t^-3 
 
HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
Kl'IN-BCRGII : FEINTED BY THOMAS CONSTAIil.K, 
 
 EDMONSTON AND DOUGLAS. 
 
 LONDON, . . . HAMll.TON, ADAMS, AND C-IJ. 
 CAMBRIDCK,, . . M ACMILLAN AND CO. 
 DUBLIN, . . . M'oLASHAN AND GILL. 
 (ILASGOW JAMES MACLEHOSl';. 
 
HIDDEN DEPTHS 
 
 VERITAS EST MAJOR CH A RITAS' 
 
 VOLUME FI RST 
 
 EDINBUEGH 
 EDMONSTON AND DOUGLAS 
 
 1 8 G 6. 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 in 2010 with funding from 
 Duke University Libraries 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/hiddendepths01sken 
 
^e 
 
 PRE FA CE. 
 
 This book is not a zuork of fiction, in the 
 ordinary acceptation of the term. If it luere, it 
 would be worse than useless ; for the hiddeji 
 depths, of which it reveals a glimpse, are no fit 
 subjects for a romance, nor onght they to be 
 opeiied up to the light of day for purposes of 
 mere amttsement. But truth must always have a 
 certain pozuer, in zuhatever shape it may appear ; 
 and though all did not occur precisely as here 
 narrated, it is ■ nevertheless actiial triith zuhich 
 speaks in these records. 
 
CONTENTS OF VOL. T. 
 
 I. PAGK 
 
 THE DEPOT 1 
 
 II. 
 
 COLONEL COUETENAY, 20 
 
 III. 
 ON BOARD THE ' HEEO,' 38 
 
 IV. 
 THE LAST NIGHT 53 
 
 V. 
 
 THE TEUTH EEVEALED 77 
 
 VI. 
 
 THE PROMISE TO THE DEAD, 07 
 
Vlll CONTENTS. 
 
 VII. 
 THE LAST RESTING-PLACE, 113 
 
 VIII. 
 THE OPINION OF THE WORLD, 131 
 
 IX. 
 
 THE SEARCH AT CARLETON HALL, . . . .144 
 
 X. 
 
 LADY CARLETON'S DECISION, 163 
 
 XI. 
 GREYBURGH, 
 
 XII. 
 DR. GRANBY, 
 
 XIIL 
 REGINALD, 214 
 
CHAPTEE I. 
 
 THE DEPOT. 
 
 THEEE must be a something remarkable, generally 
 speaking, in the appearance of an individual who 
 attracts attention in the crowded thoroughfares of a large 
 city. Yet it is a noticeable fact, that if, amongst the num- 
 bers hurrying to and fro, there is one person whose mind 
 is fixed with a determined concentration of the will on 
 any given object, that energy of purpose, silent and 
 secret as it is, will make itself felt on the passers-by 
 with a power of which they are themselves unconscious. 
 Such was the case one bright spring day in a wide street 
 in Seamouth, where a young woman, walking rapidly 
 along, was observed with a vague curiosity by all who 
 approached her. There was nothing in her dress or 
 appearance to justify the attention she excited. She 
 was handsome, certainly, but her beauty was evidently 
 dependent on that evanescent brilliancy of youth and 
 liealth, wliich our neighbours term ' la liccmte die diahle ; ' 
 and tliere were already indications on her strongly- 
 ^ VOL. I. A 
 
2 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 marked features of the coarseness which usually takes 
 the place of these transitory charms amongst women of 
 the lower orders. Her dress was chiefly remarkable for 
 its costly material, which ill befitted the station in life 
 to which she clearly belonged, but its elaborate display 
 of colours was arranged with a certain picturesque 
 adjustment, which heightened the effect of her dark 
 eyes and bright complexion. It was, however, the 
 expression of her face which caused every one to gaze 
 at her as they passed along ; for it must have been some 
 desperate purpose which had drawn her forehead into 
 such a frown of stern resolution, and lit up that lurid 
 fire in her eyes, wdiile the set teeth and quivering nostril 
 told unmistakably of a fierce internal struggle. So 
 strong was the impression of passionate energy which 
 seemed to flash from her convulsed yet rigid counte- 
 nance, that several persons stopped to watch her as she 
 hastened on, clearing the way before her, as if deter- 
 mined not to allow anything to turn her from her course 
 either to the right hand or to the left. 
 
 To her it evidently mattered nothing whether she were 
 observed or not, and she only noticed the numbers pass- 
 ing round her by grasping more tiglitly some papers which 
 she held in her clenched hand. A cliild came across 
 her path, but she would not stay her impetuous course 
 
THE DEPOT. 3 
 
 one moment to let it pass, and appeared not even to 
 hear its sharp cry as it fell on the pavement ; then a 
 carriage came at full speed down the street she was 
 crossing, but she paid no attention whatever to the 
 shouts of the coachman, who called to her to stand back 
 till he passed, and he could only save her from being 
 trampled under the horses' feet by throwing them on 
 their haunches just as the pole touched her shoulder ; 
 other obstructions met her in the crowded way, but still 
 she never so much as turned her head, and held on her 
 course, breathless and determined, till she reached the 
 gate of the court-yard in which the Emigrant Depot 
 is placed. 
 
 This building is used for various purposes, and 
 amongst other, for the shelter of the soldiers' wives 
 who are sent to their husbands in India at the expense 
 of the Government, and who generally remain at the 
 depot for a few days previous to their embarkation. It 
 was occupied, at the time of which we speak, by the 
 women belonging to two regiments stationed at Luck- 
 now, and they were to sail the following day in the 
 ' Hero,' which was also to take out Colonel Courtenay 
 of the — th Eegiment, returning from leave, and a few 
 other officers and men. 
 
 The principal door stood open, and the young woman 
 
4 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 walked straight in, and advanced into the first room on 
 the ground-floor which presented itself before her. It 
 proved to be the kitchen, where a little man with a 
 merry, comical face was presiding over various caldrons, 
 and brandishing a huge ladle in his hand. She went 
 up to him, and laid her hand on his shoulder so sud- 
 denly that he started violently. 
 
 ' I want to go to India!' she said, in a voice harsh 
 from suppressed agitation. 
 
 ' Well ! and if you do, you need not make a fellow 
 jump sky-high for that,' said the aggrieved cook. 
 
 ' Here are my papers,' she continued, in the same 
 hoarse tone. 
 
 ' I don't want them, bless you ! There, you go up 
 these stairs ' — he pointed to the right — ' and you will 
 find some one to take them.' 
 
 Instantly she turned and was gone, almost before he 
 had finished his sentence. He looked after her for a 
 moment, then shrugged his shoulders, and turned round 
 with an air of paternal tenderness to a huge piece of 
 beef, which had been occupying his attention when she 
 interrupted him. 
 
 Meantime, up the creaking wooden stair went that 
 determined step, and on into a small room on the first 
 landing, of which the door stood wide open. Here a 
 
THE DEPOT. 5 
 
 uon-commissioned officer was seated behind a small 
 table covered with papers ; a large Ijook lay open before 
 him, and he was engaged in entering into it the name 
 of a soldier's wife, who had just arrived with her two 
 children to embark next day. A private was in attend- 
 ance at the door, and as he saw the young woman draw 
 near, he signed to her to wait till the other was disposed 
 of. She did so, standing rigid as a statue. On her 
 right hand was an immense room, the temporary abode 
 of some hundreds of women and children, whose voices 
 were coming from it in shrill confusion ; but she did 
 not seem even to be conscious of their vicinity, and 
 remained with her eyes fixed on vacancy till her turn 
 came for inspection. At length the certificates of the 
 soldier's wife were pronounced ' All right,' and she was 
 passed on to join the others. Then the girl went for- 
 ward, and laid her papers silently on the table before 
 the sergeant. He took up the printed form authorizing 
 embarkation, which he knew so well, and glanced at 
 the place where the names of the women and their 
 absent husbands were inserted. Those marked on the 
 girl's paper were ' Mary Anne Eeed,' wife of ' James 
 Eeed,' private of the — th Eegiment, stationed at Luck- 
 now. The sergeant read them two or three times, then 
 looked up keenly at the young woman. 
 
6 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 ' Are you sure this is your certificate ? ' he asked. 
 
 ' Quite sure,' she auswered doggedly. 
 
 ' In that case/ he said coolly, ' Jim Eeed has two 
 wives, which is one too many for a living man, let 
 alone a dead one, as he is at this present time.' 
 
 A visible tremor shook the girl from head to foot, yet 
 she stood firm. 
 
 ' These are my papers, and they are right,' she said, 
 articulating with difficulty. 
 
 The sergeant turned to the private — ' Smith, did I 
 not send you to the station yesterday to meet James 
 Heed's wife, and tell her that the last mail brought the 
 news of liis death ?' 
 
 ' You did, sir.' 
 
 ' Is this the woman ?' 
 
 ' No more like her than I am, sir ! She was a thin 
 little woman, with a pale face, and this here ' — he paused 
 and looked at the girl ; ' wdiy, this here is a stunner ! ' 
 
 ' She passed herself off for his wife, but she was not 
 so really,' said the young woman. 
 
 ' Not his wife ! ' exclaimed S-mitli, with a burst of in 
 dignation ; ' I should like to see any one venture to say 
 that who saw lior face yesterday when I told her he 
 was gone. She looked at me as if she thought the 
 world was come to an end. Then all of a sudden slie 
 
THE DEPOT. 7 
 
 gave such a shriek — I cau hear it now. " My Jim ! 
 my Jim !" she cried out, and after a minute she said, 
 quite low, "0 Lord, I wish I were dead!" and down 
 she dropped on the ground as if she were shot. I 
 shan't forget it in a hurry. She had friends with her 
 who knew right well she was his wife ; and they took 
 her back, poor creature, the way she came.' 
 
 The girl's hands worked con^^llsively, but still she 
 did not move. 
 
 ' Come, come, my girl, this is no use,' said the ser- 
 geant ; ' if you could prove you were his wife it would 
 do no good ; the man 's dead and gone, — you can't go 
 out to him.' 
 
 ' There are two James Eeeds,' she said in her hoarse 
 voice. 
 
 ' Xow, look here,' he answered angrily, ' there is not 
 the least use in your attempting to gammon me, my 
 girl. Do you suppose I don't know the name of every 
 man in the regiment rather better than you do ? There 
 is but one James Eeed, and he died of cholera two 
 months ago. You were not his wife, and what is more, 
 I don't believe you ever called any honest man hus- 
 band.' 
 
 ' And I can tell you how she came by these papers,' 
 exclaimed a woman, rushing triumphantly into the 
 
8 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 room with all that satisfaction Learning on her face 
 which it affords some of us in this world to hunt down 
 our fellow-creatures. She had been on her way to the 
 kitchen from the other room when the altercation com- 
 menced, and, true to her sex, she had remained listening 
 to it with eager curiosity. ' I was at the station when 
 Mrs. Eeed was told of her poor man's death, — you 
 remember me helpiag you, no doubt, Mr. Smith?' she 
 continued, appealing to the private, who nodded, with a 
 look which seemed to imply that the recollection Avas 
 not particularly agreeable, and she went on giving her 
 evidence after the manner of women. ' I helped to 
 carry her out into the air, poor woman. I could feel 
 for her, sir, for I am a wife and a mother myself, and a 
 widow too, — leastways I buried my first, eight years 
 come Michaelmas ; and a great brute he was to me, and 
 seven children I 've had — ' 
 
 ' Well, well, what do you know about the papers, 
 Mrs. Miller ? ' said the sergeant, cutting her short. 
 
 ' I knows this, sir. Mrs. Eeed had them in her hand 
 when she fell in a faint in the w^aiting-room, and when 
 she came to herself on the platform she had not got 
 them, and says she to me, says she, " Would you please 
 to look for my papers, ma'am ; perhaps they will be 
 wanted?" and I went, sir, for she could no more have 
 
THE DEPOT. 9 
 
 walked than a new-born babe ; and I know what the 
 'sterics are myself : I am very subject to them, sir, and 
 a drop of peppermint — ' 
 
 ' But the papers, Mrs. Miller ? ' 
 
 ' Well, sir, you do flurry me so, sir. Well, I went 
 back and looked for them eA'erywhere. I looked in the 
 gentlemen's hats as was standing on the table, and in 
 the coal-scuttle, and everywhere I could think of, and 
 nothing could I see of them ; but this here young 
 woman was stooping down at one of the seats when I 
 came in, and I saw her stuff something into her pocket, 
 and off she went out of the station, and I thought no 
 harm, — bless you, I thinks no evil of no one ; never, — 
 but she had them safe enough, I '11 warrant — a hussy !' 
 
 'What answer have you to make to that charge, 
 young woman?' said the sergeant, looking sternly at 
 her. Her lips moved, but she did not speak, and she 
 remained gazing in his face with such a look of wild 
 misery in her eyes, that he was touched in spite of him - 
 self. He turned to her accuser — 
 
 ' Well, Mrs. Miller, I have no doubt you are right, 
 and I am much obliged to }'ou; and now, will you 
 please to go down ? I see some other persons waiting 
 to give in their papers.' 
 
 She opened her mouth, but the proposed remark was 
 
10 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 lost to this record by tlie silent eloquence of Smith, who 
 put his hand to her elbow and quietly turned her out of 
 the room. She muttered a protest against this summary 
 ejectment, and then hastened down stairs to enlighten 
 the cook on the extent of the young woman's iniquity, 
 and her own sagacity. 
 
 The sergeant then turned to the unhappy gir], and 
 said, not unkindly, ' Now, my girl, you see this Avon't do. 
 I have no doubt you have a sweetheart in India, and it 
 is natural yovi should wish to go to him, but we can't 
 let you cheat Her Majesty's Government. You must 
 find some other way to go out — ' 
 
 ' Or get another sweetheart,' said Smith, in an oracu- 
 lar tone, and, at a sign from the sergeant, he drew her 
 from the room with much more gentleness than he had' 
 shown to the acute Mrs. Miller. He then turned from 
 her and proceeded to usher in some other women wdio 
 had arrived in the meantime, leaving her standing close 
 to the door of the large room where the women and 
 children were assembled. 
 
 The girl looked in upon the noisy crowd with a 
 wistful, longing gaze, and saw that, from their numbers 
 and the size of the room, an interloper might easily 
 remain undetected, and with a sudden determination 
 she walked in quietly and took her way to the farther 
 
THE DEPOT. 11 
 
 corner of the apartment. The sole furniture it con- 
 tained was a long row of tables placed near the wall, 
 with a bench on either side, and, at meal times, when 
 a certain amount of regularity prevailed, it might have 
 been seen that each of these tables was allotted to a 
 fixed number of women, who were not allowed to inter- 
 fere with their neighbours. She went on to the most 
 remote corner, where two women were engaged in clear- 
 ing away the remains of their dinner, while several 
 others were sittino; round, with their children scrambling 
 at their feet and fighting for the fragments that had 
 fallen down. Stealing in amongst them, the girl took her 
 seat in the darkest place without uttering a word ; but 
 of course she had not been there a moment before the 
 sharp eyes of the women spied her out. One of those, 
 who was cleaning the table, a tall, bold-faced woman, 
 who might, from her appearance, have been to India 
 half-a-dozen times with as many husbands, laid down 
 the plate she held in her hand, placed herself in an 
 attitude of interrogation of a very marked character, 
 and said, ' Are you come to visit any one ? ' 
 ' No,' said the girl ; ' I am going to India.' 
 ' And do you mean to say that you have been ordered 
 to mess with us ?' 
 
 ' Yes,' she answered in a low tone hardly under- 
 
1 2 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 standing the meaning of the question. Thereupon the 
 soldier's wife struck the table vigorously with her fist, 
 and exclaimed, ' I declare it is too bad ! Here we are 
 at No. 60, twelve of us already, besides the children, 
 and they send us a new-comer, while down there, at 
 No. 52, there are only ten of them. But 1 won't be put 
 upon, whatever the rest of you may do ; I'll go to the 
 sergeant and complaii:k — I will. Why, we 've only just 
 victuals for ourselves as it is. I '11 go at once.' 
 
 The young woman seized her by the arm with a sup- 
 pressed shriek. ' no, no ! ' she cried ; ' pray don't 
 say anything about me. I won't trouble you- — indeed 
 I won't. I don't want anything to eat, and, besides, I 
 can buy it, I have money;' and she pulled out a well- 
 filled purse, and held it up before the woman. 
 
 ' Well, to be sure ! you have a sight of money there,' 
 said the other, evidently mollified by the discovery of 
 such unusual riches ; ' there's not many of us has such 
 a purse as that, and you have no children that I can 
 see. You are a lucky one, that 's certain." 
 
 ' Still I don't see why she should not go to No. 52, 
 where they have plenty of room,' said another woman ; 
 ' there are quite enough of us here, and I am sure our 
 quarters at night are crammed full already ; I don't know 
 where she could find a hole to put her mattress in.' 
 
THE DEPOT. 13 
 
 ' Oh, never mind,' said tlic girl, ' I don't want to 
 sleep, I'll lie at the door; I won't disturb you, only 
 let me stay here. Don't go to the sergeant.' 
 
 ' Let her he, Mrs. Hardy,' said a quiet little woman 
 from the other end of the table ; ' she is in sore trouble, 
 poor thing, or I'm much mistaken. Don't let us worry 
 her. She can sleep by me.' 
 
 ' Very well, you must please yourself, Mrs. Clement ; 
 and if you should be stifled by the heat at night, you 
 have yourself to blame.' 
 
 'And / think these are very smart clothes for a 
 soldier's wife,' added the other, looking significantly at 
 the girl's gaudy silk dress. All the heads nodded in 
 acquiescence at this remark, except that of the gentle 
 Mrs. Clement, who quietly moved away a large box, in 
 order to make room for the girl in the dark corner she 
 had chosen, and then sat down silently to her work. 
 Gradually the other women subsided also to their usual 
 employments, which consisted in worrying their chil- 
 dren to the last pitch of endurance, and then scolding 
 them for the inevitable result. One little girl, however, 
 who belonged to the redoubtable Mrs. Hardy herself, 
 crept towards the stranger, and began to look up into 
 the dark eyes that were so deeply sorrowful, with an 
 unconscious expression of sympathy stealing over her 
 
14 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 sweet cliildisli face. After a moment, she drew nearer, 
 and softly stroked the girl's cheek with her little hand. 
 The young woman's attention being thns attracted, she 
 turned to look at her ; and as she met that gaze of 
 innocent, half-wondering pity fixed upon her, a choking 
 sob escaped her. She threw" her arms round the child 
 witli a sort of passionate tenderness, and lifting her on 
 her knee, she clasped her close in her embrace, and 
 leant her weary head against her. The little girl 
 nestled into her bosom, and remained motionless, till 
 gradually her eyes closed, and she fell asleep on the 
 aching heart that never again assuredly would know the 
 blessed rest of peaceful innocence. After a time, Mrs. 
 Hardy looked round for her child, but, termagant as she 
 was, she had a Avoman's heart ; and as she saw how " 
 that countenance darkened by hidden anguish, seemed 
 to grow more gently mournful as it dropped over the 
 calm face of the slumbering little one, she made no 
 attempt to remove the child from her arms, and even 
 ceased to look with malevolent eyes on the gay dress 
 that contrasted so forcibly with the homely attire worn 
 by herself and the other women. 
 
 Some hours passed away undisturbed, except by the 
 unceasing din which was created all day long by the 
 assemblage of so manv women and children in one 
 
THE DEPOT. 15 
 
 place. At last it so chanced that the acute Mrs. 
 ]\Iiller, Avho was placed at the other end of the room, 
 had occasion to borrow a pair of scissors from Mrs. 
 Clement, and she suddenly made her appearance in the 
 group which surrounded the stranger. For a moment 
 she did not perceive her, and the girl, trembling from 
 head to foot, buried her face among the fair curls of her 
 little companion. But the attempt at concealment was 
 quite in vain. ]\Irs. Miller bent forward to inspect 
 Mrs. Clement's work, and her eye fell on the crouching 
 figure in the corner. She uttered a loud exclamation, 
 which attracted the attention of all who were near her, 
 and then stood staring at the girl, while she gave vent 
 to her indignant astonishment in a series of frag- 
 mentary remarks that were not very intelligible. 
 
 ' Well I never ! Well ! to be sure, here is imperence. 
 "NMio could have believed it? A brazen-faced hussy!' 
 and so on, for some minutes. 
 
 'What is it, Mrs. Miller?' exclaimed all the women 
 eagerly, while Mrs. Hardy especially requested to be 
 informed if she had not shown great wisdom in pro- 
 nouncing ' this here young woman to be a bad 'un.' 
 
 ' A bad 'un ain't no word for it, Mrs. Hardy, I can 
 assure you,' said Mrs. INIiller, looking as if she pos- 
 sessed a State secret. ' Just call JNIr. Smith, if you 
 
16 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 please/ and forthwith she began to call him herself intones 
 resembling those of an agitated peacock. The cry, taken 
 up by half the women in the room, who crowded round 
 in the delightful anticipation of a scene, soon brought 
 the warlike Smith to the field of action, where he was 
 immediately collared by JVIrs. Miller. She dragged 
 him forward, and, with much unconscious stage effect, 
 pointed out the delinquent. 
 
 The unhappy girl, forced to leave her seat by the 
 women crowding to the spot, had risen, and now stood 
 like some wild animal at bay, with her merciless pur- 
 suers closing round her. Witli one hand she still held 
 the little child, and pressed her close to her side, while 
 in the clenched fingers of the other she seemed to 
 expend some of the strength with which she would ^ 
 gladly have fought her way out of that crowd of 
 enemies. Her face, meantime, seemed to grow dark 
 with the despair that was settling on her heart, and 
 her eyes, unnaturally dilated, gazed out upon the ex- 
 cited women with a look of savage agony, which was 
 much more the expression of a hunted beast than of a 
 human being. Smith did not look at her face, however, 
 in his virtuous indignation at this breach of military 
 discipline. Setting the women aside, he wallced straight 
 up to her, and seized her by the wrist in an iron grasp. 
 
THE DEPOT. 17 
 
 ' Now, yoii deceitful young woman, you will please to 
 walk out of this, or I '11 know the reason why.' 
 
 She only answered Ly wrenching her arm from his 
 hold, with a violence which caused the mark of his 
 fingers to remain in a li%'id streak upon her -un-ist ; then, 
 gathering her cloak round her, she crouched close to the 
 wall, as if resolved that no human power should uproot 
 her from the spot. 
 
 Smith's face Hushed with anger, and he was advancing 
 somewhat fiercely towards her, when he suddenly met 
 the gaze of her despairing eyes fixed upon him with 
 such a look of hopeless desolation, that it went straight 
 to his honest heart. He paused, rubbed his forehead, 
 glanced uneasily at Mrs. Miller, as if he felt he was 
 about to sink in her estimation for ever, and then, his 
 better feelings mastering him, he laid his hand kindly 
 on the girl's shoulder, and said, ' I '11 tell you what it 
 is, my poor girl, I am sorry for you, I am, for I can see 
 that you are hard put to it, somehow or other; but I 
 wish you would believe me when I tell you it is no 
 manner of use going on like this ; you are playing a 
 losing game, you may depend upon it. Why, your 
 papers would have to be seen half-a-dozen times before 
 you could sail. Your luggage must be overhauled, the 
 doctor must see to your health, and the matron to your 
 
 VOL. 1. - ■ B 
 
18 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 outfit. You would be found out over and over again 
 before ever you got on board.' 
 
 ' And serve lier rigiit too ! a-setting Acrself up for a 
 soldier's wife/ exclaimed Mrs. Miller. ' I wonder at 
 your meekness, Mr. Smith, I do ! ' 
 
 ' You take my advice/ said Smith, nothing moved by 
 this cutting remark ; ' just take yourself quietly off, 
 and don't oblige me to report you to the sergeant ; for 
 if I do, it 's ten chances to one but you go to gaol for 
 coming here on false pretences ; and you don't look to 
 me like one of a sort to stand locking-up.' 
 
 ' Locking-up ! no!' she gave almost a scream; 
 ' anything but that just now. I will go — I will go,' and 
 hurrying nervously from her place, she began to move 
 through the crowd. The little girl still clung to her, upon 
 which Mrs. Hardy seized hold of her and administered 
 a violent shaking, according to the approved mode of 
 punishment adopted by mothers of her description. 
 The child cried out, and at the sound the young woman 
 suddenly turned, stooped down and kissed her, in spite 
 of Mrs. Hardy's resistance, then, thrusting aside all who 
 impeded her progress, she made her way from tlie room, 
 and finally disappeared. 
 
 ' There ! that 's a precious riddance, if ever tliere was 
 one/ said Mrs. Miller triumphantly. 
 
THE DEPOT. 1 
 
 '"Well, Mrs. Clement, I hope you are satisfied now?' 
 said Mrs. Hardy. ' So sure as I am alive, that wench 
 is no better than she should be ! ' 
 
 ' Then she is the more to be pitied,' said Mrs. Cle- 
 ment, with a gentle sigh. And would to Heaven that all 
 who may read these words would not only agree with 
 her opinion, but act as though they did. 
 
CHAPTEE II. 
 
 COLONEL COURTENAY. 
 
 AT noon next clay the ' Hero ' was to sail with 
 its human freight, and from the first dawn of 
 morning all was bnstle and confusion on deck, whilst a 
 constant succession of boats plied between the ship and 
 the shore, bringing the soldiers' wives and children from 
 the Depot. Their friends and acquaintances were al- 
 lowed to see them on board, which added in no small 
 degree to the bewildering noise and confusion ; and it 
 certainly seemed as if nothing could reduce the motley 
 crowd to anything like order or quiet. 
 
 The principal passenger, however, Colonel Courtenay, 
 took the matter very composedly, and had evidently no 
 intention of risking his comfort by appearing on the 
 scene till everytliing was ready for immediate departure. 
 At ten o'clock he was still seated at breakfast in one of 
 the most luxurious rooms of the hotel, with apparently 
 no greater anxiety on liis mind than tlie final accom- 
 plishment of that repast to his own satisfaction. It 
 would not have been easy to have found a more com- 
 
COLONEL COURTENAY. 2 1 
 
 fortable picture of hicn-etrc than he exhibited as he sat 
 in the light of the nioriiiug sun, laughing and talking 
 gaily with the beautiful woman whom, within the last 
 fortnight, he had made his wife, and caressing with easy 
 good-nature a rough little terrier frolicking round him. 
 
 George Courtenay was a man universally envied, and 
 almost as universally liked ; and certainly, in the whole 
 outward aspect of his life and being, appeared to be pos- 
 sessed of all that on this earth is held most good and valu- 
 able. He had good birth and a good fortune, unshackled 
 by the duties of a landowner, which to a man of his tem- 
 perament would have been exceedingly irksome. His 
 father, the younger son of a wealthy peer, had left him 
 an excellent income, which gave him no cause to regret 
 that the family estates had passed to his uncle. Lord 
 Beaufort. In person he was strikingly handsome, — too 
 nuicli so, an artist would have said ; for it was a beauty 
 entirely dependent on the regularity of his features, the 
 rich brown of his hair and beard, and the massive pro- 
 portions of his tall muscular figure, There was no 
 ray from the divine fire of intellect, or spirituality, to 
 glorify the fine face and relieve its earthliness. A 
 painter would ha^'e found it easy to make a correct 
 likeness, but he would have had no scope for the 
 exercise of his genius in the play of thought or ex- 
 
22 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 pressioii. In character he was indisputably brave, 
 of which he had given abundant proof in the Indian 
 Mutiny — full of energy and decision, — the sort of energy 
 which carried him at the head of a handful of men 
 amongst a swarm of revolted native soldiers ; and the 
 kind of decision which, when the victory was gained, 
 made him only wait to smoke a cigar before he had 
 half-a-dozen of the rebels shot. He was further char- 
 acterized by two qualities of so very opposite a descrip- 
 tion, that they might seem to form an impossible com- 
 bination, though in truth a very common one, and 
 these were deliberate cruelty and careless good-nature ; 
 both, in fact, being the development of that which was 
 his ruling passion — an intense self-love. Thus, for 
 instance, in India his black servants found that he 
 never intimated his wishes to them by means of blows, 
 as our freeboru Englishmen are in the habit of doing in 
 that land of their tender adoption, but at the same 
 time they found that he made them work for the grati- 
 fication of the very smallest of his pleasures till they 
 fainted from exhaustion. He would spend hours feed- 
 ing and caressing his favourite dogs, but if it suited him 
 to ride a certain distance on a certain horse, he would 
 ride that horse to death without the smallest com- 
 punction. Of course, in general society, while his good 
 
COLONEL COURTENAV. 23 
 
 nature and lavish generosity were extremely prominent, 
 his cold-blooded selfishness and cruelty were quite in 
 the background, and thus, by the world in general, 
 Colonel Ooui'tenay was considered perfectly charming. 
 It is not to be denied that he was a most agreeable 
 companion, a thorough gentleman in manner, with a full 
 share of the light graceful wit which is so attracti^"e in 
 society ; and, as he possessed the additional advantage of a 
 brilliant talent for music, he was welcomed and flattered 
 wherever he went. As to his private life, the refined 
 ladies and gentlemen with whom he associated never 
 gave themselves any concern about it. Not that they 
 were at all deceived on the subject. Every man's secret 
 character somehow makes itself felt in the air that sur- 
 rounds him, and certain facts had transpired with regard 
 to George Com-tenay which laws divine and human 
 have qualified by very ugly names. But the world has 
 a marvellously convenient way of settling such matters. 
 People solemnly accept and believe (chiefly on Sundays) 
 in the eternal trutlis revealed by the Holy God, and 
 then they go and systematically act as if those truths 
 were lies. How would the brilliant crowd in some 
 ball-room have been startled liad a voice proclaimed in 
 their midst, that the noble-looking man whose frank 
 gaiety charmed them, and whose soft tones echoed on 
 
24 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 their ears in gentle love-songs, would one day be a con- 
 demned soul, — the denizen of hell, the companion of 
 devils ! Yet, according to the belief they openly professed, 
 he could be nothing else, — unless he repented, which they 
 knew well he would be exceedingly sorry to do.. 
 
 It would seem as if in the world it was sufficient that 
 a vice should be fashionable and almost universal to 
 transfigure it into a virtue, or at least into a mild 
 weakness ; and crime well-dressed and aristocratic is 
 received with flattering warmth, which, when it appears 
 clad in tatters and vulgarity, is denounced according 
 to the laws of eternal righteousness. Devout old ladies, 
 who were extremely rigid as to the morals of their ser- 
 vants, watched in a flutter of anticipation the attentions 
 of Colonel Courtenay to their unmarried daughters, ear- 
 nestly hoping that they would ripen into a substantial 
 proposal ; whilst worthy gentlemen who spoke loudly 
 at county meetings on pauper dissoluteness, eagerly 
 iDvited him down to their country houses, and were 
 delighted to see their sons in close fellowship with this 
 fine dashing officer. 
 
 Of such were Sir John and Lady Talbot, — ' excellent 
 people,' as every one said when their names were men- 
 tioned ; so amiable and benevolent, so ready always to 
 further schemes for the suppression of vice, under what- 
 
COLONEL COUliTENAY. 25 
 
 ever form they appeared; so solicitous for the moral 
 improvement of their tenantry, and the mental culture 
 of the pauper children ; so rigid in dismissing every one 
 from their employment whose conduct failed in being 
 irreproachable, and yet, with the most entire compla- 
 cency and self-satisfaction, they handed over their 
 young daughter to be the wife of Colonel Courtenay. 
 From her infancy upward they had hired nurses and 
 governesses of the most immaculate description to guard 
 her from the faintest breath of evil ; and now, in her 
 riper youth, they called on a bishop to sanction, Avith 
 much religious fervour, her union with a man whose 
 inner life they well knew no pure eye could dare to 
 look upon. Yet they were not conscious hypocrites ; 
 the sense of their inconsistencies never struck them ; 
 no voice in the silent night thrilled on their conscience 
 and bade them give account of the soul of the child 
 they had linked to unblushing and uurepeuted sin. 
 Surely they had done their best for her ? They had given 
 her a good position, a luxurious life, and a husband 
 possessed of every attraction earth could offer. Nothing 
 more could be desired in their theology, which consisted 
 in taking with them through life just as much religion 
 as they could carry, without inconvenience, on the easy- 
 going paths of this world. As to the beautiful Julia 
 
26 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 herself, she never thought of inquiring into the private 
 character of her husband, simply because she was as 
 much in love with his handsome face as it was possible 
 for her shallow nature to be. 
 
 Humanity is full of strange phenomena, at least it 
 seems so to our. veiled eyes, and few perhaps appear 
 more inexplicable than the existence of such a character 
 as Mrs. Courtenay's. If this world and all it contains 
 were to last for ever, it would be sufficiently compre- 
 hensible ; but she seemed to possess no element of mind 
 or spirit which one could imagine expanding into a 
 solemn immortality. A soul for ever blessed, it is, 
 thank Heaven, easy to believe in ; a state of everlasting 
 wickedness, it is, alas ! not more difficult to conceive ; 
 but a soul eternally frivolous, how can such a thing be- — 
 what possible position can it hold in the grand infinity 
 of holiness wliich sliall hereafter be made manifest ? 
 
 There was one other person in the room with Colonel 
 Courtenay and his wife, who had been sitting silent at 
 a little distance while they finished breakfasting. It was 
 his only sister, Ernestine Courtenay, who had come to 
 witness his embarkation, in order that she might take 
 leave of him at tlie very last moment. She was ex- 
 ceedingly like her l)rother in appearance, save in two 
 particulars. She had his face and features, but not so 
 
COLONEL COURTENAY. 27 
 
 great a share of beauty ; wliile she did possess the 
 spirituality of expression which he so entirely lacked. 
 Tims, though no one would have called her remark- 
 ably handsome, there was something in the hidden soul 
 within which gave her an indescribable charm, felt by 
 all who approached her. 
 
 She had a peculiar look of gentleness, and her voice, 
 e^'en at its gayest, had a pathetic tone which was singu- 
 larly touching ; yet the prevailing expression of her face 
 was not mere sweetness only ; there were lines of intense 
 thought, making a shadow below the clear eyes, and there 
 was a sensitive tremor about the mouth, which spoke of 
 feelings too deep to be tranquil, while the whole mobile 
 countenance was the instantaneous interpreter of every 
 thought that passed through her mind. It was curious 
 to watch the play of her features when animated : the 
 changes of her ever-varying expression were rapid as 
 the alternations of light and shade on a landscape over 
 which the summer clouds are flying. Even then, as 
 she sat motionless, the thoughts of her heart might be 
 read unmistakably in her eyes. Her gaze was fixed on 
 her brother with a look of intense affection, which 
 showed that to him had been given in largest measure 
 that peculiar trusting love which an orphan girl so 
 naturally lavishes on her eldest brother. 
 
28 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 Ernestine had never known father or mother; and 
 George, her natural protector and guide, had been her 
 dearest upon earth, until the day came, a few months 
 before, when the man who was to be her fviture husl^and 
 had won from her a yet more absorbing love. 
 
