my tongue as if they'd been no more than common words. I allays thought it took a effort, Shadrach !” "I should think it did an' all," Shadrach replied, as if he were a little nettled by the implied disparagement of the gift. "There's a many as can get as fur as the fust two lines, but four's a trial. Thee try thy hand at four, Hepzibah, and see what thee canst make on it." "No, no," returned Hepzibah, humbled already by the test proposed. She was so full of the dreadful event of the evening that even the amazement of having deviated into poetry could not charm her from the theme. She returned to it whilst the Bard, with his head poised critically on one side and his mouth a little wider open than usual, was still tasting the combination quatrain. "Mister Edward," she said mournfully, "isn't the man he used to be, Shadrach." "No?" said Shadrach, dropping the study of the quatrain instantly. "As how?" "He's been changed from the very night when you come to the house and spoke o' Mary Howarth's weddin'. He was used to be the gayest creetur-always ready with his bit of a joke, poor young gentleman, and the smile on his face like sunshine. And now theer's niver a merry word to be had for love nor money. He draws himself about as if he took no interest in life, and sometimes he'll smile that sad it would break your heart. Thee know'st, Shadrach, when you've nussed a child, an' lived to see him grow up the finest young man of a parish, it ain't like a stranger." "That's human nature," said the Bard humbly, "an' what's human nature has got to be took and be put up with." "Of course it's human nature," returned Hepzibah. "If I'd ha' nussed you an' carried you about as soon as I was big enough to do it, and seed you grow up bit by bit into the likeliest young man for miles and miles, and then to fall into trouble over a pale-faced chit of a girl as throwed herself away on a wastrel like Will Hackett Here Hepzibah wiped her eyes again with the corner of her apron, and left the theme unfinished. A minute or two later there entered a little old woman, whom both Shadrach and Hepzibah greeted as "mother." The little old woman had a fretful face, a fretful voice, and with these, as it seemed, a fretful temper. "Hast been callin' me 'mother,'" she said, addressing Hepzibah, "this ten or twelve 'ear. Beest goin' to keep the lad danglin' at thy tail till he's grey ?" "Nay, mother," said Shadrach mildly, "it stands to rayson her can't leave wheer her is while theer's trouble i' the place." "Well," said the little old woman querulously, "theer's a pair on you. When I was a wench the gells liked a mon as 'ud have 'em to church whether or no, an' stand no shilly-shallyin'. And if the gell was that standoffish for a number o' 'ears as thee'st been, Zibah, the lads 'ud ha' routed out another from somewheer." "He's fine and welcome, I'm sure," said Hepzibah, rising and drawing her shawl "Thee think'st he frets about her " about her. asked Shadrach wistfully. "Shadrach," said Hepzibah, wiping a tear away with a corner of her herden apron, "I've niver believed as you'd be a-sittin' afore me now if it hadn't been for that. It was only a man as was desperate of his life could ha' run the risk he did. I've heard it said by more than one as it seemed like going back to death more than it was like a common rescue. His heart was broke, poor thing, and he set no worth on his life at all. It was a hundred to one again saving you, Shadrach, and Master Edward isn't like a novice as doesn't know the ins an' outs o' things." "I allays set it down to his bein' fond o' thee," said Shadrach. "He knowed you'd fret if anything had happened to me." "He know'd I'd ha' fretted a sight worse," replied Hepzibah, with a rather tart decision, "if anything had happened to him." "Say not so, Hepzibah!" said the Bard. "Let nothin' come twixt you an' me, For I am iver true to thee.” "Who's to tek care on him?" asked the old woman, "and do his mendin' and get him his bit o' victuals when I'm gone? It'll be no great time, I reckon, afore I'm carried out toes foremost, and him no more to be trusted to tek care of himself than a child, as is no more than could be expected, considerin' his gift, and the way his thoughts goes wool-gatherin"." "Well, well, mother," said Shadrach, "if I'm contented, so must thou be. I'll see thee home, Hepzibah." CHAPTER VI. "HAY-BERRY-HAM!" said Mr. Horatio Lowther. "Hay-berry-ham!" Mr. Lowther was seated in his office at a table overspread with papers, which he was in the act of sorting and docketing. He made no cessation in his work as he uttered this curious call; but his voice took an ascending tone as he repeated it, until its oily smoothness gave