JOHN MARCH l?x . J T i^^ \ LEGACY. A NOVEL. I -C '^' I S^j^ !> By Miss M. E. BRADDON, ACTBOR OF "AURORA FLOYD," "ELEANOR'S VICTORY," "LADY AUDLEY'S SECRET," kc. ^♦-^ RICHMOND: WEST (k JOHNSTON, PUBLISHERS, 145 MAIN STREKT. -fo* ''A^ ^ J f iRESlU A. SAI.E BY AND BY ALL BOOKSELLERS IN THE CONFEDERATE STATES. |I3" We will send any Book in the subjoined List to any person in the Confederate S /rec of cost, on receipt of the price. VOLUNTEER'S CAMP AND FIELD BOOK. By J. B. Ccrry $ SKIRMISHER'S DRILL AND BAYONET EXERCISE. By Col. R. M. Cart CAVALRY DRILL AND BAYONET EXERCISE. By Geo. Pattex OFFICER'S MANUAL, Or, Napoleon's Maxims of War, GILHAM'S TACTICS— pp. SJS— 100 plates, THE PRACTICE OF WAR. Translated from the French THE ORDNAfNCE M ANUAL-pp. 54G— 40 plates THE SCHOOL OF THE GUIDES MA HAN'S PERMANENT WORKS— Two Large Volumes— One of Plates, i MAHAN'S FIELD FORTIFICATIONS, CONFEDERATE STATES ARMY REGULATIONS, THE SECOND YEAR OF THE WAR. By E. A. Pollard, THE PICTORIAL PRIMER. For Schools and Families LLOYD'S MAP OF THE CONFEDERATE STATES, WEST & JOHNSTON'S POCKET MAP OF VIRGINIA, THE LIFE OF GENERAL T. J. (STONEWALL) JACKSON. By an Ex-Cadet THE RIVALS, A Chickahominy Story— By Miss M. J. PI** THE REBEL SONGSTER. STONEWALL SONG BOOK, Eleventh Edition, with many new Songs, ALSO HAVE ON HAND A LARGE STOCK OF Paper, Envelopes, Stationery; Music, &c., & THEY ARE PREPARED TO DO 1^^ Book and Pamphlet Binding, Folding, Ruling, Gutting, & ugor PROMPTLY AND TO OBDER. JOHI MAROHiniT'S L A NOVEL B\ Mi.ss M K. BRA.DDON. AUTHOR OF ''AURORA FLOYD," ''LADY ALIDLEY'S SECRET; RICHMOND : 1 ^ WKST & JOHIS^STON, Publishers. 145 MAIN STREET. 1865. -4 GEO. J'. KVANS & CO., PRIXTF.RS, wiiK. nriLDiKc, RICHMOND, VIRGINIA. k. JOHN MARCHMOxNT'S LE(}ACY; 'Ji^- CHAPTER 1. THE MAH WITH THK BAVXKR. Tuchistorj of Edward Arundel, second son of Christopher Arundel Dangerfield Arundel, of Dan- gcrfield Park, Devonshire, began on a certain dark winter's night upon which the lad, still a school-boy, went with his cousin, Martin .Mosiyn, to witness a blank-verse tragedy at one of the London theatres. There are few men who, looking back at the long story of their lives, cannot point to one pai;e in the record of the past at which the actual his- tory of life began. The page may come in the very middle of the boolc perhajis ; pcrbaps .-^liuost at. the end. But lot it conic where it wiM, it 1^. after all, only the actual conmienccinent. At aii ap- pointed hour io man's existence the overture which has been jroing on ever since, lie was born, is brought to a sudden close by the sharp vibra- tion of the proinplor's signal-bell, ihe curtain rises, and ibedianiii of life begins. The story of young Aruudcrs life began when he was a light-hearted, heedless lad of seventeen, newly escaped foi- a luief inicrral from the care of his pastors and masters. The lad had couie to iiOndun'on a Chri.stnias vi^it to his father's sisler, a guod-natured widow, with a great many sons and daughters, and an in- '•ome only larg« enough to enable her to keep tiie appearance* of wealth essential to the family pride of one of the Arundels of Dangerfield. Laura Ariimlcl had married a Colonel Mostyn, of th« tast India Company's service, and had re- turned from India after a wandering hie of some years, leaving ber dead husband behind her, and bringing awny with lier five daughters and three sons, most of \v!iom bad been born under canvas Mrs. Mostyn bore her troubles bravely, and con- trived to do more vvilb her pension, and an riddi- tional income of tliree hundred a year from a small fortune of iier own, than the most consum- mate womanly management can often achieve. Her hou^e in -Montague Square was splendidly furnished, her daughters were exquisitely dressed, her sons sensibly educated, her dinners well cook- ed. She was not an agreeable woman; she was, Kerhaps, if anything, too sensible — so very scnsi- le as to be obviously intolerant of any thing like folly in others. She was a good mother, but by no means an indulgent one. She expected her sons to succeed in life, and her daughters to marry rich men; and would have had little patience with any disappointment in either of these rea- sonable expectations. She wa.s attached to her brother, Christopher Arundel, and she was very well pleased to spend the autumn months at D.in- gerfield, where the hunting breakfasts gave her daughters an excellent platform for the exhibi- tion of charming demi-tollets and social and do- mestic graces, perhaps more dangerous to the sus- ceptible hearts of rich young squires than the fascinationt of a v»Ut d deux tempi or an Italian ■Moa. But the same ^drs. Mostyn, who nev«r forgot to keep up her correspondence with the owner of Dangerfield Park, utterly ignored the existcnc* of another brother, a certa^in Hubert Arundel, who had, perhaps, much more need of her sisterly friendship than the wealthy Devonshire squire. Heaven knows, the world seemed a lonely place to this younger son, -who had been educated for : the Church, and was fain to content himself with a scanty living in one of the dullest and dampest towns in fenny Lincolnshire. His sister might have very easily made lilo much more pleasant to the Rector of Swanipington and his only dauch- ter; but Hubert Arundei was a great deal too ^ proud to remind her of tliis. if Mrs. Mostyn cliose to forget him — the brother and sister had ;,becn loving friends and dear companions long ago under the beeches at Dangerfield — she was wel- ; come to do so. She was better oiT than him; and It is to be remarked that if A's •income is threa ) hundred a year, and B's a tliousand, the dunces are as seven to three that It will forget any old , inlimaey that may liiive cxisltd between himsrlf ', and A. Huticrt Arundel had been wild at college, ' and had put his autograph across ao many oblung ; siijis of blue paper, acknowledging value receiv- ed \tbat had been only half received, that by the ' lime the claims of all thelioldcrs of these por- ; tentous morsels of stamped paper had been satis- ; fied, the younger son's fortune had melicd away, ■ leaving its sometime po«>cssor the happy owner , of a pair of ))ointcrs, a couple of guns by crack '/ makers, a good many foils, siiigle-siicks, boxijig- ) gloveo, wire masks, hasket-hcjinets, leathern leg- , guards, and other paraplicrnalia, a complete set : of the old i>poi:li.ng.yara-.inf from 17'J2to the cur- \ rent year, bound in .scarlet morocco, several boxes , of very bad cigars, a Scotch terrier, and a pipe of ; undriiiUabJe poi t. ' Of all these possessions only the undrinkable ; port now remained to show that Hubert .Arundel \ had oni e bad a decent younger son's Airluiie. and I had siicc-'tded most admirably in making ducki ) and drakes of it. The poor about 8wampington believed in the sweet red wine, which had been ; specially concocted for Israclitish dealers in jew- eiry, cigars, pictures, Avines and specie. They ; smacked their lips over the mysterious li(|uid, and confidently affirmed that it did them more pood than all the doctor's stutF the parish apothecary ' could send them. Poor Hubert Arundel was well I content to find that at least this scanty crop of ; corn had croan upfioaii the wild oats he had sown ( at Cambridge, ) I have no doubt that Hubert Arundel felt th* i sting of his only sister's neglect, as only a poor ' and proud man can feel such an insult; but h« never let «ny confession of this sentiment escape j his lips; and when .Mrs. .Mostyn, being seized with j a fancy for doing this forgotten brother a service, j wrote him a letter of insolent advice, winding up with an offer to procure his only child a situation I as uursery-governess, the Rector of Swamping- ) ton only cruihed the miisive in bia atroDg hand, 4 JOHN MARCUMONT\S LEGACY. " and flung it into bis stidy fire, with a muttered tion of the audienoc. I'erhsps no brigbttr face exc'arnniion tt.at »oun litd terribly like an oath. looked upward that night to;rard th« glare and *A nitrrfiy-goverricss !' he repeated savagely; glitter of the great chandelier than that of the 've«; an under-paid drudge,, to tcarh children fair-haired lad in the stage-box. His candid blue tieir A liC, and mend their frocks and make their eyes beamed with a'moreradiantsparkle than any pinafores. I s^houkl like Mrs. Moityn to talk to of the myriad lights in the theatre; a nimbus of my Utile Livy for half an hour. ,J ihmk my girl golden hair shone about his broad white forehead; would have put tlic lady down so completely by flowing health, careless happiness, truth, good the end of trial linie, that we !>ho;;ld never ficur nature, h»one«ty, boyish vivacity, and the courage any more aho.it i.urscry-go\crnesses,' , of a young lion — all were expressed in the fear- Jle laughed bitterly as he repeated the obnoi- le»s smile, the frank, yet half-defiant gaze. Above iou<5 [)hriisL'; but his laugh changed lo a sigii. , all, this lad of seventeen looked especially what Wu5 it (!tranp;c that l!ie fatlier should sigh as he he was — a thorough genlleuiau. Martin Mostyn rememlu-ied how he had seen the awful hand of wss prim and effeminate, precociously tired of Death fall suddenly ufiou younger and stronger life, precociously indifferent to evary thing but men than himself? What if he were to die, and ' his own advantage; but the Devonshire boy's talk leave his ctily child uiiinnriied .- What would be- , was still fragrant with the fresh perfume of youth come of her, with her dangerous gifts, with her ; and innocence, still gay with the joyous reckless- fatal dowry of beauty, and intellect, and pride.' ' ness of early boyhood. He was as impatient for '15iil she would nfc\er do any thing wrong,' the nuisy panlonuiiic" orerture, and the bright the f.itiier thought. 'Her religious principles are troops of fairies in petticoats of spangled muslin, strong enough to keep her riirht under any eireuiu- \ as the most inreterate cockney cooling his snub stances, in spite of any temptation. Her sense • nose against the iron railing of the gallery. He of duty is more powerful than any other sentiment. \ was as ready to fall in love with the painted beauty She woud never be false to that; she would never ^ of the ill-paid ballet girls, as the reriegt child be falfc to that.' ; in the wide circle of humanity about him. Fresh, In return forthe hospitality ot'Dangcrfield Park, ^ untainted, unsuspicious, he looked out atthe world Mrs. Mostyn was in the habit of opening her ' ready lo believe in every thing and every body, doors to either Chri>toi.lier Arundel or his sons ' Mlow you do fidget, Edward !' whispered Mar- whenever any of 'ihe three cauic to London. Of ! tin Mostyn, peevishly; 'why don't you look at the c ursc, she infinitely prcicriTd seeing Arthur / stage .= It's capital fun.' Arundel, ti;c elder son and heir, seated at her ; M'un!' well-'prvad table, and flirtina; %vith one ^of his ; 'Yes; I don't mean the tragedy, you know; but prctly 'cou.'fins, ttmn to be bored with his i-aeket^ ! the supernumeraries. Did vou ever see such an )oun.'tr brother, a noisy lad of seventeen, witn ; awkward set of fellows in all your life .' There's no better prospects than a commission in her Ma- ; a man ihere with weak legs and a heavy banner jesty's service, and a hundred and lilty pounds a that I've been watching all the evening. He'« year to eke out his pay; but she was, notwith- ' more fun than all the rest of it put together.' standing, graciously pleased to invite Ldward to ' Mr. Mostyn being of course much loo polite to 5pcnd hi« Christmas holidays in her comfortable point out the man in question, indicated him with household; and it was thus it came to pass that a twitcii of his light eyebrows; and Edward Arun - on the 'illlh of December, in the year 183H, the del, following that indication, singled out the story of Edward Anindtl's life began in a stage- , banner-holder from a group of soldiers in medie- box at Drury Lane Theatre. ; val dress, who had been standing wearily enough The box had been M.nl to Mrs. Mostyn by the ) up- ' holder, tinguish.d literary amateur, and even- the great Mr. Mostvn turned upon his cousin with some aciot who |>l;i>ed the pmu ijial character could vexation. nolinakc the peironnancepaitie..larly enlivening 'I can't hel|. it, Martin,' exclaimed youne He ce.iainy « heir-presumptive to a stunning fortune. IVfc 'sn't a move in mathematics he isn't up to; and hfeard him say so twenty times.' | :ie'll come into a fortune some of these days — ' *0h, I daresay you've heard him say so, my > 'Yes,' interrupted the door-keeper, sarcasticalj dear boy,' he murnui.''ed, superciliously. | ly, 'I've heerd that. They chaffs him about that isi'Ah, and it was true,' cried Edward; 'he J up stairs. He's allers talking about bem'agcn- wasrj't a fellow to tell iic.^; perhaps he'd hav suited Mr. Vernon better if he had been. He had bad health, and was weak, and ail that sort ol thing; but he wasn't a snob. He showed mc a signet-ring once that he used to wear on his watch- chain — ' •A silver watch-chain,' simpered Mr. Mostyn, •just like a carpenter's. ' lenian and belongin' to gentlemen, tnd alUhat; lut you're the first gentleman as have ever as't ifler him.' 