BELGRAVIA.

AUGUST 1879.

Queen of the Meadow.

BY CHARLES GIBBON.

(The right of translation is reserved.)

CHAPTER XXXV.

THAT TERRIBLE 'IF!'

HE stillness of the place was terrible. To the spellbourd man

and what murmurs of life out of doors reached their ears only intensified the silence in the room.

Job was still drooping over the paper which had revealed to him the treachery of his son; the thin white hair straggled across his brow, and the glazed eyes appeared as if vainly searching for the absent words. Jane Darby held up the blazing lamp, the light of which, struggling with that of the closing day, cast faint shadows on the table and the walls. After that whispered prayer for pardon the heart-stricken son stood like one paralysed: he felt that he had been guilty of parricide.

The intellect, however, was soon painfully active, although the emotions were benumbed, and he roused himself to perform the sad duties necessary in this dark hour. But he acted like one in a dream; his movements were so calm and mechanical that no casual observer would have suspected how his whole nature was being racked. He was tortured by that awfulIf' which enters into the life of everyone with such a huge measure of regrets for what might have been-the possible is always so large, and the good work accomplished so small. 'If' he had done this-'if' he had cut down that-what a difference there would have been now! His father might have been alive. 'If' he could only begin again! What a great portion of our lives is disturbed by lamentations over blunders which, looking bitterly back, we see might have been so easily avoided!

VOL. XXXIX, NO, CLIV.

K

Michael had known that in the course of nature he could not expect his father to live long--that the days, almost the hours, were numbered; he had been warned by many symptoms that the final scene would take place soon. And yet it had come upon him with appalling suddenness and found him quite unprepared. His love had blinded him to the imminence of the event; and in his love he had in a vague way hoped and expected that his father had still years before him, provided he could be kept quiet and saved from every source of disturbance.

How eagerly he had tried to guard him! During this day especially Michael's strength and wit had been taxed to their limits in his endeavour to save him. He had apparently succeeded in averting the explanation which he knew would be most perilous, and in the moment of success this climax of grief fell upon him. Conscience called out 'Guilty,' and he was too feeble in his sorrow to attempt any defence even to himself. His father was dead, and he had killed him. This was the exaggeration of grief, but for the time he could not understand that.

He saw how it had come about. Moved by some fear or suspicion that his wishes were not to be fulfilled, the father had sought comfort in reassuring himself that the statement in the will was perfectly clear, and that Polly must consent to accept Michael. Then he had discovered that he had burned the will containing the explanation; and whether he believed that it had been given to him by mistake or design could never be known now. The shock of anger and sorrow had done its work.

He carefully folded

Whilst Darby was pulling down all the blinds Michael carried his father upstairs and laid him on the bed. Then he returned to the parlour to gather up the scattered papers. them one by one and replaced them in the desk, the will uppermost. He learned that his father had thought of death, as on a half-sheet of note-paper was written in his scrawling but laborious penmanship:

This is what I want put on my stone when the time comes, and I look to my son Michael to see that it is done according to my wishes.

'Here lies Job Hazell farmer at Marshstead for Aged years Peace be with YOU. I go to Peace.'

years.

Job had arranged this epitaph on the afternoon of the last Sunday on which he had been to church, and he had regarded it in secret as a masterpiece of composition. Odd as it was, Michael resolved that it should be cut on the stone as it had been written, with only the addition of punctuation and the filling-up of the blanks-fifty-one years for the occupation of the farm, and

seventy-five for the age. Was there nothing else he could do to please him? Now that he had gone away, the son remembered so many neglected opportunities of giving him pleasure; many trifling items of disobedience rose up like accusing ghosts; but the great wrong he had done this day transcended all others in its results and in his remorse.

For himself he had no pity: a dull aching cry was in his brain-There can be no atonement now.' He was afraid to think of Polly, and yet the dear face was always before him. It was his love for her that had tempted him; and believing that she had accepted Walton, he feared to be unjust to her in these first moments of his anguish. He covered his eyes with his hands, trying to shut her out altogether from his thoughts. She who had been more to him than all the world, for whom he had been ready to sacrifice home and fortune, had proved his evil genius and made him a criminal.

Polly was still in her own room puzzling over that fragment of the burnt will, when the messenger arrived with Michael's startling summons. There was some strange association in her mind between the fragment of the will and the message which distressed her, because she found it impossible to make out exactly what it was like a name or a face which haunts the memory but will not take definite form.

She rose at once in obedience to the call, eager to comfort uncle Job and, if it might be, to relieve Michael of some of the cares inevitable in such a calamity as seemed to be close at hand.