way to a grating shrillness. When the cry had been repeated half-a-dozen times a voice was heard overhead "Hillo!" "You have been there all the time ?" asked Mr. Lowther. "Why did you not answer sooner ?" "Better late than never," said the voice, and a pair of corduroyed legs came into view on the open stairway which led from the upper room to the lower. "What do you mean by better late than never?" asked Mr. Lowther, frowning. "Nothing," said the voice gruffly, as its owner came into view. "I might ha' said Better never than late. It would ha' been truer about most things." "Hay-berry-ham!" said Mr. Lowther, speaking rather high in his head, and in a tone of dignified reproof and protest. "Abrum," the other corrected him doggedly. "Christened name, A-b-r-a-m, Abrum. Don't put me on the rack and drag me out into four synnables. I won't have it." "Did you get the document at the County Court last night?" asked Mr. Lowther. "Yes," said Abram, a little more doggedly than before. He had come down-stairs in his shirt-sleeves, and on receipt of Mr. Lowther's commands had reached down a coat from a nail on the office wall. He had struggled half-way into the coat, which was rather too small for him, when he paused to put these questions. "You know very well that it will not do after dark," said Mr. Lowther. He added suavely, "Prokerastination is the thief of time. Do what you are told." "All right!" returned Abram, struggling with the coat. "Hadn't I better wait till about two minutes after one o'clock? Everybody turns out of the factory just then. Everybody knows me, and when I go into a house they know what I'm there for. Bless your heart, I'm known as well as you are." "Do as you are told," said Mr. Lowther, "and do it now." "Shall I send the Town Crier round to say I'm going?" Abram asked, standing on tip-toe to reach his hat. "They're a very young married couple, Gaffer. The gell's always been particular respectable. Folks ought to know as the bailiff's in the house." "Do as you are told," repeated Mr. Lowther, "and do it now." Abram departed, grumbling inarticulately, and Mr. Lowther, with great smoothness of voice and suavity of manner, called him back in order to irritate him. "and "Let me see the document," he said; be sure that it is in order." Abram, who by long experience of his employer could read him like a book, returned with a smiling alacrity in order to irritate Mr. Lowther, and lugging the paper from his breast-pocket, presented it with a burlesque flourish of politeness. Mr. Lowther, having failed of his purpose, glanced casually at it and returned it, and Abram took his way in glee, but had no sooner reached the street than he allowed the tip of his nose to rise and the corners of his mouth to descend to their normal expression. He walked at a great pace to Hackett's house, a semi-detached villa on the edge of the town, and, having knocked at the door, made himself as small as he could to avoid observation, until a clean little rosy-cheeked maid, in a pink print and a smart cap, answered to his summons. The rosy maid blanched when she saw him, for Mr. Lowther had had dealings with all sorts of people in his time, and-little fish being proverbially sweethe rather liked the small fry best. And the maid knew Mr. Lowther's messenger from home experience. Abram, though a duly qualified servant of the court, was in a sense Mr. Lowther's retainer. When not engaged in his professional duties, Abram did odd jobs for Mr. Lowther, and even in the exercise of his profession was oftener engaged in his behalf than in that of all other people put together. "Gaffer in ?" said Abram, nodding at the maid to claim his old acquaintance with her. "No," answered the girl. "Master's gone to the races." "Missis in ?" "Yes." "Tell her there's a party wants to speak to her." The maid during this brief colloquy had, more by defensive instinct than design, closed the door little by little, until by this time only one of her eyes was visible behind it, but the visitor pushed it open with authoritative shoulder, and closed it behind him when he had entered upon the neat little hall. The little maid recoiled before him, and disappeared with a backward gaze of terror. Abram watched her as she mounted the stairs, and shook his head twice or thrice up and down. "Pretty ockipation this is," he said, grumbling half aloud. "But if it's got to be done, it's got to be done, and it's just as well to have a cove in the business as does it pleasant as it is to have a cove in the business as does it unpleasant." The maid, panting a little and somewhat scared, knocked at the drawing-room door. Her mistress's voice bade her come in, and she entered, and, having