel’s housekeeper as Mrs. Tibbs.

She might be a tyrant, but liberties were taken with her territory; for almost the first use that the colonel made of his house was to ask a rheumatic sergeant, who had lately been invalided, to come and benefit by the Avonmouth climate. Scottish hospitality softened Tibbie’s heart, and when she learnt that Sergeant O’Brien had helped to carry Master Colin into camp after his wound, she thought nothing too good for him. The Colonel then ventured to add to the party an exemplary consumptive tailor from Mr. Mitchell’s parish, who might yet be saved by good living and good air. Some growls were elicited, but he proved to be so deplorably the ninetieth rather than the ninth part of a man, that Tibbie made it her point of honour to fatten him; and the sergeant found him such an intelligent auditor of the Indian exploits of the —th Highlanders that mutual respect was fully established, and high politeness reigned supreme, even though the tailor could never be induced to delight in the porridge, on which the sergeant daily complimented the housekeeper in original and magnificent metaphors.

Nor had the Colonel any anxieties in leaving the representatives of the three nations together while he went to attend his brother’s wedding. He proposed that Tibbie should conduct Rose for the daily walk of which he had made a great point, thinking that the child did not get exercise enough, since she was so averse to going alone upon the esplanade that her aunt forbore to press it. She manifested the same reluctance to going out with Tibbie, and this the Colonel ascribed to her fancying herself too old to be under the charge of a nurse. It was trying to laugh her out of her dignity, but without eliciting an answer, when, one afternoon just as they were entering together upon the esplanade, he felt her hand tighten upon his own with a nervous frightened clutch, as she pressed tremulously to his side.

“What is it, my dear? That dog is not barking at you. He only wants to have a stick thrown into the sea for him.”

“Oh not the dog! It was—”

“Was, what?”

“HIM!” gasped Rose.

“Who?” inquired the Colonel, far from prepared for the reply, in a terrified whisper,—

“Mr. Maddox.”

“My dear child! Which, where?”

“He is gone! he is past. Oh, don’t turn back! Don’t let me see him again.”

“You don’t suppose he could hurt you, my dear.”

“No,” hesitated Rose, “not with you.”

“Nor with any one.”

“I suppose not,” said Rose, common sense reviving, though her grasp was not relaxed.

“Would it distress you very much to try to point him out to me?” said the Colonel, in his irresistibly sweet tone.

“I will. Only keep hold of my hand, pray,” and the little hand trembled so much that he felt himself committing a cruel action in leading her along the esplanade, but there was no fresh start of recognition, and when they had gone the whole length, she breathed more freely, and said, “No, he was not there.”

Recollecting how young she had been at the time of Maddox’s treason, the Colonel began to doubt if her imagination had not raised a bugbear, and he questioned her, “My dear, why are you so much afraid, of this person? What do you know about him?”

“He told wicked stories of my papa,” said Rose, very low.

“True, but he could not hurt you. You don’t think he goes about like Red Ridinghood’s wolf?”

“No, I am not so silly now.”

“Are you sure you know him? Did you often see him in your papa’s house?”

“No, he was always in the laboratory, and I might not go there.”

“Then you see, Rose, it must be mere fancy that you saw him, for you could not even know him by sight.”

“It was not fancy,” said Rose, gentle and timid as ever, but still obviously injured at the tone of reproof.

“My dear child,” said Colonel Keith, with some exertion of patience, “you must try to be reasonable. How can you possibly recognise a man that you tell me you never saw?”

“I said I never saw him in the house,” said Rose with a shudder; “but they said if ever I told they would give me to the lions in the Zoological Gardens.”

“Who said so?”

“He, Mr. Maddox and Maria,” she answered, in such trepidation that he could scarcely hear her.

“But you are old and wise enough now to know what a foolish and wicked threat that was, my dear.”

“Yes, I was a little girl then, and knew no better, and once I did tell a lie when mamma asked me, and now she is dead, and I can never tell her the truth.”

