99 66 MARK WARREN," 'DEEPDALE VICARAGE," "A BRAVE LIFE," ETC. ETC. CHAPTER X.-"THIS UNLUCKY BUSINESS." WE left, Sir Frederic discussing with Mr. Sir Frederic was an orphan too, and wore deep Sibley the matter of the Ormonds' estate. If the brother and sister were orphans, there was all the more reason that justice should be done them. VOL. V. mourning. By the death of his father he had just come into the estate. 'Keep to the point, sir; keep to the point," said Sir Frederic impatiently. “We were discussing the Ormonds." "Exactly," continued the agent, with undisturbed equanimity, "exactly. Oh, I was saying," and he turned to Mr. Easton, “there is a tall big fellow, six feet high. You must know him-Luke Ormond." Mr. Easton shook his head. The meadow farm, as it was called, was not in the parish of East Bramley. "I don't so much wonder at your not knowing Luke, either," resumed the agent; "he goes out very little indeed. I believe he hates going out. He is generally lying all his length on a sofa in his study, as he calls it, at the back of the house. That is where you will find Luke." "Is he an invalid?" "Not a bit of it!" "Who manages the farm, then ?" 'My dear Mr. Easton, I am surprised at you, and a little shocked. Do you mean to say that you are in ignorance of Kate Ormond's existence? Pretty little nimble, bewitching Kate? Why, there is not such a wonderful little woman in the county!" Mr. Easton shook his head again, this time with a gesture of impatience. There was something in the man's false smile and absurd antics which provoked him. "It is Kate who manages the farm, and makes the butter, and looks up the eggs, and feeds the poultry, and rears the calves. Dear me! what a a Kate it is!" and the agent lifted up his hands in admiration -a gesture which nearly cost him an overthrow; for his horse, feeling the reins slackened, took the opportunity of shying viciously at a stone, and half capsizing him. Sir Frederic laughed good-naturedly. "I tell Sibley he's a single man, why doesn't he propose?" "I daren't for my life; she's too good for me by half!" said Sibley, shrugging his shoulders. "At any rate, you have my message to convey to her. Perhaps, as the young gentleman is so fond of his siesta, he allows his sister to transact all the business," said Sir Frederic, in a tone of raillery. "And we will ride over the land and discuss what is to be done if Sibley fails in his diplomacy," continued the baronet, addressing Mr. Easton.. "With all my heart!" Sir Frederic had only been in the neighbourhood a month. During that period he had seen and spoken to him several times on business; and Sir Frederic seemed rather to court his society. ness. The young man was quite unaccustomed to busiSome said he was a mere tool in the hands of Sibley. The place he had come to reside in was a grim old tower, which had been neglected for years and years. The Mortons rarely lived there, or, indeed, paid it a passing visit. They had a far better residence in the south of England—a splendid baronial hall, where they lived in magnificence, and held quite a court. But the young man had disliked the place since his father died, and had shut up the court, and beaten a retreat. He wanted to retrench, he said, and look a little into his own affairs. Perhaps he thought Mr. Easton might be useful to him. "He did not care for gaiety-he had had enough," he said, as, after a time, they rode slowly back to East Bramley. "All he wanted was a quiet domestic life, and leisure to improve his rather shattered resources. The estate had been drained almost to death. He wanted to nurse it back to life again. He was very open and candid, and made no secret of his intentions. He was going back to lunch with Mr. Easton. He had accepted the invitation immediately. In a few weeks an aunt was coming to live with him. Then he could return the hospitality, and he hoped they should be neighbours. Lunch was set out on the dining-room table when they entered. The machinery of the household went by the clock; but Adela was not there. Indeed, Mr. Easton had to chafe impatiently some five minutes before she came in. She wore a black silk dress, with an attempt at slight mourning. Her face was pale, and her eyes bore unmistakable marks of weeping. "That," he thought—and again he could have ground his teeth as he thought it—" that was because of Margaret's child!" Ah, well! He would put an end to that scheme, as soon as his guest was gone. He wished Adela were not so cold and distant in her manner. He had never been struck with it before. Nothing delighted Mr. Easton more than the As a hostess she was graceful and attentive, and let prospect of getting rid of the agent. Besides, he wanted to ask Sir Frederic to lunch, and he would not force himself to extend the invitation to Mr. Sibley. Not on any account whatever! He wished to introduce Sir Frederic to his daughter. He scarcely knew why he felt this sudden desire of extending the circle of her acquaintance. The question seemed to haunt him with strange persistence. Why should not Adela marry? no one punctilio escape; but there seemed a wall of ice round her which kept off the least approach to sociability. Was it his fault? He thought he would give her a hint at some convenient moment. He longed to whisper to her-" Bend, Adela; bend!" But before that came an affair of far greater importance. IN DUTY BOUND. She came back slowly, her eyes fixed on the ground. "It is about this-this unlucky business," he said, a little embarrassed; for he was strictly a man of his word. Adela raised her eyes. They had a troubled expression-a look of alarm. 