 She had always looked up to her brother with 
 thorough admiration and respect ; to her innocent faith 
 he was all that the world, better informed, pretended to 
 consider him. She alone, perhaps of all who knew" him, 
 was in ignorance of his real character. That man must 
 be base indeed wdio can let the poison of liis own life 
 taint a sister's mind ; and one strong motive for the 
 warmth with which he returned her affection was the 
 consciousness of her misplaced trust in him. He knew 
 that she did but love an ideal, yet it v/as pleasant In 
 her presence to fancy himself for a time the noble high- 
 souled man she imagined him ; and there was a sense of 
 rest and security, knowing the world as he did, in the 
 sure possession of this guileless love, which had never 
 failed him. 
 
 All her life long, then, Ernestine had met Avith 
 nothing but kindness from her brother. When he first 
 went to India, now seven years ago, and left her, a sen- 
 sitive girl of eighteen, to the care of her aunt. Lady 
 Beaufort, she nearly broke her heart, and pined for 
 
COLONEL COURTENAY. 29 
 
 many montlis, till her tliouglits were diverted by tlie 
 severe illness of her only other brother, Reginald, who 
 was younger than herself, and whom she had known 
 but little till she was called to nurse him. "\^^len he 
 recovered, however, after two or three years spent in 
 Italy to ward off his rather ominous delicacy of chest, 
 he left her to go to college, and again she began to 
 long for George's return, till, as we have said, a love 
 stronger even than that which she felt for him, came * 
 to lure her soul into that species of idolatry, which a 
 woman is so sorely tempted to bestow on the one who 
 can alone take the first place in her heart. Her marriage 
 with Hugh Lingard, however, could not take place for 
 some time. His father had left him an old manor- 
 house, and an estate so heavily burdened with debt, that 
 his present income was entirely swallowed up by the 
 claims he had to meet ; so that he coidd not afford to 
 lose a fellowship he had at one of the colleges in Grey- 
 burgh, of which his marriage would deprive him ; but 
 he held a small office under Government, with the 
 certainty of obtaining a more lucrative one in the course 
 of two or three years, which would then enable them, 
 with the addition of Ernestine's fortune, to settle 
 comfortably. 
 
 Ernestine's great desire had been to spend this inten'al 
 
30 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 with her brother George, with whom she had lived since 
 his return from India, and who had seemed not unwill- 
 ing to agree to her wish that he should exchange into 
 another regiment and remain in Enoiand. All these 
 plans were, however, completely overthrown by the 
 passionate attachment he suddenly conceived for Julia 
 Talbot, and the marriage in which it speedily resulted. 
 There was no longer any reason why he should remain 
 * in England, and all thought of keeping her place near 
 him vanished from Ernestine's mind. She had too 
 much good sense to think of living with him even if he 
 had not returned to India, and she felt that he was lost 
 to her as the friend and companion he had been. In 
 her simplicity, however, she believed that his fierce love 
 for the beautiful Julia would last for ever ; and if he 
 were happy, her unselfish affection was satisfied, even 
 though finally separated from him. Her only request 
 was that she miffht be with him to the last, and she had 
 joined him the day before at Sir John Talbot's, whither he 
 had returned with his wife from their brief wedding tour. 
 
 Breakfast was over at last, and Colonel Courtenay 
 looked at his watch. 
 
 ' It is later than I thought,' he said ; ' Julia, love, we 
 have only half-an-hour before the time when we must 
 be on board. Are all your preparations made ? ' 
 
COLONEL COUUTENAY. 31 
 
 ' No, indeed ! I have a great deal to do ; yet I must 
 change my dress, and settle what hat I shall wear. Can 
 you not send and tell them to wait for an hour or 
 two ? ' 
 
 He smiled and shook his head. ' No, I am afraid 
 you must try to get ready; but I daresay, Avith the 
 help of your maid, you will manage it.' 
 
 She answered that she would try, and left the room 
 to spend the last moments of sojourn in her own 
 country, the home of her girlhood, gone for ever, in dis- 
 cussing with her maid the most becoming costume for 
 her appearance on board. 
 
 ' One half-hour,' said Ernestine, as the door closed on 
 her sister-in-law, ' only one half-hour more.' She rose 
 and took a low seat at her brother's side, — ' Oh, dear 
 George, when shall I see you again ? ' 
 
 ' Who can tell, Ernie ? It is not my present inten- 
 tion to stay many years in India. I only want to get 
 my promotion, and then I shall retire. I don't think 
 Jidia will like the life out there, tliough she fancies 
 she will.' 
 
 ' Well, so far as I am concerned, a few years is tlie 
 same as a lifetime ; in the uncertainty of the future, I 
 must count on you no more as a pai-t of my happiness, 
 when once you have left me for an indefinite period.' 
 
32 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 He did not deny this ; but after a moment's silence, 
 he said, * Yon have never told me what your plans are, 
 Ernestine. How are you going to dispose of yourself 
 when we are gone ? I suppose you will return to Lady 
 Beaufort's till Lingard carries you off.' 
 
 ' I do not know what else I can do at present ; but 
 you cannot think how I dread returning to the hollow 
 objectless life I lived with Aunt Beaufort before you 
 came home. I do so want to try and be of some use 
 in the world.' 
 
 ' Why, Ernestine, you alarm me ! You are not going 
 to turn out a strong-minded female, I hoj)e, and raise a 
 regiment of riflewomen, or establish a printing-press for 
 the publication of pamphlets on the rights of women ? ' 
 
 ' I don't think I show symptoms of being very strong- 
 minded just now/ said Ernestine, laughing, ' when I 
 am half breaking my heart at parting from a brother 
 who cares very little about me. And as to the sect who 
 want to raise women out of their natural position, I 
 utterly detest and abjure their opinions ; they are con- 
 trary to laws both human and divine, in my opinion.' 
 
 ' I am relieved to hear you say so. I confess to having 
 a great horror of the ladies who are benefactresses of 
 mankind.' 
 
 Slie lifted up her sweet serious face towards him : 
 
COLONEL COURTEXAY. 33 
 
 ' George, I can quite uiulerstaiul your laughing at this 
 sort of thing ; hut, after all, it cannot be meant that 
 women should spend their lives in dressing and visiting, 
 and working at their embroidery. It must be possible 
 for them to be usefid. to others, without going beyond 
 their own province.' 
 
 ' But what then do you mean to do ? ' 
 
 ' I have no defined idea as yet. Till now, you know, 
 George, I have thought of nothing but the happiness of 
 being with you, and I have a bright future to look 
 forward to in hope ; but the two or three years I have 
 to pass first, are too long a time to waste in amuse- 
 ments which weary me beyond expression ; and I am 
 sure of one thing, — there must be in this great suffering 
 world some work even for me, weak and ignorant as 
 I am.' 
 
 He respected her earnestness, and did not wish to vex 
 her ; but all such ideas were very repugnant to him. 
 
 ' Lady Beaufort will not countenance your philan- 
 thropic schemes, Ernie. Do you mean to act without 
 her chaperonage in your future plans ? ' 
 
 ' I do not think there is any reason why I should 
 not. I am five and-twent}', and I have an independent 
 fortune. Hugh Lingard is really the only person who 
 has a right to control my actions now ; and although 1 
 
 VOL. I. c 
 
34 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 would not do anytliing to distress Aunt Beaufort, I do 
 not see why I should not quietly go my own way with- 
 out consulting her.' 
 
 ' ]\Iy dear Ernestine, I am afraid it is a dreary pro- 
 spect. I can conceive nothing much duller, or more 
 oppressive, than a life of general benevolence.' 
 
 ' But it Avill be life with a purpose, and that will 
 make up for everything,' exclaimed Ernestine, her eyes 
 lighting up with enthusiasm. 
 
 It was a specimen of Colonel Courtenay's selfishness, 
 that he had never inquired into his sister's plaus till 
 this moment ; and his heart smote him somewhat as he 
 felt that, if he had spoken to her earlier, he might have 
 advised her against those schemes which appeared to 
 him so absurd and unsatisfactory, and which, he be- 
 lieved, would only end in disappointment and aniioy- 
 ance when the realities of the world came to dispel her 
 visionary dreams. To make any serious attempt now, 
 however, to alter her intentions, was more trouble than 
 he could inflict on his indolence. 
 
 ' I wish I had known what an eccentric career you 
 were planning for yourself, Ernie, as I should liave tried 
 to dissuade you from anything of the kind ; and I am 
 afraid Lingard will not, he is so strong on letting every 
 one follow the bent of their own inclinations. I ouiiht 
 
COLONEL COUETENAY. 35 
 
 to have asked you what your plans were before now ; 
 but the truth is, that little witch Julia has occupied my 
 thoughts entirely for some time past. I am seriously 
 afraid, Ernestine, that you will find these new fancies 
 very impracticable.' 
 
 ' They are not new fancies, dearest George. The life 
 of mere society has never satisfied me, and I brooded 
 over these thoughts long before you came home ; only 
 I did not think of putting them into execution, because 
 I was looking forward to living with you; they have 
 revived with double force, however, since I knew of your 
 marriage, and I only want to find some way of giving 
 them shape and reality, for the next two or three years 
 at least.' 
 
 'But in the meantime, when you leave us to-day, 
 where are you going ? Do you return to the Beauforts 
 at once ?' 
 
 ' No ; I have almost made up my mind to go down to 
 Greyburgh to see Eeginald. His letters, which are very 
 rare, have made me anxious for some time past. He 
 admits that his bocjjily health is weak and failing, and 
 he seems to me to be depressed and unsettled in 
 mind.' 
 
 Colonel Courtenay shrugged his shoulders. ' As to 
 liegiuald, he is a perfect (Uiigma to me. I saw one of 
 
36 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 tlie nndergraduates of his college the other day, who 
 was telling me about him. It is incredible that a 
 young man of one-and-twenty should spend his life 
 dreaming over theories which have uo more connexion 
 with this world than the man in the moon. I hear he 
 sits up half the niglit, perplexing his brain with all 
 manner of tlieological inquiries : a son age jc m'occupais 
 de hicn autre chose ! ' 
 
 ' Eeginald was always thoughtful and quiet/ said 
 Ernestine, ' but so reserved that I never could thoroughly 
 penetrate into his mind.' 
 
 'Well, I nmst go and see what Julia is doing, or we 
 shall really be too late. We may not meet for a long 
 time to come, Ernie. I think I shall give you a sub- 
 stitute for myself in the shape of Fury, if you like to 
 have him,' and he pointed to the wise-looking terrier, 
 who sat with his speaking brown eyes fixed on his 
 master. 
 
 ' Oh, I should indeed,' said Ernestine, her face bright- 
 ening with pleasure. ' I have taken care of him in your 
 absence, and he has been such a friend to me — so intelli- 
 gent and affectionate. I assure you he comforted me in 
 the wisest manner the night after your marriage, when 
 I was feeling rather dreary.' 
 
 ' Well, I herewith present him to you,' said Colonel 
 
COLONKL CUUKTKNAV. 37 
 
 Courteiiay, lifting tliu dog liy the neck and swinging 
 him into his sister's hip. ' Fury, be faithful to your 
 new mistress. I daresay he would have died in India, 
 so you and he will be mutually benefited.' And stooping 
 down he kissed her affectionately, and left the room. 
 
CHAPTEK III. 
 
 ON BOAED THE 'HERO.' 
 
 THEY stood at last on the deck of the ' Hero,' 
 which in ten minutes more was to weigh anchor. 
 The sokliers' wives had been stowed away in the 
 narrow limits they were to occupy for some time to 
 come, and their friends had all been sent on shore. 
 None but the passengers remained, with the exception 
 of Miss Courtenay, who was allowed to wait till the 
 last moment, but the boat which was to take her oil 
 shore danced on tlie waters at the side of the ship, 
 along with several others containing persons anxious to 
 watch the final departure. Colonel Courtenay was 
 standing on the poop talking to the captain, whose 
 quick eye all the while was glancing every^vhere to see 
 that his orders Avere being obeyed. Ernestine leant on 
 her brother's arm, clinging to these last moments when 
 she could still see his face and hear his voice. Mrs. 
 Courtenay, seated at a little distance, was playing the 
 coquette in the most refined and ]ady-like manner 
 
ON BOAi;!) TIIK ' IIEKU.' 39 
 
 ])ossible with some of the officers of her husband's 
 reginieut. Ernestine remembered the scene long after- 
 wards ; everything looked so bright and prosperous, 
 with tlie sunshine sparkling on the blue waters and on 
 the white sails of the ship. 
 
 Suddenly a gTeat noise and confusion was heard at 
 the lower end of the vessel. There was a scuffling of 
 feet, a clamour of voices, and an occasional volley of 
 oaths. A struggle of some kind was evidently going 
 on, and the captain called out angrily to know ^^'hat was 
 the matter. One of the ship's officers came up to him 
 at once — 
 
 ' A woman, sir, who was found secreted in the hold, 
 and refuses to go on shore.' 
 
 ' Is she not on the War Office List, then ?' 
 
 ' No, sir, she is not a soldier's wife at all. Sergeant 
 Dale and Private Smith say they know her for an 
 impostor. She tried yesterday to get herself passed 
 among the women at the Depot with false papers.' 
 
 ' Send the jade ashore at once, then, we have no time 
 to lose ; we must be oft' in five minutes.' 
 
 ' They arc trying to get her into the boat, sir, but she 
 won't go. She is like a wild cat, and clings to every 
 thing she can lay hold of It took three men to get her 
 up from the hold.' 
 
40 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 ' Oh, botlier ! Hoist her overboard with a rope, then. 
 Threaten her with a ducking for her pains, there are 
 plenty of boats to drop her into. I can't have the 
 hands hindered from their work.' 
 
 The officfer touched his cap and w^ent off to obey 
 orders. In another moment a shriek so wild and thrill- 
 ing that it startled every one on board, rang through 
 the air. A figure was seen to burst from the crowd 
 of sailors, with streaming hair and outstretched arms, 
 dashing them aside with a force which seemed almost 
 superhuman. With one bound she broke away, and 
 leapt from the forecastle, flying rather than running 
 along the deck, up the steps to the poop, and on till 
 she flung herself down at Colonel Courtenay's feet, and 
 clasped his knees with power which he could not resistr. 
 She threw back her head, showing a face, once beauti- 
 fid, but now distorted by an intensity of agony and 
 passion that smote the bystanders with a sense of 
 terrible mental pain ; her long black hair, wet with the 
 dews of anguish that stood on her forehead, fell back 
 in masses from her flushed face ; her dark eyes were 
 full of wildness ; her whole frame quivered, and her 
 dress, torn and disordered, was stained A\dtli blood, from 
 the injuries she had received in her struggle with the 
 men. 
 
ON BOAHD TIIK ' IIEIIO.' 41 
 
 It was a pitiable spectacle, Lut it was left to the tone 
 of her wild mournful voice to convey to the bystanders 
 a conviction of the utter misery that was desolating the 
 soul of the unhappy girl. 
 
 Her flight from the one end of the vessel to the other 
 had been so instantaneous, that the breathless impas- 
 sioned words she now spoke seemed but the pro- 
 longation of the shriek that still appeared to echo in 
 their ears. Clinging to Courtenay as if her life de- 
 pended on the tenacity of her grasp ; looking at him, 
 speaking to him only, she gasped out, ' George, George, 
 my own George, save me, save me ! — don 't let them 
 send me away ; I must go with you, I will go with you ; 
 I cannot live without you — indeed I cannot : I have 
 tried it, and I cannot ; I must be with you — nothing 
 shall tear me from you!' 
 
 At this unexpected address, spoken loud enough to 
 be heard by all present, a look of significant meaning 
 passed among the officers of Colonel Courtenay 's regi- 
 ment, and from them to the captain and the men who 
 stood round ; ^vhile Courtenay himself looked down on 
 the girl at his feet with an expression of absolute 
 fury. 
 
 ' Is the woman mad or drunk ! ' he exclaimed, strug- 
 gling with a cruel violence to disengage himself from 
 
42 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 her convulsive grasp ; ' how dare yon attack me in tliis 
 way ? Here, men, drag this woman off, some of you.' 
 
 At these words a cry more appalling than that which 
 had startled them before burst from the poor girl's lips. 
 She lifted up her eyes to his face, piteous with their 
 expression of sorrowful dismay, — 
 
 ' George, my dear George, don 't you know me ? 
 I am Lois, your own poor Lois, that you said you 
 would love for ever and ever. Am I so changed ? I 
 daresay I am, for I have cried my heart out after you 
 pretty near ; but look, it is me myself — here is the ring 
 you gave me, and the locket with your own liair in it, 
 and the bracelet — look !' And the imhappy girl strove 
 with her trembling hands to show him the trinkets, 
 which she thought might convince him of the iden- 
 tity he knew too well. Courtenay literally stamped 
 Math rage and impatience, especially as he saw the 
 smile which Avas appearing on the face of every man 
 round him, to whom the scene was sufficiently in- 
 telligible. 
 
 ' The woman is raving mad;' and he made another 
 futile attempt to shake her oft'. ' Leave hold, I tell you, 
 or I '11 have you sent to gaol for a month.' 
 
 ' Me ! me sent to gaol ! George, it is you that are 
 mad, not to know me ; you can't have forgotten me ; 
 
ON BOAKD THE ' IIKKO.' 43 
 
 you took mc from luy homo ; you took my good name ; 
 you made father curse me ; hut I don't care for that — 
 I 'd do it all again, I love you so ; and you kept me six 
 months — such a happy time ; don't you remember ? It 
 is but three months since you left me. You sent me to 
 a gay house, and said you 'd come to fetch me, and I 've 
 waited and waited, and longed for you so ; then I heard 
 you were going to India, and I knew I must come. I 
 can't live without you — I can't, and I won't ; and oh ! 
 George, you will take me with you, won't you ? I '11 be 
 your servant, or anything you please, only don't drive 
 me away. I love you, I love you so, dear, dear George !' 
 and she burst into tears, laying her face against him, 
 and kissing the fierce hands with which, all the time 
 she spoke, he had been trying to loosen her hold. Not 
 one of the men moved a step to help him ; their sym- 
 pathies were evidently with the girl. 
 
 But now Mrs. Courtenay, who had been engaged in 
 a lively conversation at a little distance, began to be 
 attracted by the noise and excitement, and when look- 
 ing round she saw a woman clinging to her husband, a 
 sudden colour flushed her face, and she came forward, 
 saying, ' Colonel Courtenay, what is the meaning of 
 this?' 
 
 ' Only a drunken W(jman, my love, wlio mistakes me 
 
44 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 for some one else.' Then suddenly stooping down over 
 the girl, he said to her in an energetic whisper, — 
 
 ' Lois, you fool, I do know you, but that lady is my 
 wife. You can never be with me again ; you might 
 have known I had done with you for ever when I sent 
 you away. Go on shore quietly, and I '11 give you 
 some money ; but if you dare to say another word to 
 me now, I '11 have you taken up Ijy the police as sure as 
 I live.' 
 
 He knew her ! That beautiful lady was his wife ! He 
 had done with her for ever. She must not dare to speak 
 to him. He would give her in charge. As sentence 
 after sentence revealed to the wretched girl her true 
 position, a stillness as of death seemed to settle down 
 upon her ; the passion of her manner died away ; tlie 
 irrepressible burst of feeling ceased with a sudden gasp ; 
 the crimson flush on her face faded to an ashy paleness ; 
 her hands relaxed their hold on Courtenay ; her arms 
 fell by her side ; her lips parted, but no breath appeared 
 to stir upon them ; and she scarcely seemed to live, but 
 that her eyes, alive with agony, were fixed wide open 
 with a strange fascinated stare on his face. 
 
 He saw at once that she was finally subdued, and 
 made a sign to some of the men to take her away. 
 Two sailors came forward, they raised her gently, and 
 
ON BOARD TIIK ' HERO.' 45 
 
 sot licr on her feet. She made no resistance ; it 
 was as tliough they were dealing with a corpse, bnt 
 for the staring monrnful eyes. Some money which 
 Colonel Courtenay had secretly thrust into her hand 
 fell from her powerless fingers and rolled on the deck. 
 A yomig naval officer standing near, with an unmis- 
 takahle expression of disgust at the scene, kicked it 
 away with his foot into the water, and then went to 
 help the men in taking the poor stricken girl as care- 
 fully as possible to the boat. They half carried, half 
 supported her along the deck, and she neither spoke nor 
 struggled, only, as they moved her, her head turned me- 
 chanically, so that her eyes with their look of anguish 
 left not the face of him who was her best beloved on 
 earth, and her bitterest enemy. 
 
 They took her down the gangway and placed her in 
 a boat. Then the officer and sailors came on deck again 
 and stood watching her; the boat shot out from the 
 vessel's side. She was seen seated in the stern, upright, 
 her head turned back to the ship, the haggard gaze 
 still seeking tlie figure of Courtenay, who stood con- 
 spicuous on the poop. Eapidly she was borne to the 
 shore, soon did her form become lost among many 
 others ; but so long as it was visible, however indis- 
 tinctly, those eyes, tortured, despairing, glared back 
 
46 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 through the sunlight on the face that had charmed her 
 to destruction. And when lie lies an expiring man 
 upon his deathbed, or on the battle-field, shall not these 
 eyes look back upon him still with their remembered 
 agony ? 
 
 She was gone, and Colonel Courtenay breathed freely 
 again. He was too entirely a man of the world to feel 
 in the least seriously embarrassed at the situation in 
 which he found himself placed ; his savoir faire would 
 have brought him through worse difficulties than tliis. 
 The beautiful Julia was no deep thinker, and a whis- 
 pered regret that her delicate nerves shoidd have been 
 pained by so disagreeable an object as a drunken 
 woman, accompanied by one of his charming smiles, 
 was quite sufficient to restore her self-satisfied equani- 
 mity ; and in another moment the incident had almost 
 passed from her memory, as she glanced her bright eyes 
 from side to side to see if the grace of her attitude was 
 observed as she leant over the ship's side, and took a 
 sentimental leave of her native country. 
 
 As to the captain of the ship and his own officers, 
 Courtenay knew well that they perfectly understood the 
 whole affair ; but he also knew that they would offer no 
 open criticism on the private conduct of a man in his 
 official position. So he merely said a few easy words. 
 
ON BOARD THE ' IlEKO.' 47 
 
 which showed thiit ho assumed them to be imperturbably 
 dense ou the subject, and then let the matter drop as com- 
 pletely as if it had never occurred. But there was one 
 with whom Courtenay attempted neither palliation nor 
 deceit. Some instinct withheld him from trying any 
 such means with liis pure-hearted sister. His hope was 
 that she had neither understood the scene, nor heard 
 the words he spoke to Lois when his wife drew near. 
 He was mistaken. Ernestine had heard every syllable, 
 and she would have understood it all, if she could have 
 brought herself to believe in the wickedness of the 
 brother she so loved and trusted ; but such lessons are 
 amongst the hardest we have to learn in this hard life ; 
 and she stood there, her cheek now flushed, now deadly 
 pale, with a crowd of bewildering thoughts careering 
 through her mind, and one maddening doubt lying 
 underneath them all, which she felt, if realized, would 
 banish all happiness from her intercourse with her 
 brother for ever. Her brother ! beloved, admired all 
 her life long, could it be that he was wicked, cruel, 
 heartless ? Her childhood's idol, to whom the incense 
 of such true aflectiou had been oflered ; had he fallen — 
 fallen into the ashes of the worst corruption? And 
 that poor girl ! How her whole soul burned with 
 compassion for the utter misery which her woman's 
 
48 - HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 heart could understand so well; even while the mere 
 thought of its probable cause sent the vivid flush so 
 painfully to her very forehead. Some one had been 
 that hapless woman's curse. It could not be her own 
 dear brother. Yet — what if it were? She shivered 
 from head to foot at the bare thought. So well had 
 she loved him, that the girl's agony seemed to fall 
 like heavy guilt on her own soul ; and she felt that 
 if it were so indeed, his victim must become her 
 own most sacred charge. She must know the truth ; 
 she could not rest in so hateful a doubt, and the mo- 
 ments were flying fast ; already it was time she left the 
 ship. She tried to raise her eyes to her brother ; she 
 tried to whisper a few hesitating words, but the nature 
 of the subject checked even the faintest effort. To a 
 stranger she could have spoken better than to him, and 
 already the opportunity was gone. The captain came 
 forward, raised his cap, and, with a regret for hurrying 
 Miss Courtenay, said that ' time was up,' the men were 
 weighing the anchor, and the boat that waited for her 
 could no longer stay alongside. Colonel Courtenay felt 
 that fortune favoured him, for he had read the meaning 
 of her half- averted face, her quivering lip, and crimsoned 
 downcast face ; and now he put his arm round his sister, 
 kissed her afiectionately, and bade her a tender farewell. 
 
ON BOAKI) THE ' HERO.' 49 
 
 ' Take care of yourself, dearest Ernestine, and write 
 soon ; we shall long to hear from you.' 
 
 He spoke in his own winning, open manner, and her 
 heart bounded up to lum once more. She kid her head 
 fondly on his shoulder, and tried, in a choked voice, to 
 say good-bye ; then he gave place to Julia, who lightly 
 kissed her on both cheeks a la Francaisc, and murmured 
 some pretty meaningless speech, and in another moment 
 Ernestine was parted from them both, and seated in the 
 boat to which the captain had conducted her. One vigor- 
 ous stroke of the oars, and it bounded from the vessel's 
 side. She looked up, and saw through her tear-dimmed 
 eyes her brother and his wife standing at the gangway 
 that they might watch her to the last. As they caught 
 sight of her, Com'tenay lifted his hat in a parting salute. 
 She saw the sunlight falling on the rich masses of his 
 dark-brown hair, and his fine face lighted up with the 
 bright smile that had won him many a heart, and, leaning 
 on his strong arm, was the delicate, graceful figure of his 
 Avife, stooping down to look at Ernestine, with her fair 
 hair escaping from her hat, and half hiding her lovely 
 radiant countenance. Ernestine looked up eagerly at 
 them as they thus appeared before her in their beauty 
 and happiness, seeking to learn by heart, as it were, 
 and print upon her memory that fair bright picture 
 VOL. I. D 
 
50 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 that she might cany it away with hei', to cherish its 
 remembrance in the long years of absence. But sud- 
 denly a shudder passed over her. "What if, instead of 
 the charming countenance that shone so bright by her 
 brother's side, there ought to have been, by all Divine 
 laws, by all that is truth, and honour, and equity, that 
 face, pale, haggard, and sorrow-smitten, wdiich she had 
 seen fade from its look of passionate love and entreaty 
 to the fixed, hopeless stare of utter bewilderment, as the 
 low whisper hissed upon her ear, ' Lois, you fool.' 
 
 Little, indeed, do we know in what state of feeling 
 an hour may find us. If any one had told Ernestine 
 Courtenay that she would see the figure of her brother 
 lessening in the distance as she was being borne away 
 from him, to meet perhaps no more, and that her thoughts 
 would not be with him, but with another — a stranger in 
 name and history, — she could not have believed it ; and 
 yet to that unhappy one, known only by the common 
 j)ower of suffering, her heart was turning now with pain 
 and grief, in which her brother's departure had no share ; 
 and her first eager glance when she stepped on shore was 
 not to the ship, already gliding fast away, but to the 
 motley crowd on the pier, in the hope that she miglit 
 see amongst them the poor girl wliom she w^as resolved 
 at all hazards to find. She looked, however, in vain. 
 
ON BOAKD THE ' HERO.' 51 
 
 Many faces were there, and many sorrowful enough, 
 but the one living aspect of despair which had so 
 riveted her attention was not amongst them. Ernestine 
 inquired of the bystanders if any had seen her, and she 
 was met with the contradictory accounts whicli inva- 
 riably follow a question addressed to a (3rowd. Several 
 persons had seen her, but all differed as to the direction 
 she had taken on landing from the boat. Ernestine's 
 servant, who had been with her on board, stood ^vith an 
 expression of intense disgust on his face as his mistress 
 thus demeaned herself (in his estimation) by ashing 
 questions about a person whose existence he conceived 
 she ought to ignore. At last, seeing that she was 
 actually going to start in search of the girl, his superior 
 wisdom could stand it no longer, and advancing, he 
 ventured to suggest that Miss Courtenay should allovv^ 
 him to engage a policeman to carry on the pursuit, 
 which lie felt certain she herself would find utterly 
 impracticable. 
 
 Ernestine could not but admit that he was riQ,ht, 
 much as she disliked using such an agent under the 
 circumstances. The chances of her own search being 
 successful in such a place as Seamoutli were certainly 
 small enough, and she trusted that it might be possible 
 to discover the poor girl's abode without letting her find 
 
52 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 out that the police had been in any way employed in 
 the search. Ernestine, therefore, herself gave orders, 
 with many minute directions, to the man whom her 
 servant brought to her ; and having received his assur- 
 ance that she should know every particular of the 
 girl's position by the next morning at latest, she left 
 the matter in his hands, and returned slowly to her 
 desolate rooms at the hotel. 
 
CHAPTER lY. 
 
 THE LAST NIGHT. 
 
 THAT day was drawing to a close. Within the streets 
 there were all the usual tokens of approaching 
 night : the shopmen were lighting their lamps for the 
 later customers, the labourers were hurrying home, the 
 diners-out were arriving at the houses of their friends, — 
 all things were as they had been the day before, and as 
 they would be when the next day came. Yet strange it 
 is to feel, as the weeks pass over us unmarked and un- 
 eventful, that there is no one day of all those that make 
 up our years that is not to some human being the most 
 awful and portentous that can be for them in time and 
 in eternity, — the climax of their sufi'erings, or the very 
 crisis of their doom. How often is the soft air, as it 
 passes over our cheek, laden with the last sigh of a 
 ruined soiil gone to its dread account, or vibrating with 
 the bidlet-shot which has made some wretch a murderer. 
 No day — no hour rather — that is not burdened with 
 some fearful struggle, some great crime, some deep 
 
54 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 despair. We tliiuk we know enough of this world's 
 teeming sorrows, and that we hear too often the many 
 mingled cry that ever rises from the suffering heart of 
 all humanity; but how awful must l3e the sight on 
 which the Omniscient Eyes look down, to which no 
 tear is hid, no pang unknown of all the w^eltering mass 
 of this earth's agony ! How awful that tremendous 
 sight — fruit of the ancient curse — atoning Calvary alone 
 can tell. For us, we may well give thanks that we 
 know not even all the sorrows that may be gathered 
 in the narrow limits of a single human heart ; and that 
 perhaps the one most near our own. 
 
 The evening was closing in, and through the busy 
 streets there w^ent a figure,— the same that had hastened 
 the day before so rapidly towards the emigrant Depot. 
 The same, yet not the same : gone was the quick elastic 
 tread, the energy of purpose, the strong, passionate life 
 gleaming in the dark eye and flushing on the fevered 
 cheek, which then had been so marked. Now all was 
 languid, hopeless, apathetic, in the feeble creeping steps, 
 the nerveless arms and drooping head. The tall figure 
 seemed to have collapsed, and w^as now the form of a 
 woman broken down, — it might be with Sge, or it might 
 Ijc with sorrow. She seemed to have" a definite object, 
 and to be guiding her steps towards some settled goal ; 
 
THE LAST NIGHT. 55 
 
 but so feebly, so wearily, that none but a close observer 
 Avould have thought her course was anything but aim- 
 less wandering. This time there was no impetus to 
 carry her through the crowded streets, and she was 
 jostled from side to side without appearing conscious of 
 it. Once a rough carter passing by threw her against 
 the iron railings of an area, and she would have fallen 
 had not his companion caught her on his arm. 
 
 ' Why, girl, you don't seem to know where you are 
 going,' he said, as he steadied her on her feet. She 
 looked at him for a moment with a dreamy, unconscious 
 gaze ; then, as slie seemed to understand his meaning, 
 she shook her head, and said in a faint voice, ' yes, 
 I do ; I know where I am going too well — too well.' 
 He left her, and she wandered on, and presently she 
 came to a brilliantly lighted shop, where the windows 
 were filled with children's toys of every description. 
 At one of the huge squares of plate-glass stood two 
 little girls, their arms round each other's necks, gazing 
 in ecstasy at some of the glittering treasures displayed 
 before them. Just as Lois was passing them, the one 
 said to the other, — 
 
 ' Mary, shouldn't we be happy if we had those 
 beautiful dolls !' She stopped and looked at them : 
 ' Happy, would you be ? — then you shall have them.' 
 
56 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 She went into the shoj), pulled out a gay purse, and 
 bought the coveted toys, with a lavish carelessness as 
 to the price which astonished the shopman. Then she 
 went and thrust them into the hands of the children, 
 who looked at her, and then at their new possessions, 
 in utter amazement. 
 
 ' Shall you be happy now ?' she said to them, with a 
 sad sweetness in her tone. 
 
 ' yes, yes !' exclaimed the children, almost shouting 
 with delight. 
 
 ' I am very glad of it,' she said, ' for I shall never be 
 happy any more ;' and then slie walked away, wiping the 
 tears from her eyes with her hand. Soon she had left 
 the principal streets and entered on the outskirts of the 
 town. Still she held on, taking the direction of the 
 beach, and soon the houses grew fewer, the lights 
 scarce, and the eye could see beyond tlie town out into 
 the desolate night. When she had nearly passed all 
 the streets she stopped, looked at the purse which she 
 still held in her hand, and then glanced all round as if 
 in search of some one on whom to bestow it. Presently 
 an old man came out of a wretched house and tottered 
 along, guiding himself with a stick, and evidently very 
 fetible. She went iip to him and touched him on the 
 shoulder, 'You are very poor, are you not ?' 
 
THE LAST Is'IGHT. 5 7 
 
 'I should tliink so!' lie exclaimed with an angry 
 exclamation ; ' none poorer, though many makes more 
 cry/ 
 
 ' Take this then/ she said, dropping the purse into his 
 hand. He started, felt its weight, then, struggling feebly 
 to take off his hat, exclaimed, ' God bless you, my dear 
 lady ; you be a good one, you be !' 
 
 She left him and went on, then suddenly turned back 
 and came up to him. 
 
 ' Say that again,' she said. 
 
 'Say what, my dear?' said the old man, Avho was 
 fastening up the purse with his shaking hands. ' I '11 
 say anything you like, for there 's meat, and drink, and 
 baccy for me in this here purse for a month to come. 
 What be I to say?' 
 
 ' Say that — that which you said about a blessing.' 
 
 ' Was it " God bless you/' I said, my dear ? I '11 say it 
 as often as ever you please, and good reason too, fur it 
 is little enough I get most days for the asking, let alone 
 such a present as this when I had said never a word. 
 God bless you a thousand times over, and I hope He 
 wiU.' 
 
 She listened eagerly, then cast a wistful glance up to 
 heaven, as though she would fain know if there M'as any 
 chance of the prayer being heard ; but the sight of the 
 
58 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 darkening sky seemed to bring no tliought of comfort 
 to her, for she drooped her head again and sighed 
 heavily. 
 
 ' Anyhow, they are good words to hear for the last/ 
 she mnrmured, as she once more took her solitary way 
 along the water's edge. 
 