Colin dreaded a public outbreak of the sobs that heaved in the poor child’s throat, but she had self-control enough to restrain them till he had led her into his own library, where he let her weep out her repentance for the untruth, which, wrested from her by terror, had weighed so long on her conscience. He felt that he was sparing Ermine something by receiving the first tempest of tears, in the absolute terror and anguish of revealing the secret that had preyed on her with mysterious horror.

“Now tell me all about it, my dear little girl. Who was this Maria?”

“Maria was my nurse when I lived at home. She used to take me out walking,” said Rose, pressing closer to his protecting breast, and pausing as though still afraid of her own words.

“Well,” he said, beginning to perceive, “and was it than that you saw this Maddox?”

“Yes, he used to come and walk with us, and sit under the trees in Kensington Gardens with her. And sometimes he gave me lemon-drops, but they said if ever I told, the lions should have me. I used to think I might be saved like Daniel; but after I told the lie, I knew I should not. Mamma asked me why my fingers were sticky, and I did say it was from a lemon-drop, but there were Maria’s eyes looking at me; oh, so dreadful, and when mamma asked who gave it to me, and Maria said, ‘I did, did not I, Miss Rose?’ Oh, I did not seem able to help saying ‘yes.’”

“Poor child! And you never dared to speak of it again?”

“Oh, no! I did long to tell; but, oh, one night it was written up in letters of fire, ‘Beware of the Lions.’”

“Terror must have set you dreaming, my dear.”

“No,” said Rose, earnestly. “I was quite awake. Papa and mamma were gone out to dine and sleep, and Maria would put me to bed half an hour too soon. She read me to sleep, but by-and-by I woke up, as I always did at mamma’s bed time, and the candle was gone, and there were those dreadful letters in light over the door.”

She spoke with such conviction that he became persuaded that all was not delusion, and asked what she did.

“I jumped up, and screamed, and opened the door; but there they were growling in papa’s dressing-room.”

“They, the lions? Oh, Rose, you must know that was impossible.”

“No, I did not see any lions, but I heard the growl, and Mr. Maddox coughed, and said, ‘Here they come,’ and growled again.”

“And you—?”

“I tumbled into bed again, and rolled up my head in the clothes, and prayed that it might be day, and it was at last!”

“Poor child! Indeed, Rose, I do not wonder at your terror, I never heard of a more barbarous trick.”

“Was it a trick?” said Rose, raising a wonderfully relieved and hopeful face.

“Did you never hear of writing in phosphorus, a substance that shines at night as the sea sometimes does?”

“Aunt Ailie has a book with a story about writing in fiery letters, but it frightened me so much that I never read to the end.”

“Bring it to me, and we will read it together, and then you will see that such a cruel use can be made of phosphorus.”

“It was unkind of them,” said Rose, sadly, “I wonder if they did it for fun?”

“Where did you sleep?”

“I had a little room that opened into mamma’s.”

“And where was all this growling?”

“In papa’s room. The door was just opposite to mine, and was open. All the light was there, you know. Mamma’s room was dark, but there was a candle in the dressing-room.”

“Did you see anything?”

“Only the light. It was such a moment. I don’t think I saw Mr. Maddox, but I am quite certain I heard him, for he had an odd little cough.”

“Then, Rose, I have little doubt that all this cruelty to you, poor inoffensive little being, was to hide some plots against your father.”

She caught his meaning with the quickness of a mind precocious on some points though childish on others. “Then if I had been brave and told the truth, he might never have hurt papa.”

“Mind, I do not know, and I never thought of blaming you, the chief sufferer! No, don’t begin to cry again.”

“Ah! but I did tell a lie. And I never can confess it to mamma,” she said, recurring to the sad lament so long suppressed.

She found a kind comforter, who led her to the higher sources of consolation, feeling all the time the deep self-accusation with which the sight of sweet childish penitence must always inspire a grown person.

“And now you will not fear to tell your aunt,” he added, “only it should be when you can mention it without such sad crying.”

“Telling you is almost as good as telling her,” said Rose, “and I feel safe with you,” she added, caressingly drawing his arm round her. “Please tell Aunt Ermine, for my crying does give her such a headache.”

“I will, then, and I think when we all know it, the terrors will leave you.”