51 was a changeling, thrust into her place-a dwarfed, elfish thing, who had disobeyed him, and whom he refused to love. He loved the first Margaret, and secretly yearned after her. Not that any one guessed it. The man was stern as could be; his face was set like a flint. He walked down to East Bramley, taking the same route that she had done. His footprints might have touched hers. He had the address in his hand. Adela had laid it on the table, and he had taken it up. He knew the row of little houses near the "You took me by surprise, Adela; I had not time to fully discuss the point. I have made up my mind since that the step was unwise. I am not willing that you should adopt this child." "It is too late," she said, hurriedly; "the child is station; but he did not know Mrs. Mason. The here." woman had lately come to the town. He did not flinch from his purpose when he came to the door; he was even more resolved than ever. What should he call her? He must give her the name he hated. He must ask for Mrs. Seymour. "What, so soon!" and his tone was angry and displeased. "You made haste, then, to take me at my word." She did not speak. He walked up and down the room with a disturbed air. At length he came back to where she stood, her eyes cast down, her face pale and troubled. The door was not opened all at once. He grew impatient, and knocked again. Then a woman opened it—a woman with a kind, motherly look, but very pale, and her eyes brimming over with tears. He would not let the word "Margaret" escape his The sight irritated him. It was like these women to "Where does this woman lodge ?" he asked. lips. She did not look up; she was downcast and dejected, more so than he had ever seen her. And she did not see the expression of his face. It was well she did not. He was grappling with a suggestion that he hated. "Has she gone?" he asked presently, and with some anxiety, still grappling with the idea that he loathed-still forced right upon it. There was a sound like that of a stifled sob. "She is not likely to be gone, considering the state in which I left her." And Adela turned hastily round and departed, scarce in time enough to hide a flood of tears. CHAPTER XI. TOO LATE. He looked after her with some surprise. Adela did He did not order out his horse again, and yet he was going to East Bramley. He would slip down silently and unperceived; no one should be any the wiser. If he were compelled to see Margaret, he must. The interview should be brief as possible. He would offer her an allowance on condition that she took back her child and went-on condition that he neither saw nor heard of her again, or of it. But though he was fierce, and cruel, and unrelenting, there was a corner of his heart where some softness lingered. He had a dream now and then, of a beautiful and prosperous woman, with children's faces round her. This was his Margaret. The other Margaret go fretting after Margaret. A couple of simpletons ! But he asked for her, and as he did so, he slipped into the passage. "The sooner this scene is over the better." He was getting harder rather than softer. "She is gone, sir, poor thing," said the woman, putting her apron to her eyes, "and more's the pity for it. Do you belong to her, sir?" "No!" He said it fiercely, and he thought he spoke the truth. She had once belonged to him, but not now! "I am sorry for that. If ever a poor thing wanted friends she did. You see she wasn't fit to go; she had been up all night. I heard her up and down, and crying over the child. Ah, it was a sweet one!" and the woman paused at the recollection. "She could not bear to part with it, and no wonder," again the apron went to the eyes. "Ah, it ain't long for this world!" "You think it will die?" said Mr. Easton, hastily. "I think it may be too good to live, sir," replied the woman. "Its mother has done what she could, poor thing. She's torn herself away from it that it might have a home with the lady, and a chance for its life. Ah, no one knows what it cost her to do so!" He was listening. He was vexed and disappointed beyond measure that she had escaped him; but he listened. "She bore up wonderful. I shall not forget it soon, sir," and tears gushed to her eyes; "she had scarce had bit or sup since she came into