 And now all human habitations were left far behind, 
 and she had entered on a solitude as complete, at that 
 late hour, as if she were many miles from any town. 
 The scene was cheerless in the extreme : the waning 
 twilight half revealed, half hid the long low beach, with 
 its black masses of dank seaweed and the slimy reptiles 
 creeping to and fro among them; the dark restless 
 waters moaning heavily as they beat upon the unyield- 
 ing sands ; the lowering clouds rolling in heaving 
 masses over the leaden sky. Far away on the horizon 
 there gleamed one ghastly streak of light, where all that 
 remained of the dying day was gathered, while over all 
 the dreary landscape the rising ^v■ind went sighing in 
 fitful gusts, rendering the damp air more bleak and 
 chill. Well was this scene in keeping with the forlorn 
 figure that now went stealing with dejected steps along 
 the shore of that dark sea, shivering in the cold blast, 
 and weeping hopeless tears, which brought no relief to 
 the dead weight at her heart. She went on till she 
 
THE LAST NIGHT. 59 
 
 came to a spot where a liigli rock rose abruptly out of the 
 waves, and shelved hack, forming a sort of little promon- 
 tory, of wliich the farthest extremity was in deep water. 
 
 Up the steep ascent which led to the part overhang- 
 ing the sea the poor girl toiled with painful steps till 
 she stood on the summit, with nothing around her 
 but the dark expanse of sullen heaving waters. She 
 looked down upon them as they beat with heavy mono- 
 tonous sound against the rock, and an expression of 
 strange cahnness passed over her wan face ; then she 
 cast a glance on all sides, and saw that no human being 
 was in sight. She was alone with that leaden sky — 
 that deep black sea — that sighing, mournful wind. 
 Night was falling fast, no one would pass there now till 
 the sun should rise again; that sun which she had 
 watched in its setting as we look upon the face of a 
 dying friend whom we shall see no more. She had 
 time before her yet, and with a long weary sigh she 
 sunk down upon the rock, folded her arms on her knees, 
 and laid her head upon them, whilst in a low calm 
 voice she murmured, ' Here, then, it must end.' 
 
 Her own heart seemed to answer back and ask — 
 ' What must end ? ' Even her life ! — her life of twenty 
 years — her young strong life, with all its promise for 
 this world, and all its responsibilit}' for that wliich is to 
 
60 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 come. It must end ; there was no question as to that, 
 nor had there been any for the last few hours ; but as 
 she pronounced the sentence, the existence thus con- 
 demned seemed to pass in review before her, and drag 
 her back in spite of herself to live it over again in 
 thought from the fii'st day of remembered infancy to this 
 the last — the unendurable ! 
 
 Her earliest recollection was very sweet and bright. 
 The morning sunlight of a summer day shining on the 
 cottage that had been her home, and was still her 
 father's ; the good old grandmother, who supplied the 
 place of her dead mother, standing at the door, kissing 
 her and stroking her curls as she sent her off to school ; 
 and herself an innocent little child bounding away over 
 the dewy grass, singing and laughing in her careless glee 
 with the merry birds that carolled from l)ush and bough. 
 
 That summer moruing, and life all before her — oh, 
 the anguish of the contrast with this dreary night, and 
 death beneath her feet ! She literally groaned as she 
 thought of it, and cried out, — 
 
 ' that I were a little maid once more, playing at 
 my father's door !' In vain — in vain ' AVhat power 
 could turn the tide of time, and bring the sin-stained 
 \\-oman back to childhood's innocence ? God help those 
 who know the utter agony of the burdened conscience, 
 
THE LAST NIGHT. 61 
 
 longing with that ^•ain longing to recall the guileless 
 . days for ever gone ! 
 
 The next scene that came upon the rack of memory 
 was one of sadness ; yet, contrasted with her present 
 bitter wTetchedness, it seemed only to breathe of peace 
 and love. This was the death of her old grandmother. 
 It was from her that Lois had gained all the good that 
 had come to her from external influences. Ever since 
 the day when that good old woman had given the un- 
 conscious babe a 'Bible name,' in the hope that she 
 might be as faithful as the Lois of St. Paul, to the 
 night when on her deathbed she solemnly charged her 
 to ' attend her church, and keep from all bad ways,' she 
 had done her utmost to make the child as true a 
 Christian as herself. Nor had the heavenly light she 
 sought to kindle ever quite died out of the fallen girl's 
 life. It was that which now burnt up as with an 
 ardent flame her poor guilt-laden soul. 
 
 Lois remembered how they laid her grandmother in 
 the green chiirchyard on a calm spring day. ' And 
 that I w^ere lying by her ! ' burst from her lips, as again 
 the hopeless yearning for the purer past rose madly 
 within her. She remembered the touching Burial 
 Service, and how it stilled her little heart, and dried 
 her childish tears, she knew not how. Alas ! what 
 
62 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 words of blessed hope would ever sound over her 
 unhallowed grave ? Then that scene passed away, and 
 she saw her daily life as it went on for years ; her 
 father married again ; the stepmother was not unkind. 
 Poor Lois had not that excuse, as too many have who 
 share her evil deeds ; but she was a weak, timid woman, 
 wholly occupied with the children who were born to 
 her, and quite unequal to coping with a proud, high 
 spirit like that of Lois. She had scarce a place in the 
 girl's remembrance, where two figures stood forth at first 
 with equal prominence — her father, a hard, stern man, 
 whose religion was his respectability, as it is that of 
 nine-tenths of the better class of English peasants, and 
 it was a cultus which he found well received by the 
 divinity whom he most delighted to honour — the great 
 lord whose park-gate he kept, and in whose lodge he 
 lived rent-free. He had but one code for his children, 
 which from infancy they learned to understand : so 
 long as they did well, and brought him to honour, they 
 should share the best he had ; but in the day they 
 brought disgrace upon him, they might go seek a home 
 and a father where they would, for they should have 
 none under his roof-tree. Far brighter was the other 
 face that looked in upon her from the relentless past — 
 the sunny face and blue eyes of her own sister Annie. 
 
THE LAST NIGHT. 63 
 
 Annie ! She started as tlie name came to" lier ; she had 
 not thouglit of her since this day had wrouglit a total 
 change within her ; but now, when face to face with 
 death, all things wore their true aspect. The remem- 
 brance of her sister was the worst pang that had touched 
 her yet, for she knew that her own ruin had induced 
 that of the child she shoidd have guarded with a 
 mother's care. 
 
 She turned sickening from the thought, and welcomed 
 with avidity in its place the glowing recollection which 
 rushed over her of that day, the most beautiful and the 
 most disastrous of her life, whose memory even in that 
 dark hour still thrilled her with a mournful semblance 
 of delight. ^Yell had it been for her if she had 
 died ere ever that day dawned upon her. Yet how 
 little was there in its outward aspect to lead any to 
 suppose that it had been to her indeed a day of doom, 
 pregnant with the accursed seeds of sin, despair, and 
 death. It had been like other days ; she rose at early 
 morn, went through her household duties singing like a 
 bird, with light step and lighter heart, and then flew to 
 deck herself for that part of her daily business which 
 specially pleased her girlish vanity. It was her duty to 
 open the gate for the visitors at the Hall, and many a 
 time had she heard them remark upon the beauty which 
 
64 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 slie well knew she possessed. On that day, as she looked 
 at her face in the glass, she smiled with pleasure, for she 
 saw it was fresh and blooniiug as the rose, which she 
 had coquettishly placed at her waist ; and though she 
 longed in vain for a costly dress like those worn by the 
 ladies at the Hall, she could console herself triumphantly 
 with the reflection that none of them had such masses 
 of glossy black hair as those she had just dressed wdth 
 elaborate care. 
 
 She remembered how she went and sat down with 
 some work in her hand, on which she would have it sup- 
 posed she was engaged ; but really her dark eyes were 
 glancing hither and thither, noticing every one who 
 passed, and seeking an aliment for the excitement her 
 passionate nature craved. 
 
 At length she heard on the still summer air the 
 quick ringing gallop of a horse, and soon on the winding 
 road horse and rider appeared. She watched them as 
 they came along ; was there ever such a beautiful 
 sight! — that noble gentleman— for so he seemed to her, 
 with his fine face and his haughty bearing, holding in 
 his fiery black mare as it champed the bit, and sent the 
 foam in snow-white flakes on its glossy mane. She 
 knew who he was, though she had never seen him 
 before. He was comino- as a visitor of some weeks to 
 
TIIK LAST NICIIT. G5 
 
 the Hall, aud his servant had arrived that day with his 
 luggage. He had been at the lodge, aud had spoken of 
 his master. Such a brave colonel, just come from 
 India., where he had killed at least a score of blacks in 
 the mutiny with his own right hand. So in Lois's 
 eyes he was a hero. 
 
 She was ready waiting at the gate as he came up. 
 She flung it wide open, and as he rode slowly in she 
 looked up at him with an expression of undisguised 
 admiration on her bright blushing face. Something in 
 her glance attracted him ; he looked down at her, and 
 remained struck with some surprise at the brilliancy 
 of her fresh youthful beauty. He made a trifling re- 
 mark, which brought light into her eyes and a gay 
 smile over all her face. She answered him, glancing 
 up with a look, half coy, half admiring ; and when at 
 last he rode slowly on towards the house, he gazed 
 back more than once at the pretty figure leaning against 
 the gate and watching him. 
 
 Next day he sauntered up to the lodge, and stood 
 talking in tlie little garden with Lois, — and the next, 
 and the next ; why linger over the sickening details ? 
 Soon they walked together daily in a wood at some 
 little distance, where she went to meet him. Colonel 
 Com-tenay stayed tlirough the whole shooting season at 
 
 VOL. I. E 
 
66 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 the Hall. By the time the clay of his departure came, 
 Lois loved him with her \Adiole heart and soul, and de- 
 sired nothing so much as that he should know it ; her 
 ears were closed for ever to all voices in heaven or on 
 earth alike save his ; and his least word alone governed 
 her will. She saw no more the far-off glory resting on the 
 delectable hills, of which her dead teacher had told her ; 
 only the sight of his dear face was light and life to her ; 
 and all things that pertained to peace, and honour, and 
 a quiet conscience were torn from her soul in the 
 whirlwind of passion. 
 
 It was to this that he had willed to bring her, work- 
 ing thereunto with calm, dehberate forethought. So 
 when he left the Hall he rode away on his beautiful 
 black mare which was to take him to the station, some 
 miles distant ; and his host came to the door with him, 
 and took leave of this brave, honourable man with the 
 highest esteem, and Lois's father held the gate open for 
 him, as his daughter somehow was not at home ; and 
 this noble colonel smiled as the man touched his hat, 
 and threw him a guinea, which he thought a very hand- 
 some gratuity, and then he galloped away to the station, 
 and walked in amongst passengers and porters with an 
 air of lordly ease. His servant met him, grave and re- 
 spectful, of whom lie asked the question, ' Whicli car- 
 
THE LAST NIGHT. G7 
 
 riage ? ' and he was conducted to one where sat a woman 
 closely veiled. He sprang in, the train darted off, and 
 never more, in all the retributive ages of eternity, can 
 that wretched man undo the fearful ruin he lias worked 
 on that poor lost soul. 
 
 Three montlis of intoxicating delight — the recollec- 
 tion of them rushed over her like a delirious dream. A 
 villa at Eichmond, servants at her command, beautiful 
 dresses, a fine horse to ride, — these were as nothing 
 compared to the wild joy of being with the object of 
 her idolatry. 
 
 But in the course of that brief fever of pleasure she 
 was pierced with one sharp pang, which seemed for a 
 moment to tear the veil from her eyes and show her 
 what she was, and whither tending. A friend of Colonel 
 Courtenay's, who had been staying at the Hall, had 
 seen and admired her sister Annie ; but lacking that 
 indomitable determination to minister to his own grati- 
 fication at all times wdiich characterized Courtenay, he 
 had regretted that she was a girl of good character, and 
 thought of her no more. Now, the sight of Lois, and 
 his friend's superior villany recalled the wicked thought, 
 and ripened it to crime. 
 
 At his suggestion, Courtenay told Lois to write and 
 invite Annie to come and visit her. Annie ! At the 
 
68 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 very tlioiiglit her proud wayward heart sank within 
 her. Anything but that. She saw her again, the little 
 child, so sweet, so innocent, kneeling at her grand- 
 mother's knee to say her evening prayer, ' Pray, God, 
 bless my sister Lois.' Oh, whatever she was herself, 
 whatever she might be hereafter, she could not betray 
 that innocent child ! For the first time she resisted ; 
 she clung to Courtenay, kissed his hands, and told him 
 she could not obey. "What ! his bought slave dared to 
 dispute his will ? One word sucli as he could speak, 
 one frown such as he could give, and she was at his 
 feet in a moment ; she would do whatever he pleased. 
 She wrote and told her sister she was married — married 
 to a gentleman, and she must come and join her ; that 
 a like brilliant fate might be liers ; and with that she 
 sent her money for her journey, more than Annie had 
 ever seen in her life before. The poor child was un- 
 happy at home since her sister's disappearance. She 
 asked no leave of the stern father, but stole away to 
 join the companion of her happy childliood in the home 
 Lois had described to her ; and she knew not ' that the 
 dead were there, and that her guests were in the depths 
 of hell !' 
 
 One single day little Annie dwelt in that house of 
 splendid infamy, bringing with her as it were an atmo- 
 
THE LAST NIGHT. 69 
 
 sphere of freshness and innocence which recalled to Lois 
 the dewy fragrance of the early mornings when they 
 gathered wild-flowers in the woods, and the pnre serenity 
 of the starlit nights when they slept on their little bed 
 clasped in each other's arms. One day, and the next 
 Annie's father summoned her home, and the gentleman 
 whose admiring eyes had met her at every turn, when he 
 was staying at the Hall a fev/ months before, offered to 
 drive her to the station ; but Lois heard the laughing 
 communication to Courtenay of his real plans in taking 
 the girl with him to the railway. Annie went, well 
 pleased with the novel excitement of the rapid motion, 
 and with the opportunity of displaying the hat and 
 feathers which this saiue gentleman had given her that 
 morning ; but thinking no evil beyond the indulgence 
 of her coquettish vanity. As the horses bounded for- 
 wards at their master's touch, she turned her laughing 
 face, and kissed her hand to Lois, and from that hour 
 her sister never saw her more, nor did her light step 
 ever again cross the threshold of her father's home. 
 
 And, alas ! Lois soon ceased to think of her ; for the 
 first shadows of the night of sorrow, whose total dark- 
 ness had now overtaken her, were deepening round her 
 even then. She lived but in one, and that one was 
 beginning to neglect, or rather to forsake her. Days and 
 
70 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 weeks lie left her now alone, and the look of calm con- 
 tempt with which he met her reproaches froze into her 
 very SQul. Then there came a day after his absence 
 had been longer than it had ever been before, when a 
 letter w'as brought to her from him, worded almost as 
 tenderly as in the first rapturous days of their acquaint- 
 ance; he told her he must be absent some time, and 
 he could no longer keep her in the villa she now in- 
 habited. She must go to a ' boarding-house ' in Lon- 
 don, which he indicated, and remain there till she heard 
 from him. He bade her enjoy herself, and follow in all 
 things the example of the companions she would find 
 leading a merry life there. 
 
 This letter w^as brought by Courtenay's confideiitial 
 servant, who had orders to remove her ; and Lois, so 
 soon as she had read it, began witli tears of passionate 
 agony to ask wdien she should see his master, and im- 
 plored of the man to let her go to him at once. He 
 answered, with an insolent sneer, that her only chance 
 was to do as the Colonel desired ; the gay house was 
 the place for her, and doubtless she would see Colonel 
 Courtenay there, ' or half-a-dozen others as good,' he 
 muttered audibly. Lois felt to the innermost depths of 
 her heart, that the time w^as come when she must drink 
 the bitter dregs of the intoxicating cup of pleasure. 
 
THE LAST NIGHT. 71 
 
 which the cruel hand of this very honourable gentleman 
 had held to her lips; but she never guessed the full 
 extent of her calamity. She had ever believed Ids 
 •lightest word, and she believed the mocking promise he 
 made her now. She was to remain there till she heard 
 from him ; therefore she did not hesitate to go to this 
 place at once, clinging desperately to the only hope that 
 remained to her of seeing him, without whom she knew 
 she could not live. She went, and she remained there 
 waiting ; waiting for the fulfilment of his word as men 
 wait a reprieve from execution. Lost as slie was, dead 
 to the voice of conscience and the sense of moral right, 
 she yet loathed the place, the life, and herself, who 
 perforce lived in it. One thought alone sustained her : 
 day and night one face was before her eyes, one voice in 
 her ears ; and the cry of her longing agony went out, 
 hour after hour, to him who had taken her from her home 
 and her God, imploring him to come and give her back 
 at least the treasure for which she had paid that tremen- 
 dous price. In vain ! She might as well have called upon 
 the vanished past to give her back the guilelessness of 
 childhood. But still she trusted him, until one day she 
 heard two men who frequented the house talldng of 
 Colonel Courtenay. They knew him, and she listened 
 with a terrible anxiety wliich seemed to exhaust hex 
 
72 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 very life. They spoke of liis approaching departure for 
 India, and mentioned that he was to sail in the ' Hero' 
 two days from that time. Five minutes later, Lois had 
 crossed the threshold of that accursed house, and the 
 night of Courtenay's departure found her on the lonely 
 rock, the dank night dews falling on her unprotected 
 head, the sullen waters chafing and moaning at her feet. 
 
 Yes ; she had retraced her whole life to this hour ; 
 and now unto this hour she had come, and here, she 
 echoed back as she began — here it must end. One 
 stinging thought remained to her, however, from that 
 sad retrospect, — the thought of her sister Annie, lost — 
 lost through her means ! She dashed her head on the 
 ground, and literally groaned when she thought of it. 
 ' Annie, Annie ! poor mother's darling, she must not 
 come to an end like this.' Suddenly she lifted up her 
 head, raised herself on her knees, and prayed : 
 
 ' Our Father which art in heaven, I dare not pray for 
 myself — but for Annie— for Annie, oh let me pray ! She 
 did not know Avhat she was doing, and I did. Oh save 
 her, save her for the dear Lord's sake. Amen.' 
 
 The prayer seemed to calm her anguish. ' Perhaps 
 God will let me do something for Annie,' she murmured. 
 ' What was it grandmother used to say ? " He is full of 
 compassion and of great goodness ;" at least I will try. 
 
THE LAST NKJUT. 73 
 
 I shall die tlie easier for the chance that it may help 
 her.' 
 
 She took from her bosom a little ornamental pocket- 
 book, cherished there because Conrteuay had given it to 
 her, and wrote on the page prepared for indelible writ- 
 ing these words : — 
 
 ' To Colonel Couetenay. 
 
 ' My deae, deae Geoege, — When you get this I shall 
 be dead — dead and cold in the grave, where I '11 .never 
 trouble you more; so I've nothing to ask you for 
 myself It is all over with me. You have forsaken 
 and deceived me, and I can't live; tliat's all. I must 
 die. Don't think I am blaming you, my dearest ; for I 
 love you still. Oh, how I love you ! But I do want you 
 to do one thing for pity's sake. I want you to save 
 Annie — my poor little sister Annie. George — George, 
 don't let her come to a death like mine. I tell you it 
 is terrible. Xo one but you can save her ; for you only 
 know who took her aAvay. I don't know his name 
 myseK. Oh, find her out, I beseech you, and send her 
 home to father. It is the last thing I ask you. I can't 
 write any longer. George, good-bye ; I want to die 
 quick, for I can't bear this misery ; so no more for ever. 
 — From your loving Lois.' 
 
74 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 The fact of writing to him had brought as it were 
 his presence before her, and stirred the depths of her 
 anguish till it was unbearable. With trembling haste 
 she closed the pocket-book, wrapt it in many folds of 
 her handkerchief, and placed it far within her bosom, 
 where she thought the water could not reach it ; then 
 she started to her feet, looked wistfully all round, and 
 saw, far off on the eastern horizon, the first faint streak 
 of dawn ; at the sight she uttered a shriek : ' Oh ! I 
 never will see daylight more, — my own dear George ; 
 good-bye ! ' 
 
 She clasped her hands above her head, and bounded 
 from the rock, the dark cold waters opened to receive 
 her ; one moment of convulsive struggling in the horror 
 of the death agony, one despairing glance of the wild 
 terrified eyes to heaven, one glance of the dawning 
 day upon the white distorted face, and the dark deed 
 was done, tlie wondrous human life gave way ; the soul 
 violently wrenched from its earthly dwelling-place went 
 forth to its account ; and the beautifid form, so fair in 
 its youth, and health, and strength, fashioned for long 
 life and work in the service of its God, went down a 
 dead mass of senseless clay to swell the vast corruption 
 of the grave. 
 
 Our ideas of a murderer mostly carry us to the con- 
 
THE LAST NIGHT. 75 
 
 deiiined cell at Newgate, or, more fitly, to the gliastly 
 Scaffold and the sea of human faces round it waiting to 
 behold justice done on the destroyer of life, and blood 
 given for blood ; yet there are other aspects of a murderer 
 in the sight of the Great God, who sees not as man sees, 
 and here is one of them : — A handsome, smiling gentle- 
 man, seated in the luxurious saloon of a fine vessel 
 among a merry group of passengers, the gayest of the 
 gay, delighting all present by his charming manners, 
 his exquisite voice, and his sparkling wit ; admired by 
 every woman, envied by every man, a favourite with all. 
 How courteous he is, how gentle, how softly he speaks, 
 how sweetly he smiles ; how lightly he passes over his 
 own great merit when they speak of the Victoria Cross, 
 with which his sovereign had decorated him a few days 
 before, as the reward of his distinguished bravery, and 
 in recognition of the great advantages he had given up 
 for a punctilious point of honour. Wliat affinity could 
 that favoured individual have with the lonely figure, 
 which at that very hour was crouching in mortal agony 
 upon a dark rock overhanging turbid waters, in which 
 she was about to quench her Life ? 
 
 By the side of this brave officer sits his beautiful wife, 
 to whom he has sworn a hundred times that she is his 
 first, his only love ; and now as night advances he re- 
 tires to rest, and lays himself down in dreamless sleep, 
 
76 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 .such as men should know whose hearts are free from 
 care, and whose conscience is unstained by sin ; and in 
 dreamless sleep he still was lying when the first streak 
 of dawn flashed on the eastern heaven, and touched 
 with rosy light his slumbering eyes. That same first 
 ray of dawn, which on the lone rock by the sea drew 
 from the white lips of her for whom he had made the 
 sight of God's fair sun accursed, the despairing cry, ' Oh ! 
 I never will see daylight more, my own dear George, 
 good-bye !' And as he slumbers on, the moaning waters 
 close over her whom he has murdered, and the life he 
 has blasted is extinguished in that most fearful of all 
 deaths, which leaves to the undying soul no time for a 
 tardy repentance. And for this man, this murderer, shall 
 there be no condemned cell, no scaffold, no avenuinc; 
 justice and consenting crowd ? Who is it that has 
 said, ' Vengeance is mine, I will repay V 
 
 Tiittle shall it avail him that he sleeps securely now. 
 Vengeance, too, may sleep a while, but yet a little, and 
 his condemned cell shall be the grave, his day of doom 
 that resurrection morning, when the Judge of all the 
 earth shall execute justice on him, and the witnessing 
 crowd shall be the mighty nndtitude of quick and dead 
 assembled before the great white throne, to hear for 
 every soul that ever lived the sentence of the Eternal 
 Truth." 
 
CHAPTEE Y. 
 
 THE TRUTH REVEALED. 
 
 EENESTINE COUETENAY returned to the hotel 
 after the departure of the ' Hero' with some dread 
 of the dreary evening before her. In general she was 
 only too fond of solitude, but on this day she would gladly 
 have escaped by any means from the uneasy thoughts 
 that rankled in her mind. Feeling thus, it was with 
 no small pleasure that she welcomed the companionship 
 of the little terrier, Fury, whose speaking eyes beamed 
 with delight from under the overhanging shaggy hair as 
 she approached him. She had tested his powers of con- 
 solation before, and there is a very real comfort to be 
 derived from the friendship of a dog. Those who have 
 experienced it will know that this is true ; and if they 
 wish to analyse the elements of the satisfaction to be 
 derived from this cause, they will find it in the fact 
 that the affection of a dog is so generous and confiding 
 as regards the person he loves, and so unexacting as 
 rcGrards himself A dos; has none of that self-conscious- 
 
78 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 ness which our human friend invariably has, more or 
 less, and to which we are obliged to minister, whilst he 
 V believes so implicitly in the perfection and goodness of 
 his master or mistress, that we need never fear to be 
 doubted or misunderstood by him. 
 
 In the future histoiy of Ernestine and Fury, it will 
 be seen that she at least did well to trust to his almost 
 human comprehension of her feelings, and sympathy 
 with them. He took up his position now at her feet, as 
 she sat by the window while the shadows of evening 
 deepened round her, preferring the aspect of the sky, 
 dull and lowering as it was, to the flaring of the gas- 
 lights within. There was nothing to be gained by letting 
 her mind rest on the subject uppermost in her thoughts, 
 for she could come to no conclusion respecting the un- 
 happy girl whose despairing look still haunted her, till 
 she had seen her next day, as she hoped to do ; and 
 therefore she turned herself resolutely to the contem- 
 plation of her own plans of usefulness for the uncertain 
 period which must elapse, before her marriage would 
 bring definite duties and occupations to fill her ardent 
 mind. 
 
 Ernestine Courtenay had of late been greatly in- 
 fluenced by one of the most striking characteristics of 
 the age in which we live — the spirit of inquiry now 
 
THE TRUTH REVEALED. 79 
 
 agitating the whole length and breadth of the land as 
 to the real condition of the lower classes, and the re- 
 sponsibility of the upper ranks with regard to them. 
 In a thousand different shapes, in details unnumbered, 
 each one more perplexing than another, has the same 
 great cj[uestiou arisen. The wisest and most learned 
 amongst us have given it their deepest attention. Many 
 who have greater gifts than wisdom or learning have 
 given their lives to it, and even the worldly and indif- 
 ferent have it thrust before them whether they will or 
 not ; but as yet the result of this living recognition of a 
 mighty universe of suffering and evil lying at our very 
 doors, is the conviction, that of all social problems the 
 most perplexing, the most mysterious, and we may say the 
 most awful, is the condition of the poor, who are never to 
 cease out of the land, and the true natm-e of their claims 
 upon us ; for this is what hitherto the activity and en- 
 terprise of the nineteenth century have discovered on 
 the subject, that in this wealthy, enlightened, and Chris- 
 tian country a portion, fearfully large, of the population 
 are heathens in religion, worn down by the bitter pain 
 of abject want, and brutish from the uncontrolled aban- 
 donment of themselves to evil. 
 
 "We know that round all the luxury, the comfort, and 
 the domestic happiness of our country there is a vast 
 
80 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 surging mass of suffering and wrong, where the souls 
 and bodies of God's creatures, untaught, unpitied, and 
 imsuccoured, are drifting day by day from a life unblest 
 to a death without hope. We know this. We know, 
 moreover, that it is our duty to remedy these startling 
 evils ; and, for the most part, there is in the upper ranks 
 a willingness, and even an anxiety, to perform this 
 duty, but how, in the name of all that is practical, how 
 is it to be done ? Those who have never tried to learn 
 by their own personal experience how the misery and 
 degradation of tlie poor is to be relieved, can have no 
 idea of the gigantic difficulties that stand in the way of 
 the plain precepts, to feed the hungry, to instruct the 
 ignorant, to loose the bands of sin and let the oppressed 
 go free. 
 
 W^e hear of men and women dying of starvation on 
 the workhouse steps ; of the constant recurrence at 
 Waterloo Bridge of suicides such as that of Lois ; of 
 children educated in vice ; and we know that for things 
 such as these, we, living amongst them in social and 
 intellectual luxury, shall surely be brought to judgment 
 by the Father of the poor. Yet when we would seek to 
 succour or to christianize them, we find ourselves en- 
 couraging drunkenness and imposture, — idleness, which 
 prefers a trade of lucrative infamy to a life of honest 
 
THE TRUTH REVEALED. " 81 
 
 labour, — and that deliberate wickedness which has dis- 
 covered that certain evil qualities have their market 
 value in this world, and therefore are to be cherished 
 and ripened by every means available. In speaking thus, 
 of course, we do but touch, as it were, the outermost edge 
 of that great ocean of darkness and difficulty in which 
 this question is steeped ; but these were some of the re- 
 flections which passed through the mind of Ernestine 
 Courtenay as she sat gazing out that night upon the 
 dim gray sky. She thought on this subject with per- 
 plexity, it is true, and yet with calmness ; for there was 
 peace for her in the fixed resolution she had taken, that 
 at least in the narrow circle of her individual existence, 
 not only before her marriage, but always, so far as other 
 claims permitted, she would work out this problem with 
 all the energy, power, and devotion of which her life 
 was capable. 
 
 Her life — one little, feeble life, how impotent a gift it 
 seemed wherewith to meet the terrible vastness of the 
 evils which lay even within the sphere of her own 
 vision ; yet it was a life which, like that of every other 
 human being on this earth, had its special mission for 
 the furtherance of God's glory, and if even it accom- 
 plished but a small amount of actual good, it yet might 
 clear a little space for the labours of more efficient 
 
 VOL. I. F 
 
82 HIDDEN DEPTHS. \ 
 
 workers, and sound at least some of tlie unknown j 
 depths of that infinite suffering which was heaving \ 
 and moaning around her. For Ernestine Courtenay "be- 
 lieved in the immortality of the soul, unlike the great ■ 
 majority of those wlio call themselves by the name of 
 the religion which is founded on that doctrine ; unlike 
 them, for if that wonderful belief had really fallen upon 
 their spirits in the greatness of its glory and calm, 
 they could neither have fretted and pined over the 
 passing troubles of their little day on earth, nor looked 
 with such dismay on the manifold evils in the world. 
 To believe in tiie soul's immortality as Ernestine did, is 
 to know that for the whole mass of this earth's misery 
 there is an infinite compensation, a perfect solution, in 
 that grand eternal Love into which all of the human 
 race who seek it, shall be drawn up to find, in perfect 
 union with the will of God, for the past as well as the 
 present, a thankful acceptance of that which in the | 
 darkness of earth's night seemed to be evil, but in the j 
 pure light of the unending day shiues forth as heavenly i 
 good. 
 
 This was her faith, and therefore it was that, with a i 
 quiet resolution of enduring constancy, she prepared to I 
 give herself, so far as she might, to advance, were it but 
 a hair's-breadth, that glorious consunnnation. As yet 
 
THE TRUTH REVEALED. 83 
 
 she (lid not sec one step before her as to the means l^y 
 which she was to cany out this resolution ; not because 
 there was any lack of opportunities, but because the 
 field was so vast, the evils so manifold, the channels 
 of usefulness for her and for all so numerous and so 
 urgent, that she believed to each one on earth must 
 be given some special work to do on behalf of their 
 fellow-creatures, if only they have the heart to under- 
 take it ; and believing this, she did not doubt that 
 her own portion of the universal labour would be made 
 known to her when a fit time came. She knew who 
 had said, ' He that followeth me shall not walk in 
 darkness ; ' and she felt that amid all the dimness and 
 perplexity of the world in which He went about doing 
 good, the trace of His steps shines forth ever as a 
 limiinous path, whereon the feet of all may safely tread, 
 who follow Him in sincerity and truth. 
 
 And while Ernestine sat there thinking thus, the 
 darkness deepened round her, even as the night which 
 never was to lighten into day was deepening in the 
 soul of her who was keeping her death vigil on the 
 lonely rock by the cold sea shore ; and Ernestine 
 little dreamt that, in the silent tragedy which was being- 
 enacted there beneath the eye of God alone, she was 
 to find the token her faith so wisely sought to show her 
 
84 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 the work appointed to her on earth for the glory of God 
 and the good of His suffering creatures. 
 
 Ernestine's first thought next morning was for the poor 
 girl of whom she hoped to hear some tidings, and when 
 her early breakfast was over, she sat waiting anxiously 
 for the arrival of the policeman, who had promised to 
 come as soon as possible to tell her the result of his 
 search. Hour after hour passed away, however, with- 
 out his appearance, and Ernestine began to grow very 
 impatient. She did not wish to remain in Seamouth 
 longer than she coxdd help, and the idea that he might 
 after all fail in obtaining any trace of the unhappy 
 girl, gave her more pain than she could well account 
 for. She waited some time witliout making any inquiry, 
 for the dread that her brother might indeed be only too 
 deeply implicated in the matter, made her shrink from 
 mentioning the subject; but at last, as the day wore 
 on, slie could no longer delay, and haAdng sent for 
 her servant, she told him to go and find the police- 
 man slie had seen the day before, as she wished to 
 speak to him. The man looked perplexed, and at last 
 said, with some hesitation, that the policeman had been 
 there already. 
 
 ' And why was I not told ?' exclaimed Ernestine, much 
 
THE TRUTH REVEALED. 85 
 
 vexed. The servant shifted uneasily from one foot to 
 the other. 
 
 ' The policeman found Fenton still here/ he said, ' and 
 he took him out with him.' 
 
 Fenton was Colonel Courtenay's confidential servant, 
 whom he had left behind. 
 
 ' What had he to do with Fenton ? ' said Ernestine, 
 colouring ; ' you knew that I had told him to come and 
 speak to myself this morning.' 
 
 ' He found that Fenton could give him some informa- 
 tion he required.' 
 
 Ernestine turned away to hide her burning cheeks. 
 ' The man has made a great mistake,' she said ; ' I 
 Avished him simply to ascertain where that young 
 woman had gone. You will go, if you please, and call 
 Fenton back, there is no occasion for his interference ; 
 and tell the pohceman to come to me.' 
 
 ' He said he would return in the evening, ma'am ; but I 
 think I ought to let you know there has been an accident.' 
 
 ' An accident ! Wliat do you mean V 
 
 ' That young girl, ma'am, it is no use looking after 
 her any more, — she was fovmd this morning drowned ! ' 
 
 Ernestine started to her feet and stood transfixed ; the 
 pallid face of the girl as she had last seen her, with her 
 despairing look fixed on George Courtenay, rose up 
 
86 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 before her, and a horror beyond words took possession of 
 her as to the manner of her death ; but the man had said 
 an accident. Oh ! that it might, indeed, be only an acci- 
 dent which liad quenched that forlorn life ! She clasped 
 her hands tightly together that her agitation might not 
 appear, and said, ' How did it happen ? ' Is it known 
 how she was drowned — quick — tell me ? ' 
 
 ' There is no doubt, ma'am, that she made aM^ay with 
 herself. Two men in a fishing-boat saw her throw 
 herself into the water, and they went to her as quick as 
 they could, but before they could get her out she was 
 quite dead.' 
 
 Ernestine buried her face in her hands with almost a 
 groan of anguish. The man went on hurriedly, as if 
 there were something which must be said, and the 
 sooner the better. 
 