“Not when I see Mr. Maddox. Oh, please now you know why, don’t make me walk without you. I do know now that he could not do anything to me, but I can’t help feeling the fright. And, oh! if he was to speak to me!”

“You have not seen him here before?”

“Yes I have, at least I think so. Once when Aunt Ermine sent me to the post-office, and another time on the esplanade. That is why I can’t bear going out without you or Aunt Ailie. Indeed, it is not disliking Tibbie.”

“I see it is not, my dear, and we will say no more about it till you have conquered your alarm; but remember, that he is not likely to know you again. You must be more changed in these three years than he is.”

This consideration seemed to reassure Rose greatly, and her next inquiry was, “Please, are my eyes very red for going home?”

“Somewhat mottled—something of the York and Lancaster rose. Shall I leave you under Tibbie’s care till the maiden blush complexion returns, and come back and fetch you when you have had a grand exhibition of my Indian curiosities?”

“Have you Indian curiosities! I thought they were only for ladies?”

“Perhaps they are. Is Tibbie guard enough? You know there’s an Irish sergeant in the house taller than I am, if you want a garrison?”

“Oh, I am not afraid, only these eyes.”

“I will tell her you have been frightened, and she shall take no notice.”

Tibbie was an admirer of Rose and gladly made her welcome, while the Colonel repaired to Ermine, and greatly startled her by the disclosure of the miseries that had been inflicted on the sensitive child.

It had indeed been known that there had been tyranny in the nursery, and to this cause the aunts imputed the startled wistful expression in Rose’s eyes; but they had never questioned her, thinking that silence would best wear out the recollection. The only wonder was that her senses had not been permanently injured by that night of terror, which accounted for her unconquerable dread of sleeping in the dark; and a still more inexplicable horror of the Zoological Gardens, together with many a nervous misery that Ermine had found it vain to combat. The Colonel asked if the nurse’s cruelty had been the cause of her dismissal?

“No, it was not discovered till after her departure. Her fate has always been a great grief to us, though we little thought her capable of using Rose in this way. She was one of the Hathertons. You must remember the name, and the pretty picturesque hovel on the Heath.”

“The squatters that were such a grievance to my uncle. Always suspected of poaching, and never caught.”

“Exactly. Most of the girls turned out ill, but this one, the youngest, was remarkably intelligent and attractive at school. I remember making an excuse for calling her into the garden for you to see and confess that English beauty exceeded Scottish, and you called her a gipsy and said we had no right to her.”

“So it was those big black eyes that had that fiendish malice in them!”

“Ah! if she fell into Maddox’s hands, I wonder the less. She showed an amount of feeling about my illness that won Ailie’s heart, and we had her for a little handmaid to help my nurse. Then, when we broke up from home, we still kept her, and every one used to be struck with her looks and manner. She went on as well as possible, and Lucy set her heart on having her in the nursery. And when the upper nurse went away, she had the whole care of Rose. We heard only of her praises till, to our horror, we found she had been sent away in disgrace at a moment’s warning. Poor Lucy was young, and so much shocked as only to think of getting her out of the house, not of what was to become of her, and all we could learn was that she never went home.”

“How long was this before the crash?”

“It was only a few weeks before the going abroad, but they had been absent nearly a year. No doubt Maddox must have made her aid in his schemes. You say Rose saw him?”

“So she declares, and there is an accuracy of memory about her that I should trust to. Should you or Alison know him?”

“No, we used to think it a bad sign that Edward never showed him to us. I remember Alison being disappointed that he was not at the factory the only time she saw it.”

“I do not like going away while he may be lurking about. I could send a note to-night, explaining my absence.”

“No, no,” exclaimed Ermine, “that would be making me as bad as poor little Rose. If he be here ever so much he has done his worst, and Edward is out of his reach. What could he do to us? The affairs were wound up long ago, and we have literally nothing to be bullied out of. No, I don’t think he could make me believe in lions in any shape.”

“You strong-minded woman! You want to emulate the Rachel.”

“You have brought her,” laughed Ermine at the sound of the well-known knock, and Rachel entered bag in hand.