the house. I made her a cup of tea, but there it stands untasted. I fetched her down here, thinking it would be more cheerful, and the room isn't let. See, poor dear, she has left her handkerchief." His eyes glanced at the bit of cambric as she laid it on the table. It was wet with tears. "I wasn't here when the parting took place; but I saw the lady go out with the child in her arms. The child looked frightened, and cried out, Mamma! mamma!' I thought she would hear it, and I went in as quick as quick; but, bless you, she could hear nothing. She was stretched on the floor as if she was dead!" He moved uneasily in his chair; not a single feeling, if he had one, struggled to the surface. "Where is she gone to?" he asked, at length. "Goodness knows, sir! She should not have gone if I could have helped it. When she was better, I made her sit on that sofa. She trembled all over like a child; and her face was so white, and her eyes so strange, it quite frightened me. Between ourselves, sir, if she's found at the bottom of the nearest pond-" "Nonsense!" interrupted he, sternly. "What are you talking about ?" "I don't care, sir. I know trouble often drives folks desperate, and God, in mercy, takes away their: senses. I had a sister once- 66 " 66 Nonsense, I tell you!" said he, more sternly still, and rising as he said it. So you cannot give me any information ?" "I can't, sir. She slipped out of the house when my back was turned. My husband, he saw her go by the end of the street, as if she were distracted like. I told him he should have gone after her; but men don't take the heed of things that women do; and he wanted his dinner. Anyhow, she's gone, sir -more's the pity for it!" "She's gone!" The lady, who boasted that she gave the tone to the East Bramley society, bridled and nodded, and was evidently very much offended. "I have not had the pleasure of seeing the bride. You will bring her to call; I hope I shall not be engaged!" Her manner of pronouncing the word, and the distant bow which took the place of the cordial shake of the hand, convinced Horace of the exact position in which he stood. "I have lost Mrs. Jules for ever!" said he, as he gazed somewhat mournfully after her. For with Mrs. Jules was the best connection in the county. The rattle of a pair of ponies made him turn his head. "There is another of my lost friends," thought he, as he caught sight of Miss Easton. She stopped her ponies the minute she saw him. "Mr. Vincent, allow me to congratulate you! I must own I was surprised, too; but you will care little about that," said she, laughing. The tone of voice was so cordial and friendly, that the poor young man was quite touched. He began the same pacificatory speech he had attempted with Mrs. Jules, but Adela scarcely heard him out. Her clear dark eyes, which were looking straight into his, deciphered the cause of his embarrassment. She had a generous temper, and was above small affronts; and she felt very kindly towards the young bride. "You must bring her to see me," said she; "I want to make her acquaintance." Nothing she could have done was of more value to He repeated it as he walked down the street. It Horace than this little speech. He hurried home, was too late, then-too late! He could not help but wonder where she was gone to. He could not help but think of the untasted cup of tea, and the handkerchief wet with tears! CHAPTER XII. RUTH'S CHOICE OF FRIENDS. HAVE you never basked in the glory of an early summer's morning, and noticed, all at once, a speck on the horizon ? That speck, getting larger and larger still, proclaimed-no matter the sunshine, and the bees, and the flowers, no matter the brilliant beginning" It will be rain to-day.” There had come a speck on Horace Vincent's horizon. It was not large at present, and he tried not to notice it. He never alluded to the blunder committed by his wife. It was brought home to him, nevertheless. "Well, I am sure!" said Mrs. Jules, meeting him in the street shortly after. "You took us all by surprise, Mr. Vincent. Till I received your cards, I had not the least idea you were thinking about matrimony." Horace said a few pacificatory words. quite in spirits. "You must put on your best bib and tucker, my dear," said he, cheerfully; "I am going to take you a drive in the country to-morrow." "Where are you going to? Oh, I shall like it so much!" "To Bramley Hall, to call on the Eastons." Her countenance fell immediately. "Are we obliged to call there? Can't we go a drive without?" "People in our circumstances must kill two birds with one stone, my dear," said he, laughing. She sat still a few minutes. The shade of self-will was creeping over her face. "I don't want to call on the Eastons, Horace, I don't like them." "Why not, Ruth?" "For no specific reason. Only because I don't." "But that is childish of you, Ruth." She was silent; yet none the more was she convinced, as you could see by her face. "They are old friends of mine," continued Horace. "I had introductions to them, and to Mrs. Jules; to no other people in the neighbourhood." 