 ' The policeman came here, ma'am, to ask you to 
 attend the coroner's inquest on the body; but Teuton told 
 him he could give more information than you could, and 
 he said the coroner would be glad not to have to ask 
 a lady to attend; but the policeman told me to beg you 
 to be so good as not to leave Seamouth till he had seen 
 you, for tliere was some kind of a paper addressed to 
 Colonel Courtenay found on the body, and they wished 
 to deliver it to you, as the Colonel has sailed. The 
 
THE TRUTH KEVEALED. 87 
 
 policeman said \ut would come when he Avas off duty 
 to-night.' 
 
 ' That will do,' said Ernestine in a low voice ; ' I will 
 see the man when he comes ;' and the servant left the 
 room. Then, when she saw that she was alone, she 
 flung herself upon her knees, and sent as it were her 
 whole soul to heaven in the one imploring cry: ' My 
 God, forgive, forgive him ;' but the very words which 
 thus came spontaneously to her lips brought Avith them 
 a revulsion of feeling. ' AVhy should I judge him ?' she 
 exclaimed, starting to her feet ; ' my poor brother, he may 
 be wholly guiltless of this dreadful death ; he may have 
 erred through thoughtlessness, or even through com- 
 passion for the lost. I have heard of such tilings ; at 
 least I will wait till I know the whole truth.' And 
 unable to endure the restlessness of suspense, and the 
 dull aching at her heart which showed that she strove 
 in vain to deceive herself, she walked to and fro through 
 the miserable hours of that long afternoon, seeking 
 vainly to lose, were it but for a moment, the conscious- 
 ness of the terrible certainty from which there was no 
 escape, that the unhappy girl she had seen the day 
 before living, breathing, suffering, now lay cold and rigid 
 in the irrevocable silence of that death which to her had 
 been no heaven-sent rest, but a self-wrought crime ; 
 
88 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 and wliy — why had she died ? This was the fearful 
 question that racked poor Ernestine through that dark 
 troubled day. 
 
 At a late hour she was disturbed by the entrance 
 of a waiter with the evening paper, which he laid on 
 the table before her. ' Latest edition, ma'am, just out ; 
 thought you might like to see it;' and having lighted 
 the gas he left the room. 
 
 Ernestine continued to walk to and fro restlessly, 
 taking no notice of the newspaper, till, as she passed 
 the table, her eye accidentally caught the heading 
 of a column in the ' Latest Intelligence,' ' Inquest 
 on the body of a young woman found drowned this 
 morning.' 
 
 She had not thought of this, and a sickening dread 
 as to what she might learn came over her as she seized 
 the paper in her trembling hands and sat down to 
 read it. 
 
 The account of the inquest and the depositions of 
 the witnesses were given at length; for such events 
 were much less common in Seamouth than they would 
 have been in London. 
 
 First there was the testimony of the two men who 
 had witnessed the suicide. They described how they 
 had been out all night Avith tlieir nets, and were 
 
THE TRUTH liEYEALED. 89 
 
 coming slowly homewards as the dawn approached, 
 when suddenly they saw the figure of a woman stand- 
 ing on a rock ; one moment only they saw her stand, 
 and then with a cry, whose mournful echo reached tliem 
 even where they M'cre, they saw her fling herself with 
 one bound into the sea. She sank, then rose for a 
 moment, and sank again. They rowed with all possible 
 speed to the iAa.ee, which they had carefully noted, and 
 found the w\ater sufficiently shallow to give them a 
 chance of reaching the body with their boat-hook. 
 Nearly half-an-hour elapsed, however, before they suc- 
 ceeded in finding it, and when they w^ere at last enabled 
 to bring her on shore, they were convinced that she 
 must be quite dead. Nevertheless they carried her to 
 the nearest house, a fisherman's cottage, and one of the 
 men went at once for the doctor. 
 
 The doctor's evidence was then given very briefly, to 
 the effect that he had endeavoured for upwards of an 
 hour to restore animation, without success, and that he 
 had no doubt the young woman had been dead some 
 time before he saw her. On examining the body, he 
 had found a pocket-book within her dress, which had 
 been placed in the hands of the coroner. 
 
 The coroner here stated that the pocket-book con- 
 tained only a letter addressed to Colonel Courtenay, of 
 
90 HIDDEN DEPTHS. ' 
 
 the — til Begiment, which he would lay before the jury 
 when the witnesses had been examined. 
 
 Policeman X next stated that he had been requested 
 the day before by Miss Courtenay to find out the abode 
 of a girl she had seen on board the ' Hero ;' that he had 
 traced the individual in question to a lodging-house 
 which he had reached in the evening, and found from 
 the woman who kept it that she had just gone out. 
 He had followed in the direction she had taken, and he 
 found that the last person who had seen her was an old 
 man, to whom she had given money ; and he then lost 
 all trace of her, till hearing in the morning of the 
 suicide, he suspected it might be the same person, and 
 took the lodging-house keeper to see her, who at once 
 identified the body. 
 
 This Avoman now appeared, and said that the girl had 
 been for two days at her house. She had seemed very 
 energetic and animated when she first came, and stated 
 that she was going to India in the ' Hero.' At first she 
 had said she was going with the soldiers' wives, but on 
 returning from the emigrant depot announced that she 
 had changed her plans. The next day she had been out 
 all morning, the woman did not know where, but after 
 the ' Hero' had sailed she came back so altered that 
 she seemed no longer like the same person. She had 
 
THE TRUTH REVEALED. 91 
 
 sat dowu ill a corner with lier face buried in her hands 
 till evening, then she rose, paid what she owed without 
 speaking a word, and went out. Th.e woman never saw 
 lier again till the policeman took her to look at her 
 dead body. 
 
 An old man then described his meeting ^^dth her near 
 the beach ; her giving him a purse containing money, 
 and her coming back to ask him to x^ray God to bless her. 
 
 Teuton, Colonel Courtenay's servant, was then called 
 to state what he knew of the deceased. His evidence 
 was given in such a manner as to disj)lay the peculiar 
 characteristics of that pliase of human nature which 
 develops itself in the fashionable servant of a fashion- 
 able man. It was very evident that INIr. Fenton found 
 the public revelation he was called upon to make, a 
 favourable opportunity for paying off his late master 
 for the various occasions in which his selfishness had 
 interfered with his servant's pleasures or vices — the 
 terms being in this case synonymous. 
 
 He deposed that he knew the deceased very well. Her 
 name was Lois Brook. She was the daughter of the gate- 
 keeper at Carleton Hall. Colonel Courtenay had seen 
 her there. She was a fine-looking girl then, and he had 
 taken her away with him, as gentlemen will. He kept 
 her three months at Pdchmond, longer than Fenton had 
 
92 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 ever known the Colonel keep a girl. By that time he 
 was courting Miss Julia Talbot, his present wife, so he 
 sent Lois Brook to a gay house, and never troubled his 
 head about her again ; but the girl was wild about the 
 Colonel, and was fool enough to fancy he would come 
 to see her. Fenton had no doubt, from what he had 
 heard, tliat she was determined, by hook or by crook, to 
 go to India with him. He had been on board the 
 ' Hero' the day before when she was found in the hold. 
 He heard her begging the Colonel to take her to India 
 with him. The Colonel swore at her, he believed. Any- 
 how, he settled lier somehow ; and Fenton ^^'ould really 
 have been sorry for the girl, if he had not been so used 
 to that sort of thing in Colonel Courtenay's service. 
 He saw the girl taken ashore, and he was not surprised 
 to find that she had made away with herself. The 
 Colonel could make himself very pleasant to those who 
 only saw him occasionally, and Fenton knew he had 
 promised the girl half a hundred times he would never 
 forsake her ; and he had often heard her tell him she 
 would die if he did, so she kept her word to him sure 
 enough ; but, bless you ! the Colonel would not have 
 cared if she had made a hole in the water before his 
 very eyes. 
 
 Here Fenton's evidence terminated, and the letter 
 
THE TRUTH REVEALED. 93 
 
 poor Lois MTote in her death agony was handed round 
 by the jury. It was given entire in the paper, and 
 Earnestine read it word for word. Finally the jury 
 consulted, and gave in their verdict, the usual conven- 
 tionalism, — ' That the deceased destroyed herself in a fit 
 of temporary insanity ;' a sentence which they recorded 
 with as much pomposity as if it had been a striking 
 novelty. Just as they were about to separate, however, 
 a juror started up, a butcher, as it happened, by trade, 
 but an honest, true -hearted man by right of nature, and 
 demanded that a resolution shoidd be passed, expres- 
 sive of the jury's extreme disapproval of Colonel Cour- 
 tenay's conduct to the unfortunate girl. The coroner, a 
 man of higher ' cultivation' than the sensitive butcher, 
 was quite shocked at such an unheard-of proposal. 
 Most unbecoming, most improper. They were not there 
 to try Colonel Courtenay, a gentleman of position and 
 high family ; a very distinguished officer, the coroner 
 believed, decorated by her Majesty. Of course gentle- 
 men would indulge their little fancies, but it was higldy 
 creditable to Colonel Courte>nay that he had dismissed 
 this young woman before his marriage. The coroner 
 had no doubt the gallant gentleman would have amply 
 provided for her, if she had not placed herself out of 
 his reach in this very culpable manner. The coroner 
 
94 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 trusted he should never again have to comment upon 
 such an improper proposal from a juror. 
 
 With this the inquest terminated. Ernestine Cour- 
 tenay let the paper fall from her grasp, and sat with her 
 hands clasped on her knees, and her eyes wide open, 
 gazing into vacancy, wliile a sensation of horror and 
 dismay chilled her to the heart. Gradually, as she sat 
 there, an expression of grave determination, such as 
 never before had settled over that fair sweet face, grew 
 dark and rigid upon it. There are moments in this life 
 which come to us with such tremendous power, that 
 they can actually petrify, as it were, the subtle human 
 spirit into one peculiar mould, in which it remains fixed 
 and unchanged for life. Such a moment there was for 
 Ernestine when she learnt the truth of her brother's 
 guilt and his victim's death, and her soul was sealed in 
 that hour with an impress wliicli it would carry with it 
 into eternity. 
 
 She had, however, little time for reflection ; the 
 policeman was ushered in, and she turned round calm, 
 though deadly pale, to meet him. He brought the 
 pocket-book containing the letter to Colonel Courtenay, 
 and said he was desired by the coroner to place it in 
 her hands. She shivered as she took it, discoloured 
 by the water which had blotted out a human life. The 
 
THE TRUTH KEVEALED. 95 
 
 policeman was al)out to enlarge on the inquest, but she 
 stopped him hastily. 
 
 ' I have seen the newspaper ; I know it all ; but I 
 wish to ask you one question, Where is the body ? ' 
 
 ' It is still at the fisherman's cottage, ma'am ; but it 
 will be removed to the workhouse to-night, and buried 
 to-morrow by the parish authorities. If they had 
 brought in felo dc sc, you know, ma'am, it could not have 
 been — ' 
 
 ' I know, I know,' exclaimed Ernestine, hastily in- 
 terrupting him ; ' but can you tell me if there would be 
 any objection to my undertaking the funeral expenses ?' 
 
 ' Well, ma'am, I shoidd say not, by no means ; they 
 would be glad enough to save their pockets, I make no 
 doubt.' 
 
 ' But in that case could the body be allowed to remain 
 wdiere it is till proper arrangements could be made ? I 
 should not like it to be moved.' 
 
 ' That depends on the fisherman and his wife ; if they 
 don't object, no one else woidd; and if you were to make 
 it worth their while, I shoidd think 3'ou might do as 
 you pleased. They seemed poor folk enough.' 
 
 ' It must be settled now though. I suppose orders 
 were given to remove the body to-night V 
 
 ' Yes, the workhouse cart was to be sent for it ; but I 
 
96 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 can stop that, if you wish me to tell the master of the 
 workhouse that you will bear all expenses.' 
 
 [ I should be obliged to you to do so.' 
 
 'And some one must go to the fisherman/ continued 
 the policeman. ' I should not have time myself.' 
 
 ' I will settle that, if you will tell me precisely where 
 the cottage is.' 
 
 ' It is easily found : it is the first cottage you come to 
 on the beach after you leave the town. Hill is the 
 fisherman's name ; any one could shoAv it.' 
 
 ' That will be sufficient.' She dismissed him ; and 
 then went to the window and looked out. The twilight 
 was deepening, but it was not yet quite dark, and in 
 another moment Ernestine, with her face veiled, and 
 her cloak -wi-apped round her, was taking her way in 
 the direction the policeman had indicated. 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE TROMISE TO THE DEAD. 
 
 AND again the long low beach lay dim in the 
 twiliglit, and the rising wind swept in fitful 
 gusts across it^ and all tilings were as they had been 
 the night before when Lois Brook still held the awful 
 gift of life within her power, — the seed of immortality 
 which she had madly flung upon the barren waste of 
 waters, when even then it might have ripened under the 
 gracious dews of heaven-sent penitence to bear rich 
 fruit in the eternal harvest, and be for ever stored in 
 the garner-house of God. 
 
 And now, as then, a woman walked with sorrow- 
 laden steps along the sands ; for the horror Ernestine 
 felt for her brother's sin produced an anguish as near 
 akin to remorse as one actually innocent could feel. 
 
 A low-roofed cottage, with nets spread out to dry, 
 appeared in the shadows before her, a light twinkling 
 in one window, the other looking Itlack in the white 
 wall. Ernestine knocked softly at the door ; a rough- 
 
 VOL. T. G 
 
98 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 looking woman opened it, and seeing a lady, drew back 
 and asked her to walk in. She entered a little kitchen, 
 scantily furnished, with a few cinders burning on the 
 hearth, over which a man was crouching, spreading out 
 his hands to catch the faint heat. A little girl sat on 
 the ground near him, and two younger children were 
 asleep on a wretched bed spread on the floor. On 
 tlie table some empty cups and plates revealed that a 
 meal of some sort had taken place, of which not a 
 vestige remained. 
 
 The woman wiped a chair with her apron, and asked 
 Ernestine to sit down, with much more civihty than 
 might have been expected from her appearance. But 
 amongst our English poor, the one idea which presents 
 itself to their mind when they are brought in contact 
 with a person above them in station, is that of gain, for 
 which purpose they are ready with all possible serviHty ; 
 and this is the case even with those who are not in 
 needy circumstances. It is a disagreeable fact, but a 
 true one ; and in this book the truth must be told about 
 the poor, instead of their being represented in ideal 
 colours, as they generally are in novels and religious 
 works of fiction. The fisherman merely looked round 
 and touclied an imaginary cap upon his head without 
 speaking. Ernestine sat down, begging the woman to 
 
THE niOMISE TO THE DEAD. 99 
 
 do the same, and then remained for a moment silent, 
 during which time the man and his wife specnlated as 
 to the purpose of the Lady's visit, and tlie woman re- 
 solved that whatever it might be, she and her children 
 should be the better of it. At last Ernestine spoke — 
 
 ' It was to your house, was it not, that the body of the 
 poor young girl was brought ?' 
 
 The woman took her cue at once. 
 
 ' That it was, and pretty sight of trouble it has cost 
 us all, and not a penny have we had give us to help us 
 through with it. Why, it has put the place all of a 
 muddle. I never was so upset in my life.' 
 
 Ernestine looked at her in amazement. Heart-sick as 
 she was herself with the unavailing pity that oppressed 
 her, it seemed to her marvellous that any one should 
 connect the presence of that forlorn corpse with thoughts 
 of self and of petty discomfort. 
 
 'Well, ma'am,' said the woman, answering her look, 
 'just look at them children turned out of their beds 
 and left to sleep on a bit of a quilt, all along of 
 that corpse. I could not get them to sleep in the room 
 with it not nohow. Me and my husband we made 
 sluft to stop beside it, for we have not another hole to 
 put ourselves in but they two rooms.' 
 
 ' I am very sorry you have been inconvenienced,' said 
 
100 HIDDEN' DEPTHS. 
 
 Ernestine, fearing it would be quite in vain to ask tlieni 
 to keep their silent guest. 
 
 'Ah, little them crowners and juries cared for our 
 convenience. They crowded into this room, if you'll 
 believe me, ma'am, till there was not a corner left for me 
 to stand in. They just gives a look at the corpse, then 
 off they goes to the public-house to sit upon it comfort- 
 able, and never so much as offers us a farthing for our 
 trouble ; not but what I told them as me and my hus- 
 band we works hard for our living, and I 've lost a 
 day's work by it, and mayhap two.' 
 
 ' Then I am afraid,' said Ernestine, ' you coidd not be 
 induced to let the body remain here another night. I 
 woidd wdllingiy pay you well,' she added hastily, seek- 
 ing to anticipate a refusal, which the woman had not 
 the least intention of giving. 
 
 'Well, ma'am, I don't knowbut what I would be willing 
 to do a kind action by the poor thing. It will be a world 
 of trouble, to be sure, but I has a feeling heart, ma'am, 
 and it 'ud hurt me to see her took off by the work'us 
 cart. One of the children's ailing, sure enough, and it 
 is a sin and a shame to keep him out of his own bed, 
 still I 'd wish to do as I 'd be done by. I '11 keep her, 
 if you asks me, only it '11 need a good bit of money to 
 make aip for all as it costises us one way or another.' 
 
THE TROMISE TO THE DEAD. 101 
 
 ' AVill this be suilicient?' said Ernestiue, putting hiU) 
 her hand a sum of money, so far beyond what the 
 woman expected, that she at once began to exclaim that 
 she would keep the body in her house three or four 
 nights if the lady wislied it ; but Ernestine, little as she 
 knew of the poor, could not be blind to the woman's 
 selfishness, and answered quietly that one night was all 
 slie asked, the body would be buried next day. 
 
 ' Did you know this poor wench, ma'am ? ' said the 
 fisherman, for the first time looking round — the fin- 
 ancial department being evidently entirely in the hands 
 of his strong-minded wife. 
 
 ' I only saw her once,' said Ernestine, her voice 
 trembling, ' but I know her history, and I wish to do 
 what I can for her still.' 
 
 ' Ah, friend and foe is all alike to her now ! ' said the 
 man, shaking his head. ' Poor wench ! poor wench !' 
 
 ' My husband 'tended the 'quest to-day, and he 's 
 quite upset by it ; he 's been a-moaning and groaning 
 over the girl ever since ; but I tells him he has no call 
 to trouble hisself for such a one as she were.' 
 
 ' And I say,' said the man, suddenly striking the table 
 with his clenched fist, ' that that 'ere fine gentleman as 
 took her out of her father's house and ruined her, and 
 then broke her heart, and let her go and drownded her- 
 
102 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 self, is as big a scoundrel as walks tlie earth, and I 'd 
 tell him so to his face if I seed him here now.' 
 
 Ernestine sat motionless for a moment, and then said, 
 in her low sweet voice, — 
 
 ' You are quite right, he is most guilty ; but are there 
 any on earth so much to be pitied as the wicked ? 
 Should we not pray for him, that he may repent of his 
 deadly sin ? ' 
 
 ' Pray for him ! If ever any rascal were to serve my 
 Katie here as he lias served that poor dead corpse, I 'd 
 have the life out of him once for all, though I had to 
 swing for it the same day;' and he drew his little 
 daughter to his side with an impassioned violence. 
 
 Ernestine hid her face in her hands without speaking; 
 
 'Law ! John,you frightens the ladywith yourtantrums; 
 ha' done, I tell you. "Would you like to see the corpse, 
 ma'am ? ' she added, as if offering a soothing palliative. 
 
 ' Yes,' said Ernestine, rising ; ' I do wish to see it, but 
 if you have no objection, I should prefer to go in alone.' 
 
 ' Just as you please, ma'am ; I 've no objections, if you 
 are not scared ; and she 's a very pleasant corpse, I must 
 say that.' She gave Ernestine the rushlight which burned 
 on the table, opened the door of the room, then closed 
 it after her, and George Courtenay's sister stood alone in 
 the presence of his victim. 
 
THE ritOMlSE TO THE DEAD. lOIi 
 
 In one corner of the room stood a bed, in the other, 
 a board placed on two chairs, on which lay the body of 
 Lois Brook. A sheet was spread over it, on wdiich the 
 dim lii^ht cast shadows that made it seem to move as 
 Ernestine came near. She could have fancied that the 
 dead corpse writhed beneath its covering when she ap- 
 proached ; and in spite of herself, she shook from head 
 to foot as she placed the candle on the table and un- 
 covered the face. Then, as she gazed on it, she ceased 
 to tremble; for wdien she had last looked upon that 
 countenance it had been terrible from the bitter anguish 
 with which it had been comnilsed ; and now, whereso- 
 ever the soul of Lois Brook might be, at least the stamp 
 of agony had passed from her dead face — cold, white, 
 and rigid it was, but fixed into such stillness as no 
 living heart could ever dream of. Not only were the de- 
 spairing eyes wdiich had so haunted Ernestine now closed 
 as in gentle sleep, and the mute lips sealed for ever 
 from whence that dreadful shriek had rung, but there 
 had passed over the countenance that peculiar change 
 which is often seen, even in cases where death has 
 taken place at an advanced age, when the features 
 seem to return to the mould in which they were first 
 cast, and grow childlike again, as if the cold hand of 
 death had wiped out all trace of the life they have 
 
104 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 passed through, and smoothed away the furrows left by 
 this world's care and suffering. 
 
 In the present instance, it seemed as if it were 
 actually the face of a child that shone out so white 
 from the dark masses of hair that hung around it ; and 
 as Ernestine bent sorroM^fuHy over it, these touching 
 words came vividly to her mind : — 
 
 'Weep not for the dead, neither bemoan them, for 
 they are at rest ; but weep sore for him that goeth 
 away, for he shall return no more, nor see his native 
 country.' 
 
 She knew that, according to tlie spiritual interpreta- 
 tion of an old writer, he that went aw^ay, went from 
 holiness and innocence to serve the world, the flesh, and 
 the devil, never more to return to God, or see in heaven 
 tlie native land of His elect. "Well might the case 
 apply to Lois and George Courtenay. The girl had 
 fearfully erred, but she had been the tempted, not the 
 tempter; and as for the deed that destroyed her life, 
 she might well be supposed to ignore, with the majority 
 of the poor, that it was a crime. For her, at least, it 
 might be that there remained a refuge in the Infinite com- 
 passion, which still, through the long vista of centuries, 
 echoes in our ears those teuderest words : ' JSTeither do I 
 condemn thee.' But for him, the educated gentleman. 
 
THE TKOMISE TO THE DEAD. 105 
 
 the clever, clear-sighted man of the day, what excuse 
 could be found in heaven or in earth ? The tempter, 
 the betrayer, witli deliberate forethought, and now the 
 murderer, — who shall remove the blood-guilt from his 
 head ? For a passing self-indulgence he had trampled 
 under foot the innocence, the happiness, the life of one 
 of God's creatures, and steeped in deadly sin a soul that 
 could never cease to live through all eternity ; and 
 where could the annals of crime record a blacker deed 
 than this ? 
 
 Ernestine was aware that in giving this judgment 
 out of the determined truth of her nature, she was re- 
 versing the sentence of the world in such matters ; but 
 not the less she felt in the depths of her true spiritual 
 instinct that it was thus the comparative guilt in such 
 cases was balanced before the righteous God of all. 
 Alid she was right. In vain will be all efforts to stem 
 the ' social evil ' in this land, so long as this, the most 
 odious of the world's hypocrisies, is allowed to hold the 
 place of justice and equity with regard to it. It is a 
 marvel which can only be accounted for by the power 
 of seK-deception, inherent in human nature, that any 
 who profess the principles of truth and honour, much 
 less of religion, should dare truckle to so mean a sham 
 as that which pretends to uphold the interests of 
 
106 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 morality by trampling under foot the fallen woman, and 
 holding out the right hand of fellowship to the man 
 who dragged her into sin, and shared it with her. 
 
 No amount of contumely, of degradation, and of 
 abhorrence, can be too much for the w^eak, ignorant 
 girl who has listened to the voice of the tempter and 
 believed his lies ; Ijut as for the experienced man, with 
 every advantage of position and education, who know- 
 ingly, wilfully, has chosen vice for his pleasure, and the 
 ruin of an imperishable soul for his amusement, by all 
 means let him be received by the most immaculate 
 society, and honoured with all such homage as Ids 
 worldly advantages command. He might be appointed 
 inspector of the public morals, if such a post happened 
 to exist in England ; for on him there is no disgrace, no 
 stain. That which, in the feeble and thoughtless, is a 
 crime, to be punished with a severity from which there 
 is no escape but in death, is in the strong and experi- 
 enced but a natural weakness, bearing round it, in the 
 eyes of younger men, a certain j3?'cs^z^c of manliness which 
 attracts their imitation. Nor is the world ashamed of 
 its code of morality. No one ever questions the social 
 law which protects the sin in the one case, and hunts 
 it down in the other. The public journals lately gave 
 a notable instance of effrontery in this respect. 
 
THE PROMISE TO THE DEAD. 107 
 
 At a recent trial, which involved a question as to a 
 young man's moral conduct, his counsel openly an- 
 nounced his belief that there was not a statesman, or a 
 bishop, or a judge on the bench, who had not com- 
 mitted similar 'follies' in his youth ; and if there were 
 one, he added, he should think the w^orse of him for it ! 
 
 AVho cares what dead men's bones fill the whited 
 sepulchre, if only it be garnished with the appliances of 
 wealth and station ! Let the pale wasted girl be driven 
 from your door ; suffer her not to contaminate wdth her 
 presence so much as the pavement under your foot ; but 
 take my Lord, her betrayer, by the hand, and seat him at 
 your table, heap honours and friendship upon him, and 
 uive an indubent smile to the rumour of his deeds of 
 darkness. 
 
 So judges the world in its well- varnished complacency ; 
 so does not the IMost High God judge in the clear light 
 of His perfect justice. 
 
 But Ernestine Courtenay had not come there simply 
 to look on her brothers victim. from curiosity. She had 
 come to renew, in presence of that mute witness, the 
 resolution she had taken as she sat for the first few 
 moments motionless, with the record of her brother's 
 guilt lying at her feet. The knowledge of his crime 
 had entered into her soul with an anguish only less 
 
108 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 bitter to her tlian tlie iiiiavailmg pity witli which she 
 thought of the lost girl, dead by her own hand. Yet 
 for neither of them could she do aught now ; both were 
 beyond her reach : the one in his independence, his 
 luxury, his determined freedom of will, to make his 
 whole life black with sin, if he chose it ; the other in 
 the stern coldness of that inanimation over which the 
 words ' Too late, too late,' could alone be spoken. 
 
 Still there was one way in which it seemed to her she 
 might even yet serve both. She might try to save that 
 other lost one, the guilt of whose ruin lay on both their 
 heads alike. The dying appeal of Lois Brook on behalf 
 of her sister Annie must not fall to the ground unheeded ; 
 and Ernestine had learnt in that day's revelation to know 
 her brother too well to hope that he would ever respond 
 to the last prayer of his unhappy victim. The man who 
 could deal with such selfish cruelty by the soul which 
 he himself had ruined, was little likely to give a single 
 moment from his luxurious ease to seek the deliverance 
 of one who was only the victim of his friend. 
 
 But Ernestine could feel that in this she was surely 
 appointed to be the representative of her brother. To 
 her had been brought that letter, with its half-oblite- 
 rated words ; and to her heart, liea\^' with the weight of 
 that dreadful suicide, had come the piteous cry of the 
 
THE PROMISE TO THE DEAD. 109 
 
 dying girl, when, in the last agony of life, she had called 
 upon her Father in heaven, and upon her best beloved on 
 earth, to save her sister Annie. God — how far more 
 merciful than man — had heard the prayer, and sent to 
 the rescue a brave true-hearted messenger. Mho had 
 resolved that she would never cease her efforts to seek 
 and save that one lost child. 
 
 And now, as Ernestine stood and looked upon the 
 marble face which she had seen but once living, and 
 once dead, and which she never more would see till, at 
 the voice of the archangel, she shoidd rise and behold 
 life quivering through those fixed lineaments, and Lois 
 standing by George Courtenay's side, to hear their 
 sentence from the lips of the One All Pure; — as she 
 looked on the cold corpse and thought upon these 
 things, her heart burned within her, and she felt that 
 life itself were cheaply given, and with life all she 
 might have to sacrifice, in the search on which she was 
 about to enter, if only in that tremendous hour she 
 might bring this one soul, rescued from the enemy 
 and the avenger, to the dear feet of Him whose infinite 
 compassion flowed forth in His very heart's blood for 
 the wandering and the lost. 
 
 Yes, all that she must sacrifice. Ernestine did not 
 deceive herself; she knew that for a young lady of her 
 
110 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 rank in life to go out alone into the very haunts of sin 
 to seek one of the fallen and degraded of her own sex, 
 would be considered a veiy reprehensible departure 
 from the usages of the society in which she had always 
 lived. She must break down the barriers that hedged 
 her in from so much as a knowledge of the existence 
 of the deadly vice, with which she had now to grapple 
 face to face. She must overcome the shrinking horror 
 which she felt for even the slightest contact with this 
 hateful evil. She must lay aside the natural reserve 
 which on such a subject sealed not only her lips, but 
 her inmost thoughts. To do all this would be a sore 
 trial for a pure-minded Englishwoman ; and yet, for that 
 very self-sacrilice, she knew she would meet with un 
 mitigated censure from all her acquaintances. She 
 would be told that her conduct was improper, unbe- 
 coming in a lady, and incompatible with womanly 
 delicacy. She would hear that it was contamination to 
 breathe the same air with the degraded and the lost ; 
 that the scenes she would witness, the w^ords she would 
 liear, would seem to herself so corrupting, that she 
 would feel unable to pass from that atmospliere of vice 
 to the polished society where sin is ignored, and men 
 and women, by common consent, agree to hold each 
 otlier immaculate. To all this Ernestine had an answer 
 
THE PROMISE TO THE DEAD. Ill 
 
 ready in her heart from the memory of these words, 'Tliey 
 shall walk with Him in white.' If with Him who passed 
 unscathed and spotless through this world she walked 
 amid the scenes of infamy where iindefiled cliarity 
 might lead her, she knew that she might keep the gar- 
 ments of her sonl as white and stainless as the mountain 
 snow ; and tlie presence of the deadliest evils that ever 
 cursed the earth, would be to her as harmless as the hot 
 breath of that fiery furnace in which the three children 
 walked unhurt, because of One who was with them in 
 the fire. 
 
 ' If they drink any deadly thing, it shall not hurt 
 them.' This promise, made to those who first carried 
 the Gospel of Peace to the people who sat in darkness 
 and the shadow of death, would not fail her who was 
 about to carry the Evangel of Mercy to the fallen, and 
 she would be as safe from harm by touch of evil as 
 they were from the poisoned cup or venomous snake. 
 
 ' Oh, Avho could live to seek their own happiness alone!' 
 said Ernestine, as she laid her hand on the cold fore- 
 head of the dead girl, ' while sights like these are 
 common on the earth, and each day adds to the wreck 
 of soids that have gone to their destruction, without a 
 hand stretched out to save them ! Lois, I go to seek 
 your sister Annie, and I will never rest, or cease to 
 
1 1 2 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 labour with my whole life's strength, if need be, till I 
 have found her, and can hope to yield her up to you, at 
 our next awful meeting, a penitent and pardoned soid. ; 
 and you, Lois, forgive, forgive my cruel brother.' 
 
 She stooped down as she spoke and kissed the cold 
 white face, then reverently covered it, and with a few 
 words of thanks to the fisherman and his wife, went out 
 once more into the dark silent night. 
 
CHAPTEE VII. 
 
 THE LAST KESTIXG-PLACE. 
 
 THE very first step which Ernestine felt she must 
 take in her self-imposed mission for the rescue of 
 Annie Brook, was one which jarred upon her natural 
 sensitiveness to the utmost degree. She knew of hut 
 one means of obtaining immediate information concern- 
 ing her, and that was through her brother's servant, 
 Fenton. She was aware that he must leave Seamouth 
 next morning, therefore her first act on returning from 
 the fisherman's cottage was to send for this man, whose 
 true character she instinctively understood, in order to 
 speak to him on the very last subject she would ever 
 have wished to mention to him. 
 
 Most thoroughly astonished assuredly was Fenton, 
 when, having appeared in the lady's presence, he found 
 himself called upon to state what he knew of Lois 
 Brook's sister. How it came to pass that the refined, 
 gentle Miss Coiu'tenay touched on such a subject, was 
 
 VOL. I. H 
 
1 1 4 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 a mystery to liim ; but he could not if he would have 
 avoided her calm, grave questions. He told her all he 
 knew ; how he had seen Annie Brook, a girl of seven- 
 teen, at Colonel Courtenay's villa at Richmond for one 
 day only, and how he had himself helped her into the 
 phaeton when she left it with a friend of the Colonel's. 
 
 ' Who was this man V asked Ernestine. 
 
 Fenton looked for one moment at the clear eyes that 
 were turned anxiously towards him, and answered 
 shortly, ' Mr. Brown, ma'am.' 
 
 ' Mr. Brown !' repeated Ernestine thoughtfully. She 
 could not recollect ever having heard George speak of a 
 friend of that name ; hut he might have many friends 
 she knew nothing about, especially such as were beneath 
 his own rank in society, as she inferred from the name 
 this Brown probably was. It was rather a relief to her 
 to conclude that such was tlie case. If, in her search 
 for Annie, she were forced, even in the remotest degree, 
 to come in contact with this man, it would at least be a 
 comfort to know she would not risk meeting him again 
 afterwards in her ordinary routine of life. 
 
 ' Do you know where the girl went to ?' she continued, 
 forcing herself to conclude the task of questioning the 
 servant, Avhich became each moment more repugnant 
 to her. 
 
THE LAST RESTING-PLACE. 115 
 
 ' Not at first,' he replied ; ' l;)ut I Icnow tliat after- 
 wards slie was at Greyburgli, for the Colonel's girl, Lois, 
 sent a box to her which had been left behind.' 
 
 ' Do you suppose she is still there ?' 
 
 ' I cannot say, ma'am. I know Mr. Brown is not, for 
 I saw him in Loudon not long since ; luit it is very 
 likely the girl is. Greyburgh is just the place for such 
 as—' 
 
 ' That will do,' interrupted Ernestine, in a manner 
 which made Teuton close his lips suddenly and turn to 
 the door. ' Of course you know Mr. Brown's address,' 
 said Ernestine hastily, as he was going out. 
 
 ' I do not, ma'am,' he answered with sudden energ}' ; 
 * I have not the least idea where Mr. Brown is to be 
 found.' 
 
 ' Very well, you can go ;' and, as he finally vanished, 
 Ernestine threw herself into a seat and hid her face in 
 her hands. 
 
 ' It is sickening,' she murmured to herself ; ' but oh ! 
 if I can but save that one immortal life, what will it all 
 signify ! if I can only bring one ransomed soul to plead 
 for George at the bar of judgment, because for his sake 
 she was sought and found. jSTo — nothing I may have 
 to bear shall stop me ; I will find her, so help me God, 
 though I have to spend my life in the search.' 
 