closed the door, stood silent for a moment or two. The threemonths' bride was seated near the window looking out with absent eyes. A half-finished piece of embroidery was in her hands, but they lay idly in her lap with an air of weary lassitude. There was a hint of the same expression in her face, which was of a delicate and rather meagre oval. Her eyes were of a darkish blue-grey, mystic and dreamy. Her lips were mobile and tender, but she had a very decided little chin, and the form of her eyebrows too, notwithstanding the dreamy mystery of the eyes they surmounted, looked as though she might upon occasion claim a will of her own. in spite of herself, and encountered Abram in the hall. The man, to do him justice, explained his mission civilly, and even with some delicacy. "You won't put yourself about about me, ma'am," he said, "neither about eatin', nor yet about sleepin'. I ain't particular, nor used to be particular. Dessay when Mr. Hackett comes home he'll put this little matter straight. Prob'ly it's a oversight. Often and often I finds it so." She left him standing in the hall unanswered, and returned to her old place and posture by the window. The outlook on the summer day had already seemed a little tristful and weary. She had once or twice failed to banish the intruding fear that her marriage was an irretrievable misfortune. It was early to have to do battle with so horrible a conclusion; it was earlier still to be vanquished by it, even though loyalty was yet too active and self-respect too strong to allow her to be conquered for more than a moment at a time.. And here is the place for the revelation of a fact which in its own way is a tragedy. The poor thing had not gone through the ordinary gates of enchantment to marry Will Hackett. She had married that handsome and sweet-voiced prodigal, not in the least because she loved him, but because she was going to reform him. Life was to have been all nobility and self-sacrifice and lofty duty until this black sheep should change his colour, and then she was to have her reward, poor child. But Master Will was one of those effusive, amiable, generous, and free-handed gentry who have no more heart than a turnip. He had seemed so affectionate! In his courting days he had been so easily guided. When a young man has his arm round a pretty girl's waist it is not difficult to seem affectionate; and young men in their courting days have often seemed easily guided, though "Oh, if you please, ma'am," said the maid, they have turned out sadly tough in the "the bum-bailiff's in the house!" mouth and rusty in the temper a little later When only a second or two had gone by in silence, a dim sense that there had been something stealthy and afraid in the girl's action intruded itself upon her day dream. She turned and awoke from her fancies with a little start at this curious thought, and a glance at the maid's face confirmed it. She rose, and laid the embroidery on a table near her. "What is the matter, Sarah ?" "What is in the house?" asked Mrs. Hackett. Her experience was at fault. She had been tenderly nurtured, and knew little of the disgraces and miseries of life. "Mr. Whitelaw, ma'am," answered the scared maid. "He's the county-court man, if you please, ma'am. He was put into father's house when we was sold up.' on. But if once the girl who is tied to such a man has gone through the land of rainbows and magic promise he will never seem to her to be altogether the brute he is. Something of the old glamour will cling to him, and bring yet a hint of the old happy blindness to her eyes. Something of the old sweet thrill will stir in the heart at times. So aided, the black sheep may seem to be only a little -a very little-dingier than his brethren of the flock. There are cases-we have mostly been happy enough to know them-where She descended the stairs, a little fluttered to one faithful and tender pair of eyes in the This sounded alarming, but the alarm was only vague. What could the man want here ? "Where is he ?" she asked. "In the hall I will go and see him." world the blackest sheep has shown lustrous white. Shall we scorn that blissful folly, or laugh at it? Not I-for one. For Mary Hackett there was none of this beautiful illusion possible. She had married a rake with her eyes open and as a matter of conscience. Perhaps it is too easy to say "with her eyes open." Let a home-reared maiden open her eyes as wide as she may she can have but a little knowledge of the rake. She knows vaguely that he is not so good as the run of men, and she knows, on the authority of the silliest and falsest proverb to be found in the collection of all nations, that when reformed he makes the best of