66 "I dislike Mrs. Jules more than I do the Eastons." REMEMBRANCES OF JESUS. He sighed. He could not help it. Nor could he argue the point any more. Dinner was brought in, such as it was; and he was obliged to eat it with such contentment as he possessed. I say "such as it was" advisedly. Dinners were among the hints which were being given to him daily that he had made a mistake. He was no epicure. The simplest fare would have sufficed him, so that it was prepared with comfort and cleanliness. But his fare was not simple. Now and then it was beyond his means. But it was never presentable. Never even what Mrs. Perkins would have set before him. Nor was his homedisorderly, slovenly, and ill-managed-any great improvement on his lodgings. 53 dismiss the carriage, and abandon the Eastons altogether. But another idea suggested itself to his mind. It was evident that he and his wife would go different ways. If he went his way, need he go utterly alone? Could he afford to let all his old friends forsake him? Could he? The man was grieved to the very heart: he could have sat down and wept. He thought he would go. Come what might, his schemes should not be entirely frustrated! He stepped into the carriage, and ordered the man to drive to Bramley Hall. Adela and her father were both at home, and received him with the utmost kindness. Adela had He was being forced into this belief against his great tact. She passed over the fact of his wife's will. absence so lightly and gracefully, that nothing was made of it. She kept him to lunch; and when he was ready to depart, she said, "I was going to write a note; but we need not be so very formal. Could you and Mrs. Vincent dine with us on Thursday?" When dinner was over he went away. He was resolved to carry his point; but he hated arguing. He would say nothing about it till the morning. "Very well," said Ruth, when he told her what time the carriage would be at the door. He was delighted. He hurried through his business, and got home just in time to see the carriage drive up. He had some little toilette to make, so he ran up-stairs, expecting to find Ruth. But no Ruth was there. When he was ready, he looked about him for his wife. "What in the world has become of her?" said he, ringing the bell in the little sitting-room below. "Where is your mistress?" asked he of the slatternly girl who presented herself. It was He had his way He accepted the invitation joyfully. welcome as a shower in summer. to make, and could afford to lose no friends. And he was attached strongly to the Eastons. He had even once thought- But that was some time ago, and his thoughts had never come to anything. Still, he was joyful. There was no vindictiveness whatever about Horace. All trace of resentment at his wife's conduct had disappeared. He thought she would be pleased and gratified. She should be dressed nicely "Oh, please sir, I quite forgot! The missis is gone." in her dove-coloured silk, and wear the chain he gave "Gone! Where? her, and the little bridal-wreath in her hair. She "Please sir, I was to tell you, as she'd rather not, would look very lovely; he was sure of that. And and she's gone a ride with Mrs. Mudford." when she had made the acquaintance of Adela, what an advantageous step that would be-all, in fact, that was wanting to his felicity. Horace stood immovable. A sterner look came into his face than had ever been seen there yet. He was very angry indeed. What should he do? His first impulse was to Jules? Might he not, in the end, be able to pacify Mrs. (To be continued.) JOHN xiv. 26. REMEMBRANCES OF JESUS. NE of the most curious of those common occurrences which befal us so frequently that, at length, they come and pass by unnoticed, is this. Sometimes-it may be in the midst of our most ordinary round of life; it may be in some exceptional circumstance or combination of circumstances—a sort of consciousness seems to flash across us that this has occurred before. A sensation comes upon us that we have once, we cannot tell when, where, or how, been placed exactly in the same position as we now occupy, have said the same things, seen the same people, the same localities, or what not. The flash is but momentary; it comes and is gone. Perhaps we think nothing further about it, or-according to the humour we are in-we do think about it, and are exceedingly puzzled to guess how things could be so. We never have been in that same position, at least as far as our ordinary memory serves us to recal the past; and yet there it was—a sort of supernatural memory seems to have stood us in stead for the moment, and revealed to us glimpses of a profounder past than we can commonly grasp. This is very strange: but is not all memory a strange mystery ?-strange that events once dead should rise up from their graves, and live over |