'And can I see him ?' •I'll do my best. Sir. Here, you Jim,' said the door-keeper, addressing a dirty youth, who had just nailed an official announcement of the next norning's rehearsal upon the back of a stony- 'Oon't be such a supercilious cad, Martin. He | learled swing-door, which was aptto'jam the was very kind to nift, poor Mar^.l^mont, and 1 know I was always a nuisance lo him, poor old fel- low; foryouknow 1 never could eeton with Euclid. I'm sorry to see him here. Think, Martin, what an occupation for him ! f don't suppose he gels more than nine or ten shillings a week for it.' 'A shilling a night is, t believe, the ordinary re- muneration iV)r a stage-soldier. They pay as nuicl, for the real thing as for the sham, you see; the dc- tenders of our country risk their lives for about the same consideration. Where are you going, Ned.'' ingers of the uninitiated, 'what's the name of ibat super with the jolly bad cough, the one they -all Rarkmg — ' 'Oh, that's Morti-more.' 'Oo you know if he's on in the first scene?' ' Vfcs. He's one of tlie demons; but the scene'* just over. Do you want him ?' 'Voucan take up this young gentleman's card *o him, and tell him to slip down here if he's got a wail,' said the door-keeper. Mr. Arundel handed his card to the dirty boy. He'll come lo me fast enough, poor fellow !' ho Edward Arunde! hr,d left his place, and was try- muttered. '1 usen't to chaff him as the others did, ing to undo the door of the box. . ' and I'm glad 1 didn't now.' 'To see if I can get at this poor fellow.' Edward Arundel could not ea.sily forget that •You persist in de«laring, then, that the "man ] one brief scrutiny in which he had reco.;nTzed the with the weak legs isourold mathcmalical drudge.' ) wasted face of Ihe schoolmaster's hack who had Well, I shouldn't wonder. The fellow was cough- 1 taught him mathematics only two years before.— ing all throug'i the five acts, and that's uncom- j Gould there be any thing m'>re piteous than that inonly like Marchmont. Vou're surely not going legrading spectacle.' The feeble frame scarcely to renew your acquaintance with him." j able lo sustain that paltry onc-sided banner of But young Arundel liad just succeeded ifl open- calico and tinsel; the two rude daubs of coarse ing the door, and he left the box without wailing I vermilion upon the hollow cheeks; the black to answer his cousin's question. He ma'de his way | smudges that were meant for eyebrows; th« very rapidly out of the theatre, and fought man- ( wretched scrap of horse-hair gluec^ upon the fully through the crowds who were wailing about | pinched chin in dismal mockery of a beard; and the pit and gallery doors, until he found himself i through all this the pathetic pleadingof large ha- at the stage-entrance. He had of:cn looked with | zel eyes, bright with the unnatural lustre of dis- reverenl wonder at the dark portal; but he had ease, and saying perpetually, more plainly than never before essayed lo ct'oss the sacred thresh- \ words can speak, 'Do not look at me; do not de- hold. But the guardian of the gi'e to this Iheatri- \ spisc me; do not even pity me. It won't last long.' c:il pai-adise, inhabited by i'airies at a guinea a | The fresh-hearted school-boy was still thinking week, and bironial retainers at a shilling a night, < of thi-, when a wasted hand was laid lightly and is ordinarily a very inflexiiile individuol. not to bi; j tremulously on his arm, and looking up lie saw a corrupted by any mortal persuasion, and scarcely ' man in a hideous mask and a tight-tilling suit of corruptible by the more potent influence of gold i scarlet and gold standing by his side. or silver.* Poor Kdward's half a crown had n-i ef- ^ 'I'll take off my mask in a minute, Arundel,' feci whatever upon the stern door-keeper, who ; said a faint voice, that sounded hollow and muf- thanked hjm for his donation, but told him that it ■ tied within a cavern of pasteboard and wicker- was agen his orders to let any body go up stairs ' work, 'it was very good of you to come round' 'But I want lo see some one so particularly,' ; very, very good I' the boy said, eagerly. ' Don 'i you think you could ] '1 was so sorry lo see you here, Marchmont; manage it for me, you know.' He's an old friend ; knew you in a moment, in spile of the disguise, of mine — one of the supernu— whal's-its name^.'' ; The supernumerary had strugglej out of hit added Edward, stumbling over the word. 'He J huge head-gear by this time, and laid the fabric carried a banner in the tragedy, you know; and > of papier-macfic- and tinsel carefully aside upon a he's ?ot such an awful cough, poor chap.' shelf. He had washed his face before putting on 'The man as cnrried the banner with a awful > the mask, for he was not caljed upon to appear cough,' said the door-keeper, reflectively; 'why, j before a British public in martial semblance any I'm blest if it ain't l?arking Jeremiah.' < more upon that evening. '" The pale wasted faee 'Barking Jeremiah !' ; was interesting and genlleBianly, not by any means 'Yes, Sir. They calls him Barking because he's : handsome, but almost womanly in its softness «f allers coughin' h>s poor weak head off; and they | expression. It was the face of a man who had not calls him Jeremiah becau.se he's alters doleful. — ] yet seen his thirtieth birth-day; who might nerar And I never did see such a doleful chap, cer- i live to see it, Edward thought, mournfully, tainly.' . 'Why do you do this, Marchmont .'' (ha boy 'Oh. do let me sec him,' cried Mr. Edward ' asked, bluntly. Arundel. •] know you can manage it; so do,^ 'Because there was nothing; die left for mat* I JOHN MARCH MONT '3 LEGACY. do,' the itage-demon arnwered, with a sad smile J world, I shall nerer as:ain boast of my succMses •I can't pet a situation in a school,' for my health ) with lovely woman. What's the*number, old fel- won't suffer me to lake one; or it won't suffer any } low .'' employer to take me, for fear of my falling ill', Mr. Arundel had pulled out a smart morocco upon his hands, which comes to the same thing;' pocket-book and a gold pencil-case. •0 I do a little copying for the law-slationers, and :; 'Twenty-seven Oakley Street, Lambeth. But this help* put that, and 1 get on as well as lean.) I'd rather you wouldn't come, Arundel; your I wouldn't so much mind if it wasn't for — ' ' friends wouldn't like it.' He stopped suddenly, interrupted by aparox-; 'xMy friends may go hang themselves. I shall ysm of coughing. do as I like, and I'll he with you to breakfast, '[[ it wasn't for whom, old fellow?' 'sharp ten.' 