'Put on your hat and come with me,' she said hastily to Sarah, who was at the foot of the stairs; we shall very likely both be wanted.'

Is he so very ill?'

'Michael says dangerously ill, and he is not likely to say that without good reason; and, besides, things have happened today which may have upset uncle; and poor Michael, I don't know what we can do for him. Be quick.'

She found him at the door waiting for her: so white and haggard that she scarcely recognised in him the fresh, strong man she had known barely a month ago.

"I knew you would come,' he said gently; but it is too late.' Then Polly with her two hands took one of his very gently, and all that she could say was:

"Oh, Michael!'

Sarah, when she heard the fatal words too late,' watching the two mourners with sympathy and pity.

held back,

But there

was something else in her expression-a speculation which had nothing to do with them.

They could not speak any more at present: there seemed to be nothing more for them to say. Michael took the two ladies into the house; and it was with a feeling of inexpressible awe that Polly stood in the room where only a few hours ago she had been talking with her guardian, and now looked at the empty chair which he would never occupy again. She wondered how it was that Michael could be so quiet, and that she herself was incapable of making any sign of the sorrow she felt. What seemed most strange was that the dreaded event had actually occurred and they stood there so calm, so helpless. All the kindliness of the old man was flickering through her mind and filling her eyes with The sharp edges of his character had disappeared, and the petty weaknesses, at which she had so often laughed whilst pretending not to see them, were forgotten. To those who love the dead one the mirror of memory reflects only the most pleasing features of the life.

tears.

It was her first real experience of death; for she could scarcely remember her mother, and when her father died she was still too young for her emotions to be deeply impressed. She had cried a great deal and felt greatly afflicted; but every day brought some new object of interest to occupy her mind, and the sense of loss soon passed away, leaving only an occasional touch of pain-not envious, only regretful-when she saw other girls with loving parents at hand to advise and guide them. Uncle Job, however, had filled the place of a father; and now when he was taken away she was a woman with many vivid memories of his goodness and forbearance; and, with the eccentricity of grief, she found pleasure in thinking even of his scoldings. He had gone away, and there were no more marked symptoms of sorrow than were supplied by Michael's great reserve and gentleness, by the white faces and the hushed voices. There were no wild outbursts of excitement, no outcries of agony such as she had read of in books. Everything was done calmly and in order.

Dr. Humphreys arrived, and Michael was called away to see him, just as Polly had said:

'Is there nothing I can do, Michael?

And he could only answer, Nothing now.'

The Doctor was not surprised to learn that he could render no further service to his patient. He went through the formality of making the usual examination, and announcing the fact of which everybody was aware, that life was extinct. But Dr. Humphreys was more than a faithful and experienced medical adviser: he was

the friend of his patients and their families. So, looking at Michael, he offered him friendly counsel which his professional genius enabled him to see was needed.

'Take care of yourself, Hazell; eat as much as you can, and sleep as much as you can. I don't want to have you on my hands. You have got this to bear, and you will bear it best if you will force yourself to go on with the ordinary duties of life. You cannot do him any good by knocking yourself up.'

Michael was unable to tell the Doctor how he valued his sympathy, but he promised to try to obey him. He could not explain the heavy weight which lay upon his conscience-the conviction that it was his act which had brought about this calamity! But the idea was always present to him, making him morbid in his views of others as well as of himself. Oh, that terrible 'If!'

CHAPTER XXXVI.

'QUITE SURE TOO LATE.'

ALTHOUGH he had said there was nothing for Polly to do now, the answer referred rather to the position in which they had been placed in regard to his father than to the practical domestic arrangements which had to be made for the funeral. In these matters both Polly and Sarah gave active assistance to Darby, and there were many details to occupy them during the few days which intervened.

The ceremony was to take place on Monday, and Michael performed his part in all that had to be done with a degree of outward calmness which caused everyone to remark how well he bore his loss. He wrote letters to his brothers and sisters, and all the invitations to the funeral were addressed by himself. He went about the work in the fields, in the barn and stables, much as usual. He was obeying good Dr. Humphreys' directions, and he felt that his only safety from an utter break-down lay in persistent application to work, work, work.

The people only observed that the bright, healthy expression of his face, the pleasant smile and the hearty laugh, were gone.

6

'But they'll all come back,' was the hopeful view which one of the harvesters proclaimed to his comrades. He'll be down in the mouth for a bit, but he'll pick up in time and get a wife.'

'Lord help him if he tries to get out of it that way,' exclaimed a ruddy-faced fellow, who looked as if he had never known a care in the world. I've been married twice.'

'But you shan't have a third chance, Ben,' retorted his wife, who was behind him, as he knew, and who looked as ruddily goodnatured as her husband,