nervousness died away.' table. An instant sense of quiet and security | carriage, asks for a conversation, when she settled down on her has changed her dress. With her head full of Mr. Rhys, she yet prepares for this interview by putting on a very becoming gown. "She looked lovely when she entered the drawing-room," but why she set herself off to the best advantage for the purpose of snubbing, if not cashiering, her lover, is not explained. But the writer as carefully describes a flirt, never forgetting herself or the impression she desires to make, as though it was her object to draw one. Mr. Rhys is here as everywhere else her conscience. When the congregation disperses Eleanor finds herself in the dark at dead of night without an idea which way to turn. The reader, however, by this time familiar with the authoress's taste for equivocal situations, is quite prepared for the voice at her elbow asking, "Are you alone?" To which Eleanor replies with interesting consciousness. "I have a chaise here, come with me," says the voice; and acting as decidedly as he had spoken, Mr. Rhys leads her to the little vehicle that had just drawn up, and drives off with her. After some spiritual talk uttered with a "tenderness of voice that broke her down at once," Mr. Rhys discovers that she is there without the knowledge of her parents, and does, in the cause of duty and prudence, vouchsafe to remind her that it was very dangerous," and tells her "you did very wrong," parting with her a moment after with the earnest grasp of the hand that again " Eleanor remembered." 66 The authoress satisfies her ideas of punctilio by this one word of disapproval, of which nothing comes. We naturally ask, Can girls do such things where Miss Wetherall lives and no harm come of it? We can only say she makes good come of it according to her views of good. In this story, designed for the spiritual benefit of young readers at the most impressible age, they are tempted to acquiesce in a line of action nothing short of intrigue, and to see a call in the voice, eye, and hand which leads this young woman to outrages of propriety like this. Down in her heart more obstinate than ever is the feeling, "I do not want to marry Mr. Carlisle." But when she comes in contact with him, there is riding together, and kissing as before. Of course we are assured that it was all very disagreeable to Eleanor, except when it happened to be a very fine day, and the horse's paces very good. On the whole, however, we can understand how it is that Mr. Carlisle remains in the dark as to her real feelings; even when he follows her to the Methodist chapel in the neighbouring town, where, informing no one of her intention, but fearless of consequences, she goes to hear Mr. Rhys for the last time, and he there sees her approach what used to be called the "anxious benches," and Mr. Rhys whispering in her ear. Disconcerted, he takes her home, and, forbearing to question her in the The blind, forbearing Mr. Carlisle will not understand, and goes off content, though, on his leaving, Eleanor informs her mother that she will "poison herself before she will be married on the 21st." To avoid such a consummation, Mr. Carlisle's mother dies, which postpones the marriage, and Eleanor in the interval pays her Welsh aunt, Mrs. Caxton, a visit, who is introduced to us as a wealthy Methodist widow. From thence she writes to refuse Mr. Carlisle definitely, and Mr. Rhys again turns up, first at a Methodist meeting, and then at aunt Caxton's house, where his good points grow upon her, and she has an opportunity of observing, as she turns over the leaves of his Bible, how finely made are his hands, "white withal, and beautifully cared for." There her conversion is finally consummated; but after three months of this new life she is summoned home by her mother, who seems to know nothing of the way she has been spending her time, and who has by no means given up the hope of her daughter's being Lady Rythdale after all. Eleanor comes up obediently, and devotes herself to London ragged schools, where, strange to say, we find Mr. Carlisle attending her. At their first meeting "he had the audacity" to come up and speak to her. Eleanor "involuntarily admired him," and somehow things slip again into very much the old footing-she, satisfied that he knows her mind, and that she treats him always "as she does others." As she rides about with him' on his horses, and as on one occasion he gives her a kiss, at which, indeed, she feels indignant when she gets to her own room, this opens out new fields of speculation as to what Eleanor's manners were towards young men in general. Eleanor will not dance in her present converted state, because she does not see how she can further her Master's business in the dance; but flirting is clearly another thing. Mr. Carlisle is now in Parliament, and Eleanor has at heart to bring in a certain Bill about ragged schools. She is willing, therefore to him.' 6 "I have so many thoughts to put into his head,'said Eleanor, gravely. "What are you busy with him about?' "Parliament business. It is for the poor of London, Julia. Mr. Carlisle is preparing a bill to bring into the House of