'My pocr little girl; my poor little motherless > The supernumerary had no time to remonstrate. Mary.' (The progress of the music, faintly audible from Fxlward Arundel looked grave, and perhaps a j the lobby in which this conversation had taken little ashamed of himself. He had forgotten un- . place, told him that his scene wa« nearly on. til this moment thai his old tutor had been left a.' '1 can't stop another moment. Go back to your widower at four-and-twenty, with a little daugh-/ friends, Arundel. Good-night. God bless you !' ter to support out of his scanty stipend. / "i^tay; one word. The Lincolnshire property — ' •Don't be down-hearted, old fellow,' the lad 'Will never come to me, my boy' the demon vhispered, tenderly; 'perhaps I shall be able to ' answered sadly, through his mask; for he had been help you, you know. And the little girl can go - busy reinvesting himself in that demoniac guiae. down to Dangertield; 1 know my mother would / '1 tried to sell my reversion, but the Jews almost take care of her, and will keep her there till you / laughed in my face when they heard me cough. — ret strong and well. And then you might start a ; Cood-night." fencing-room, or a shooting-gallery, or something',; He was gone, and the sw.ing-door slammed in of that tort, at the VVe«t End; and I'd come to > Edward Arundel's face. The boy huiried back you, and bring lots of fellows to you, and you'd / to his cousin, who was cross and dissatisfied athis get on capitally , you know. ' < absence. Martin Mostyn had discovered that the ' Poor John Marchmont, the asthmatic supernu-^ ballet-girls were all either old or ugly, the music merary, looked perhaps the very last person in > badly cliosen, the pantomime stupid, the scenery a the world whom it could be possible to associate .' failure, ^le asked a few supercilious questions with a pair of foils or a pistol and a target; but he ; about his old tutor, but scarcely listened to Ed- imiled faintly at his old pupil's enthusiastic talk. / ward's answers; and was interisely aggravated ' Vou were always a good fellow, Arundel,' he ^ with his companion's pertinacity in sitting out the ' laid, gravely. '1 don't suppose I shall ever ask .; comic business — in wuich poor John Murchmoni. you to do me a service; but if, by-and-by, this <; appeared and re-appeared; nov/ as a well-dressed cough makes me knock under, and my little Polly j passenger carrying a parcel, which he deliberatelT •hould be left— I— 1 think you'd get your mother, sacrificed to the felonious propensities of the to be kind to her, wouldn't you, Arundel.'' j clown, now as a policr?man, now as a barber, now A picture rose before the supernumerary's wea-.; as a chemist, now as a ghost; but always buffeted, ry eyes as he said this; the picture of a plea.sant? or cajoled, or bonneted, or imposed updn; al- lady whose description he had often heard from ) ways piteous, miserable, and- long-sufieriug; with the lips of a loving son, a rambling old mansion, , arms that ached from carrying a banner through wide-spreading lawns, and long arcades of oak' five acts of blank-verse weariness, with a head and beeches leading away to the blue distance. If/ that had throbbed under the weight of a ponderous this Mrs. Arundel, who was so tender and com- /edifice of pasteboard and wicker, with eyes that passionate and gentle to every red-cheeked cot- j were sore with the evil influence of blue-fire and tage girl who crossed her pathway— Edward had / gunpowder smoke, with a throat that had been told him this very often— would lake compa*ssion J poisoned by sulphurous vapors, with bones that also upon this little one! If she would only con- ^ were stiff with playful pommeling of clown and descend to see the ehild, tii« poor pale neglected 5 pantabon: and all for— a shilling a night! flower, the iragne Illy, the frail exotic blossom,) that was so criieliy out of place upon the bleak/ pathways of life I ' i ■ ' *** 'If iliai's all tint troubles you,' young Arundel; cried, eagerly, 'you may make your mind easy,/ CHAPTER H. and come and have some oysters. We'll take care') of the child. I'll adopt hJr, and my mother shall ^ littlbmart. educate her. and she shall marry a duke. Run Poor John Marehmont had given his address away now, old felloe-, and change your clothes, { unwillingly enough to his old pupil. The lodcine and come and have oysters, and stout out of the i in Oakley Street was a wretched back-room upon pewter. ' ■■ , « . . f Mr. Marchmbnt shook his head •My time's just icene Arundel, but this isn't exactly the second floor of a house whose lower regions ,. , . , ,, ., ,, . , were devoted to that species of establishment timcsjust up, hesaid;'! m on m the next commonly called a 'ladies' wardrobe.' The poor II was very kind of you to come round,! gentleman, the teacher of mathematics, the law- el, but his isn t exactly the best place for ; writer, the Drury Lane supernumerary, had you Go back to your fl-iends, my dear boy, and ! shrunk from any exposure of his poverty ; but his don t think any more of me 1 11 write to you pupil's imperious good nature had overridden ey- •ome day about .tile Mary. , . • ^ .^ P^^ objection, and John Marehmont awoke upon « You II do polhing of the kind,, exclaimed thchhe morning after the meeting at Drurv Lane to boy. 'You II give me y«*ir address instanter, and > the rather embarrassing recollection that he waa 111 come to see you the first thing to-morrow to expect a visitor to breakfast with him Morning, and you 11 introduce me to little Mary; How was he to entertain the dasbine hieh-SDi- and »f ihc and 1 are not the best friend* in the \ rited young school-boy, whose lot was caat in tii» JOHN MARCHMONT'S LEGACY. pleasant pathways of life, and who was no doubt) bate— it would have been about as easr for him accustomed to sec at his matutinal meal such lux-;^ to become either as to burst at once, and without uries as John Marchmont had only beheld in the/ an hour's practice, into a full-blown L6olard or fairy-like realms of comestible beauty exhibited \ Olmar— his daughter's influence would hare held to hungry foot-passengers behind the plate-glass) him back as securely as if the slender arms twined' windows of Italian warehouses ? > tenderly about him had been chains of adamant 'He has hams stewed in Madeira, and Perigord • forged by an enchanter's power, pies, I dare say, at his Aunt Mostyn's,' John J How could he be false to liis little one, his help- thought, despairingly. 