1 1 6 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 Tlien she proceeded quietly to mature her plans on 
 the information she had received. She was very glad 
 to find that Greyhurgh was the place to which in all 
 probability she would have to go in pursuit of Annie ; 
 for her brother Eecrinald was at colle^'e there, and she 
 had already been intending to go and see him, as there 
 had been a tone of hopeless despondency in his letters 
 for some time past which had filled her with anxiety. 
 His health had been delicate ever since the severe 
 illness through which she had nursed him, and it was 
 plain that he was far from well, althougli it was chiefly 
 the evidence of mental pain and unrest which had 
 alarmed her. Ernestine could not help hoping, how- 
 ever, that Annie Brook might be found before she went 
 to Greyburgh. If the man who had stolen her from her 
 God and her home were no longer there, it seemed im- 
 probable that she would remain. Surely, in the misery 
 of her desertion, slie would fly back to the friends of 
 her childhood, and at once be found under the shelter 
 of her father's roof; but Ernestine little knew what 
 temptations surround such helpless children as the girl 
 she sought to save, and that Matthew Brook's cottage 
 was the last place where she should expect to find her. 
 There she resolved to go first of all, trusting that if she 
 did not actually meet her, she should at least hear 
 
Tlir: LAST KESTING-PLACE. 117 
 
 where she might be found. I'efore she took even 
 this step, however, in the task which lay before her, 
 there were certain formidable preliminaries to be gone 
 through. 
 
 Ernestine knew, as we have said, that she could not 
 commence a search for one whose verjc existence would 
 be ignored in the society she frequented, without de- 
 parting very far from the conventionalities of a well- 
 born lady's ordinary routine of life ; and to do so 
 even in the smallest degree would be to commit a 
 heinous offence in the eyes of Lady Beaufort, — the aunt 
 with whom she had lived previous to Colonel Courtenay's 
 return from India. But Ernestine was five-and-twenty, 
 and at that age she did not hold herself bound to lier 
 aunt's views, if even five-and-twenty years out of one 
 short life were not enough to have sacrificed to the 
 stereotyped uselessness of a fashionable young lady's 
 career. The tremendous realities of life and death, of 
 sin and of judgment, which had been brought so vividly 
 before her in the last few days, had given form and dis- 
 tinctness to many misgivings on those points which had 
 been vaguely stirring in her mind for some time past. She 
 was anxious, however, to do what she could to conciliate 
 her aunt ; and as she knew Lady Beaufort would expect 
 her niece after Colonel Courtenay's departure, she de- 
 
118 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 termiiied to go to her iu London for a day or two, and 
 endeavour to allay her virtuous indignation at plans she 
 would consider so eccentric, by assuring her that she 
 meant in all her future wanderings, wherever they might 
 lead her, to be accompanied by her former governess, 
 Mrs. Tompson, whose devoted religion to the proprieties 
 of life might satisfy possibly even the refined worldliness 
 of Lady Beaufort. 
 
 Her aunt, however, was not the only person to be 
 consulted, nor the one whose approbation was the most 
 dear to her. Ernestine knew that she had given Hugh 
 Lingard a full right to take cognisance of all her actions, 
 and she wns far too true and loyal to the engagement 
 which bound her to him, to wish to take any step 
 without his sanction ; but she had not the slightest 
 fear that he would withhold it. Not only did he love 
 her so well, that her lightest fancy was sure to meet 
 with entire and tender indulgence from him, but one of 
 the most striking peculiarities of his character was 
 an unbounded liberality and tolerance for the opinions 
 and feelings of others, hoM'cver various and contra- 
 dictory they might be. It was a characteristic which 
 gave a singular charm to this man in all social inter- 
 course ; but Ernestine had not as yet thought deej)ly 
 enough on the mj'steries of the hidden and inner 
 
THE LAST L'ESTlNG-rLACE. 119 
 
 liuman life to perceive from liow poisoned a source it 
 sprung. 
 
 It had fared witli Hugh Lingard as with many thou- 
 sands of men at the present day, who, like himself, 
 are clever, without being deep thinkers. The misty 
 theological atmosphere of tlie intellectual society with 
 Avhicli his tastes led him to mix, had obscured for him 
 the foundations of the old faith to which in his care- 
 less youtli he had given a superficial assent; and it 
 suited well with the mental indolence and love of 
 pleasure, which were his greatest failings, to make it 
 his only creed, that it was vain to seek the truth 
 amongst so many conflicting theories and contradictory 
 opinions, and that there was nothing to be done but 
 to make the best of life in its visible aspect, and leave 
 the problem of the grave to be solved by that sure 
 deatli which had alone the key to it. He thought 
 himself sincere in this negative belief, which left him 
 free to make a god of his own unlicensed will ; and he 
 would think and talk with a gentle melancholy of those 
 who rested in surer and brighter hopes, and fancied he 
 envied them. But he deceived himself; for the real 
 obstacle to his seeking and finding — as men of purer 
 souls have done in similar circumstances, the sure 
 ground- work of an intelligent faith — was his distaste to 
 
120 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 the mental labour of extracting the truth from the mass 
 of sophistries in which his false teachers had submerged 
 it, and a still greater unwillingness to give up the 
 pleasant Adces which he felt could not co-exist with a 
 true religion. For deep in his soul, beneath all his 
 shallow reasonings and many-sided doubts, there was 
 an underlying consciousness of that great principle 
 wdiicli has its being in the very nature of the Creator, 
 that by the way of personal holiness all men may 
 arrive at a knowledge of God, and of His truth. ' If 
 any man will do His will, he shall know of the doctrine 
 whether it be of God.' 
 
 Lingard did not find it very difficirlt to stifle this 
 conviction, however, which only at rare intervals sent- 
 up a flash of unwelcome light into his self-chosen dark- 
 ness, and he compounded with his conscience by an 
 extensive charity to all forms of belief and error alike, 
 and by indulging the natural kindliness of his disposition, 
 in the relief of suffering so far as he could, whenever it 
 happened to cross his path. He was not one to glorify 
 himself in his want of definite jDrinciple, as men of 
 shallower natures are apt to do ; on the contrary, he kept 
 his negation of faith, it could hardly be called active un- 
 belief, as much as possible in the back-ground, and the 
 same indolence which rendered him unwilling to probe 
 
TIIK LAST RESTING-rLACE. 121 
 
 the questions modern scepticism had raised, made him 
 ever seek, in his intercourse with others, to ignore the 
 subject of religion altogether. 
 
 Ernestine had been won by his generous disposition, 
 his abhorrence of everything mean and petty ; his 
 sweet temper and kindly impulses, as well as by the 
 brilliant talents which promised one day to bring him 
 both fame and fortune, and she had taken it for granted 
 that these fair qualities sprung from as pure a creed as 
 that which governed her own existence. She had not 
 then thought so deeply on such matters as circum- 
 stances were likely now to make her do, and she was 
 content with that half of his life which was displayed 
 before her ; the other half with its deadly vices, its 
 degrading pleasures, its calm selfishness, sacrificing 
 mortal lives and immortal souls at random, for per- 
 sonal gratification, was kept as a spectacle for the eyes 
 of tlie pure God alone. 
 
 Ernestine expected to see Lingard in London, but 
 she felt that she could more easily write than speak on 
 such a subject as tliat which now engrossed her ; and 
 she sat down forthwith to tell him of her future plans. 
 She did not find it very easy to do so, because she 
 could not tell all the circumstances which had led her 
 to her present resolution. Not even to Lingard, her 
 
122 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 brother's most intimate friend, and her own future 
 husband, could she bear to betray the hidden guilt of 
 George Courtenay, or the fatal result to his helpless 
 victim ; but she told Lingard that circumstances of a 
 most painful nature had brought to her knowledge the 
 history of a young girl, who had been allured from her 
 home and her innocence, and now must in all proba- 
 bility be utterly lost, if no friendly hand were stretched 
 out to save her, and further, that one just dead had 
 indirectly, but yet most positively, imposed upon her 
 the mission of seeking out and rescuing this unhappy 
 child from rdtimate destruction. She trusted to be able 
 to accomplish her task quickly and easily, without 
 exciting observation ; but if it should take the labour 
 of years, and force her to measures that would be 
 thought unbecoming to her station in life, she still 
 must carry it out to the end, though all the world 
 should blame her, — if only he did not withhold his 
 consent, and this she besought him not to do if he 
 valued her peace of mind. There would not be time 
 for him to answer by letter, as she intended to remain 
 only one day more in Seamoixth, but she trusted she 
 should see him at her aunt's, soon after her arrival 
 there. 
 
 To Lady Heaufort she merely wrote that she was com- 
 
THE LAST EESTING-PLACE. 123 
 
 ing to town for one day, and reserved all explanations 
 till they met ; and this done she turned her thoughts 
 to the arrangements for Lois Brook's funeral, which was 
 to take place the next day. Ernestine was resolved 
 to he present at it herself. It was but a barren act of 
 kindness to show to one who had had reason to curse the 
 name she bore ; but slie could not let her be thrust into 
 her dishonoured grave without a human being to stand 
 by in sorrow for the young life quenched in such fatal, 
 darkness ; and since by George Courtenay's deed, no kin- 
 dred of her own could show her that last charity. 
 Ernestine, as his representative, would do all that might 
 yet be done to prove that the guilty suicide had once 
 been loved and honoured. The man \o whom she 
 intrusted the arrangements for the burial, told her 
 that it could not take place till the evening of the next 
 day ; and it was settled that she was to meet the 
 funeral at the churchyard, where it was to be privately 
 brought from the fisherman's cottage, in order to avoid 
 the crowd who were very likely to assemble, under the 
 circumstances, if tire hour of interment were known. 
 A long and dreary night followed for poor Ernestine, 
 and a still more dreary day, till in the lingering twilight 
 of a soft spring evening, she made her way to the last 
 resting- place of Lois Brook. 
 
124 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 The precautions taken had been quite effectual, and 
 the churchyard was deserted when Ernestine reached it, 
 by all but the sexton, who, having finished his task, was 
 now lazily tolling the bell at long intervals, bent on 
 getting his accustomed fee, even on an occasion so mucli 
 beneath his notice as the present. There was no other 
 living being among the countless dead, lying all around 
 in their mysterious sleep, excepting two little children, 
 who were playing on the brink of the open grave, with 
 the falHng leaves which the night breeze scattered 
 round them. 
 
 Ernestine sat down in the shade of a tree to wait 
 the coming of her who should go forth from those 
 walls no more till the death-day of the world itself, 
 arrived. 
 
 Strange thoughts went surging through her heart as 
 she sat there, thoughts that had never visited her in her 
 existence of calm refinement heretofore. She thouglit 
 how this young life over which she mourned, this soul, 
 the dread of whose eternal loss burned into her heart 
 with agony, was, after all, but one, one of the many 
 thousands Avho in like manner met with Avrong, and 
 ruin, and everlasting perdition at the hands of their 
 fellow-men, hunted down to the grave, and thence to 
 hell, by those ^vho shared their natiu'e and their capacity 
 
THE LAST EESTING-rLACE. 125 
 
 for suffering and for joy ; and tlieu slie thouglit of the 
 no less countless numbers who sat by in careless ease, 
 and watched this game of life and death as the Romans 
 of old looked on while the gladiators tore each other 
 limb by limb ; who, if they did not of deliberate purpose 
 deal guilt or misery on those wlio crossed their path, 
 yet lifted not a hand to save them from more brutal 
 natures, and indirectly preyed on many by following 
 out their one purpose of personal gratification, lieedless 
 how far it were attained at the expense of others. She 
 thought how each of these many thousands had but one 
 life given them for a prey in the midst of this evil and 
 suffering world, one life with all its capacity to bless, to 
 curse, or superciliously to ignore the fellow-creatures, 
 like themselves rushing down the steep of time to the 
 unchangeable eternity. 
 
 Surely if they but looked on the awful mass of sin 
 and anguish seething round them, the one life given 
 them to use or waste would seem all too little to spend 
 in lessening, in ever so small a degree, that mountain 
 of evil, still rising higher and higlier to fill up the 
 measure of ini(|uity against the day of vengeance. 
 Would the cry of accusation against those who might 
 have saved and did not, be less piercing or less powerful 
 than that which would denounce the very ministers of 
 
126 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 sin ? Yet liow in truth was that one precious life 
 disposed of by the majority of those who deemed 
 themselves righteous, because not actively malevolent 
 in their sphere of influence ? 
 
 Ernestine lifted her eyes to where the little children 
 played by the open grave ; their merry laughter ming- 
 ling with the deep tolling of the funeral-bell ; and it 
 seemed to her that in them she saw the type of those 
 who toyed with life and its passing pleasures on the 
 brink of open graves, — the graves not of mortal ashes 
 but of living souls, buried by cruel hands in a spiritual 
 corruption, from which there may be no resurrection in 
 all eternity ; and who could tell but tliat, unheard by 
 human ears, though echoing mournfully in the courts of, 
 heaven, the air was even now full of knells rung out by 
 sorrowing angels for the perishing creatures of the most 
 high God, whose happier children answered the funeral 
 tones with sounds of careless mirth ? 
 
 Ernestine felt the weight of her own past years of 
 thoughtless ease lie heavy at her heart as she pondered 
 on these things, and she turned with a sense of relief to 
 the thought that she was now about to do her best to 
 rescue one at least of that vast multitude, whose ever- 
 lasting ruin would be charged on their fellow-men. It 
 was to be with Ernestine, as with all who in any way 
 
THE LAST RESTIXG-PLACE. 127 
 
 are roused to definite action with reference solely to tlie 
 unseen life ; the one earnest purpose, the positive recogni- 
 tion of eternal results from temporal deeds, the true 
 unselfish care for an immortal soul was to develop in 
 her own mind truths l.)ut dimly apprehended before, to 
 deepen all that was great and noble in her character, 
 and rouse latent powers within her, which would lead 
 her to such a height of self-devoted love to God and 
 man, as would have made her shrink and tremble now, 
 could she have seen the full revelation of all that was 
 before her. 
 
 But the future was hid, and the present only was 
 there, and that present the darkest moment of her life ; 
 for at the churchyard-gate the corpse of her brother's 
 victim was entering slowly, slowly — coming to lie down 
 in the grave his hands had surely dug for her. 
 
 The curate, summoned from an adjacent house by the 
 sexton, came hurrying up, fastening his surplice with 
 one hand, while he opened his book with the other. 
 He turned and jDreceded the coffin, reading the opening 
 sentences of the Burial Office. The men who bore it 
 followed with careless haste, stumbling over the graves, 
 and jostling their poor helpless burden as they walked. 
 The sexton stood waiting, idly kicking stones into the 
 grave. The little children laughed and shouted as the 
 
128 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 S]3ectacle for which they had been looking, at Last drew 
 near ; but not all the indifference or irreverence of the 
 human beings round could destroy the wondrous beauty 
 of the glorious hope, that age after age has blessed the 
 world, in these words, ' I am the Eesurrection and 
 THE Life,' — w^ords that bind the dying race of man with 
 chains of love to the very Throne of God. They fell 
 on Ernestine's heart that night like fragrant dew on 
 parched and thirsty ground. Yet not without tremor 
 could she hear them ; for she knew that to George and 
 to Lois He who spoke them would indeed be the Eesur- 
 rection, but to which — to either — would He be the Life ? 
 As the coffin was laid by tlie side of the grave, 
 Ernestine saw that there was one follower at that sad 
 funeral. She could not call him a mom-ner; for he 
 looked much more as if he would fain have been the 
 avenger; dealing justice on him who had brought the 
 dead to this early doom. It was the fisherman, who 
 stood doggedly at the foot of the grave through the 
 whole service ; his hat slouched over his eyes and his 
 hands clenched. As the sexton flung the earth on the 
 coffin, while the curate gabbled over the solemn formula, 
 ' Dust to dust, ashes to ashes,' the fisherman suddenly 
 flung out his hand towards the corpse, and exclaimed, 
 with stern vehemence, ' And may he wlio wronged and 
 
THE LAST RESTING-PLACE. 129 
 
 murdered an innocent girl soon lie rotting in the dust 
 himself.' Ernestine half shrieked, and joined her hands 
 in a voiceless prayer that the curse might be averted ; 
 the curate frowned ; the sexton angrily ordered him to 
 leave the place, and not interrupt the service ; and the 
 fisherman quietly obeyed. But as he turned to go, he 
 pointed to heaven, and said, ' INIy words 'U come true : 
 the Lord does not sleep when men act like devils.' 
 
 The last prayers were said ; the curate having, to his 
 no small astonishment, recognised a lady in the solitary 
 mourner at a fallen woman's funeral, bowed to her as 
 he turned away. The undertaker's men gathered up 
 their goods and hurried out of the churchyard. The 
 sexton carelessly shovelled in the earth over the coffin, 
 stamped it down with his feet, and having received 
 from Ernestine a gratuity which made him heartily 
 wish such peculiar funerals took place every day, he 
 hastened home to his supper, driving the little children 
 before him. So finished the closing scene on earth. 
 For the last act of the tragedy we must wait till the 
 curtain rises on the one tremendous spectacle, which 
 eveiy soul that ever lived shall witness. 
 
 Life had been very bright to Ernestine Courtenay 
 hitherto ; for it had been full of the sweetest joy this 
 world can give, in the love of him most dear to her 
 
 VOL. I. I 
 
130 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 on earth. But on tliis night the weight of its mere re- 
 sponsibility lay upon her heart like lead, as she turned 
 back to the living world, where in every human soul 
 that struggle w^as still going on, which had terminated 
 in such tremendous loss for the buried corpse at her 
 feet. One last act of duty Ernestine performed before 
 she left. She was anxious that the position of the grave 
 should be recognisable at any future time ; for she 
 could not help hoping that a day might come when 
 George Courtenay, sorrow-stricken for the sins of his 
 youth, might learn at that tomb how heavy an accusa- 
 tion was written against him in its mouldering ashes, 
 and make restitution at least in penitence, — since tears 
 of blood, if wept for endless ages, could never give back 
 to the dead the innocence — the life he had destroyed. 
 Ernestine gave orders, therefore, that a simple stone 
 cross should be placed at the head of the grave, with 
 only these words marked on it, — 
 L. B. 
 Vcniain sup2')l'i'<^fit- 
 No expression of hope, no holy words from the Book of 
 God dared she write over the grave of the suicide ; but 
 surely she spoke an awful truth when she said that the 
 ever-living soul, whether hopeful or despairing, implored 
 forgiveness ! 
 
CHAPTER YITT. 
 
 THE OPINIOX OF THE WORLD. 
 
 < TjlENESTINE, tliis is too much !' said Lady I'.eau- 
 -L^ fort, lier lips quivering with indignation, as she 
 flung down the last new book and turned to face her 
 niece. ' A certain amount of eccentricity is i?i.i\iQT: piquant 
 than otherwise in these days ; it is, at all events, safe, as 
 you are already fiancee ; but the line you are striking 
 out is perfectly unheard of. Anything which trenches 
 on the convenances of society is quite out of the question ; 
 you are much mistaken if you think it will succeed.' 
 
 ' Do you mean as regards pleasing the world in 
 general?' said Ernestine, looking up with an amused 
 smile. 
 
 ' Of course I do,' replied Lady Beaufort. 
 
 ' But that did not enter into my calcidations at all,' 
 said Ernestine ; ' I had no intention of taking up any 
 particular line, I assure you. I have but one purpose, 
 which is to save, if I can, tliis poor lost child.' 
 
 ' Lost chOd ! what absurd sentimentality, to talk in 
 
132 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 that way. Society would give a very different name to 
 your extraordinary 'protegee.' 
 
 ' It does not much matter what name they would give 
 lier,' said Ernestine wearily ; ' she is too surely a perish- 
 ing soul.' 
 
 ' A soul, indeed ! much she cares whether she has a soul 
 or not ; and if she has, pray what have you to do with it ? 
 I cannot imagine how you ever heard of such a creature.' 
 
 ' If you knew how I did hear of her, aunt, I am sure 
 you would excuse my determination to do what I can 
 for her.' 
 
 ' I can never excuse your lowering yourself to a pur- 
 suit wliicli might perhaps be fitting for the matron of a 
 gaol. The daughter of General and Lady Mary Cour- 
 tenay scouring the country in search of a — ! Eeally, 
 Ernestine, you ought not to force me even to name such 
 a being.' 
 
 'Then don't let us speak of her any more,' said 
 Ernestine. 
 
 ' Do I understand, then, that you give up this pre- 
 posterous scheme?' 
 
 ' I cannot ; indeed I cannot ; you do not know by 
 what a heavy responsibility T am bound to it,' said 
 Ernestine pleadingly. Lady Beaufort started impatiently 
 from her seat, but at this moment the door opened and 
 
THE OPINION OF THE -WOKLD. 133 
 
 Hugh Liiigard entered the room. She turned to him 
 Avith au expression of relief. 
 
 ' I was on the point of sending for you, Mr. Lingard, 
 to see if your greater influence would bring Ernestine 
 to reason. I have failed to shake her obstinacy, but 
 you may succeed better. She tells me she has written 
 her intention to you ; a singular communication cer- 
 tainly for a lady to make to a gentleman,' added Lady 
 Beaufort, with a vindictive side glance at her niece, 
 which made poor Ernestine grow crimson to the temples ; 
 ' but since she has not shrunk from introducing the 
 subject, pray do your best to induce her to abstain from 
 shocking her friends and degrading herself in such an 
 extraordinary manner.' And having successfully fired 
 this last shot, the lady gracefully sailed from the room 
 and disappeared. The first result of her parting speech 
 was that Ernestine, having impulsively held out her 
 hands to Lingard, hid her face on his arm as he sat 
 down beside her, and burst into tears. 
 
 ' What, Ernie, darling,' he said, ' has a trial at single 
 combat with Lady Beaufort proved too much for you ? 
 Well, I am not surprised ; I should decline the encounter 
 myself.' 
 
 ' It was a combination of painful feelings overcame me 
 for a moment ; but I am very glad you came in, Hugh.' 
 
134 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 ' So am I ; only you luust not wish me away again, 
 if I tell you that I think Lady Beaufort has reason on 
 her side notwithstanding. This Quixotic scheme is 
 really not a fitting thing for you, Ernestine ; I came 
 fully resolved to tell you so.' 
 
 Ernestine started up, and dashed the tears from her 
 eyes. ' Oh, Hugh, don't say so,' she exclaimed, her 
 grasp tightening on his hand with convulsive energy ; 
 ' you can never know how nmch is bound up for me in 
 this matter, or w^hat a terrible necessity is laid upon 
 me to rescue this girl. She must be saved — she must !' 
 
 ' Let her be saved, by all means, if she desires it, 
 which is probably doubtful,' said Lingard ; ' but why 
 should you have anything to do with such an one as 
 she is ? Send a policeman after her, or a grim old 
 matron out of a Eefuge ; only don't you mix yourself 
 up with an affair of this kind.' 
 
 ' Hugh,' said Ernestine, lifting her clear earnest eyes 
 to liis face, 'it is I who have been commissioned to do 
 it ; commissioned by one now lying cold in her grave ; 
 destroyed by her own hand, because none ever sought 
 to save her, as she bids me save this child. I will tell 
 you this much, and I know you will not ask me more : 
 He through whose means destruction and misery has 
 come upon the girl I seek, is very near and dear to me. 
 
THK OI'LMON OV TIIK WoKI.D. 135 
 
 He can do notliiiig now to check the results of his evil 
 deeds spreading far and wide, where he little dreamt 
 they would extend; and on me it has fallen, by a 
 solemn retribution, to represent him in the effort to 
 make what little atonement may yet be possible, for all 
 the ruin and wretchedness he has caused.' Her voice 
 became choked with sobs as the cold white face of the 
 drowned girl seemed to pass before her ; and she remem- 
 bered how, in the very death-agony, Lois's one prayer 
 had been, that George Courtenay would save her sister. 
 Struggling to retain composure, she went on : 'I think, 
 perhaps, you imagine I am going to act in a much more 
 unusual manner than I really am. I will tell you just 
 what I mean to do : I am going into the country to see 
 the girl's father first, and if I do not find her mth him, 
 which is possible, I have reason to think she may be at 
 Greyburgh. Now, j-ou know I had been intending to 
 go there to see Eeginald at all events; so there will 
 be nothing strange in my doing so, although, when 
 there, I shall do my very utmost to find this unhappy 
 chHd.' 
 
 \Mien Ernestine had said this much, Lingard ima- 
 gined that he understood the whole story. One ' near 
 and dear to her' could only, he felt sure, be one of her 
 brothers. Eeginald was at Greyburgh, aud it was there 
 
136 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 slie was going to look for the girl, therefore there was 
 no question that it was to him she alluded. Lingard 
 knew that he was very ill, and that he was of a sensi- 
 tive, gentle disposition, so that it was very likely some 
 sudden remorse had seized him, wdiich was reacting 
 upon his equally sensitive sister. The suicide of which 
 she spoke was no doubt that of some companion of 
 Reginald's protegee which liad deepened the impression 
 on both their minds. It seemed all very clear to him, 
 and having settled the facts to his own satisfaction, he 
 proceeded to deal with them after the fashion of the 
 society which was his world. 
 
 ' Ernestine,' he said, ' I can quite understand how all 
 this appears to you ; but your ideas are far too highy. 
 flown and ecstatic for this practical world. Such cases 
 are more common than you think, and no one but your- 
 self would imagine that the circumstances laid any re- 
 sponsibility on you. If every one, whose friends w^ere 
 implicated in an affair of this kind considered it their 
 duty to act as you propose, there would be occupation 
 of a curious description for very many persons as little 
 suited to it as you are. There is a substratum of this 
 sort of thing underlying society everywhere, and it is 
 only because this case has chanced to crop up to the 
 surface, that you give it such undue importance. You 
 
THE OPINION OF THE WORLD. 137 
 
 must consider, my darling, that this girl is, in the first 
 place, probably quite satisfied with her mode of life, 
 and unwilling to leave it ; and that even if she were 
 not, she is but one of many thousands in exactly the 
 same position. You are not going to carry a crusade 
 through the whole of them, and why should you com- 
 promise yourself for one only, out of a tribe better 
 ignored altogether V 
 
 ' One only,' said Ernestine, a light as from a purer 
 world shijiing in her eyes as she spoke ; ' but that one 
 an immortal soul that never in all the eternal ages 
 can cease to live, and living to suffer, if in the whole 
 world there is not enough of compassion found to save 
 her from a doom of such uuimagined horror ; one only, 
 but that one so unspeakably precious in the sight of the 
 God who made her for Himself, that we know His be- 
 loved Son would have come down from heaven to die 
 in His awful agony for her alone, had slie only of all 
 the human race been perishing and sinful. You speak 
 of thousands like her. Is it not enough to crush one's 
 very sou-1 with horror to think of what they are in the 
 sight of the Eighteous Heaven, and shall be, too pro- 
 bably, for ever ? And the thought that it is their own 
 fellow-creatures who have thus blasted their souls with 
 eternal ruin, makes one wonder that God should still 
 
138 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 withhold the tire which one day must justly burn to 
 ashes a world so cruel and so polluted. And can you 
 think, Hugh, that apart from the judgment which will 
 fall on the active agents in the ruin of the thousands of 
 whom you speak, there will be no account demanded of 
 their blood from those who were passive instruments in 
 their destruction, who might have helped, who might 
 have saved them, and would not ? — on such as I am, 
 who ought to be ready to give my whole life to win all 
 and any I could ? Am I to abstain from rescuing one, 
 one actually given into my hand, because some painful 
 humiliation, some bitter censure, may come to wound 
 my vanity, from those who make this v/orld's approval 
 the idol of their worship ? Oh, what will all that world 
 be to me when I am lying cold and stiff in the grave, 
 whence there is no return ! How more than worthless 
 in that time of silent waiting will be its praise or blame, 
 — the praise or blame of those who will be dust and ashes 
 like myself But will not the doom of that one lost soul 
 be everything to me, — the soul that will meet me at the 
 bar of judgment, and cry out against me, " You might 
 have saved me, and you did not ; therefore you are my 
 condemnation, you my sentence, you my everlasting- 
 despair ? " ' 
 
 ErnCjStine paused, her whole frame trembling with 
 
TIIK OPINION OF THE \V01{LD. 139 
 
 strong feeling ; then she went on witli a quiet sadness, 
 which was very touching — 
 
 ' Hugh, I am to be your wife, and I will not now do 
 anything which you could afterwards regret your wife 
 had done. If you absolutely require me to give up the 
 effort to save this most unhappy child, I will do so ; 
 and 1 will not vex you with any expressions of regret 
 when the matter is once settled ; but just now, while it 
 is still an open question, while her fate still hangs in 
 the balance, I cannot keep back from you, that I do so 
 strongly feel the obligation laid upon me in her behalf, 
 that if I now abandon her, I shall bring a lasting giief 
 and remorse upon myself, which not all the happiness 
 I look for in my life with you, will have power to banish. 
 I shall never be able to forget her going down to the 
 grave and to her terrible eternity, without one voice to 
 warn her, one hand stretched out to save her from utter- 
 most destruction. Hugh, you may think me absurd 
 and romantic if you will, but I know too surely that 
 at the very altar by yoiu: side I shall seem to hear the 
 cry of that perishing soul. I shall ever hear it in all 
 the bright days we hope to spend together, and oh, most 
 of all, I shall hear it on my bed of death, when my own 
 life is finished, MTitten down to the last line, and sealed 
 up against the great account, Avitli but one record of her 
 
140 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 in all its pages, " I knew that slie was perisliiug, and I 
 left lier to perish when I might have saved her." ' 
 
 As Ernestine finished speaking, and bent down her 
 head waiting for his decision, Lingard suddenly started 
 up and went to the window, where he stood for a few 
 minutes silent, struggling with thoughts that were alto- 
 gether unaccountable to himself. That Ernestine, so 
 good, so innocent — faultless, indeed, in his eyes, — should 
 thus accuse herself of heavy guilt, and expect a life-long 
 remorse because she believed herself a passive agent in 
 the wide-spread evil, wherein he held the most active 
 instrumentality to be but a trifling folly not worth 
 remembering or regretting, — had aroused a tumult in 
 his mind which he could neither comprehend nor resist. . 
 For one moment it was as though some lightning flash 
 had revealed a glimpse of the dazzling purity, the awful, 
 uncompromising holiness of that Fount and Essence of 
 all goodness, in which he did not, and even in that hour 
 would not, believe, — while in the same light the true 
 nature of sin in its foul blackness darkened visibly 
 on his sight. For a brief space his soul was in the 
 grasp of truth, and cowered down well-nigh over- 
 whelmed ; but the impression was transient. Soon a 
 rush of habitual thoughts and feelings swarmed on his 
 mind ; .a^ain the shadows closed over the transient 
 
THE OPINION OF TIIK WOKLD. 141 
 
 gleam; the ground Avliich for a inonieiit liael appeared 
 steady beneath liis feet seemed once more to rock to 
 and fro on its insecure foundation, and his mind drifted 
 helplessly back into its \A'onted chaos of doubts, mis- 
 givings, and sophistries, mingled with evil desires and 
 dim aspirations. He was himself again very speedily ; 
 but when lie turned to come back to Ernestine there 
 was an unusually grave and gentle expression on his 
 face ; and the half playful, half bitter sarcasm with 
 which he had treated the matter at first had quite dis- 
 appeared. 
 
 ' Ernestine, I will thwart you no more,' he said softly; 
 ' do what good you can in your generation and in your 
 own way, you shall never be hindered by me. AYhat 
 am I that I should stand between your pity and any 
 poor WTctch, however degraded she may be ? ' and as 
 Ernestine thanked him, with a warmth of gratitude 
 which showed how greatly she was relieved, he bent 
 down to catch every tone of her low sweet voice, seem- 
 ing to thirst for the assurance that he was thus indirectly 
 associated with her in her loving charity. 
 
 ' There is one condition, Ernie, dearest, which I must 
 make with you for your own sake,' he continued, after 
 a moment's silence, ' and that is, that you keep me to a 
 certain extent au courant of your proceedings in this 
 
1 42 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 matter ; it is very possible that you may find yourself 
 in some position where you will really require help and 
 advice ; and I shall not be easy about you unless I have 
 the certainty that you will always at least tell me where 
 you are.' 
 
 ' I will, gladly,' said Ernestine ; ' it will be a great 
 comfort to me ; and you know, Hugh,' she added laugh- 
 ingly, ' I am to have Mrs. Tompson with me. Don't 
 you think there is some chance of the convenances being 
 attended to pretty well?' 
 
 ' I should think so, indeed. What agonies she will 
 be in as to what the railway porters and cabmen may 
 think of your proceedings, Ernie ! She certainly carries 
 her deference to the world's ojiinion to the utmost limits . 
 of civilisation.' 
 
 ' Her whole life consists of a representation of her 
 own and her friends' greatness to the vulgar humanity 
 outside,' said Ernestine ; ' but happily she is much too 
 timid and nervous to think of opposing me, so I shall 
 get my own way, Hugh, all the same.' 
 
 ' And so you ought, my dearest, considering what you 
 are ; but Ernestine,' he added, with a playfulness which 
 veiled a real earnestness, ' don't go and become too 
 good for me ; I am very far from your level now, and I 
 don't wish to find the distance widened between us. I 
 
THE OPINION OF THE WORLD. 143 
 
 liave a horrible dread that 1 shall see wings growing 
 out on your shoulders some day, and that you will soar 
 away above me, Heaven knows where.' 
 
 ' Oh, no fear,' said Ernestine, laughing merrily. ' I 
 think, on the contrary, when I am out in the world on 
 my adventures, I shall always be longing to rush back 
 and hide in a corner beside you ; and that is just what 
 I shall do when my quest is over, if only I am suc- 
 cessful.' 
 
 ' Well, now, I want to tell you that I expect to be 
 ready for you sooner than we thought,' said Lingard ; 
 and he proceeded to explain to her that his prospects of 
 a more lucrative appointment than that he now held 
 were much nearer their fulfilment than he had supposed, 
 and that he believed their marriage might take place 
 before many months were over. 
 
CHAP TEE IX. 
 
 THE SEAECII AT CARLETON HALL. 
 
 THE next afternoon saw Ernestine Conrtenay in a 
 railway carriage speeding away to the pretty 
 village near which Annie Brook's father lived, as lodge- 
 keeper to Lord Carleton. Opposite to her sat Mrs. 
 Tompson, a lady with drab-coloured hair, pinched fea- 
 tures, and a thin figure, attired in good taste, but with 
 the most minute attention to the prevailing fashion, 
 on all points ; there was not a fold out of j)lace in her 
 silk dress or a wrinkle in her irreproachable kid gloves, 
 yet she looked as if made of inferior clay beside 
 her quiet charge, who in her simple garments and un- 
 obtrusive demeanour was singularly attractive even to 
 strangers, from the touching sweetness of expression 
 which gave such a charm to her delicate features and 
 soft brown eyes. Ernestine would have valued this 
 gift of winning insensibly on all who saw her, had she 
 known how useful it would prove to her in her future 
 career, but she was too unconscious of self to be aware 
 
THE SEARCH AT CARLETOX HALL. H5 
 
 of it, and d^ffy Avondered liow it was that even strangers 
 were so kind to her wherever she went. The twilight 
 was stealing over the earth when they reached their 
 destination, and Mrs. Torapson experienced the first of 
 many shocks she was destined to receive in her attend- 
 ance on Ernestine, when she found her quite resolved to 
 pass the night at the village inn, in spite of the fact that 
 below the really pleasant rooms assigned to them, there 
 was a very undisguised tap. 
 