Commons, and I know more about the matter than he does, and so he comes to me.' "Don't you think he is glad of his ignor ance?' said Julia, shrewdly. Eleanor looked thoughtfully down. What do you give him thoughts about?' My poor boys would say "lots of things." I have to convince Mr. Carlisle that it would cost the country less to reform than punish. It is important beyond measure, and if I should let it alone the whole might fall to the ground. There are two objections in Mr. Carlisle's mind I must show him how false the objections are. I have begun, I must go through with it. The whole might fall to the ground if I took away my hand. I must go through with it, and it would be such an incalculable blessing to thousands and thousands in this dreadful place."" Eleanor decides that she must at all haz ards see through the bill. "She lets matters take their course," and talks reform diligently to Mr. Carlisle. At length the bill is brought in and printed. "The very next day" she refuses to join in an excursion he plans, and lets it be distinctly known that she cannot fulfil his expectations the authoress evidently approving the whole line of conduct, and the time she chooses for coming to an understanding. Subsequently she records a conversation between aunt and niece on the matter of the bill, in which they both agree that Mr. Carlisle was not a "disinterested lover." An explosion ensues on Eleanor's distinct refusal to form one of the party to Richmond. Her father half turns her out of doors, upon which she returns well pleased to aunt Caxton, who asks to be allowed to adopt her, and is permitted to do so. In the meanwhile Mr. Rhys is off to the Fiji Islands, and in the course of time aunt Caxton thinks fit to sound Eleanor on the state of her affections. Finding them favourable to her views, she gives her two letters from Mr. Rhys, one written on the eve of departure, and another dated "Island Vulanga, South Seas," making formal pro posals to her. Eleanor is dismissed to her couch, with an injunction to "take care she does the Lord's will in the matter," and comes down in the morning with her answer ready. This step gained, aunt Caxton proceeds to smooth matters for an early also add the reader's, first notions of the marriage, beyond Eleanor's, and we will possible. Vulanga is a long way off, delays innumerable; the advice is, that Eleanor shall set off at once - that is, as soon as an A escort can be found-waiting for no response from Mr. Rhys to her acceptance. Eleanor does not care for what the world would say, but she is a little afraid of what ton conveniently sets to rest; and the proMr. Rhys may think-fears that aunt Caxcess of preparation sets in at once. ship and an escort are found in due time, and Eleanor and her aunt repair to London, where, in a farewell meeting with her mother (the father has died with small moan for his absent daughter), the persecution of the world is represented by Mrs. Powle's objections. "What do you think, sister Caxton, of a young lady, taking a voyage five months long after her husband, instead of her husband tak ing it for her? He ought to be a grateful man, I think."" And so think we; but Eleanor is pictured as divinely forgiving in offering her mamma a cup of coffee upon this insult, aggravated as it is by the further not unnatural inquiry of who there would be to marry her — that is, to perform the service when she got there. When Mrs. Powle is gone, having decided it not safe to expose Julia to the influence of such practices, the aunt reminds Eleanor "that he that will live godly in Christ Jesus must suffer persecution." After this she sails, and in due time arrives at the Fiji Islands. The subject of dress must exercise the minds of all young readers of this exciting narrative. Eleanor has long forsworn trimmings; her bonnet is crossed with chocolate-coloured ribbons. The point is, How will she look when Mr. Rhys sees her? But we have not been left to our own guesses in this particular. The pattern of her dress had been asked for, and its sit admired, at Sydney, which is her first stage; and when the vessel nears the shore at Vulanga, she prudently goes down into the cabin and changes her gown. Here, through a nick of the door, she can note what passes on deck. First appears a halfnaked black savage, and "this vision is were not wanting. And in spite of sister Balliol, Eleanor visits her husband in his study, in exquisite white muslin robes (duly set out, we are allowed to gather, by crinoline), and hair charmingly dressed, the occasion of this visit being to inform her hus her hair as a sacrifice to the missionary cause. He sets her mind at ease on this point; "But why not say 'sister Balliol?"" For once Eleanor resists. "I cannot," she answers. He insists, but with a comical turn of the lip which tantalises our natural curiosity to know his real design. soon crossed by another which looked to her eyes very much like a white angel of light" in fact, Mr. Rhys in a white suit. She takes in the freshness of his whole getup, even to the hand that holds his hat. It was the same white and carefully-lookedafter hand she remembered in England." band that Mrs. Balliol urges ber