Ethel told him what had come to her ears, and his face grew more serious as she went on; at last, in extreme vexation, he burst out, 66 There, that will do! I will not hear any more. farrago of nonsense and lies I never listened to in all Rachel is a little fool." Such a my life. "I am not so sure of that," returned Ethel, with some spirit. "You admit that you paid her attentions from the first-that you said soft things to her, even after we were engaged." "Of course I said 'soft things' to her all men say soft things to pretty girls, if the pretty girls are soft enough to listen. It is a case of mutual softness, Ethie, my dear!" 66 Christopher would never say or imply things he did not mean; he would not, for the mere pleasure of the moment, excite hopes he never meant to realise." "No, my dear; but Christopher is a saint, you know—a diamond of the first water! I wonder that long ago it was not a case of 'He sparkled, was exhaled, and went to heaven!' I don't pretend to be as good as our quondam editor-I never did. I am just naughty George Trevanion, full of faults like other people, and you must take me as I am, Ethie? Now, my dear, are you satisfied?" "Just tell me one thing, George, and look at me while you say it: you do not really care now for Rachel Meacham?" "Not a rap! And I never did, in the way you mean.. Bless me, the world is come to a pretty pass, if a young man cannot carry on an innocent flirtation with a village beauty without all this ado." "Flirtations never are quite innocent, George; they always do some one harm. And if you had stopped when you were married, it would not have been so bad; peoplewould not have said such hard things of her." "Hard things! she deserves them, the vain little thing, if she ever imagined I had any other end in view than mere amusement. I am out of all patience with her, and with you too, and with everybody." "You should not have given her that ivory cross." "Perhaps not. But I knew I had vexed the poor child, and I wanted to soothe her a little; and she ought not to have accepted it." 'Perhaps you pressed it on her?" Perhaps I did; and I dare say I said some things that had been better left unsaid; still, if it were wrong→ and I suppose it was not quite right-she ought not to have. taken it. If she had refused it, I should have given it to you." "Thank you," returned Ethel, quietly, and more proudly than George had ever heard her speak, "But for my own self-respect, I am glad she did take it." "Well, don't be cross; I will never speak to the girl again. Really she should not have looked so sad when we came home last November; she must have known from the first that I never meant anything." "It seems to me, you tempted her sorely." "My dear, it is in the nature of man to tempt: it is woman's duty to resist!" Ethel exclaimed indignantly, but George only laughed, and at last he said, "Now, Ethel, once for all, understand that you have all my heart. I should be sorry that any harm happened to Rachel Meacham, but I should not care if I never saw her face again; and I would not part from you for all the world." "You are quite sure you mean it, George?" 66 Quite sure. And now, my darling, let us be merry again. Don't take jealous fits, my pet; there is nothing on earth so aggravating as a jealous wife; it makes a man look so ridiculous. Besides, the wife pays herself an exceedingly bad compliment." CHAPTER XXIX. GLIMPSES OF HOPE. GAILY sang the birds in the lime avenue, as Rachel, pale and humble, took her way to the Manor House; gaily fluttered the golden green leaves, as she looked up through them to the radiant sky; gaily bloomed the sweet spring flowers, and gaily sounded the bells of a neighbouring village church, where a wedding of some importance was being celebrated ! All things were gay and smiling that day, only on Rachel herself the shadow rested; the whole world was changed to her, and she herself seemed to herself another person than the happy, light-hearted girl of one short year ago; and with all the passionate abandonment of a first youthful sorrow, she fancied, poor child, that no change for the better could ever be! She did not know how time heals many a painful wound: how the loss of some things, which seems at the moment too hard and too heavy to be borne, ceases eventually to be regarded as a loss at all, but rather as a merciful and kind removal of that which might have been the source of bitterest pain. She could not tell how accustomed one may grow to any kind of distress; how the early anguish fades gradually into a quiet, dull aching; how even that is stilled as years go on, leaving behind only a wild and vain regret. She could not dream, absorbed as she was in the great trouble that had come upon her, "How such tears Are half forgot in future years." And so she walked on through the pleasant sunlight, under the limes, and listened mournfully to the humming of the bees, and the singing of the birds, and the rustling of the delicate young leaves in the soft sweet southern breezes. And she went croning to herself the plaintive old melody of "Ye banks and brae's o' bonnie Doon"; for all her soul appealed against the brightness of that fair April day, and for "bonnie Doon" stood the green park-like meadows, and the ruddy woods of bonnie Singlehurst; and again and again, as if under an impulse she could not control, she murmured low "How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair? Ye little birds, how can ye sing, Many an older and more disciplined person has felt as Rachel felt that brilliant spring morning; there are some days, I suppose, in most people's lives, when they turn away in sick loathing from the happy sunshine and the laughing world of nature and creep into the shadow, and love the silence and the gloom, which do not mock them with their show of radiance and exulting life !-days when dim November mists are preferred to June's sweet rosy hours, when the storm, and the inky sailing clouds, and the wildly rushing blast are more in consonance with the restless life within, than the sunset calm, and tranquil sky, and the peaceful hush of fragrant eventide! No doubt this is partly owing to our own waywardness, our own weak clinging to the fading and the unreal treasures of the world; and if we could but trust more fully, and feel and know that out of suffering God is evolving future joy and peace, we might the more readily acquiesce in the dispensation that is obscuring our horizon, and turning all our pleasant things to bitterness, waiting patiently for the brightness that will surely shine forth again at the appointed time. Besides this, we often make a great mistake about our so-called treasures; we think precious jewels, priceless diamonds have been reft out of our possession, and the day comes when we discover that they were only counterfeit gems, mere worthless pebbles, that would have cumbered us sorely had we been permitted to retain them. Ah! blind and foolish are we, and we think all the while that our sight is keen and our wisdom past dispute. Thanks be to God, who knows so much better than ourselves what we need and what will be for our enduring happiness, that He takes into His own hands the filmy threads of life's mysterious tissue, and, despite our crying, and our childish, vain despair, weaves them into a perfect and harmonious whole. With stedfast mien, but with faltering heart, Rachel approached the Manor House, and she went up the steps to the wide portico, and rang the bell, feeling very much as if she had come for execution, and meant to take it quietly. "Is Mrs. Marcia at home?" she asked of the servant who appeared, and who she thought was visibly surprised to see her. It struck her then that she ought to have gone round to the servants' entrance; who was she that she should presume to visit the lady of Singlehurst Manor as if she were her equal? But she was not prepared for Bent's measured reply, "My mistress is not at home, Miss Meacham;" and hefelt rather inclined to add, "and I do not think she would see you if she were." Greatly distressed to think she had nerved herself to the encounter in vain, and feeling that to make a second attempt would be an effort beyond her strength, she inquired, "Will she be at home presently-I mean within two or three hours?" "Indeed, Miss, I cannot say," returned the solemn servingman. "But here comes Miss Liebrecht; she will know more about it, I dare say." Ermy was in fact coming up from the rhododendron plot, and Bent, hastily passing Rachel, ran across the turf to meet her. "Here is that girl from the 'Crown' wanting to see Mrs. Marcia, Miss Liebrecht; what had I better say to her?" he inquired in an undertone, and with a certain emphasis that told plainly enough how he catalogued Rachel's offences. "Mrs. Marcia is from home, you know, Bent," was Ermy's answer; "why did you not tell Miss Meacham so?" |