 'My dear,' said Mrs. Tompson, clasping the well- 
 gloved hands, ' this is quite unheard-of, and most Un- 
 necessary. You are acquainted with Lord and Lady 
 Carleton, and their house is, of course, the only suitable 
 abode for you in this place ; you have only to ^^niite a 
 note to Lady Carleton, saying you are accidentally pass- 
 ing through the neighbourhood, and would have much 
 pleasure in spending a day or two with her, and you 
 will find her delighted to receive you.' 
 
 ' But I am not passing accidentally, and it would not 
 give me any pleasure at all to spend a day Avith her,' 
 said Ernestine ; ' so you see I must not say that ; and 
 besides, I could not possibly stay at their house under 
 the circumstances. iSTow, let me beg you to order tea, 
 and make yourself quite comfortable, and I shall soon 
 come back to you.' And before Mrs. Tompson had 
 
 VOL. L K 
 
146 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 time to prepare another speech, Ernestine had closed 
 the door behind her, and soon she was to be seen 
 from the window walking lightly down the village 
 street. Mrs. Tompson did not attempt to follow. 
 She knew perfectly well that Miss Courtenay avonld 
 not be deterred from doing what she thought right ; 
 and a secret instinct seemed to tell her also that her 
 actions Avere regulated by a somewhat higher code than 
 her own. So she proceeded to establish what she was 
 pleased to term her ' weak frame' on the horse-hair sofa ; 
 and in a painful combat between the angularities of the 
 'frame' and those of the sofa, she found enough to 
 occupy her till Ernestine's return. 
 
 Meanwhile Ernestine Courtenay was walking quickly 
 along the pleasant country road which led to Carleton 
 Hall. She had no dif&culty in finding her way, according 
 to the directions given to her, and soon came in sight of 
 the pretty rustic lodge, with its trim garden, where the 
 gatekeeper lived. It stood almost in a nest of bright 
 spring flowers, the walls covered with trailing plants ; 
 in front of it lay the park, where the deer were browsing 
 quietly; behind it rose noble trees and luxuriant 
 shrubberies, glowing with the beautiful but evanescent 
 hues of the opening year, and over all was the tender 
 light £)f the sunset sky, where the evening star shone 
 
THE SEAECH AT CARLETON HALL. 147 
 
 pnre and pale in its otlicrcal solitude. Ernestine leant 
 against the gate for a few moments, looking round on 
 the sweet peaceful scene ; and she thought sadly how, 
 but a few years before, Lois and Annie had dwelt there 
 as innocent children, and how they played in their care- 
 less glee upon that fair green grass, and slept the sleep 
 of guileless hearts beneath that cottage roof; but now ! — 
 by her brother's eyil deeds the one was laid in the dust 
 of death, and the other buried in a corruption worse 
 than that of the grave. The mournful recollection 
 nerved her to proceed with her task, which she felt was, 
 even in this first step, very difficult. 
 
 Matthew Brook must be aware of Lois's fate by 
 this time, as she had been told that the coroner had 
 written to Mm with full particulars. He knew now, 
 therefore, even if he had not known it before, that 
 Colonel Courtenay was the cause of her death ; and 
 Ernestine felt that she coiQd not venture to cross Brook's 
 threshold if there was any chance of her being known 
 as that man's sister ; but this did not seem likely ; 
 while, on the other hand, she feared he might resent an 
 entire stranger speaking to him of the disgrace of his 
 children. Ernestine had been very little amongst the 
 poor, or she^would have known that there was small 
 chance of their havino; such refined and sensitive feeliniis 
 
148 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 as she would have had in a matter of this kind. There 
 was enough, however, to make the visit really formid- 
 able to one of her sympathetic nature, and her courage 
 would almost have failed her had she not thoroughly 
 counted the cost when she undertook her mission, and 
 prepared herself for many a painful moment in the 
 course of it. 
 
 She went up to the door and knocked gently. It w\as 
 opened by a woman, with a child in her arms and 
 another clinging to her skirts. She had a pleasant, but 
 somewhat expressionless face, with a worn, fatigued 
 loolv, as if she had found the cares of matrimony rather 
 too oppressive. 
 
 'Can I speak to Matthew Brook?' said Ernestine, 
 addressing her. 
 
 ' Surely, ma'am,' said the woman, curtseying as she 
 recognised 'one of the gentlefolk' in her visitor; ' he is 
 just a -sitting .down to his supper; please to walk in ;' 
 and she ushered her into a neat tidy cottage, where, at a 
 little round table, placed before a blazing fire, her husband 
 sat with a plate of bread and cheese beside him, and two 
 or three children clustering round him. He rose as 
 Ernestine entered, and turned towards her a hard weather- 
 beaten face, with, strongly marked features, and consider- 
 able sternness of expression ; but he bowed respectfully, 
 
THE SEARCH AT CARLETON HiVLL. 149 
 
 and begged her to sit down. His wife, who seemed at 
 least twenty years younger tlian he was, brought forvvard 
 a chair, told the children to mind their manners and 
 stand out of the way, and in another moment Ernestine 
 found herself placed in front of Lois Brook's father, 
 who sat silently waiting for her to speak. 
 
 * I must ask you to excuse my intruding upon you,' 
 said Ernestine, with the gentle courtesy which is too 
 often considered an unnecessary luxury for the poor, 
 even in their own houses, ' but I have come on a very 
 painful errand.' 
 
 Brook looked up keenly at her. 
 
 ' You have heard, doubtless,' she went on to say, her 
 voice trembling, ' of the sad death of your child, your 
 daughter Lois ? ' 
 
 The man's face darkened like a thunder-cloud. ' I 
 have heard of the death of Lois Brook,' he answered, 
 ' but she is no child of mine. From the day that she 
 crossed that door-step to go to her disgrace, I have 
 counted her a stranger to me, and so she is now when 
 her shame lias been made public. She is no child of 
 mine.' 
 
 ' Oh, surely still your child !' said Ernestine. ' She 
 has done very wrong, and she has suffered cruelly for it, 
 but she is what God made her^your own child ?' 
 
150 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 ' Xo/ he said, striking liis clenclied fist on the table 
 beside him, ' I won't have her called so ! She was told 
 what she had to expect if she ever disgraced herself, 
 and she knew I would never go back frorn my word. 
 I gave my children a good home, and brought them up 
 respectable. I taught them their duty, and took them 
 to church, and stinted myself that they might have 
 the best of schooling, and they knew that so long as 
 they did well they'd share every bit I'd got; but 
 I told them, ay, and swore it to them, times on times, 
 that so surely as they took to evil ways, and brought 
 disgrace on themselves and me, they 'd have to tramp 
 for it, and they might seek a home and a father where 
 they pleased, for they'd find none in my house never 
 no more. So I said then, and so I says now to 
 these children here'' he added, stretching out his hand 
 towards two pretty little fair-haired girls, ' the same 
 as I said it to them as is gone, and I '11 keep my 
 word to one and the whole of them, they may depend 
 on it.' 
 
 ' You have just reason to be angry,' said Ernestine 
 ' but the fault was not all Lois's. She was deceived and 
 cruelly deserted ; the treatment she met w^itli drove her 
 to her dreadful death.' 
 
 ' No doubt,' said Brook grimly, ' and the fine gentle- 
 
THE .SEARCH AT (JAKLETOX HALL. 151 
 
 man as ruined ber will have to pay for it in kingdom 
 come, if all is true as the parsons tell us. But that is 
 no excuse for Lois. I taught her her place, and she 
 knew she had no business to go looking after any grand 
 gentleman, or to let him come swaggering here to play 
 with an honest girl's good name when her father's back 
 was turned. I told her what stuff such as he were made 
 of, and what fine sport it is to them to take a decent 
 man's daughter and make her only fit, as they tliink, 
 to be trampled under their feet, and then flung away 
 to die in a ditch. Yes, yes, I know, and I warned Lois 
 of them ; what she did, she did with her eyes open, and 
 she must e'en abide by it.' 
 
 ' She must indeed,' said Ernestine ; ' for we can 
 neither help the dead, nor speak forgiveness to them, 
 however sorely they may need it. But I only men- 
 tioned Lois, because I wished to tell you what her 
 last desire and prayer in this world were.' 
 
 ' I beg your pardon, ma'am,' said Brook's wife ; ' but 
 were you with the. poor wench when she died ?' 
 
 ' no,' said Ernestine sadly ; ' God alone saw her last 
 agony.' 
 
 ' Stupid ! how could she be,' said Brook angrily, 
 ' when you know the girl went and drownded herself in 
 the night,' — and Ernestine could see that there was 
 
152 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 strong agitation working under liis apparent harsh- 
 ness. 
 
 ' Bnt if I guesses right, ma'am,' he continued, turning 
 to Ernestine, ' you are the lady that put her in tlie 
 ground, and saved her a work'us funeral ? ' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Ernestine ; ' it was the only thing I could 
 do for her, and I was very pleased to do it.' 
 
 ' And I thank you for it, I will say that ; bad as Lois 
 has behaved to me, I am glad that she who was once 
 known as my daughter was not buried like a work'us 
 tramp. I do thank you for that, ma'am; and I am 
 bound to listen to anything you may have to say, 
 tliough what 's the good of talking or tlrinking of such a 
 black business, I can't tell, I 'm sure,' and he writhed 
 imeasily from side to side as he si^oke. 
 
 ' But it is of the living, not the dead, I have come to 
 speak to you now,' said Ernestine. ' Lois left a letter, 
 which fell into my hands, in which she made the most 
 earnest entreaty that her sister Annie might be sought 
 for and saved from such a fate as hers had been.' 
 
 Brook started at the name, and clenched his fist 
 violently. 
 
 ' Annie !' he thundered. ' She is as dead to nie as 
 tlie other is, and more so, for the grave where Lois lies 
 can tell no tales, but while Annie lives, her shame 
 
THE SEARCH AT CAKLETON HALL. 153 
 
 would fall back on me if I still owned her for my child. 
 I would not so much as hear her name from any but 
 yourself, ma'am, and it is not a bit of good your talldng 
 of her ; better not, far better not.' There was an ap- 
 pealing look under all the fierce anger of his eyes, as 
 he tm'ned them on Ernestine, which convinced her that 
 this child had a firmer hold on his heart than ever Lois 
 had, and that the struggle with his own feelings obliged 
 him to talvc refnge in greater violence. 
 
 ' Just let me tell you what I have to say, and I will 
 trouble you no more,' said Ernestine gently. ' I re- 
 solved, when I read the heart-breaking letter poor Lois 
 wrote on behalf of her sister, that I would never rest 
 till I had fulfilled her last dying wish, and rescued 
 Annie from a life of sin, and a death of misery. I gave 
 her my promise that I would do so, as I held her cold 
 hand in mine, and I will keep my word, though it 
 was given to a silent corpse. Let it cost me Mdiat it 
 may, I will never cease my efforts for your poor lost 
 child till I have brought her back, if I can, to her 
 Father in heaven, with whom is all mercy and forgive- 
 ness. It is for this purpose I have come to you. I 
 thought I might have found her here, or that you might 
 know where she is.' 
 
 ' Here !' exclaimed Brook. ' She shall never enter this 
 
154 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 house till I am carried out of it feet foremost. I know 
 nothing of her, nor I don't want to.' 
 
 ' do not say so/ exclaimed Ernestine. ' If only I 
 can find her and bring her Lack to penitence, where 
 should she come but to her father's house ? and indeed, 
 from all I have heard, I feel sure she was far less to 
 blame than Lois was : she quite believed her sister was 
 married, when she went to her, and had no idea of the 
 evils and temj)tations that awaited her.' 
 
 ' Then she believed Lois's false words more than my 
 true ones,' said Brook. ' I told her plain enough what 
 Lois was, and she knew I had disowned her, and would 
 serve her the same if she followed in her sister's steps. 
 She knew this well, and she left my house unbeknown 
 to me and without my leave, and went to her worthless 
 sister ; and now as she has made her bed, so she may 
 lie on it.' 
 
 ' I do not mean to excuse her,' said Ernestine ; ' but 
 she was young and unsuspicious, and her sister, whom 
 she loved so much, persuaded her to come. At all 
 events, whatever may have been her fault in the past, 
 don't say you will refuse to take her in, if I can bring 
 her back to you repentant.' 
 
 ' But I do say it, and I will,' die replied, smiting the 
 table fiercely. ' Find her if you can, and do your best 
 
THE SEARCH AT CAKLETON HALL. 155 
 
 with her. It is good of you to trouble yourself for such 
 a one as she is, and I won't say but what I am thankful 
 to you for it, but never let me hear her name, or see her 
 with the sight of my eyes inside of this house. She shall 
 not come while I am alive to bar the door against her.' 
 
 ' Your own child !' said Ernestine. ' "Will you not 
 show mercy, as you hope for it yourself ? What would 
 become of any one of us if our Father in heaven so 
 took vengeance on our sins ?' 
 
 * I have other children, to consider besides her/ said 
 Brook doggedly. 
 
 ' Ijut they are so young they could not suffer any 
 harm from intercourse with her.' 
 
 ' They are not too young to suffer the loss of their 
 home and their livelihood, and that is what it would 
 come to if I brought a fallen woman into this house, 
 be she twenty times my daughter.' 
 
 ' How is that possible ? ' exclaimed Ernestine. ' Who 
 could have the right to prevent you doing as you like 
 in your own house, and with your own child?' 
 
 ' Those to whom the house belongs, and whose money 
 buys my children's bread,' said Brook. ' I must do what 
 pleases my Lord and my Lady, or leave the house and 
 the money to another lodge-keeper. There 's many a one 
 woidd be glad to step into my shoes — ay, and many a 
 
156 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 one watches to see me make a false move, tliat they 
 may get into them.' 
 
 ' But Lord and Lady Caiieton would never object to 
 your receiving your daughter, if she were really peni- 
 tent, and came to your house only to seek a shelter 
 from sin and temptation.' 
 
 ' Woidd they not ? Did they not send and tell me 
 when Lois went, and again when Annie left, tliat if ever 
 one or the other of them was seen within the park-gates 
 I should be turned out without a day's notice ? Did 
 not Mrs. Brace, the housekeeper, in her silks and satins, 
 bring me the message herself, and sit there as proud as 
 a peacock, tossing her head and speaking of my girls as 
 if she would not touch them with a pair of tongs, let. 
 alone my Lady ? And I'd like you to tell me, ma'am,' 
 continued Brook, turning round and putting his elbows 
 on the table, while he looked full at Ernestine with a 
 strangely sinister expression, — ' I 'd like you just to tell 
 me how it is, that among you gentlefolks what is thought 
 & shameful sin in a poor girl is neither a sin nor yet a 
 shame in a fine gentleman ? At the very time Mrs. Brace 
 brought me my Lord's and my Lady's message. Colonel 
 Courteuay, the grand swaggering Colonel that ruined 
 my pretty Lois, was staying at the Hall courting my 
 Lady's _niece. Miss Julia Talbot ; and who so civil to 
 
THE SEAECII AT CAELETON HALL. 157 
 
 him as my Lord, and who so pleased to see him as my 
 Lady ? And they knew just as well as I did that my 
 child's ruin lay at his door, and that his sin was the 
 same as hers, to say the least of it, — for I take it his 
 was something the blackest of the two, — anyhow, the 
 one was as bad as the other ; but she was not to dare to 
 show her face within her fiither's door, at the risk of 
 bringing us all to the work'us, while he was -to ride 
 with my Lady in her carriage, and sit with my Lord at 
 his table, and have the whole house at his beck and 
 call like master and more.' Brook paused a moment, 
 still looking fixedly at Ernestine, and then said, ' ]\Ia'am, 
 our parson tells us that God Almighty knows all things : 
 I should just like to know whether He knows these 
 things, and if He does, what He thinks of them ? ' 
 
 Ernestine bent down her head, unable for the moment 
 to make him any answer, so keenly did the truth of his 
 words strike home to her sense of right. She had felt 
 her brother's guilt heavily enough, as her present con- 
 duct testified, and the general injustice of the world in 
 the matter had struck her, as she stood by Lois's dead 
 body; but the whole dreadful subject was of course 
 entirely new to her, and it was the first time that her 
 eyes had been opened to the practical working of the 
 conventional law which visits sins of this description 
 
158 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 without mercy on the woman, the weaker sinner, whik^ 
 it leaves honoured and unscathed the man who has 
 destroyed her. Ernestine shuddered as she thought how 
 these things wouhl appear when weighed in the balance 
 of immaculate justice, but she had too much conscien- 
 tious courage to gloss over the truth now, even to the 
 hard man before her. She looked up at him with her 
 candid eyes, and said, ' It is a most cruel injustice ; but 
 you may be sure it is one which is hateful in the sight 
 of the righteous God, and for which He will surely 
 require us to give account in our final trial. I still 
 think, however, that Lady Carleton would not refuse to 
 let you give your daughter Annie a shelter, if she were 
 really penitent; now especially, when poor Lois can claim, 
 no more pity from either her or you. At all events I 
 will see her to-morrow and try to gain her consent, pro- 
 vided you will promise me that if she does agree, you 
 will not persist in yoar refusal to give the poor child a 
 home.' 
 
 ' It is of no use to ask her, ma'am ; you may save 
 3'ourself the trouble.' 
 
 ' Still I may succeed ; only say that if I do, and if 
 I can bring Annie back to you, you will receive her.' 
 
 ' Well, if you would take her by the hand, so that 
 folk shoidd not think she was altogether lost, I won't 
 
THE SEARCII AT CArvLETON HALL. 159 
 
 say but what I might,' said Brook ; ' T)ut there — it is 
 no use thinking of it. I know well enough what your 
 answer will be at the Hall.' 
 
 ' Still I have your promise/ said Ernestine, rising, 
 ' and I thank you sincerely for it, as indeed for your 
 patience in listening to all I had to say. One question 
 more I must ask : can you give me any idea where 
 Annie is now ? ' 
 
 ' None at all ; I know nothing of her,' said Brook, 
 relapsing into his sullen manner. 
 
 ' Then she has never written to any of you ? ' asked 
 Ernestine. 
 
 ' She knew better than to do that,' said Brook. 
 ' She 'd have had her letter back just as she sent it. No, 
 the last I can tell you of her is this : she stood there the 
 night afore slie left us, as pretty and innocent a little 
 maid as ever you 'd wish to see. • Slie stood there look- 
 ing at me, and 1 could see tears in her eyes, and I 
 thought she were fretting because I had spoken a bit 
 sharp to her for loitering about the gate ; but I little 
 thought she was giving just these few tears to the 
 father and the home she Avould never see again.' 
 
 'Oh, don't say never!' exclaimed Ernestine. 'I 
 must hope she may yet return to be a comfort to you, 
 and all the more dutiful, because she has once fallen so 
 
IGO HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 far. If I succeed witli Lady Carleton, I will come and tell 
 you ; if you do not see me, you will know I have failed.' 
 
 ' I shall not see you/ said Brook determinedly. 
 
 ' In that case I must do the best I can for Annie with- 
 out your help ; but I hope better things from Lady 
 Carleton.' 
 
 Ernestine then took her leave, bending so tenderly 
 over the children as she bade them farewell, that both 
 Brook and his wife seemed touched. He took off his 
 hat as he opened the gate for her, with a degree of 
 genuine respect, which was very different from the 
 conventional civility he usually showed to visitors at 
 the Hall. Ernestine had gone some way down the 
 road, when she heard a rapid step behind her, and, 
 turnino- she saw Brook's wife hastening after her. She 
 came up breathless. 
 
 ' I beg your pardon, ma'am, but I think this may 
 help you to find our Annie,' she said, holding out a 
 water-colour portrait of a young girl. 'A lady who 
 was staying at the Hall once, thought her so pretty 
 that she made this likeness of her, and her father can't 
 a-bear to see it, so I hid it away, and never thought of 
 it till you was gone.' 
 
 ' Oh, thank you,' said Ernestine, taking it ; 'it will 
 help me very much indeed. Is it really like her ? ' 
 
THE SEAKCir AT CARLETOX HALL. IGl 
 
 ' It is just her very self,' said Mrs. Brook, ' only it 
 was the lady dressed her up with flowers that way ; 
 her father would never have let her wear them so,' and 
 taking leave once more, the woman went hack to her 
 cottage. 
 
 Ernestine stood lookino; at the drawing; in the fast 
 failing light ; it was skilfully executed, and repre- 
 sented a girl not more than sixteen, with a sweet 
 childish face, lovely in its look of happiness. Large 
 eyes, of that limpid blue we see only in the early 
 morning sky, sunny hair falling in bright waves from 
 vmder a wreath of lilies of the valley, and lips parted in 
 a smile of playful archness, combined to represent the 
 very type of light-hearted innocence, and of girlish 
 beauty undimmed by blight or shadow. As Ernestine 
 gazed sadly on it, she felt her very soul rise up in 
 indignation against the man who, in his selfish wicked- 
 ness, had for ever marred this fair creation of the God 
 of goodness, and darkened all that guileless loveliness 
 with the ineffaceable stains of guilt and shame. That 
 face, so bright with the sunshine of a soul unawakened 
 yet to sorrow or to e\dl, was indeed blotted out from the 
 very universe ; since the best she conld now hope for 
 was to see one day those clear blue eyes looking sorrow- 
 fully out through penitential tears, and those smiling 
 
 VOL. I. L 
 
1G2 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 lips quivering witli anguish, as tliey confessed the sin, re 
 pented bitterly, but never to be undone. It seemed to 
 her a very marvel, that even the world's code of justice 
 should impose on society so cruel a wrong as that which 
 Brook's words had brought home so forcibly to her 
 mind. If there were to be any distinction in the sin, 
 the punishment, and the degradation of Annie Brook 
 and her betrayer, surely the heaviest burden should 
 fall on the mature man of the world, and not on the 
 frail ignorant child, who knew neither trial nor tempta- 
 tion till he lured her from the shelter of her father's 
 roof 
 
CHAPTEE X. 
 
 LADY CAKLETOX'S DECISION. 
 
 IT was with ineffable satisfaction that INIrs. Tompson 
 heard next morning of Ernestine's intention to 
 visit Lady Carleton, althongh assured that she did not 
 intend to spend more than an hour at the Hall. This 
 was sufficient to enable the anxious cliaperon to 
 mention the fact before the innkeeper, in such terms 
 as should convince that functionary that Miss Cour- 
 tenay's proper abode had been in the aristocratic 
 mansion, and not in his own ignominious dwelling. 
 
 ' So distressing to reflect on what he must have 
 thought of us !' she said to Ernestine. 
 
 '"Wlio ? — the innkeeper?' Ernestine answered, laugh- 
 ing, ' I cannot say I have reflected about him at all ; but 
 now I shall go at once to Lady Carleton, as I am anxious 
 we should start for Greyburgh in time to reach it to- 
 night. I have not heard from Eeginald this morning 
 as I expected, and I begin to fear he is seriously ill.' 
 
 Ernestine found Lady Carleton at home, and to lier 
 
164 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 ffreat relief there was no one with her but her sister, 
 Miss Veniey, a lady cVun certain age, who was reported, 
 according to the phraseology of her set, to have become 
 ' serious,' since the fatal lapse of years had caused her 
 matrimonial ambition to descend from the marquises 
 and earls of her earlier hopes, to the rectors and 
 widowers, Avho were now, so far as she was concerned, 
 the only game in season. 
 
 Lady Carleton received Ernestine with the utmost cor- 
 diality. Their previous acquaintance had been slight, 
 but Colonel Courtenay had been very intimate at the 
 Hall, where he had first met his wife ; and it would 
 have been music to Mrs. Tompson's ears to have heard 
 Lady Carleton's pressing invitation to Ernestine to stay 
 and spend a few days with them. 
 
 ' Thank you very much,' said Ernestine, ' but I have 
 only an hour to spare. I must hasten on to Greyburgh 
 to see my brother Eeginald, who is ill. My object in 
 coming here to-day was to ask you a great favour,' she 
 added, looking up into the calm expressionless face that 
 was turned towards her. 
 
 ' I trust I may be able to do anything you wish,' 
 said Lady Carleton. 
 
 ' I am afraid the suliject is one which may be dis- 
 agreeable to you,' said Ernestine, colouring painfully, 
 
LADY CARLETON's DECISION. 165 
 
 ' but my request may really involve tlie whole future 
 welfare of a very unhappy person.' 
 
 * Going to ask for a subscription/ thought Miss 
 Yerney ; ' she need not come to me, while the dear 
 Vicar of Dulton's new aisle is unfinished.' 
 
 * I have heard,' Ernestine went on, ' through some very 
 painful circumstances, of a young girl named Annie 
 Brook, the daugliter of one of your lodge keepers, 
 and it is on her behalf I have come to speak to you.' 
 
 Lady Carleton's face grew rigid. ' My dear Miss 
 Courtenay, you cannot be in the least aware what sort 
 of a person this individual is, or you would certainly 
 not wish to mention her to me or to any one.' 
 
 ' I know too well what she is,' replied Ernestine ; 
 ' and it is because the strongest efforts are about to be 
 made to rescue her out of her dreadful life, that I come 
 with a request to you. If these efforts should succeed,' 
 she went on hurriedly, ' if she should become truly re- 
 pentant, and only anxious to hide from those who have 
 known her otherwise, will you allow her father to give 
 her a shelter in his house again ? He is quite willing to 
 take her, if you do not object.' 
 
 ' If Brook leaves my service, he will naturally do as 
 he pleases. I shall have no control over him. Of 
 course, you do not propose a person of bad character 
 
166 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 venturing witliin a lodge on our property ?' said Lady 
 Carleton, with the utmost stiffness. 
 
 ' Only if she were altogether penitent and changed, 
 wishing nothing hut to live a humhle, unnoticed life. 
 Brook cannot give up his situation without bringing his 
 other children to want and misery ; so that if he received 
 her at all, it must be here ; and it would seem too cruel 
 to refuse her the shelter of her father's roof, if she were 
 seeking to fly from a life and a future so dreadful as 
 hers is now.' 
 
 ' Are you aware, JNIiss Courtenay, that Brook's lodge 
 is actually within our OAvn gates, inside the park, and 
 that my sister and I and our guests sometimes take 
 shelter there from a shower of rain ? ' 
 
 ' But you need hold no intercourse with this poor 
 child,' said Ernestine eagerly ; * and, after all, how many 
 there are whom we meet in society, at least among men, 
 whom we have far more reason to shun than a miserable 
 girl who has been the victim of such as they are.' 
 
 It was with something more than coldness that 
 Lady Carleton answered now : ' Miss Courtenay, I am 
 really totally unaccustomed to discussions on subjects 
 of this nature.' 
 
 ' Had I not better leave the room ? ' interrupted Miss 
 Verney, rising with an air of injured innocence. 
 
LADY CARLETON'S DECISION. 167 
 
 ' Pray do nothing of the kind, Lorina,' said Lady 
 Carleton hastily; 'Miss Courtenay will not, I am sure, 
 continue so very unpleasant a conversation. I do not 
 know from what theories you may draw your ideas,' she 
 added, addressing Ernestine, ' but mine are those which 
 have been always received in society, and I can in no 
 way depart from them ; allow me to decline pursuing 
 the subject further.' 
 
 There was nothing more to be said, and after a few 
 constrained speeches on indifferent subjects, Ernestine 
 rose to go. 
 
 The cold politeness with which the ladies who had 
 received her so cordially now took leave of her, was the 
 first indication of the truth which was to meet her at 
 every turn, that she could not imscathed run counter to 
 the opinion of the world, however false and godless that 
 opinion might be. Ernestine was not indifferent to the 
 painful knowledge thus acquired. No one, especially 
 no woman, can brave the censure of the class to which 
 she belongs, without being made to feel it keenly ; nor 
 does the righteousness of the cause which has made her 
 depart from received opinion, prevent her from growing 
 daily more sensitive to the blame she has provoked. 
 She may be, as Ernestine was, too unselfish to forsake 
 the truth and the right, because her defence of it brings 
 
168 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 the world's contumely on her head ; but the harsh judg- 
 ment that mil assail her, the unworthy motives that 
 will be attributed to her, the misconceptions and exag- 
 gerations which her every action will call forth, must 
 gradually make her shrink more and more into herself, 
 till she finds herself happiest in the isolation to which 
 she has involuntarily exiled herself As yet Ernestine 
 anticipated nothing of this, nor of far deeper pangs 
 which her present course was one day to cost her ; and 
 she tried to shake off the feeling of humiliation and 
 woimded pride which her interview with Lady Carleton 
 had left on her mind. The sight of Brook's lodge was 
 ef&cacious at once in chasing away all thoughts of self. 
 As she drew near it she could see that he was standing, 
 hidden, as he thought, by the musHn curtain of the lat- 
 tice-window, watching her eagerly as she came down 
 the avenue. She felt he was waiting to see if her 
 errand had been successful, and if he might take home 
 the lost child towards whom his indifference had been 
 so much more assumed than real. She knew well she 
 had not a hope to offer him, and she passed his door 
 with her head bowed sadly down, and her heart aching 
 with that strong sense of the injustice of men's dealings 
 one with another which strikes us sometimes with such 
 painful acuteness. 
 
LADY CARLETON'S DECISION. 169 
 
 Mrs. Brook came out to open the gate for licr, and 
 looked inquiringly in her face, — 
 
 ' I suppose the poor wench is not to come home, 
 ma'am ? ' 
 
 ' I am very soriy I have failed to get leave for her ; 
 but Avill you tell your husband that if only I can find 
 her, I will take care that she finds a shelter in some 
 safe home, where I hope he will come and see her ? ' 
 
 ' God bless you, ma'am. I am right glad Annie has 
 found a friend in you ; she is no child of mine, but she 
 were as sweet a little maid as ever you see, and I can't 
 help fretting over her when I mind her merry ways, and 
 how she used to go singing about the house Kke a bird. 
 There was never a bit of harm in her, ma'am. She were 
 a thought too frolicsome, perhaps ; but she was light of 
 heart, poor dear.' 
 
 ' I will tell her how kindly you speak of her, if I can 
 find her,' said Ernestine, pressing the woman's hand as 
 she turned away to go forward in her search. 
 
CHAPTER XL 
 
 GREYBUKGH. 
 
 ERNESTINE COURTENAY had never seen Grey- 
 ^ burgli before, and slie now saw it under the 
 circumstances most favourable both to its beauty of 
 outward aspect, and to the teeming associations which 
 gave life and charm to every step within its walls. 
 Its beautiful gardens, its fair meadows, and shady 
 walks, were in all the glory of their fresh sjDring love- 
 liness ; the stately trees that arched over its finest 
 avenue, tiU it looked like the nave of a glorious cathe- 
 dral, or dipped their branches in the graceful winding 
 river, were all bright with the luxuriant green that had 
 renewed their youth ; and the sparkling waters, covered 
 with gay boats, that went shooting to and fro with their 
 merry crews, glanced along under blossoming shrubberies 
 and violet-covered banks. Side by side with this living 
 nature, this freshness of youth and beauty, rose up in 
 sombre stateliness the dark old colleges, like petrifac- 
 tions of the thoughts and hopes and aspirations of the 
 
, GTIEYBUKGH. 171 
 
 long-Luried dead, — the glittering sunlight serving only 
 to bring out in stronger relief the deep shadows cast by 
 their massive proportions. 
 
 A more striking representation of past and present 
 could scarcely have been imagined. The smiling gar- 
 dens and sunny river-side were teeming, not with the 
 life of nature only, but with the young life of the present 
 generation in all the promise of early manhood ; while, 
 within the solemn colleges, beneath the chapel laltars 
 and the sombre corridors, the dead of ages past, the 
 strength and sinews of the nation once, lay mouldering 
 in their forgotten graves. And with this contrast, — the 
 sure knowledge that all the life and brightness of the 
 one must soon dissolve into the gloom and silence of 
 the other, would have been strangely mournful, had it 
 not been that there was a revelation of the future also 
 in the clear blue sky, with its infinite depths of fathom- 
 less ether, that arched over living and dead alike, and 
 spoke of an eternity for both. 
 
 It was in the radiance of the early morning that 
 Ernestine thus saw Greyburgh for the first time, as she 
 took her way to the college to which Eeginald belonged. 
 They had reached the hotel too late the night before to 
 visit him then, but Ernestine had written to tell him of 
 her arrival, and to ask when she could see him, either 
 
1 72 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 at the hotel where she was staying, or in his rooms, and 
 the tone of his answer heightened her anxiety on his 
 account. He "WTote thus : — 
 
 ' Dearest Ernie, — I am very sorry you have come 
 here, and yet I shall be only too delighted to see you. 
 You must come to me, — I cannot leave my rooms. 
 Since you are here, do not delay'letting me have you 
 with me a moment longer than you can help. I shall 
 expect to see you as soon as the college gates are open 
 to-morrow morning. — E. C 
 
 This was all, and Ernestine was greatly perplexed by 
 it. She knew it was no want of affection for herself 
 which made him regret her coming, and she waited 
 with anxiety for the moment when she should be able 
 to ascertain the meaning of the strange state of mind 
 in which he seemed to be. She was at the gate of the 
 college, one of the oldest in Greyburgh, at the hour he 
 had named, and, as she turned into the deep shadows 
 of the quadrangle, with its dark walls and time-worn 
 statues, she felt as if she had stepped from the hving 
 world into the realms of the past. Having mastered, 
 by the help of a passing servant, the meaning of the 
 cabalistic direction given her by the porter as to the 
 position of Mr. Courtenay's rooms — ' two five to the 
 
GREYBUnOII. 173 
 
 right ' — she made her way up the steep stone staircase 
 to his door. 
 