'What can I gire him to; less child, who had been confided to him in th« eat?' ' ■ darkest hour of his existence; the hour in which But John Marchmont, after the manner of the J his consumptive wife had yielded to the many poor, was apt to overestimate the extravagance | forces arrayed against her in life's battle, and of the rich. If he could have seen the Mostyn > had left him alone in the worid to fight for hit breakfast then preparing in the lower regions of J little girl? Montague Square, he might have been considera-S 'If I were, to die I think Aruiiri el's mother bly relieved; for he would only have beheld mild '; would be kind to her,' John Marchmont thought, infusion* of tea and coffee, in silver vessels, cer-( as he finished his careful toilet. 'Heaven knowi tainly, four French rolls hidden under a glisten- 1 1 have no right to ask or expect such a thing; lyit ing damask napkin, six triangular fragments of S she will be rich by-aod-by, perhaps, and will b« dry toast, cut from a stale half-quartern, four new ; able to repay them.' laid eggs, and about half a pound of bacon cut; A little hand knocked lightly at the doorof hi» into rasher? of trauscendentnl delicacy. Widow \ room while he was thinking this, and a childlifc ladies who have daughters to marry do not plunge ( voice said : very deep into the books of Messrs. Foi-tnum and.) 'May I come in, papa?' Mason. ' The little girl slept with one of the landlady*! 'He used to like hot rolls when I wa» at Ver- ! children in a "room above her father's. John open- non'«<,' John thought, rather more hopefully; '1 J ed the door and let her in. The pale wintry sun- wonder whether he likes hot rolls still :' ' ! shine, creeping in at the cirtainless window, near I'ondering thus, Mr. iMarchmonl dressed him- J which Mr. Marchmont sat, shone full upon the self— verv neatly, very carefully; for he was one ( child's face as she came toward him. It was a of those men whom even povefly cannot rob of ^ small, pale face, with singularly delicate features, man's proudest attribute, his individuality. He ) a tiny straight nose, a pensive rnouth, and large made no noisy protest against the humiliations to \ thoughtful hazel eyes. The child's hair fell loose- which he was' compelled to submit; he uttered no j ly upon her shoulders; not in those corkscrew boisterous assertions of his own merit: he urged \ curls so much affected by mothers in the humbler no clamorous demand to be treated as a gentle-) walks of life, nor yat in those crisp undulationi man in his day of misfortune; but in his own mild, ;■ lately adopted in Belgravian nurseries, but in soft undemonstrative wav he did assert himself, quite \ silken masses, only curling at the cxtreiftc end of as elfectu^llv as if he had raved all day upon the) each tress. Miss Marchmont— she was alwayi hardship of his lot; and drunk himself mad and (called Miss Marchmont in that Oakley street blind under the pressure of his calamities. He > household— wore her brown stuff frock and scanty never abandoned the habits which had been pe- 1 diaper pinafore as neatly as her father wore bji culiar to him from his childhood. H« was as neat { threadbare coat and darned linen. She was very and orderly in his second-floor back as he had | pretty, very lady-like, very interesting; but it was been seven or eight years before in his simple ^ impossible to look at her without a vague feeling apartments at Cambridge. He did not recognize / of pain that was difficult to understand. You that association which most men perceive be- ( knew by-and-by why you were sorry for this little iween poverty and shirt-sleeves, or povertv and ) girl. She had never been a child. That divine beer. He was content to wear threadbare cloth, I^ period of perfect innocence— innocence of all sor- t»iit adhered most obstinately toa prejudice in favor 'i row and trouble, falsehood and wrong— that bright of clean linen. He never acquired those lounging j holiday-time of the soul had never been hers.— Tagabood habits peculiar to some men in the day ) The ruthless hand of poverty had snalobcd a\my of trouble. Even among the supernumeraries^ from her the gift which God had given her in her of Dniry Lane he contrived to preserve his self- 'i cradle; and at eight years old she was a woman- respect; if they nicknamed him Barking Jeremiah.' a woman invested with all that is most benuti- they took care only to pronounce that playful / ful among womanly attributes— love, tendeil^ss, tobriquet when the gentleman-super was safely | compassion, carefulness for others, unselfish devo- out of hearing. He was so polite in the midst of | tion, uncomplaining patience, heroic endurance, hit reserve, that the person who could wilfully) She was a woman by reason of all these virtues; have offended him must have been more unkindly i but she was no longer a child. At three years old than any of her Majesty's servants. It is true I she had bidden fardwcH forever to the ignorant that the' great tragedian on more than one occa- selfishnMS, the animal enjoyment of childhood, tion apostrophized the weak-kneed banner-holder and had learned what it was to be sorry for poor as 'BE*iT,' when the super 't cough had peculiarly < papa and nvimina; and from that first time of disturbed his compoture; but the same great man gave poor John Marchmont a letter to a distin- {uithed physician, compassionately desiring the relief of the same pulmonary affection. If John Marchmont had not been prompted by his own in- ttiDcu to struggle againit the evil influences of awakening to the sense of pHy and love, she had never ceased to be the comforter of the helplcsi young husband who was so soon to be left wife- IfSS. John had been compelled to leave his child, in order to get a living for her and for himself in tb* the sake of ooe who was tea timet dearer to him than bimself. U Ut $9tM k»T« b«c«B« ft iwinller or % rcpro- povtrly, he would have done battle sturdily for hard service of Mr. Laurence Vernon, the princh pal of the highly select and expensive academj at which Edward Arundel and Martin Moslvn ha4 bMa tdiucaUd. But b« had left her in (o«d iiuUtj JOHN MARCHiNlONT'S LEG ACT and when the bitter day of his dismissal came, he was scarcely as sorry as he ought to have been for the calamity which broiicht him back to his little Mary. It is impossible for any words of mine tD tell how much he loved the child; but take into consideration his hopeless poverty, his •ensitivo and reserved nature, his utter Joncli- nes'', the bereavement that had casta shadow up- on his youth, and you will perhaps understand an afT'iCtion that was almost morbid in its intensity, and which was reciprocated most fully by its ob- ject. The little cirl loved her father too imieli.