“I was in hopes of meeting you,” she said to the Colonel. “I wanted to ask you to take charge of some of these;” and she produced a packet of prospectuses of a “Journal of Female Industry,” an illustrated monthly magazine, destined to contain essays, correspondence, reviews, history, tales, etc., to be printed and illustrated in the F. U. E. E.

“I hoped,” said Rachel, “to have begun with the year, but we are not forward enough, and indeed some of the expenses require a subscription in advance. A subscriber in advance will have the year’s numbers for ten shillings, instead of twelve; and I should be much obliged if you would distribute a few of these at Bath, and ask Bessie to do the same. I shall set her name down at the head of the list, as soon as she has qualified it for a decoy.”

“Are these printed at the F. U. E. E.?”

“No, we have not funds as yet. Mr. Mauleverer had them done at Bristol, where he has a large connexion as a lecturer, and expects to get many subscribers. I brought these down as soon as he had left them with me, in hopes that you would kindly distribute them at the wedding. And I wished,” added she to Ermine, “to ask you to contribute to our first number.”

“Thank you,” and the doubtful tone induced Rachel to encourage her diffidence.

“I know you write a great deal, and I am sure you must produce something worthy to see the light. I have no scruple in making the request, as I know Colonel Keith agrees with me that womanhood need not be an extinguisher for talent.”

“I am not afraid of him,” Ermine managed to say without more smile than Rachel took for gratification.

“Then if you would only entrust me with some of your fugitive reflections, I have no doubt that something might be made of them. A practised hand,” she added with a certain editorial dignity, “can always polish away any little roughnesses from inexperience.”

Ermine was choking with laughter at the savage pulls that Colin was inflicting on his moustache, and feeling silence no longer honest, she answered in an odd under tone, “I can’t plead inexperience.”

“No!” cried Rachel. “You have written; you have not published!”

“I was forced to do whatever brought grist to the mill,” said Ermine. “Indeed,” she added, with a look as if to ask pardon; “our secrets have been hardly fair towards you, but we made it a rule not to spoil our breadwinner’s trade by confessing my enormities.”

“I assure you,” said the Colonel, touched by Rachel’s appalled look, “I don’t know how long this cautious person would have kept me in the dark if she had not betrayed herself in the paper we discussed the first day I met you.”

“The ‘Traveller,’” said Rachel, her eyes widening like those of a child. “She is the ‘Invalid’!”

“There, I am glad to have made a clean breast of it,” said Ermine.

“The ‘Invalid’!” repeated Rachel. “It is as bad as the Victoria Cross.”

“There is a compliment, Ermine, for which you should make your bow,” said Colin.

“Oh, I did not mean that,” said Rachel; “but that it was as great a mistake as I made about Captain Keith, when I told him his own story, and denied his being the hero, till I actually saw his cross,” and she spoke with a genuine simplicity that almost looked like humour, ending with, “I wonder why I am fated to make such mistakes!”

“Preconceived notions,” said Ermine, smiling; “your theory suffices you, and you don’t see small indications.”

“There may be something in that,” said Rachel, thoughtfully, “it accounts for Grace always seeing things faster than I did.”

“Did Mr.—, your philanthropist, bring you this today?” said the Colonel, taking up the paper again, as if to point a practical moral to her confession of misjudgments.

“Mr. Mauleverer? Yes; I came down as soon as he had left me, only calling first upon Fanny. I am very anxious for contributions. If you would only give me a paper signed by the ‘Invalid,’ it would be a fortune to the institution.”

Ermine made a vague answer that she doubted whether the ‘Invalid’ was separable from the ‘Traveller,’ and Rachel presently departed with her prospectus, but without having elicited a promise.

“Intolerable!” exclaimed the Colonel. “She was improving under Bessie’s influence, but she has broken out worse than ever. ‘Journal of Female Industry!’ ‘Journal of a Knight of Industry,’ might be a better title. You will have nothing to do with it, Ermine?”

“Certainly not as the ‘Invalid,’ but I owe her something for having let her run into this scrape before you.”

“As if you could have hindered her! Come, don’t waste time and brains on a companion for Curatocult.”