 ' Mr. Courtenay sports oak most days,' said the ser- 
 vant, hastening up before her ; ' hut I can get in, and I 
 will tell him you are here, ma'am.' In another moment 
 he returned, flung open the door, and closed it again 
 upon Ernestine, as she entered a sitting-room, arranged 
 after the fashion of most undergraduates' rooms, though 
 with abundant indication, in the books and papers 
 which strewed the tables, and in the engravings on the 
 walls, that Eeginald Courtenay was not one of the fast 
 men of his college. The room was empty, but a half- 
 open door led into another, and Ernestine went in at 
 once. On the threshold, however, she stopped, startled 
 to the last degree at the sight which presented itself. 
 The room was small, like most college bedrooms, and 
 contained little besides the bed and a table covered 
 with books, where a lamp, which Eeginald had appar- 
 ently forgotten to extinguish, still burned with a sickly 
 flame, scarce visible in the bright sunshine that filled 
 the room. Eeginald himself sat in a low easy-chair at 
 the open window, gazing out into the clear sky, which 
 alone was visible from it. He did not hear his sister's 
 light step, and she had time to scan the famihar face, 
 so changed, that she scarcely recognised it, before lie 
 
174 IIIDDEX DEPTHS. 
 
 turned. It was nearly a year since slie had seen liim. 
 In the previous long vacation he had gone with a 
 reading-party to Wales, and had, much to her regret, 
 avoided, on some slight pretext, coming to Loudon to see 
 her before returning to Greyburgh in October. "Wlien 
 they last met, he had been delicate-looking, as he 
 always was ; but the indications of weakness of the 
 chest, which had often alarmed her about him, had 
 been less apparent than formerly. In the interval, he 
 had never said a word about failing health, and had in- 
 deed written rarely and briefly, although his letters, 
 short as they were, had betrayed a inalaisc, either 
 mental or bodily, which had caused her a vague un- 
 easiness. And now, as she looked at him, the convic-- 
 tion came upon her, sudden and irresistible, that he was 
 not only dangerously ill, but that he had scarce a few 
 days to live. Tlie shock of this overwhelming impres- 
 sion was so great that she stood transfixed to the spot, 
 scanning in dismay the wasted features, with their 
 unmistakable symptoms of decaying life, and the at- 
 tenuated figure, lying motionless in the languor of utter 
 weakness. He was but one-and-twenty, and had been 
 remarkable for the refined beauty of his face. It was now- 
 white and sharp of outline as if cut in marble, and all 
 that remained to him of life seemed feathered in his dark 
 
GREYBURGH. 175 
 
 eyes, which looked, from his extreme emaciation, un- 
 naturally large, and were glowing with a restless feverish 
 light, that spoke of intense unrest. The heavy masses 
 of his dark hair, damp with the dews of weakness, were 
 pushed back from his hollow temples, as if their weight 
 were too much for him. His parched lips were perfectly 
 colourless, and the thin transparent hands, hanging list- 
 lessly down, seemed moulded in wax. He was fully 
 dressed, but the clothes hung loosely on his wasted 
 limbs, and there was a hopeless decay written on every 
 line of the sinking, feeble frame. 
 
 An involuntary sob broke from Ernestine, and Reginald 
 turned his eyes upon her. In another instant she was 
 at his side, his dry feverish hands in hers, and her 
 warm kiss pressed on his cold white cheek. 
 
 ' Eeginald, dearest, surely you are fearfully ill?' 
 
 ' Sick imto death, dear Ernie,' he answered, in a weak, 
 hollow voice. His breath came quick and fast. 
 
 ' Oh, why did you not tell me ? ' she said, bowing her 
 face on his hands in an agony of grief. 
 
 ' Because I did not want to cause you needless pain. 
 Ernie, don't cry,' he continued, breathing hurriedly ; ' I 
 cannot bear it ; my load is hea^y enough already. I 
 have had to look my wretchedness in the face night 
 and day, and it has been as much as I can endure ; if 
 
176 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 I have to see your misery too, it will drive me dis- 
 tracted.' 
 
 He spoke with a feverish excitement, which was 
 evidently too much for him, and Ernestine felt it was 
 absolutely necessary she should control herself She rose 
 from his side and went into the other room, where she 
 bathed her tearful face in cold water, struggled determin- 
 ately to regain composure, and, coming back to him with 
 a smile, she took a chair quietly, and sat down beside him. 
 
 ' There,' she said, ' you shall see no more weakness, 
 Reggie. I am going to be your nurse, and you know 
 a nurse has no business to be hysterical.' 
 
 He smiled faintly, as he stroked the soft hair from 
 her face with his wasted hand. 
 
 ' That is right,' he said. ' I want to see your face 
 calm and sweet as I remember it, when I was ill before. 
 It used often to make me think of a clear, quiet lake 
 reflecting the light of heaven. How the sight of you 
 soothed and refreshed me then, and how I have longed 
 for you since ! ' 
 
 ' But then, why not send for me, darling ? ' said 
 Ernestine. ' Could you suppose it possible that it 
 would not be far more pain to me to know that you 
 had been ill and suffering without me, than to be with 
 you, ,and try my best to help you ? ' 
 
GEEYBUEGH. 177 
 
 ' Yes, because at a distance you would only liave 
 known that I was dead — dead of rapid consumption, — 
 and you would have grieved for me, I know, but there 
 would have been no sting in your grief; and now, I 
 fear — I fear,' he continued, clasping his hands painfully, 
 ' you will learn all that makes death terrible in my case. 
 I am too weak to control myself; I know that I shall 
 tell you all in some moment of agony. I have cried 
 out to these bare walls sometimes, when the horror of 
 my fate was strong upon me.' 
 
 ' I hope indeed you will tell me all,' said Ernestine, 
 flinging her arms round him ; ' whatever you have to 
 suffer, it must be best that I should share it with you.' 
 
 ' Ernestine, you do not know what you are saying,' said 
 Reginald, with a vehemence wdiich brought on a fit of 
 coughing. When it was over he leant back exhausted. 
 After a few miiuites, he said feebly, ' Ernie, promise me 
 you Avill never cj[uestion me. If I am driven to confide 
 in you by my own misery, you must bear the e^*il ; but 
 in the meantime I want to find comfort, if it be possible, 
 in your presence. I don't want to be always struggling 
 with you. Promise to ask me nothing.' 
 
 ' I will promise, dearest,' said Ernestine soothingly. 
 ' I have but one wish, and that is to be a comfort to you, 
 if I can, and it shall be in the way that suits you best.' 
 
 VOL. I. M 
 
178 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 He looked up to lier witli a grateful smile. ' Let us 
 talk of sometliing else, then/ lie said. 
 
 ' Well, tell me who is your doctor/ said Ernestine. 
 ' Dr. Compton, the best physician, and one of the 
 most scientific men in the University. So I have all 
 the help that skill can give me, but he has owned long 
 ago that he can do nothing except to give a passing 
 relief. He will be here presently, and you can see him. 
 I have a nurse too, whom he sent me; the best old 
 woman in the world. You must not send her away, 
 Ernie; she has quite devoted herself to me, and she 
 does everything for me which I am too weak to do for 
 myself.' 
 
 ' I am glad you have got her, but I do not think she 
 ought to have let you get up to-day ; I am sure you 
 should have been in bed.' 
 
 ' My dear Ernie, I have not been in bed all night !' 
 ' Not been in bed!' 
 
 ' No ; it is one of the things I cannot do,' he said, 
 with a shudder ; ' it is like lying down in my cojffin ; it 
 will be soon enough when the time comes ; doctor and 
 nurse have both given up trying to make me do it. I 
 asked Dr. Compton if he could logically prove it would 
 signify one atom to myself, or to anything in the uni- 
 verse, if I died a week sooner in consequence of keeping 
 
GREYBUIlGir. 179 
 
 out of bed, and lie could not. Besides, lie knows that 
 the horrors which overtake me when I lie down are more 
 injurious to me than the fatigue of sitting up.' 
 
 Ernestine Avas silent from mingled astonishment and 
 distress. 
 
 ' It seems to me very strange, Eeginald,' she said at 
 last, ' that the college authorities did not let some of us 
 know how ill you were. Whether you wished it or not, 
 they certainly ought to have done so.' 
 
 ' And so they would, if I had not prevented them by 
 a ruse, which you would no doubt have thought very 
 wrong. A few falsehoods did it. 1 told them you and 
 Lady Beaufort were on the Continent, and that I did 
 not know your address, but that I told you myself how 
 iil I was, and you would come as soon as you could. 
 George I represented as being perpetually on his voyage 
 from India, — a pretty little string of lies, was it not ? ' 
 
 Reginald telling falsehoods ! Ernestine was utterly 
 amazed. Not only liad he been from childhood singu- 
 larly truthful and honourable, but he had since his ill- 
 ness, a few years before, become deeply religious, — his 
 strong impressions in that respect being very remarkable 
 in so young a man, while the excessive sensitiveness of 
 his conscience had reached a pitch that was almost 
 morbid. He had fully intended to take holy orders 
 
180 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 and many a dream of missionary enterprise, of high de- 
 votedness and self-denial, had he told to Ernestine, in 
 the days when they had been together. She had already 
 noted that not a word of faith or resignation had passed 
 his lips in speaking of his precarious state ; and each 
 moment convinced her more and more that some fearful 
 change had passed over his spirit which was unaccount- 
 able to her. They were interrupted by the arrival of 
 the doctor. He came in, a tall fair haired man, with 
 an intellectual face, and the unmistakable air of a 
 gentleman. 
 
 ' I am very glad you are come, ]\Tiss Courtenay,' he 
 said, as Eeginald introduced him to her ; ' your brother 
 will tell you it has not been my fault that some of his 
 relations have not been here long ago.' 
 
 Ernestine went into the other room to wait till his 
 examination of Eeginald was over, and when he joined 
 her there, and closed the door, she looked up at him with 
 tears in her eyes : ' Dr. Compton, I cannot tell you how 
 shocked and surprised I am at the condition in which I 
 find my brother. I had no idea he was even seriously 
 ill, and I come to find him dying: it is so, is it not?' 
 she added, with a wistful look, in which a faint hope 
 yet lingered. 
 
 '-I fear so, indeed ; it would be no kindness to conceal 
 
GREYBUEGH. 181 
 
 it. He cannot last many days. He never told his 
 friends of his condition, then ? ' 
 
 ' Never. His letters gave me the impression that he 
 was out of health, or low-spirited, but there was not a 
 word to indicate serious illness.' 
 
 ' I feared as much.' 
 
 ' Dr. Compton, what can have brought him to this 
 pass ? ' said Ernestine anxiously. ' He was always subject 
 to delicacy of the chest, but such a sudden decline, such 
 total prostration, seems to prove that his malady must 
 have been aggravated by some unusual circumstances. 
 He is in a very unhappy state of mind, I can see 
 plainly, though I do not know the cause of it. Do you 
 think that mental disquiet can have increased his ill 
 ness?' 
 
 ' No doubt it has,' said Dr. Compton ; ' I have seen 
 it with pain, but I could do nothing to prevent it.' 
 
 ' But what can have caused it ? ' said Ernestine. ' T 
 can see that his ideas, and even his principles, are com- 
 pletely changed, and his peace of mind is altogether 
 overthrown. AVhat can be the reason of it ? ' 
 
 A smile, half sad, half amused, passed over Dr. Comp- 
 ton's face. 
 
 ' His is not the only unsettled mind in the imiversity. 
 Miss Courtenay ; but you knoM' that is not my province ; 
 
182 HID.DEX DEPTHS. 
 
 I only deal with physical difficulties. iVIental disturb- 
 ance has not, however, been the only evil influence in 
 your brother's malady. He lived too fast last term ; a 
 strong man could hardly have stood the life he led, far 
 less a youth so delicate as he was.' 
 
 ' Do you mean that he was dissipated?' said Ernes- 
 tine, unable in lier painful surprise to find a word less 
 crude to express her meaning. 
 
 ' I fear so,' said the doctor gravely ; ' your brother is 
 young, and Greyburgh is a place of great temptation ; 
 but the whole circumstances of his case have been very 
 sad, and much to be regretted.' 
 
 This put the finishing-stroke to Ernestine's astonish- 
 ment and dismay. Of course, she had not lived so many 
 years in the world witliout knowing that of many 
 young men such a report would have been nothing sur- 
 prising ; but that Eeginald, only one year before so 
 high-souled, so pure-minded, so full of noble desires 
 and holy aspirations, should have fallen into the low 
 dissipation of coarse animal natures, was indeed an 
 overwhelming astonishment to her. 
 
 She was roused by Dr. Compton's voice. ' Here 
 is Xurse Berry,' he said; 'she has been very atten- 
 tive to your brother; I should advise your leaving 
 him -with her for a few hours. I have o-iven him a 
 
aKEYBUUGlI. 183 
 
 composing-draught, and I trust lie will sleep. He never 
 shut his eyes last night, and the duration of his life 
 now mainly depends on the amount of rest he can 
 get.' 
 
 A tidy motherly-looking woman came curtseying for- 
 ward as the doctor left the room. She had a pleasant 
 face, with kind, soft eyes, which took Ernestine's fancy 
 at once. She held out her hand to her, as she said 
 warmly — 
 
 ' Thank you for your kindness to my poor brother, 
 nurse ; he is terribly ill, is he not ? ' 
 
 ' As ill as he can be, ma'am,' said the nurse, tears fill- 
 ing her eyes, ' and nothing to comfort him no way. 
 jMy heart has ached for him many a time. I am very 
 glad you are come to him, ma'am.' 
 
 ' If I had only known he was ill, I should have been 
 here long ago, but tliere is no help for that now. I must 
 do the best I can for him while he is left to me. The 
 doctor says I must leave him to sleep for the present, 
 but I will come back in a very few hours.' 
 
 ' The evenings are his worst time, ma'am ; if you would 
 come to him then it would be best ; he mostly dozes 
 through the day, but his evenings and nights are awful ; 
 it is a w^onder to me he has not been worn out long 
 before : and so I think he would have been if it were 
 
184 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 not for the heavy sleeping-draughts the doctor gives 
 him ; they keep him quiet, in the afternoons at least.' 
 
 ' I shall come early in the evening, and stay all night 
 with him. I do not like leaving him now, but I must, 
 as the doctor wishes it.' 
 
 She went hack to Eeginald's room. He was lying 
 quiet, with his eyes closed, but slowly raised the heavy 
 lids as she drew near. She bent down and kissed him. 
 
 ' Dr. Compton tells me I must leave you to sleep for 
 a few hours, darling. I cannot bear to be away from 
 you, but I am coming in the evening to stay all uiglit.' 
 
 ' Yes, I shall sleep now,' said Eeginald, ' and sleep is 
 the one only blessing this life can give me ; but come 
 back, Ernie, come at night, it is then I shall need you. 
 Save me from myself if you can.' 
 
 ' My Ileggie, I would save you from every shadow of 
 evil if I could,' said Ernestine, struggling with her tears. 
 He opened his lips as if to reply, then a spasm of mental 
 pain contracted his features ; he gave an impatient sigh, 
 turned his face to the wall, and closed his eyes. Ernes- 
 tine sloA\dy left the room, and the nurse, closing the 
 shutters, sat down for her patient w^atch, Avhich she 
 enlivened by knitting in the dark with marvellous 
 speed. 
 
CHAPTER XII. 
 
 DE. GKAKBY. 
 
 IT would have been easy for Ernestine to have spent 
 the reinainder of that day in bitter lamentations 
 over her brother's untimely fate, and in wearying her- 
 self with speculations as to the cause of his evident 
 distress of mind ; but she saw that her attendance on 
 him would leave her little time for the search which 
 had been her chief object in coming to Greyburgh, and 
 that she must each day make use of the few hours 
 wlien she would not be with Eeginald for that purpose, 
 or she would haA'e little chance of success, so far as the 
 lost girl was concerned. Indeed, if anything had been 
 required to make her more earnest in her purpose, it 
 would have been the sight of her brother's young life 
 fleeting away so swiftly into the unknown deep of eter- 
 nity. Of late she felt the mysteries of death and the 
 unseen had been crowding strangely round her. "What 
 if that other soul which had seemed committed to her 
 
186 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 hands were even now, like Eeginald's, trembling on the 
 brink of its eternal destiny ? Snrely there is no time in 
 this swift, sndden life, with its startling changes and its 
 terrific power over that which is to come, to sit down 
 and idly weep for the dying or the dead. In the fnture 
 of the dead is tlie true existence. There are the count- 
 less generations gathered of all that ever breathed, living 
 one and all to God, whether for weal or woe ! and those 
 yet abiding in the flesh on earth are but as a handful 
 to that mighty multitude, like the gleaning-grapes 
 left upon the vines when tlie vintage is over, like the 
 autumn leaves lingering on the boughs when the summer 
 wealth has passed away. Soon the rusliing wings of 
 time shall sweep them on to join their fellows in the 
 unchangeable and everlasting state. What does aught 
 signify for them, save the seal wherewitli their brief 
 probation shall stamp them for that enduring being, — 
 whether reflecting tlie image of Christ, till the radiance 
 of the Morning Star has been caught in the dim waters 
 of their soul, they pass into the unimagined glory of 
 His presence ; or blackening into the likeness of a 
 nature fallen below humanity, they go out to the deso- 
 lation of that darkness which is exile from Him ? This 
 alone is ] natter of import to any who yet breathe the 
 atmosphere of earth ; and is it then a time to waste 
 
DK. OKANRY. 187 
 
 the lioui's ill mourning for those whose little clay has 
 hastened to its close a few short moments, as it were, 
 swifter than the rest ? Oh ! to stay the ultimate perishing 
 of souls ! to prevent the eternal death, the irremediable 
 destruction, — surely this is the only worthy end, the only 
 momentous object, to which time and thought, and life 
 and energy should be given, while we walk our brief 
 course to the grave ! 
 
 So at least thought Ernestine Courteiiay, as, resisting 
 the impulse to relieve her heavy heart with unavailing 
 tears, she roused herself at once to action on behalf of 
 Annie Brook. Tlie first step to be taken in so wide a 
 search cost her no little thought; finally, she decided 
 on apph^ng to the only person she knew at Greyburgh 
 who would be likely to assist her. One of the largest 
 parishes in the town was under the care of a certain Dr. 
 Granby, who, with his wife, had some time previously 
 spent a few days at a country house where Ernestine 
 was visiting. There had been a large party assembled, 
 Hugh Lingard amongst others, and various of Ernestine's 
 intimate friends, so that she had but a dim recollection 
 of the rector of St. Gregory's and his wife, whom she 
 had never met before. She remembered, however, that 
 they had been exceedingly marked in their attentions to 
 her, and had warmly invited her to visit them if she 
 
188 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 ever came to Greyburgli ; aucl she thought it very pos- 
 sible, that Dr. Granby might be able amongst the poor 
 of his own large parish to find some clue to the lost girl 
 she was seeking. 
 
 Having left Mrs. Tompson lionizing Greyburgli in 
 the manner she thought most aristocratic, by assuring 
 the guide that the colleges were poor indeed compared 
 to the buildings she had seen abroad. Ernestine there- 
 fore started off to enlist Dr. Granby in her service. She 
 passed through the whole extent of St. Gregory's parish, 
 and found that he did not live anywhere near it, but in 
 a villa some little distance from the town. Entering 
 through an iron gate, with two ambitious-looking griffins 
 perched in painful attitudes on the side-posts, she passed 
 up a gravel walk to the house, in front of which was a 
 well-kept lawn. Here two young ladies were engaged 
 in playing croquet, dressed in the most improved 
 costume for that amusement, with impertinent little 
 hats perched on a mass of hair, dresses looped uj) over 
 full-blown crinolines, like sails reefed for a gale of wind, 
 and high-heeled boots, which were not alone visible 
 under their very short petticoats. A weak-looking 
 curate and a vivacious undergraduate shared in their 
 game, and Ernestine passed into the well-furnished 
 drawijig-room, preceded by a footman in liA'ery, where 
 
DK. GKANBY. 189 
 
 Mrs. Granhy, rustling in the stiffest of silks, rose to 
 receive her. A foreboding took possession of her that 
 this was not an abode where lost or wandering outcasts 
 were likely to be known. 
 
 ]\Irs. Granby received her with the greatest empressc- 
 mcnt, and had very soon informed herself anxiously of 
 the health of every one of Ernestine's relations whose 
 name had a place in the Peerage. Ernestine inquired 
 for Dr. Granby. 
 
 ' He is A\-ell, and will be so delighted to see you,' and 
 Mrs. Granby, ringing the bell, desired that Dr. Granby 
 and the young ladies might be told of Miss Courtenay's 
 visit. Ernestine would thankfully have dispensed with 
 the young ladies, who forthwith arrived through the 
 window, accompanied by the mild curate and the fast 
 undergraduate. ]\Iore slowly, it may even be said majes- 
 tically, the rector approached, a large, hea^y man, 
 conveying irresistibly the impression of a lifetime of 
 excellent dinners, with a smooth face, a shining bald 
 head, a good-tempered expression, and an elaborately 
 courteous manner. He was profuse in his delight at 
 seeing Miss Courtenay, and the list of titled relations 
 was gone over again ; then the conversation turned on 
 the news of the day, with an occasional question from 
 the Misses Granby on the prospects of the London 
 
190 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 season, and Ernestine saw tliat her only liope was to 
 ask the polite rector for a private interview when he 
 went with her to the door. Making her visit very- 
 short, therefore, she soon found herself passing through 
 the hall with Dr. Granby. 
 
 ' Can I speak to you for a moment alone, Dr. Granby V 
 she said hastily, as she saw the footman proceeding to 
 open the door. ' I want to ask your help in a matter 
 of some difficulty to me.' 
 
 ' Undoubtedly, my dear Miss Courtenay, I shall be 
 most happy if I can be of any assistance to you. Allow 
 me' — and, opening the door of a luxuriously-furnished 
 study, he ushered her in, placed a seat for her, and sat 
 down himself in a huge easy-chair, which seemed to 
 enshrine his portly form Avith the most sympathetic 
 softness. Taking out his white cambric pocket-handker- 
 chief, as if in readiness for any emotion that might arise, 
 he bent forward in an attitude of polite attention, his 
 bald head shining in the sunlioht, and his gold-rimmed 
 spectacles beaming with a mild effulgence as he turned 
 them inquiringly on his visitor. Ernestine felt as if 
 she could more easily have faced a colonel of dragoons 
 than tliis bland ecclesiastic, who looked, in his irre- 
 proachable costume and perfect licn-etrc, as if he could 
 never have even heard of such a thing as misery or sin; 
 
DK. GRANBY. 191 
 
 but there was no help for it, so with a sort of despera- 
 tion she plunged into her subject. 
 
 ' Dr. Granby, I came to Greyburgh chiefly to try and 
 find a poor young girl, in whom I am much interested, 
 and I do not at all know where to look for her. I have 
 thought that amongst the poor of your large parish you 
 might be able to find some clue to her.' 
 
 ' It would depend on any circumstance having brought 
 her under my notice,' said the rector. ' Do you suppose 
 she might be one of the pupil-teachers at the school, or 
 amongst the young persons preparing for a confirmation 
 to be held in this church — I mean, in my church — on 
 the twenty-sixth of next month, by the Lord Bishop of 
 the diocese ? ' 
 
 '0 no !' said Ernestine, colouring painfully ; ' she is 
 not good, not respectable. She was taken from her 
 father's house by a man — I believe he calls himself a 
 gentleman — who has left her, I fear, to utter ruin.' The 
 rector of St. Gregory's drew in his lips in a manner 
 which caused him to give an involuntary whistle, while 
 the gold-rimmed spectacles rapidly mounted up his 
 round forehead, in consequence of the elevation of his 
 eyebrows. 
 
 ' JMy dear ]\Iiss Courtenay, if you are quite aware of 
 the style of person you have described, you cannot pos- 
 
192 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 sibly suppose I could know her. Of course, I have 
 intercourse with none but respectable characters.' 
 
 ' But you seek out the lost and erring among your 
 people to try and reclaim them, do you not?' said 
 Ernestine, raising her clear eyes to his face. 
 
 ' Ahem ! within pro])er limits, certainly ; wherever 
 there appears any reasonable hope of my ministrations 
 being successful, and where there is no risk of my sacred 
 person — I mean, my sacred office — being treated with 
 irreverence ; but disreputable creatures such as the in- 
 dividual you mention may be said to be sunk beneath 
 the level of reclaimable humanity. It would be most 
 incongruous that I should seek them out, or permit of 
 their approaching me.' 
 
 ' But I do not believe this case to be beyond hope,' 
 said Ernestine eagerly; ' at least there is the possibility 
 of trying what can be done for her. I only want to find 
 her. I hoped you might have helped me in this, and 
 as it would not be well for her to come to me at the 
 hotel, I thought I might have met her here.' 
 
 'In my house!' shrieked the rector. 'My dear 
 
 Miss Courtenay,' he added, making a descent upon the 
 affectionate term, to save himself from an exclamation 
 of a different description, which had nearly escaped him. 
 ' Impossible ; utterly impossible. Pray, consider what 
 
DR. GRANBY. 193 
 
 is due to myself, my position, — Mrs. Granby, — my 
 daiigliters. Why, only conceive, those sweet girls might 
 actually see that wretched creature when they are tak- 
 ing their healthful exercise on the lawn ! It is wholly 
 out of the question that I should permit such a thing ; 
 and allow me to suggest, INIiss Courtenay, with all due 
 deference, that you are really making a mistake — a sad 
 mistake, I may say — in allowing yourself to be occupied, 
 in the smallest degree, about an individual of whose 
 very existence, with that of all her class, you should 
 properly be supposed to be ignorant.' 
 
 ' But the fact of her existence has been forced upon 
 me in a way I cannot escape, Dr. Granby, even if I 
 wished it, and with that, also, the certainty that she has 
 an immortal soul, which is but too likely to perish for 
 ever, if no one will even try to save her.' 
 
 ' Yes, I suppose — doubtless she has a soul,' said Dr. 
 Granby, as if giving a reluctant assent to a logical fact ; 
 ' but it cannot be your concern, Miss Courtenay. Felons 
 and murderers have souls, but you would not wish to 
 interfere with their damnation — I mean, with their sal- 
 vation — would you ? ' Ernestine thought she should be 
 only too glad if she could get the chance of trying. 
 ' No, no,' continued the rector, ' we must leave these 
 things to the proper authorities.' 
 
 VOL. I. N 
 
194 ♦ HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 ' But who are tlie proper authorities in this case, Dr. 
 Granby V said Ernestine, looking up quietly into his 
 face. He sliifted about uneasily in his chair. 
 
 ' Wliy, the — the Board of Guardians, or the Church 
 Penitentiary Association, or, stay,' he added, brightening 
 up, ' did you not say the girl had a father ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, but—' 
 
 ' Then he is the proper authority,' exclaimed Dr. 
 Granby, cutting her short triunipliantly. ' Let him be 
 informed of his daughter's disreputable proceedings, 
 and let no one else interfere, far less a lady of your 
 age and station in life. Miss Courtenay.' 
 
 Ernestine saw she need not waste any more time with 
 the rector of St. Gregory, and she rose to go. Dr. 
 Granby rose with alacrity also, but as she held out her 
 hand to take leave, he took it in both his own, in the 
 most paternal manner, and proceeded to expound a few 
 more of his sentiments : — 
 
 ' I trust I need not assure you, my dear Miss Courte- 
 nay, that although I have permitted myself to give you 
 a little advice, becoming, I may say, to my pastoral 
 office and my friendly feeling towards yourself, I 
 have no desire whatever to discourage your amiable 
 philanthropy. Far from it. I only wish to direct your 
 toa ardent, too liberal zeal into proper channels. My 
 
DE. GRANBY. 195 
 
 own tlaiigbters engage, at my desire, in works of cliavity, 
 piety, and necessity. My sweet Louisa visits the infant- 
 school once a week, and it is most cheering to see how 
 she has taught the innocent little ones to clap their 
 hands in imison ; while Maria, who is strikingly talented, 
 and has a powerful voice, always leads our little choir 
 in Term time, wdien several of the collegians assist at our 
 services, and can appreciate our musical efforts. In 
 works such as these, my dear Miss Courtenay, let me 
 advise you to exercise your benevolent disposition, and 
 you will find yourself benefiting your fellow-creatures 
 without departing from the station in which Providence 
 has placed you, and the usages of that society which you 
 are so well fitted to adorn.' He finished off with a low 
 bow and a wave of the white pocket-handkerchief, as if 
 it had been a flag of truce, and Ernestine, quietly wish- 
 ing him good morning, without attempting any further 
 reply, left the house. 
 
 ' And this man,' she thought, as she walked away — 
 ' this man is the representative and messenger of Him 
 who came to seek and save the lost, — who took upon 
 Him the form of a servant, who had not where to lay His 
 head, who sat with publicans and sinners, who suffered 
 the sinful woman to wash His feet with her tears and 
 wipe them with the hairs of her head !' Then she began 
 
196 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 to think of the clergyman of the church to which Lady 
 Beaufort had always taken her in London, and she felt 
 that his opinion of her mission to Annie Brook would 
 be very much the same as Dr. Granby's, and she won- 
 dered how it was that it had never before struck her, 
 these were strange interpreters of the gospel that was to 
 be preached to the poor and needy — the gospel of that 
 Immaculate Love wdio came ' to heal the broken-hearted, 
 to preach deliverance to the captives and recovery of 
 sight to the blind, and to set at liberty them that are 
 bruised.' The fact was, that Ernestine was now, unknown 
 to herself, touching on the outskirts of the deep compre- 
 hensive truth — the lack of wdiich had caused Lingard to 
 make shipwreck of his faith — contained in these words, 
 ' If any man will do His will, he shall know of the doctrine 
 whether it be of God ;' — a truth underlying the very foun- 
 dations of all real religion, and without which the loftiest 
 creed, the fairest theories, are, and ever shall be, hollow 
 and lifeless. The one impulse of loving pity, of active, 
 unselfish charity, which had led her into this search for 
 a lost sinner, was doing more to teach her the knowledge 
 of God, and the truth of God, and the real nature of 
 that atonement once made for the sins of the world, 
 than all the theological instruction she had received 
 from external sources in the whole course of her life. 
 
DR. GKANBY. 197 
 
 Meantime, however, slie weut on to her hotel greatly 
 disheartened. She was quite at a loss what to do next in 
 her endeavour to find Annie Brook; but the very fact that 
 all to Avhoni she so much as mentioned the unhappy 
 girl seemed straightway to harden their hearts against 
 her, made her the more determined that she would 
 never cease her efforts on her behalf, cost what it might. 
 
 Dinner with Mrs. Tompson was not enlivening. 
 This aristocratically-minded lady, having completed her 
 survey of the colleges for the day, was of opinion that 
 Greyburgh w^as a very poor place indeed, dull and un- 
 fashionable. Why, it was nothing compared even to 
 such towns as Bath or Leamington ; there, one coiild. 
 at least find tolerable shops, and it was possible to 
 meet one's friends on the parades ; but the principal 
 street of Greyburgh, which the guide pretended was 
 worth seeing, why, really it was no promenade at all. 
 There was hardly an elegant toilette to be seen. Per- 
 haps if Mrs. Tompson had owned all the truth, she 
 would have admitted that the most lady-like person 
 she had observed, in her opinion, was a certain Don 
 sailing down the street in his scarlet gown. 
 
 Ernestine went back early in the evening to her 
 brother. She found him asleep. The nurse thought 
 either that his composing-draught had been more potent 
 
198 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 than usual, or that Ernestine's visit in the morning had 
 soothed him to a certain extent, as he seldom slept so 
 long or so quietly. Ernestine stood looking at him in 
 silence for some moments. It Avas a sleep so like to 
 death ! He lay perfectly motionless, the marble white- 
 ness of his face brought out in strong relief, by the 
 heavy masses of dark hair that hung round it, and the 
 black eyelashes lying withoiit a quiver on his wan 
 cheek. She could almost have believed, as she gazed 
 on him, that the mighty change had passed over him, 
 and that his closed eyes had already looked into the 
 tremendous mysteries which all the generations that 
 have ever lived have sought in vain to penetrate on 
 this side of the grave ; his lips seemed locked in that 
 inexorable silence which has ever baffled the living, and 
 held back from them the knowledge that endues with 
 awful wisdom each little babe that has sighed its feeble 
 breath away ere well it has learned to live ; while each 
 line of the exhausted form seemed to imply that it only 
 waited now to sink into the earth, with the cold in- 
 sensibility to all that is most repugnant to it, which so 
 surely marks the lifeless clay. If it were so — then 
 were the ultimate state of that pale sleeper fixed irre- 
 vocably — the soul stamped with the seal that through 
 the incomprehensible For Ever was to define unchang- 
 
Dll. GKANBY. 199 
 
 ingly the conditions of his being. But, no ! that faint, 
 scarce perceptible, heaving of the breast, that little 
 tremor of breath moving over the white lips, was the 
 barrier, immovable as the laws which guide the stars in 
 their courses, that shut from him the teeming immen- 
 sity of the unseen, and held him bound to this visible 
 life of brief probation. How frail a barrier ! How 
 tremendous the step beyond ! Yet not one faint gleam 
 of the coming revelation dawned with ever so pale a 
 light upon those living eyes ; that and that alone which 
 he had made himself in his twenty little years of tran- 
 sient existence, he still must be till the last faint sigh 
 of that gasping breath goes forth, and then — God face 
 to face ! all mystery, all doubt, all shadow destroyed in 
 the light of His presence — the iUimitable universe dis- 
 closed — death and the world behind him — infinity above, 
 below, around — and immortality, fixed in the mould 
 which he himself prepared for it in the life of earth, 
 settling down upon his being, in its changeless power. 
 Long did Ernestine stand watching him, as she thought 
 on these things ; but at last, with a sigh of disquietude 
 and unrest, she turned auay to seek some change from 
 thoughts that seemed too weighty for her soul. 
 
 Nurse Berry had taken her knitting into the other 
 room, where the waning light still lingered, and sat 
 
200 HIDDEN DEriHS. 
 
 near the open door, so that she might perceive at once 
 if her patient awoke. Ernestine Avent and sat down on 
 a low stool at her side, looking up with a sense of rest 
 into the kind motherly face, and listened gratefully 
 to the homely tones which asked if she had had ' a 
 good time' out of doors. The necessity for indepen- 
 dent action, and for an unwonted degree of exposure to 
 the rough ways of the world, had given Ernestine that 
 longing for some sort of loving protection and shelter, 
 which usually overtakes a woman thus situated, and 
 she felt as if she should have liked to lay down her 
 tired head on the good woman's lap, as she used 
 to do when her own old nurse still lived to make her 
 childhood safe and happy. 
 
 ' Indeed, I have not had a good time at all,' she said, 
 ' for I have been very much disappointed.' 
 
 ' And how was tliat, my dear lady ? ' 
 
 It occurred to Ernestine that it was possible the 
 nurse might be able to advise her how to proceed in 
 the task that seemed to grow every hour more difdcult. 
 Looking up eagerly, she said — 
 
 ' I was disappointed because I could get no help 
 where I hoped for it ; but, nurse, now I think of it, 
 perhaps you yourself could help me.' 
 
 'I shall be very pleased, ma'am,' said the nurse. 
 
DR. GRANBY. 201 
 
 smiling doM'ii upon the sweet eyes which had quite 
 won her heart already, ' what be I to do ? ' 
 
 ' I will tell you/ said Ernestine. ' I want so much to 
 find a poor young girl, who has been deserted in Grey- 
 burgh, and I do not know in the least where to find her.' 
 
 ' Is she one of them unfortunates ? ' said the nurse, 
 making use of the technical phrase, which to the more 
 inexperienced of that unhappy class has too often 
 afforded a palliation for undeniable sin. 
 
 ' Yes, unfortunate indeed ; because she is so guilty,' 
 said Ernestine. 
 
 ' Ah ! there be a many such in this here place,' said 
 the nurse, shaking her head sadly. ' It often gives me 
 a sore heart to see young things, no better than chil- 
 dren, starting in their gay dresses of a winter night ; 
 but, ma'am, if you '11 excuse me for saying it, bad as 
 they are, I do think those university gentlemen tliat 
 encourage them are worse. They ought to know better, 
 with their learning, and their money, and their fine 
 manners. It do seem a shocking thing that they 
 should go ruining simple young girls, body and soul, 
 just for their own wicked pleasure.' 
 
 ' It is shocking beyond all words, nurse ; you cannot 
 think worse of these men than I do.' 
 