— When he was with her, she w as content to sit by his <=ide, watching him as he wrote: proud to help him, if even by so much as wiping; his pens, or handin;; him his blotting-paper; happy to wait upon him, to CO ou', marketing for him, to prepare his scanty meals, to make his tea, and arrange and re-arrans;e every object in the slenderly fur- nished second-floor baVk-ro'om. They talked sometimes of the Lincolnshire fortune— the for- tune which mipht come to Mr. Marchmont, if three people, whose lives were each worth three times John's feeble existence, would be so obi i- fine; as to clear the way for the heir-at-law,. by taking: an early departure to the church-yard. A more practical man than John Marchmont would have kept a sharp eye upon these three lives, and by some means or other contrived to find out whe- ther number one was consumptive, or number two dropsical, or number three apoplectic; but John was utterly incapable of any such IVachia- vellian proceeding. I think he sometimes beg;uiled bis weary walks between Oakley Street and Dru- ry Lane "by the dreamine of such childish day- dreams as I should be almost ashamed to set down upon this sober page. The three lives miglil all happen to be riding in the same express upon. the occasion of a terrible collision; but the poor fellow's gentle nature shrank appalled before the vision he had invoked. He could not sacrifice a whole trainful of victims even for little Mary. — He contented himself with borrowing a Times newspaper now and then, and looking at the lop of the second column, with the faint hope that he ihould see his own name in large capitals, couplet! with the announcement that by applying some- where he might hear of something to his advan- tare. He contented himself with this, and with talking about the future to little Mary in the dim Srelight. They spent long hours in the shadovify room, only lighted by the faint flicker of a pitiful hanilful of. coals; for the commonest dip-candles are sevenp«nce half-penny a pound, and were dearer, I dare say, in the year '38. Heaven knows what splendid castles in the air these two simple- hearted creatures built for each other's pleasure by that comfortless hearth. I believe that, though the. father made a pretense of talking of these things only for the amusement of his child, he was actually the more childish o*f the two. It was only when heleft that fire lit room, and went back into the hard, reasonable, commonplace world. that he remembered how foolish the talk was, and how it was impossible— yes, impossible — that he, the law-wrilerand supernumerary, could over come lo be master of Marchmont Towers. Poor little Mary was in this less practical than her father. She carried her day -dreams into the •treet, until all Lnmbcth was made glorious bj their supernal radiance. Her imagination ran riot in a vision of a happy future, in which her father would be rich ana powerfuL I am sorry to Mj tbftt Bh* d«med saostof bar ideas of gran- > dcdr from the New Cut. She furnished the draw- ; ing-room at Marchmont Towers from the splen- Mlid stores of an upholsterer in that thoroughfare. ' She 1-aid flaming Brussels carpels upon the pol- . ished oaken floors wt^ich her father had described • to her, and hung cheap satin damask of gorgeous '.colors before the great oriel windows. She put 'gilded vases of gaudy artificial flowers on the high carved mantle-pieces in the old rooms, and hung 'a disreputable gray parrot— for sale at a green 'grocer's, and given to the use of bad language— '' under the stone colonnade at the end of the west- •■ernwing. She appointed the tradespeople who < should serve the far-away Lincolnshire household; abe small matter of distance would, of course, J never stand in the way of her gratitude and _be- ', nevolence. Her papa would employ the civil .'green-grocer who gave such excellent half-pen- ;ny-worths of water-cresses; the kind butter-man :' who took such pains to wrap up a quarter of a $ pound of the best eighteen-penny fresh butter for >the customer whom he alw:>ys called 'little lady.' ■I the considerate butcher who never cut more than ahe three-quarters of a pound of rump-steak, .'which made an excellent dinner for Mr. March- (moirtandhis little girl. Yes. all these people > should be ne:\varded when the Lincolnshire pro- ( perty came to Mary's papa. Miss Marchmont had /some thoughts of building a shop close to March- i mont Towe/8 for the accommodating butcher, and J of adopting the green-grocer's eldest daughter for ^ her confidante and companion. Heaven knows ;how many times the little girl narrowly- escaped { being run over while walking tlie material streets j in some ecstatic reverie such as this! but Provi- ^d^'uce was very careful of the motherless girl; ', and she always returned to Oakley street with her 'pitiful little purchases of tea and*ugar, butter and meat. You will'say, perhaps, that at Jeolst these foolish day-dreams ■vv:ere childish; but I maintain still that Mary's soul had longagobade , adieu to infancy, and that even in these visions > she was womanly; for she was always thoughtful , of. others rather than of herself, and there was a / 2;reat deal more of the practical business of life '/ minaled with the silver web of fancies than there r.hould have been so soon after her eighth birth- i lay. At times, too, an awful horror would quick / ".n the pulses of her loving heart as she heard the '/ hacking sound of her father's cough; and a terri- ^ hie dread would seize her — the fear that John ( Marchmont might never live to inherit the Lin- '/ colnshire fortune. The child never said her pray- / ers without adding a little extempore supplication, I that she might die when her father died. It was / a wicked prayer, perhaps: ajid a clergyman might / have taught her that her life was in the hands of ^Providence; and that it might please Him who i had created her to doom her to many desolate i years of loneliness; and that it was not for her, ^ in her wretched and helpless ignorance, to rebel ;' against His divine will. I think if the Archbishop /of Canterbury had driven from Lambeth Palace / to Oakley Street to tell little Mary this, he would ' have taught hei- in vain; and that she would have ' fallen asleep that night with the old prayer upon, ? her lips, the fond foolish prayer that the bonda^ ' which love had woven so firmly might never b» I , roughly broken by death. Miss Marchmont heard the story of last night'i '. meeting with great pleasure, though it must be 5 owned she looked a little grave when she was told > that the generous-hearted school-boy was coming f to breakfast; but bar gravity was only tbat of • JOHN MARCHMOXT'S LEG AC V, 9 Ihoughtfiil