cutting off This was fortunate, and little short of a miracle, considering that he had been industriously engaged in house-building and carpentering in a tropical climate ever since he had learnt that a wife was on her way to him. She ascends to the deck, and his "O Eleanor!" rewards her for all she had gone through. All is now couleur de rose. Mr. Rhys shows himself what is technically called honourable in his intentions. He at once carries off Eleanor to the house of sister Balliol, the wife of a brother missionary. This rather trying personage eyes Eleanor's thick coil of hair, her collar, her cuffs, and the sweep of her dress suspiciously; asks her if she knew brother Rhys before she left England; and austerely reminds her that she must expect some trials out there. But Mr. Rhys soon returns from the ship. The two stand up then and there and are married, and he carries her off to her new home. But though the time in Fiji passes in a sort of transcendental rapture. though Eleanor is persuaded by her husband to tell her experiences to the assembled company - though they sing revivalist hymns of the usual tone of irreverence for the sake of showing off Eleanor's magnificent voiceone question remains unanswered which must vex the reader. One bone of contention lurks amid all this felicity: Eleanor does not anywhere in these pages address her hostess as "sister Balliol." Abstracts are such bald things that we can scarcely hope to have kept our readers' curiosity alive to the end. Compressed as If missionary life is such play-work as is it is, it has taken more than the space it here represented, of course sister Balliol deserves, and has left no room for comment. was in the wrong. We are introduced, in Comment, however, is surely unnecessary. the Fiji Islands, to a second connubial If our unvarnished tale has not shown that paradise, where the oddity of having a hus- a religious novel may be more mischievous band "who had never spoken one word of than most novels that make no profession love" is expected to create quite a new at all, nothing that we may add can prove sensation in the reader. Aunt Caxton had it. We are happy to think that it does not amused herself by shipping an incredible describe our young ladies as they are; but amount of household stores to Vulanga; does it foreshadow what any circle amongst even dinner-napkins and delicate china us may come to? PART X.- CHAPTER XXXVI. AN EXIT. COLONEL SEWELL stood at the window of a small drawing-room he called "his own," watching the details of loading a very cumbrous travelling carriage which was drawn up before the door. Though the postilions were in the saddle, and all ready for a start, the process of putting up the luggage went on but slowly-now, a heavy imperial would be carried out, and after a while taken in again; dressing-boxes carefully stowed away would be disinterred to be searched for some missing article; bags, baskets, and boxes of every shape and sort came and went and came again; and although the two footmen who assisted these operations showed in various ways what length of training had taught them to submit to in worry and caprice, the smart "maid," who now and then appeared to give some order, displayed some unmistakable signs of ill-humour on her face. "Drat those dogs! I wish they were down the river!" cried she, to two yelping, barking Maltese terriers, which, with small bells jingling on their collars, made an uproar that was perfectly deafening. Well, Miss Morris, if it would oblige you" said one of the tall footmen as he caressed his whisker, and gave a very languishing look, more than enough, he thought to supply the words wanting to his sentence. "It would oblige me very much, Mr. George, to get away out of this horrid place. I never did no, never- - in all my life, pass such a ten days." 66 We ain't a-going just yet, after all," said footman number two, with a faint yawn. "It's so like you, Mr. Breggis, to say something disagreeable," said she, with a toss of her head. "It's because it's true I say it, not because it's onpleasant, Miss Caroline." "I'm not Miss Caroline, at least from you, Mr. Breggis." "Ain't she haughty ain't she fierce?" But his colleague would not assent to this judgment, and looked at her with a longing admiration. "There's her bell again," cried the girl; "as sure as I live she's rung forty times this morning," and she hurried back to the house. "Why do you think we're not off yet?" asked George. "It's the way I heerd her talking that shows me," replied the other. "Whenever she's really about to leave a place she goes into them fits of laughing and crying, and screaming one minute, and a-whimpering the next; and then she tells the people -as it were, unknownst to her how she hated them all-how stingy they was - the shameful way they starved the servants, and such like. There's some as won't let her into their houses by reason of them fits, for she'll plump out everything she knows of a family who ran away with the Missis, and why the second daughter went over to France." "You know her better than me, Breg gis." "I do think I does; it's eight years I've had of it. Eh, what's that - wasn't that a screech?" and as