husbands. Master Will had been determined to be found out early. In taking a wife he had not proposed to cripple himself. His friends called him "the married bachelor," and he was proud of the title. It bespoke the fact that he had surrendered nothing of his liberties; that the yoke which weighed on most men who married had found no place upon his shoulders. His wife was little to blame therefore if she discovered the fatal error into which she had fallen a little earlier than most women would have done. She came of the solid, honest trading class, who abhor Bohemianism, and regard debt as the worst of evils, and idleness as one of the worst of crimes. These sentiments were born into her and were a part of her. The shifts of the new household had hurt her bitterly many a time already. The little pile of unpaid tradesmen's bills weighed like an incubus upon her spirit. The calls for each separate bill, and her compelled statement that she would speak to Mr. Hackett about it, were like stabs to her. And now, before she had found time even to begin to reconcile herself to her situation, she and her husband were put to open shame. The blow fell dull at first, and it was an hour or two before she began to know what pain it carried. The maid came to tell her that dinner was ready, but she could not eat and would not trouble even to make a pretence of eating. In a while a tear or two began to flow, and when once she had given way so far she had lost control of herself, and flying to her bedroom she locked the door and cast herself upon the bed in an abandonment of grief and shame. The weary dreadful day crawled on minute by minute and hour by hour when this burst was over, and she paced her room to and fro as she looked at the future. More than once a gust of wrath passed over her spirit and stirred the sick waters of despair. But she would have none of that, and wrestled against herself with all her forces. She had no right to anger-no right to reproach: she had thrown those rights away. All the while her heart cried out for her mother. Pride held her back, but gave way at last before the imperious call of nature. The friendly darkness had fallen and no one would see her come and go. She was not certain that she was not a prisoner, and even that fear spurred her a little in the way of her own desires, for she wanted to test it and to know the worst, if there were a worse than had happened already. So she slipped on bonnet and shawl and left the house, no effort being made to restrain her. She sped swiftly homewards-the mother's roof had always covered home-since her marriage as before it-and as she went there was such a promise of the peace she longed for in her mother's arms, that it impelled her to run. Blank disappointment at the door. Mother and daughter had had but little intercourse of late, and the estrangement had grown so far already that Mrs. Howarth had gone away on a customary summer visit of a week to her sister without letting her daughter know of it. Her father was indoors, said the domestic, and would be glad to see her. No, she made shift to answer, she would call again when her mother had returned. She dared not face her father with the news. The night had grown black and tempestuous. She had had no leisure to notice this before, but she saw it as she turned, and the gloom and threatened storm added their quota to the weight which rested on her. The road was lonely, with strips of green on either side of it, and ere and there a stile, which gave a glimpse of open fields brooding darkly in the night. The tears she had shed so freely already, the hurried race to her father's house, the disappointment there, the darkness and loneliness of the road, all helped one way. She sank upon a hillock beneath the tall overhanging hedge and burst into a new passion of tears. Only a minute later she heard between her own sobs the sound of a quick footstep on the path, and rose to her feet to find a sombre figure bending over her. "My poor dear creature," said a pitying and familiar voice, "what's the matter? Don't be afraid of me. I wouldn't hurt you for the world." Ned Blane ! THE DELUGE. BY WILLIAM CANTON. AROUND the globe one wave from pole to pole | Beneath the noontide sun 'twas still as death. Rolled on, and found no shore to break its roll. One awful water mirrored everywhere The silent, blue, illimitable air, Within the dawn no living thing drew breath. Beneath the cold white moon the cold blue wave Sealed with an icy hush the old world's grave. And glassed in one same hour the midnight moon, But hark! upon the sunset's edge were heard, Sunrise and sunset and the sun at noon. Afar and faint, the cries of beast and bird. |