housekeeper, who ponders waj's and ' 'We could have haddocks every day at March- means, and, even while you are telling herthejmont Towers, couldn't we, papa?' she said, number and quality of your guests, sketches out . naively. a rough ground-plan of her dishes, ponders the fish ,' But the little girl was more than delighted when in season, and the soups most fitting to precede ' Edward Arundel da>lied up the narrow staircase them,'t take another egg, will would have done to his Wife; and iMary doled him ;; you, Edward ?" if she wants mc to have one .' — out the little sums he wanted— money for half au ;; You should see our hunling breakfasts at Danger- ounce of tobacco, money for a pint of beer. — ^ held, Marchmoiit. Four sorts of ciarel, and no There v.'ere no penny papers in those days, or < end of McseHe and Champagne. You shall go what a treat an occasiou'jl Telegraph would have I to Dangerfield some day to see my mother, Miss been to poor John March mont! < Mary.' Mary had only one personal extravagance. — ;; He called her 'Miss Marj',' and seemed rather She read novels — dirty, bloated, ungainly volumes J^hy of speaking to her. Her womanliness im- — which she borrowed froni a snuffy old woman < pressed liini in spite of himself. He had a fancy in a little bick street, whd charged her the small- 1 that she was old enough to feel the humiliation est hire ever knovvn in the circulating-library ^ of her father's position, and to be sensitive upon business, and who admired her as a wonder ol ^ the matter of the two-pair back; and he was precocious erudition. The only pleasure the ;! sorry the moment after he had spoken of Danger- child knew in her father's absence was the pcru- < field. sal of these dingy pages; she neglected no duty, j 'What a snob I am I' he thought; 'always brag- she forgot no tender oflice of ministering care for < ging of home. ' the loved one v.'ho was absent; but when all the ■, But ,Mr. Arundel was not able to stop very long liitlc duties had been finished, how delicious it ■; in Oakley street, for the supernumerary had to, was to sit down to '.Madeleine the Deserted,' and I attend a rehearsal at tv.elve o'clock; so at half 'Cosmos the Pirate,* aud lo lose herself far away > past eleven .lohn Marchmont and his pupil went in illimitable regions, peopled by wandering prjn- ;l^out together, and liltU^ Mary was left alone to cesses in white satin, and gentlemanly bandits,^ clear away the breakfast, and perform the rest of who had been stolen from their royal fathers' halls / her household duties. by venfteful hordes of gipsies. In these early '/^ She had plenty of time before her, so she did years of poverty and lonelhiess John Marchmont's fnot begin at once, but sal upon a stool near the daughter stored up, in a mind that was morbidly ,' fender, gazing dreamily at the low fire, sensitive rather than strong, a terrible amount of ^' 'How good and kir.d he is!' she Iho.ight; 'just dim poetic sentiment; the possession of which is :'■ like Cosmos^ — only Cosmos was dark; or .like scarcely, perhaps, the best or safest dower for a ''/ Reginald Havenseroft — hut then he was dark toe*, young lady who has life'sjourney all before her. f 1 wonder w!iy the people, in novels are always At half past nine o'clock all the simple prepa- /dark .' How kind he is to papa! Shall we ever rations necessary for the reception of a visitor :• go to Dangerfield, I wonder, papa and me? Of had been completed by Mr. Marchmont .aini his ! course I woul/ln't go wiliiout papa.* (laughter. All vestiges of John's bed had disap- ' peared; leaving, it is true, rather a suspicious / ^, ^ looking mahogany chest of drawers to mark the ' spot where once a bed had been. The window had been opened, the room aired and dusted, a • bright little fire burned in the shining grate, and the most brilliant uf tin tea-kettles hissed upon ; the hob. The white tabl"-cloth was darned in ' While Mary sat absorbed in such idle visions several places; but it was a remnant of the smalK as these, Mr. Marchmontand his old pupil walked stock of linen with which John had begun mar- ;■ toward Waterloo Bridge logt;ther. ried life; and the Irish damask asserted its supe- 1 'I'll go as far as the theatre with you, March- fioT (piality, in spite of many darns, as positively , mont,' the-boy said; 'it's my'hoiidays now, you as Mr. Marchm-int's good blood asserted itself in ■ know, and I can do as [like. I'm going to a pri- spite of his shabby coat. A brown tea-pot full vate tutor in another month, and he's to prepare of strong tea, a plate of French rolls, a p^t of; me for the army. 1 want you lo tell me all about fresh butter, and a broiled haddock, do not com- ; ibat Lincolnshire propt^rlv, old boy. Is it any pose a very epicurean repast; but Slary March-' where near Swampineton?* mont looked at the humble breakfast asapro-^, 'Yes; within nine miies.' ■pectiTosucosM, 'Goodues* gracious mel Lord bI«M nytoul! CHAPTER HI. ABOUT THE LINCOLNSHIRE PROPEftTT. Iw JOHN MARCHMONT'S LEGACY what an/ extraerdinary coincidence ! My uncle < or, haying issue, failing to cut off the entail, I be- Hubert's Rector of Swampington — such a hole ! 1 ] lieve they call it.' go there sometimes to see him and my cousin' 'Arthur! that's the son of the present pos- Olivia. Isn't she a stunner, though ! Knows more lessor?' Greek and Latin than me, and more mathematics \ 'Yes. If I and my poor little girl, wko is del- than you. Could eat our heads off at any thing. ' j icate like her mother, should die before pither of John Marchmont did not sCem very much im-^ these three men, there is another who will stand pressed by the coincidence that appeared so extra- ( in my shoes, and who will look out perhaps more ordinary to Edward Arundel; but, in order to eagerly than I have done for his chances of getting oblige his friend, he explained very patiently and J the property.' lucidly how it was that only three lives stood be- ^ 'Another!' exclaimed- Mr. Arundel. 'By Jove, tween him and the possession of Marchmont ;* Marchmont, it's the most complicated affair I Towers, and all lands and tenements appertaining j ever heard of ! It's worse than those sums yoa thereto. ;!used to set me in barter>"If A sells B 999 Stilton •The estate's a very large one,' he said, finally; J cheeses at 9irf. a -pound," knd all that sort of •but the idea of my ever getting- it is, of course, < thing, you know. Do make me understand it, old too preposterous. ' ) fellow, if )*u can.' 