“You make me so idle and frivolous that I shall be expelled from the ‘Traveller,’ and obliged to take refuge in the ‘Female Industry Journal.’ Shall you distribute the prospectuses?”

“I shall give one to Bessie! That is if I go at all.”

“No, no, there is no valid reason for staying away. Even if we were sure that Rose was right, nothing could well come of it, and your absence would be most invidious.”

“I believe I am wanted to keep Master Alick in order, but if you have the least feeling that you would be more at ease with me at home—”

“That is not a fair question,” said Ermine, smiling. “You know very well that you ought to go.”

“And I shall try to bring back Harry Beauchamp,” added the Colonel. “He would be able to identify the fellow.”

“I do not know what would be gained by that.”

“I should know whom to watch.”

Ermine had seen so much of Rose’s nervous timidity, and had known so many phantoms raised by it, that she attached little importance to the recognition, and when she went over the matter with her little niece, it was with far more thought of the effect of the terror, and of the long suppressed secret, upon the child’s moral and physical nature, than with any curiosity as to the subject of her last alarm. She was surprised to observe that Alison was evidently in a state of much more restlessness and suspense than she was conscious of in herself, during Colin’s absence, and attributed this to her sister’s fear of Maddox’s making some inroad upon her in her long solitary hours, in which case she tried to reassure her by promises to send at once for Mr. Mitchell or for Coombe.

Alison let these assurances be given to her, and felt hypocritical for receiving them in silence. Her grave set features had tutored themselves to conceal for ever one page in the life that Ermine thought was entirely revealed to her. Never had Ermine known that brotherly companionship had once suddenly assumed the unwelcome aspect of an affection against which Alison’s heart had been steeled by devotion to the sister whose life she had blighted. Her resolution had been unswerving, but its full cost had been unknown to her, till her adherence to it had slackened the old tie of hereditary friendship towards others of her family; and even when marriage should have obliterated the past, she still traced resentment in the hard judgment of her brother’s conduct, and even in the one act of consideration that it galled her to accept.

There had been no meeting since the one decisive interview just before she had left her original home, and there were many more bitter feelings than could be easily assuaged in looking forward to a renewal of intercourse, when all too late, she knew that she should soon be no longer needed by her sister. She tried to feel it all just retribution, she tried to rejoice in Ermine’s coming happiness; she tried to believe that the sight of Harry Beauchamp, as a married man, would be the best cure for her; she blamed and struggled with herself: and after all, her distress was wasted, Harry Beauchamp had not chosen to come home with his cousin, who took his unwillingness to miss a hunting-day rather angrily and scornfully. Alison put her private interpretation on the refusal, and held aloof, while Colin owned to Ermine his vexation and surprise at the displeasure that Harry Beauchamp maintained against his old schoolfellow, and his absolute refusal to listen to any arguments as to his innocence.

This seemed to have been Colin’s prominent interest in his expedition to Bath; the particulars of the wedding were less easily drawn from him. The bride had indeed been perfection, all was charming wherever she brought her ready grace and sweetness, and she had gratified the Colonel by her affectionate messages to Ermine, and her evident intention to make all straight between Lord Keith and his daughter Mary. But the Clare relations had not made a favourable impression; the favourite blind uncle had not been present, in spite of Bessie’s boast, and it was suspected that Alick had not chosen to forward his coming. Alick had devolved the office of giving his sister away upon the Colonel, as her guardian, and had altogether comported himself with more than his usual lazy irony, especially towards the Clare cousinhood, who constantly buzzed round him, and received his rebuffs as delightful jests and compliments, making the Colonel wonder all the more at the perfect good taste and good breeding of his new sister-in-law, who had spent among them all the most critical years of her life.

She had been much amused with the prospectus of the “Journal of Female Industry,” but she sent word to Rachel that she advised her not to publish any list of subscribers—the vague was far more impressive than the certain. The first number must be sent to her at Paris, and trust her for spreading its fame!

The Colonel did not add to his message her recommendation that the frontispiece should represent the Spinster’s Needles, with the rescue of Don as the type of female heroism. Nor did he tell how carefully he had questioned both her and Rachel as to the date of that interesting adventure.