 ' And to see how grand and proud they hold them- 
 
202 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 selves all the time, counting even respectable poor 
 people as dust under tlieir feet ; and as to the poor 
 girls they ruin — why, Avheu once they 've cast them 
 off, they 'd dare them so much as to look near them, 
 or make game of them for being what they 've made 
 them ! I remember a poor child I knew about — she 
 w^as but fourteen — a pretty, modest little maid, and 
 she was servant at a lodging-house, where one of these 
 fine college gentlemen had rooms. Well, he set him- 
 self to ruin her, and she too 5'oung and silly to know 
 what she was about. So, when it was found out, she was 
 turned off from her place at once, though they kept the 
 fine gentleman in his rooms. She went home to her 
 mother, but her stepfather shut the door in her face, and 
 would not suffer her mother so much as to know what 
 became of her. She wandered about starving for a few 
 days, and then one of these wicked women who keep 
 disreputable lodging-houses in the town got hold of her, 
 and drove her out on the streets to get her bread by 
 wickedness. AVell, ma'am, one evening I was walking 
 down the street, and I saw her coming along — looking 
 so childish and simple, even in her flaunting dress — 
 and I saw her meet this gentleman. She had not seen 
 him since she had got turned out of doors for his 
 sake. Slie stood stock-still, grew white as death, and 
 
DR. GKANBY. 203 
 
 then gazed up in his face with such a beseeching look ; 
 as if she wanted him to save her out of the life he had 
 brought her to. He just half-stopt for a moment, and 
 looked at her from head to foot, and then burst out 
 into such a wicked, mocking laugh — I think the devil 
 himself must have taught it to him — and said in a 
 jeering tone : " So that 's what you have come to, is it?" 
 He pointed her out to the gentleman he was walking 
 with, and then pushed past her ; and they went down 
 the street together laughing and sneering. The child 
 looked after them for a moment, and then dashed up 
 her hands, and began running as fast as she could 
 towards the bridge. I was afraid she might mean to do 
 as too many of them does ; and perhaps she did mean 
 it, and was scared when she saw the water ; but, when 
 I got up to her as fast as I could, she was standing at 
 the parapet, leaning her face down on the stone, and 
 beating her hands against it, as if she wanted to hurt 
 them. I put my arm round her, and said, — " "WTiat is 
 it, my dear?" and she seemed as if she must tell out 
 her trouble, though she never saw me in her life before ; 
 for she cried out, " ma'am ! I met him, and he 
 laughed at me ! He laughed at me for being what I 
 am ; and who but he brought me to it — who but he 
 brouoht me to it ?'" 
 
204 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 ' And what became of the poor thing V said Ernestine, 
 with tears in her eyes. 
 
 'A clergyman I knew got her into a penitentiary, 
 when I tokl him about her, and she is burying her days 
 there still, and she not sixteen yet.' 
 
 ' It is too dreadful,' said Ernestine ; ' how it makes one 
 think of the great God looking down on such deeds ! ' 
 
 ' Ah ! that 's true, ma'am ! I think of that many a 
 time ; we shall know the rights of these things when 
 we go to stand before Him ;' and involuntarily Ernes- 
 tine shuddered. ' But about this girl you want to find, 
 ma'am ; do you know her name ? ' 
 
 ' Yes ; her name is Annie Brook. I know that much, 
 and no more. I have never even seen her.' 
 
 ' Indeed. Then I fear it won't be easy for you to 
 find her among so many ; but I '11 tell you what to do, 
 ma'am : you ask Mr. Thorold to help you, and he '11 
 find her for you if any one can.' 
 
 ' And who is Mr. Thorold ?' 
 
 ' The clergyman who got the poor child I told you of 
 into the penitentiary. He is sure to find her out if she 
 is in the town. He is always among thieves and lost 
 women.' 
 
 ' Always among thieves ? ' said Ernestine, looking up 
 surprised. 
 
DR. GRANBY. 205 
 
 ' Yes, to try and do them good. He is at it night 
 and day in all the most blackguard places in the town. 
 I said to him once — for you see, ma'am, I nursed him 
 through a fever he caught from a poor beggar who died 
 of it, so I makes free with him — I said I did wonder 
 he spent himself among these aw^ul bad characters, 
 that seemed as if nothing could make them any better — 
 convicts, and dnmkards, and tramps going to gaol with 
 canvas bags on.' 
 
 ' With canvas bags on ! ' said Ernestine, looking 
 bewildered. 
 
 ' Yes, ma'am. When they tear up their rags in the 
 w^ork'us to get new ones, the master just cuts a hole in 
 a sack, and puts their heads through it, and they are 
 sent off to prison in it. Well, it is these, and others 
 like them, both men and women, that Mr. Thorold is 
 always trying to teach and to help ; and when I said to 
 him I thought there was such little chance of ever 
 getting one of them out of their bad ways, it seemed a 
 pity he should wear himself out on them, he said, says 
 he : " That 's the very reason why I do it, nurse. Every 
 one else has given them up, and I like to be the friend 
 of those Avho have got no other in this world. People 
 say they are hopeless characters, and there is nothing 
 more to be done for them but to leave them to take 
 
206 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 tlieir own course to liell ; but you may depend on it," 
 says lie, " that 's not tlie way the Father in heaven 
 deals with us. He never gives any one up, be they 
 ever so bad, to the very last moment of their lives ; 
 there is never a soul so lost or so dead but His grace 
 can reach it ; nor a heart so cold in despair but His 
 pity can comfort it." ' 
 
 ' Oh, I like that !' exclaimed Ernestine, her eyes 
 kindling. 
 
 ' Ah, I have thought of his words many times,' said 
 the nurse, ' when I have heard folks talking of those 
 they thought hardened in vice.' 
 
 'And you think Mr. Thorold would help me ?' 
 
 ' He 'cl be more than glad, ma'am ; it is just meat and 
 drink to him to help those that are friendless and lost, 
 like the girl you are looking for.' 
 
 ' And how can I see him ? ' 
 
 ' Well, if you did not mind, you might see him now ; 
 for I know where he is at this hour. He holds a night- 
 school for boys down a lane not far from here ; and he 
 would speak to you there in a moment, if you liked to 
 go. ]\Iy daughter is down stairs waiting for me, and 
 she shall show you the way if you like.' 
 
 'Do you think I might? Is it not too late?' said 
 Ernestine, looking doubtfully at the window, where the 
 
DK. GRANBY. 207 
 
 shades of evening were gathering, though it -was by no 
 means dark. 
 
 ' Well, ma'am, that 's as you think. As for Mr. 
 Thorold, he never thinks what hour it is. I don't 
 believe he knows day from night, for he seems to me 
 always at work ; he is as often as not up at night with 
 the dying, and I am sure he never rests by day.' 
 
 ' While I am letting some wretched fear of infringing 
 conventionalities stand in the way of sa\dng a soul !' 
 thought Ernestine. ' I will go at once,' she said, 
 starting up. ' I hope my brother will not wake till I 
 return.' 
 
 ' I don't think he will, ma'am,' said the nurse ; ' he is 
 very still, poor lamb.' 
 
 And in another moment Ernestine found herself 
 traversing some small narrow streets, with old-fashioned 
 houses rising on eitlier side, which grew more and more 
 crowded with wretched-looking people, till she reached 
 a parish school-house. This building, her guide told 
 her, was lent to Mr. Thorold every evening for his 'wild 
 boys;' and wild enough they certainly seemed, as the open 
 door of a large room revealed a throng of such street 
 Arabs as had never met her eyes before. Uncombed and 
 unwashed, they seemed to Ernestine the most absolutely 
 hopeless of possible recipients of learning ; yet all were 
 
208 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 busy under the superintendence of Mr. Thorold, who 
 came forward at once after receiving a whispered com- 
 mimication from the nurse's daughter. He was a tall 
 man, apparently abovit five-and-thirty, wearing a rough 
 great-coat, which had seen its best days, with bushy 
 black hair pushed carelessly back from his forehead, 
 strongly marked eyebrows, which almost hid his keen 
 dark eyes, a sallow complexion, and an expression of 
 great firmness and determination. Ernestine was both 
 surprised and pleased to see that it was a young man in 
 an undergraduate's gown whom he called to take his 
 place while he left the room ; her impression of the 
 younger university men had not been such as to lead 
 her to expect any of them to take an interest in a night- 
 school for ragged boys. 
 
 Mr. Thorold came up to her, and bowing, without a 
 word he opened the door of a small room, which was 
 unoccupied, and placed a chair for her. He did not sit 
 down himself, but stood leaning against the wall, wait- 
 ing for her to speak. Ernestine remembered her inter- 
 view with Dr. Granby, and thought that never in her life 
 had she seen a greater contrast than between those two 
 ecclesiastics ; but she felt no difficulty in stating her 
 wishes to this business-like cleric. He heard her to the 
 end, then asked a few rapid questions as to the extent 
 
T)V^. GIIANBY. 200 
 
 of her knowledge of the girl, with the somewhat Ijrusque 
 manner which seemed habitual to him ; and after a 
 moment's thonglit, said decisively — 
 
 ' I believe your only chance of finding her is in 
 the gaol.' Ernestine gave a start of surprise. ' Does 
 that alarm you?' lie said, a smile lighting up his dark 
 face. 
 
 'Not for myself; but I have no reason to think 
 Annie Brook dishonest, or anything of that sort.' 
 
 ' Tliat has nothing to do with it,' he said quickly. 
 ' There is a peculiar sort of police-discipline in this 
 place, which enables the college authorities to commit 
 women of this unhappy class to gaol for certain short 
 periods. We have that much of real Christianity in 
 the universities, that the deadly crime which the law 
 does not recognise as such at all, is at least punishable 
 here.' 
 
 ' And do you think it does these miserable women 
 any good to be sent to prison ? ' asked Ernestine. 
 
 ' Not as a punishment ; the periods for which they 
 are imprisoned are too short, and no care is taken to 
 make it morally beneficial to them ; they are all herded 
 together, with every incitement to try and emulate one 
 another in recklessness and bravado. But it is of incal- 
 culable use, as being the one only opportunity which 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
210 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 their lives afford of bringing good influences to bear 
 upon them, and offering them the means of reformation, 
 if they can be induced to accept them. They are so 
 guarded by the wretches who keep the houses where 
 they congregate, that it is next to impossible to gain a 
 hearing from them outside, but in the gaol they cannot 
 escape ; they must see the chaplain, or any one else 
 who may try to benefit them ; and this imprisonment 
 has been the means of saving many.' 
 
 ' One would think it ought to save all,' said Ernestine 
 eagerly. ' Surely when they are actually there, in the 
 very hands of those who woidd help them, not one 
 should be allowed to go back to their dreadful life.' 
 
 Mr. Thorold shook his head. ' You little know the 
 trammels that bind them, and besides, it is not easy to 
 find persons who have both the will and the capacity 
 for such a mission as that. It has been found that the 
 chaplain alone cannot do it, for many reasons. It re- 
 quires the help of a woman, at once wise and gentle, 
 and there is no lady at present who is able to under- 
 take it.' 
 
 ' And are there many imprisoned ? ' 
 
 ' In Term time there are often from twenty to thirty. 
 I only wish,' he added, clencliing his hand, ' that the 
 university police would administer a somev/hat more 
 
DR. GRANP.Y. 211 
 
 even justice, and imprison tlie men, who are a liiindred- 
 fold more guilty than these wretched women.' 
 
 ' I am very glad to hear you say so/ said Ernestine, 
 ' for I cannot understand the received code of opinion 
 on that subject at all. You think, then, that I may find 
 Annie Brook in the prison ? ' 
 
 ' It is possible, — in any case, you are likely to get 
 some clue to her. You say you have a portrait of her ; 
 I advise you to take it with you, and show it to the 
 governor of the gaol ; it is very possible he may recog- 
 nise it ; if not, ask him to show it to the women 
 imprisoned there, and if lie is careful not to say for 
 what purpose he does so, they will be sure at least to 
 betray the name by which she goes at present ; these 
 girls scarcely ever retain their own name.' 
 
 ' But would they not be glad to tell all they knew of 
 her to those who wished to help her ? ' 
 
 ' iSTot if they thought there was any intention of per- 
 suading her to reform.' 
 
 ' How very strange ! I should have thought that, 
 however lost and wretched they might be, they would 
 retain enough of humanity to be glad that a companion 
 should be saved out of misery like their own.' 
 
 ' I fear it is a principle of human nature to feel it a 
 rehef to have companions in guilt, and to dread repent- 
 
212 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 ance in others, lest it awaken personal nneasiness of 
 conscience. But tliere is a stronger motive in the case 
 of these poor girls : the good people who have estab- 
 lished " Eefuges " and " Homes " for those who repent, 
 have succeeded in making them so repellent and in- 
 tolerable to them, that I believe they consider themselves 
 to be performing an act of common humanity when 
 they try to prevent any from being persuaded to enter 
 them.' 
 
 At this moment a considerable degree of noise was 
 heard from the next room, and Mr. Tliorold went 
 hurriedly to the door. 
 
 ' My populace is becoming clamorous,' he said ; ' I 
 must go.' 
 
 ' But pray tell me,' said Ernestine, ' how am I to gain 
 admission to the gaol ? ' 
 
 ' You must have an order from a magistrate. I will 
 get one for you, if you will tell me your name.' 
 
 ' You do not know my name ? ' said Ernestine, looking 
 up with a smile of amusement. 
 
 ' How should I V 
 
 ' True ; I was only thinking how surprised my aunt, 
 who regulates most of my proceedings, would be if she 
 knew I had been talking to you as I have done, without 
 your, so much as knowing my name.' 
 
I)l{. GllANBY. 213 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders. ' These abstruse eti- 
 quettes of society are quite beyond rue — I cauuot away 
 with tliem. Life is too short and too solemn to be 
 clogged with such trammels as these. If you want to 
 save a soul, and I am willing to help you, what can it 
 signify to me whether you are a duchess or a dairymaid, 
 or to you who I am, if you have reason to believe I am 
 neither a ruffian nor an impostor ? ' 
 
 ' I quite agree with you,' said Ernestine, laughing ; 
 ' and my aunt is not here to argue the point with you. 
 My name is Ernestine Courtenay ; and I am so much 
 obliged to you for your kindness.' He smiled as he 
 looked keenly and searchingly at her for a moment, 
 and then, having arranged that he was to bring the 
 order to her brother's rooms next day, he opened the 
 door for her, and she passed out into the dark streets 
 with her uiiide. 
 
CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 REGINALD. 
 
 REGINALD still lay in his deathlike sleep. Ernes- 
 tine had decided to watch by him herself, at 
 least for this night, that she might judge of his state 
 more fully ; and Mrs. Berry, after hearing, with great 
 satisfaction, that Mr. Thorold had proved quite as heli)- 
 fid as she had prophesied, took her leave, promising to 
 return early in the morning. Ernestine sat down by 
 her brother's side, feelim? that she could with a free 
 heart give him her undivided attention, now that a 
 hopeful step had at last been taken on behalf of Annie 
 Brook. But while he slept, her thoughts flew away to the 
 one Avho was dearer to her than even the dying brother, 
 or than all the world beside, — the one to whom she had 
 given the love that can be felt but once in a lifetime, 
 and which it is a terrible thing to feel on this earth at 
 all ; for the exceeding precioiisness with which it in- 
 vests one perishable huuian being, to whom each day 
 brings the chance of siclvucss and deatli, sorrow and 
 
KKdIX.VLD. 215 
 
 danger, makes such a love an agony rather than a 
 blessing. They who so love must ever drink deeply of 
 the cup of trembling ; but at times there will arise in 
 their hearts a nameless terror, a sickening anxiety for 
 the future, whose brightness all depends on this one 
 cherished treasure, which often proves a foreboding of 
 some real anguish looming in the distant hours. It was 
 so on this night with Ernestine Courtenay. She did 
 not wonder that, in the darkness of the quiet sick-room, 
 her heart seemed to go out to Hugh Lingard with a 
 tenderness almost mournful in its depth ; it was often so 
 when she was parted from him, but on this occasion she 
 was oppressed by a vague yet most painful feeling that 
 she had somehow separated herself from him to a cer- 
 tain degree, — that she had begun to raise a barrier 
 between them which would ultimately shut him out 
 from her for ever. She argued with herself on the 
 unreasonableness of such shadowy fears. It was with 
 his full consent that she had come to Greyburgh. She 
 was going to write to him the next day, as she had pro- 
 mised, with a detail of all she had done as yet in her 
 mission. The very last words they had said to each 
 other had been to arrange that their marriage should 
 take place in the course of a few months. Yet, do what 
 she would, her spirits sunk under the weight of an 
 
216 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 undefined conviction, that she had entered on a path 
 which by some means would lead her far away from 
 the one being to whom she clung with all a woman's 
 passionate devotion. 
 
 She was roused from her dark thoughts by Eeginald, 
 who suddenly started out of his heavy sleep with a cry 
 of indescribable terror. He flung out his arms, beating 
 the air with his helpless ]iands, while his large black 
 eyes opened to their fullest extent, and gazed into the 
 darkness with a vacant stare. 
 
 ' Not yet — not yet,' he shrieked out. ' No ! I cannot 
 go — I cannot. Help, help me •' 
 
 In a moment Ernestine was kneeling at his side with 
 her arms clasped round him. ' Eeginald, darling, what 
 is it ? There is no one here but me, Ernestine, your 
 sister. Look at me, dearest ; don't be afraid.' 
 
 His hands fell on her shoulders, the wildness passed 
 from his eyes, and he looked down at her with return- 
 ing consciousness ; but she could feel his whole frame 
 trembling from head to foot. ' Ernie,' he said, in a 
 hoarse whisper, ' is the dreadful hour come ? Must I 
 go ? Is this death V and he literally shuddered. 
 
 ' No, my darling,' she said soothingly, ' you are only 
 faint ; let me give you some wine ; you will be better 
 presently.' 
 
UEGINALD. 217 
 
 She made liiiii swallow some wine and then bathed 
 his hands and temples with eau-de-cologne, till gra- 
 dually the spasm of terror passed from his blanched 
 face, and, falling back in his chair, he gave a heavy 
 sigh, half of relief and half of remembered agony. 
 
 ' Then it is still to come ?' he murmured. ' Almost I 
 could wish that first bitterness of death at least were 
 past ; yet no,' he continued, his features contracting 
 with pain, ' anything — anything rather than that ; bet- 
 ter life, though it be torture, than the blackness of 
 eternal night.' 
 
 It was on Ernestine's lips to ask why death was so 
 dreadful to him. It was not so to her, though the love 
 that brightened earth for her might make her sad to 
 leave it yet awhile ; and why should this boy, wdio once 
 had loved to lose himself in glowing dreams of the con- 
 summation of bliss, now so shrink from that which was 
 but the gate of immortality ? But she remembered her 
 promise to ask no questions, and, besides, he was still 
 too much agitated to risk further disturbance, so she 
 soothed him gently for a time, talking to him on indif- 
 ferent subjects till gradually he became calm, and his 
 eyes brightened as he turned them on her sweet face. 
 
 ' You are a good nurse, my darling Ernie,' he said. 
 ' I feel now as if I coidd almost enjoy this night. 
 
218 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 with you sitting at my side. Your voice is just like 
 music' 
 
 ' I am so glad you are more comfortable/ she said, 
 laying her head on the pillow beside him. ' We shall 
 have such a nice quiet time. Now, you must tell me 
 what you would like to talk about.' 
 
 ' Shall I really ?' he said, caressingly. ' May I choose 
 the subject V 
 
 ' Of course. What am I here for but to be your 
 slave ? ' 
 
 ' Well, you remember how you used to tell me stories 
 long ago, when we were children, though I used to con- 
 sider you almost a gTown-up lady, because you were 
 four years older. I want jovl to do the same for me 
 to-night. I want you to tell me all the histories you can 
 remember of those who have gone to death calmly and 
 fearlessly, though they had been compelled to face it in 
 all its horrible certainty for some time previously.' 
 
 ' What ! beginning with Socrates and his poison- 
 cup ?' 
 
 ' If you will ; and tell me about that criminal, I for- 
 get his name, who, on 'the scaffold, thought neither of 
 the shame nor the agony, but said only, " Now I shall 
 learn the great secret." ' 
 
 ' And Julian the Apostate, who died saying, " 
 
REGINALD. 219 
 
 Galilean, thou hast conquered," ' said Ernestine, lifting 
 her head that she might look into her brother's eyes as 
 she spoke. 
 
 A sudden Hush dyed his pale face. ' As you please,' 
 he answered shortly, and then went on : ' Who was it that 
 said, "Death cannot be an evil, because it is universal"?' 
 
 ' That was Goethe. But, darling,' said Ernestine 
 softly, ' would it not be happiest of all to speak of the 
 only true Conqueror over death — the One who took its 
 sting away, and made tlie grave no strange place for any 
 one of us since He has lain in it ?' 
 
 ' 'No, no !' exclaimed Eeginald, starting up with a 
 vehemence which seemed greater than his feeble frame 
 could bear, ' Ernie, do not speak to me of Him. I can- 
 not bear it — I cannot. I tell you I will not. You will 
 kill me if you speak of Him ; rather go and leave me 
 quite alone.' 
 
 ' My dearest Eeggie, I will not touch on any subject 
 you do not like. Lie down again, and trust me I will 
 only tell you what you ask, — the histories, so far as I 
 remember them, of brave men dying calmly and with- 
 out fear;' and in a low gentle tone, as she would have 
 soothed a wearied child, she spoke to him of those who 
 have been seen to go down with fearless steps into the 
 valley of the shadow of death ; and of others, who being 
 
220 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 rescued from it, had spoken of a lovely pure light into 
 which they seemed to sink, with echoes of softest nmsic 
 in their ears; and Eeginald listened with her hand clasped 
 in his, and grew very calm and still ; and so the night 
 wore peacefidly on for both, till the faint glimmer of the 
 far-off' dawn stole into the sky, and the cool breath of 
 the morning passed lightly over the wearied eyelids of 
 the dying man, while, half-sleeping, half-waking, he lay 
 gazing dreamily out upon the shifting shadows of the 
 heavens. Then Ernestine relapsed into silence, and, with 
 her head still laid beside her brother's, followed uncon- 
 sciously the train of thought which that strange un- 
 earthly night suggested to her. The actual life of the 
 present seemed so intangible, so Heeting, with all its 
 briefness and uncertainty, that she felt as if no soul 
 could ever seek in it to slake its thirst for joy and for 
 existence, and in spirit she passed over the dark valley 
 of which she liad been speaking, into the realms of 
 changeless light, wdiere there is no shadow, no per- 
 plexity, no fear; and she thought what glorious bliss, what 
 sweetest rest, it would be to dwell in that cleatliless 
 land with him, her dearest loved, — with this poor way- 
 ward brother also, and with that other one for whom her 
 heart still yearned, — gathered all together at the feet of 
 Infinite Compassion. And so she lost herself in those 
 
KEGIXALD. 221 
 
 sweet visions, till, with a smile, she woke to see that 
 what appeared to her but the baseless fancies of her 
 own deep longing, was, after all, the very reality which 
 God has prepared for those that love Him. 
 
 At last the first sunbeam smote on the wan face of 
 Reginald, and another day had begun for him who had 
 so few to number now, and soon all unearthly thoughts 
 were put to flight for both of them by the arrival of 
 JSTurse Beny, with all her homely arrangements for their 
 comfort. She insisted especially that Ernestine should 
 now go to the hotel to take a few hours' rest, and 
 Reginald urged her to do so, with many lo-s'ing thanks 
 for the comfort she had been to him that night ; so that 
 she agreed to their wishes, promising to return in the 
 course of the afternoon. 
 
 When Ernestine woke np later in the day from her 
 needful rest, she found ]\Irs. Tompson in a state of 
 considerable excitement. Dr. and Mrs. Granby had 
 come to call on Miss Courtenay, and, finding that she 
 coidd not be disturbed, had x^aid their visit to the 
 chaperon. In the course of it they dropped various 
 mysterious hints, that they feared Miss Courtenay's 
 charitable zeal was carrying her beyond the convenances 
 of society, and that they wished much she would place 
 herself under their protection and guidance during her 
 
222 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 stay in a place where reticence of all sorts was so much 
 required as in Greyburgli. These remarks Mrs. Tomp- 
 son repeated with much unction, beseeching Ernestine 
 to take them into serious consideration ; but she, in- 
 wardly shuddering at the thought of placing herself 
 under Dr. Granby's care, and of the aristocratic useless- 
 ness which would be the result, assured Mrs. Tompson 
 she was quite satisfied with her chaperonage ; and added, 
 that in Reginald's precarious state she did not intend to 
 see the Granbys, or any other acquaintance at all. She 
 begged her chaperon, ho\^'ever, to accept all Mrs. Granby's 
 invitations to dinner, etc., for herself, and finally remind- 
 ing her that there was only one person to whom she 
 owed any account of her actions, she pointed to the 
 letter ready sealed for the post, which lay on the table, 
 addressed to Mr. Lingard, and assured her it contained 
 a detail of all lier proceedings since she left him. With 
 this Mrs. Tompson was fain to be content, and Ernestine 
 hurried back as soon as she could to Eeginald, for her 
 uneasiness with regard to his mental condition increased 
 every hour, and her great fear now was lest he should 
 die with this dark burden, whatever it miglit be, uure- 
 vealed and unrelieved. 
 
 She had not long been in her place by his side when 
 the nurse came to tell her that Mr. Thorold was waiting 
 
REGINALD. 223 
 
 for her in the next room. She went in, and found him 
 walking up and down, somewhat after the fashion of a 
 wild beast in a cage, but he turned to meet Ernestine 
 with a frankness and simplicity which set her at ease 
 at once. 
 
 ' I have brought your order,' he said, ' and I have 
 persuaded the magistrate to give you one containing a 
 general permission to visit the female prisoners, as it 
 would not have answered your purpose to have it made 
 out to any person in particular. I have had to fight a 
 small battle on your behalf,' he added, with a smile ; 
 ' the conscientious magistrate would not grant you the 
 order till he could satisfy himself that you had no inten- 
 tion of teaching these poor women Popery, or Puritanism, 
 or various other distinctive forms of religion which he 
 enumerated. I told him I knew little of you, but a 
 great deal of the wretched prisoners ; and that, Avhilst I 
 had no reason to suppose the study of doctrinal theology 
 formed any part of your intentions towards them, I was 
 so certain that they, for the most part, did not realize 
 the existence of a God or a future state, that I doubted 
 its taking any serious effect on them if you did.' 
 
 ' But do you mean that he woidd actually have refused 
 me entrance to the gaol on such a ground as that ? I 
 could understand a fear of erroneous doctrine being in- 
 
224 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 troduced into the minds of liigh-principled, well-edu- 
 cated persons, but surely, in the case of women living, 
 as you say, in utter ignorance of the very foundations 
 of religion, and in gross violation of the plainest laws 
 of God, it is not possible that he would let them miss 
 any practical good I might be able to do them for so 
 chimerical a fear?' 
 
 ' It is not only possible,' said Thorold, ' but it is this 
 same senseless fear which has shut the doors of our 
 gaols and workhouses all over tlie country to the only 
 persons who would care to try and help the unhappy 
 inmates ; it would be inconceivable, if it were not 
 true ; but the pig-headedness of British magistrates and 
 guardians of the poor is something wonderful !' He 
 said this with such hearty vehemence, that Ernestine 
 could not help laughing. 
 
 ' And are the poor convicts and paupers never allowed 
 to see any one, then ? ' she asked. 
 
 ' yes ! any ill-conditioned, disreputable person of 
 their own rank, who chooses to call himself a friend, 
 is quite welcome, at least in the workhouses, to go and 
 revive all their associations with evil, and their longing 
 to return to former bad habits. I will give you a true 
 case in point, which came under my own notice : A poor 
 girl ^yas dying in one of the most infamous houses in the 
 
REGINALD. 225 
 
 town. A lady whom she had herself sent for, and who 
 had won her love most completely by her gentle kind- 
 ness, was very anxious that her last hours should not 
 be spent in a place where she heard and saw nothing 
 but the worst of evil night and day. The only shelter to 
 which she could be removed was the workhouse, and 
 the lady begged her for her soul's sake to consent to go 
 there. The girl had the usual horror of this last home 
 of the poor, but she could not resist the loving counsels 
 of the first person who had ever told her of a Saviour. 
 She agreed to go, but on the one condition, that the 
 lady should promise faithfully to visit her there as often 
 as possible. This she gladly did, never dreaming of any 
 difficulty which coidd stand in her way ; and the poor 
 creature, to whom her pure influence was bringing light 
 and peace, was carried off to the workhouse. The next 
 day she went to see her, and was refused admission at 
 the gate ; the porter roughly telling her it was the guar- 
 dians' order that no lady should be admitted. You may 
 imagine her distress, kno'uing the giii must suppose she 
 had forgotten her promise. The lady had powerful 
 friends, however, and she set them to work to oljtain a 
 special order of admission for her, which, after a fort- 
 night of tedious delays she obtained. She went to the 
 gate, and was told the poor girl had died the day before.' 
 VOL. L p 
 
22 G HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 ' how sad !' exclaimed Ernestine. 
 
 ' Yes, but you have not heard the sting of the story 
 yet. During the whole of that fortnight the wretched 
 woman who kept the house whence the girl had been 
 rescued was allowed to visit her daily, and to amuse her 
 dying hours with such conversation as you have never 
 dreamt of 
 
 ' That is indeed inconceivable,' said Ernestine ; ' I 
 could not have believed it.' 
 
 ' You see the lady might have been a High Church- 
 woman or an Evangelical, whereas the woman they 
 admitted was only one of the vilest reprobates that ever 
 disgraced her sex, and slew her thousands and ten 
 thousands of living souls ; but this is a subject which 
 makes me rabid, so I must not go on. Here is your 
 order, and you will not teach the prisoners Zuingiianism 
 or Universalism, or any other " ism," will you ? ' 
 
 ' No, I think not,' said Ernestine, laughing ; ' I don't 
 feel very competent to teach them anything ; it will 
 all be very strange to me at the gaol ; I hope I shall 
 not make any blunders. Is the governor a very fierce 
 individual?' 
 
 ' He is sharp enough to the prisoners, but he is likely 
 to be very amiable to you, 1 should think. He is an 
 old- man, wlio lias been thirty vcars a "servant of the 
 
REGINALD. 227 
 
 city," as he terms it, and is probably the last remaining 
 specimen of a race of gaolers that is almost obsolete. 
 He is as different as well can be from the cold, stern, 
 gentlemanlike offtcials who are to be found in such posi- 
 tions now. He has no pretensions to being a gentle- 
 man. He is very talkative; speaks with the broad 
 Greybiu-gh accent, and gives his views on all subjects 
 with the most uncompromising plainness ; but he does 
 his practical duties so well that the authorities carmot 
 find an excuse for considering him superannuated, as 
 they wish.' 
 
 'And is there a matron for the women?' asked 
 Ernestine. 
 
 ' His wife, old Mrs. Bolton, acts as such. She has all 
 his roughness, without liis sound good sense.' 
 
 ' Ernestine, can you come to me for a moment ?' said 
 the faint voice of Eeginald from the next room. She 
 started up, and begged Mr. Thorold to wait a few 
 minutes, wliile she hastily obeyed the call. The door 
 stood wide open, so that Thorold could see and hear all 
 that passed. Eeginald, it seemed, wished to be moved 
 nearer to the window. He wanted air, he said, and, lean- 
 ing heavily on Ernestine, he began to walk feebly towards 
 it. But her strength was not equal to the "v\-eight of his 
 almost helpless frame, and seeing her begin to totter 
 
228 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 uuder it, Tliorold started up, and, without a word, lifted 
 Eeginald in bis strong arms, and placed liim on the couch, 
 nea,r the window. Then, as both brother and sister 
 thanked him, he answered in a low, soft tone, which 
 sounded peculiarly soothing, and proceeded to smooth 
 Eeginald's pillows, and make various little arrange- 
 ments for his comfort, with a tenderness which astonished 
 Ernestine, who had thought him somewhat rough and 
 brusque in manner previously. Eeginald looked up with 
 a orateful smile, and as Thorold shook hands with him 
 before leaving the room, began a sentence, ' Will you — ' 
 then suddenly checked himself and said no more. 
 Thorold took no notice of the half-formed speech, but 
 with a few words of sympathy for his evident illness, 
 made way for the nurse, who had just come in, and 
 went into the outer room with Ernestine. 
 
 'You have a great sorrow there,' he said in a low 
 tone. 
 
 ' Oh, you cannot think how great,' replied Ernestine, 
 her eyes filling with tears. ' It is not only that he is 
 dying, as you perceive, but it is such a sad passing from 
 this world. He gives me no clue to his state of mind, 
 yet I see that these his last days are one long unrest, 
 and I hardly know whether he hates life or dreads death 
 most.' 
 
REGINALD. 229 
 
 The gravity of Thorold's face deepened almost to 
 sternness. ' Were his associates among the reading men 
 or those of the wilder set?' he asked. 
 
 ' Always among the reading men, till lately. He in- 
 tended to take holy orders, and gave himself np almost 
 entirely to the study of divinity, Init Dr. Compton tells 
 me that he altered very much last term, and led a 
 Ivind of life I should have thought impossible for Eegi- 
 nald. I never had dreaded the ordinary temptations of 
 this place for him.' 
 
 ' There are intellectual as well as moral dangers in 
 Greyburgh now, and it is more than likely it is to these 
 he has succumbed. But I must not stay. If I can be of 
 use to you in any way, let me know, and I will come 
 at once.' 
 
 He did not wait for her thanks, but went hurriedly 
 away. 
 
 * How do you come to know Thorold, Ernestine ? ' 
 said Eeginald, when she went back to him. 
 
 She explained that she had gone to ask his assistance 
 respecting a poor person in whom she was interested. 
 ' And do you know him ? ' she asked in return. 
 
 ' Not personally ; but I have often been at liis church. 
 He is not an attractive man to most people, but I had, 
 and indeed still have, the greatest admiration for his 
 
"230 HIDDEN DEPTHS. 
 
 character. I never knew any one with such indomitable 
 faith, such stern self-denial, and such entire devotion of 
 heart and soul to the one cause in which he believes. 
 Thorold has stood like a rock through all the whirlwinds 
 and storms that have been raging through the uni- 
 versity of late, casting men's minds into chaos, and 
 making shipwreck of their peace.' 
 
 ' Is he a man of influence here ? ' asked Ernestine. 
 
 ' AVith all who really know him ; but he is excessively 
 quiet and unobtrusive. He lives entirely in and for 
 his work, at which he toils like a slave ; but if ever any 
 one seeks his help in difficulties, of whatever nature, 
 he is ready at once with the most fearless counsels. I 
 have several times been on the point of going to him 
 myself, and then I have thouglit better, or worse of it. 
 And now, Ernie, I must try to sleej), for I am tired ;' 
 tmd he lay back with so evident a wish to stop the con- 
 versation, that she made no attempt to continue it. 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
 EDINBUKGH : T. CONSTABLE, 
 PRINTER TO THE QUEEN, AND TO TUE DNIVERSJTY. 
 
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