he spoke a wild shrill scream resounded through the house, followed by a rapid succession of notes that might either have been laughter or crying. Sewell drew the curtain; and wheeling an arm-chair to the fireside, lit his cigar and began to smoke. The house was so small that the noises could be heard easily in every part of it; and for a time the rapid passage of persons overhead, and the voices of many speaking together, could be detected, and, above these, a wild shriek would now and then rise above all, and ring through the house. Sewell smoked on undisturbed; it was not easy to say that he so much as heard these sounds. His indolent attitude, and his seeming enjoyment of his cigar, indicated perfect composure; nor even when the door opened, and his wife entered the room, did he turn his head to see who it was. "Can William have the pony to go into town?" asked she, in a half submissive voice. or your family?" She smiled faintly, and moved towards the door. "Can't you tell me, ma'am? has this woman been condoling with you over your hard fate and your bad husband? or has she discovered how that dear boy' up-stairs broke his head as well as his heart in your service?" "She did ask me certainly if there wasn't a great friendship between you and her son," said she, with a tone of quiet disdain. "And what did you reply?" said he, throwing one leg over the arm of the chair as he swung round to face her. "I don't well remember. I may have said you liked him, or that he liked you. It was such a commonplace reply I made I forget it." "And was that all that passed on the subject?" "I think I'd better send for the doctor," said she, and left the room before he could stop her, though that such was his intention was evident from the way he arose from his chair with a sudden spring. "You shall hear more of this, madam by Heaven you shall!" muttered he, as he paced the room with rapid steps. "Who's that? come in," cried he, as a knock came to the door. "Oh, Balfour! is it you? "Yes; what the deuce is going on upstairs? Lady Trafford appears to have gone mad." "Indeed! how unpleasant!" "No, by Jove! I never presumed that far." "It's the sick fellow, then, is the culprit?" "So his mother opines. She is an awful woman! I was sitting with your wife in the small drawing-room when she burst into the room and cried out, Mrs. Sewell, is your name Lucy? for, if so, my son has been rambling on about you this last hour in a wonderful way; he has told me about fifty times that he wants to see you before he dies; and now that the doctor says he is out of danger he never ceases talking of dying. I suppose you have no objection to the interview; at least they tell me you were constantly in his room before my arrival.'" "How did my wife take this? what did she say?" asked Sewell, with an easy smile as he spoke. "She said something about agitation or anxiety serving to excuse conduct which otherwise would be unpardonable; and she asked me to send her maid to her, as I think to get me away." "Of course you rang the bell and sat down again." "No: she gave me a look that said, I don't want you here, and I went; but the storm broke out again as I closed the door, and I heard Lady Trafford's voice raised to a scream as I came down-stairs." "It all shows what I have said over and over again," said Sewell, slowly, "that "Very unpleasant for your wife, I take whenever a man has a grudge or a grievit. She has been saying all sorts of un-ance against a woman, he ought always to mannerly things to her this last hour- get another woman to torture her. I'll lay things that, if she weren't out of her reason, you fifty pounds Lady Trafford cut deeper she ought to be thrown out of the win- into my wife's flesh by her two or three dow for." impertinences than if I had stormed myself into an apoplexy." "And why didn't you do so?" "It was a liberty I couldn't think of taking in another man's house." "Lord love you, I'd have thought nothing of it! I'm the best-natured fellow breathing. What was it she said?" 6 "I don't know how I can repeat them." "Oh, I see, they reflect on me. My dear young friend, when you live to my age you will learn that anything can be said to anybody, provided it only be done by the third party.' Whatever the law rejects as evidence assumes in social life the value of friendly admonition. Go on and tell me who it is is in love with my wife." Cool as Mr. Cholmondeley Balfour was, the tone of this demand staggered him. "Art thou the man, Balfour?" said Sewell, at last, staring at him with a mock frown. "And don't you mean to turn her out of the house?" "Turn whom out?" "Lady Trafford, of course." "It's not so easily done, I suspect. I'll take to the long boat myself one of these days, and leave her in command of the ship." "I tell you she's a dangerous, a very dan gerous woman; she has been ransacking her son's desk, and has come upon all sorts of ugly memoranda-sums lost at play, and reminders to meet bills, and such like." "Yes; he was very unlucky of late," said Sewell, coldly. "And there was something like a will, too; at least there was a packet of trinkets tied up in a paper, which purported to be a will, but only bore the name Lucy." |