'Good gracious me ! I don't see that at all,' ex- ^ John Marchmont sighed, claimed Edward, with extraordii^iry vivacity. — f, 'It's a wearisome story, Arundel,' he said. •! •Let me see, old fellow; if I understand your story ;; don't know why 1 sjiould bore you with-it.' right, this is how the case stands: your first cousin ^ 'But you don't bore me with it,' cried the boy, is the present possessor of Marchmont Towers; j energetically. 'I'm awfully interested Tn it, you he has a son, fifteen years of age, who may or ;; know; and 1 could walk up and down here all day may not marry; ouiy one son, remember. But he ;; talking about it.' has also aa uncle— a bachelor uncle — who, by the ;' The two gentlemen had passed the Surrey toll- terms of your grandfather's will, must get the ', gate of Waterloo Bridge by this time. The South- property before you can succeed to it. Now, this I western Terminus had not been built in the year uncle of tha present possessor is an old man; of;; '38, and the bridge was about the (juielest thor- course /je'n di« soon. The present possessor him- ^' oughfare any two companions confidentially, in- ielf ii a middle-a^ed man; so I shouldn't think ;;c]ined could have chosen. The share-holder* he can bfl likely to last long. I dare say he drinks ^ knew this, to their cost. too much port, or hunts, or something of that ^ Perhaps Mr. Marchmont might have been b»- sort; goes to «leep after dinner, and does all man-;; guiled into repeating the old story, which he had ner of apoplectic things, I'll be bound. Then ^told so often in the dim fire-light to his little girl, there's the son, only fifteen, and not yet mar- ;; but the great clock of St. Paul's boomed fgrth the riagoable; consumptive, I^dare say. Now, will ^twelve ponderous strokes that told the hour of you tell me the chances are not six to six he dies;; noon; and a hundred other steeples, upon either unmarried? So, you see, my dear old boy, you're;; side of the water, made themselves clamorous •uro to get the fortune; for there's nothing to keep;; with the same announcement. you out of it, except — ' _ ;; 'I must leave you, Arundel,' the supernumerary 'Exc»j»t t,hre« lives, the worst of whieh is bet-;; said, hurriedly: he had just remembered that it ter than mint. It't kind of you to look at it in this ;; -was time for him to go and be brow-beaten by a ianguine way, Arundel; but I wasn't born to be a ^truculent stage-manager. 'God bless you, my rich mvt. Perhaps, after all. Providence has ^, dear boy ! It was very good of you to want to see used me betttr than I think. I mightn't have been '^ me; and the sight of your fresh face has made me hapny at Marchmont Towers. I'm a shy, awk-^ very happy. I s/iouW like you to underttand all ward, humdrum fellow. If it wasn't for Mary '€■; about the Lincolnshire property. God knows take — ' ;; there's small chance of its ever coming to me or 'Ah, to b» sure!' cried Edward Arundel. 'You're;; to my child; but when I am dead and gone Mary not gsJhg to forget afl about — Miss Marchmont !' / will be left alone in the world, and it would be he was goin; to say 'little Mary,' but had checked ;; some comfort to me to know that she was not .himaalf abruptly at the sudden recollection of the ;; without one friend — generous and disinterested earnest haiel eyes that had kept wondering watch / like you, Arundel — who, if the chance did come, upon his rava^;es at the breakfast-table. 'I'm sure ^ would see her righted.' Mills Marchmont's born to be an heiress; I never ^ 'And so I would,' cried the boy, eagerly, iftw such a little princess.' / His face flushed, and his eyes fired. He was a •What!' demanded John Marchmont, sadly, 'in jpreux chevalier already, in thought, going forth a darn»d pinafore and a threadbare frock ?' j to do battle for a hazel-eyed mistress. The boy's face flushed, almost indignantly, as ^ 'I'll write the story, Arundel,' John-Marchmont his old master taid this. * «> said; 'I've no time to tell it, and you mightn't ■*You don't think me such a snob as to think I'd | remember it either. Once more, good-bye ! once admire a Lidy' — be spoke thus of Miss Mary | more, God bless you!' Marchmont, y«t midway between her eighth and 'Stop !' exclaimed Edward Arundel, flushing a ninth birthday — 'the less because she wasn't rich .') deeper red than before — he had a very boyish But of course your daughter will have the for- 1 habit of blushing — 'stop, dear old boy. You must tune by-and-by, even if— ' J borrow this of me, please. I've lots of .them. He stopped, ashamed of his want of tact; for I should only spend it on all sorts of bilious be knew John would divine the meaning of that things; or stop out late and get tipsy. You shall iudden pause. pay me with interest when you get Marchmont •Even if I should die before Philip Marchmont,' j Towers. I shall come and see you again soon, the teacher of mathematics.answfcred, quietly. — Good-bye.' •As far as that goes Mary's chance is as remote | The lad forced some crumpled scrap of paper as my own. The fortune can only come to her | into his old tutor's hand, bolted through the toll- npo» the •Tt»t of Arthur'! dyiig without issue, | bar, and jumped into a cabriolet, wuose high- JOHN MARCHMONT'S LEGACY. «1 stepping charger was dawdling along Lancaster | frank arid careless boj, to realiz* the ftelingt of Place, « - (a man who looks at his only child, and remem- The •upernuraerary hurried on to Drury Lane ' bers that she may soon be left helpless and da-' as fast as his weak legs could carry him. He was ; fenceless to fight the battle of life with a bad man. obliged to wait for a. pause in the rehearsal before ! Sometimes I pray to God that the Marchmont he could find an opportunity of looking at the ,' property may never come to my child after my parting gift which his old pupil had forced upon } dealh; fori can not rid myself of the thought — him. It was a crumpled and rather dirty fire- J may Heaven forgive me for its unworthiness ! — pound note, wrapped round two half crowns, a | that Paul Marchmont would leave no meanj un- shilling, and half a sovereign. j tried, however foul, to wrest the fortune from hor. The boy had given his friend the last i^mnant ) I dare say worldly people would laugh at mo for of his slender stock of pocket-money. JohnMarch-J writing this letter to you, my dear Arundel; but I mont turned his face to the dark wing that she!- address myself to the best friend I have— tho only tered him and wept silently. He was of a gentle ' creature 1 know whom the influence of a bad man and rather womanly disposition, be it remera-! is never likely to corrupt. JVb6Z«sje oblige! lam bered; and he was in that weak state of health in > not' afraid th^at Ed^-ard Dangcrfield Arundel will which a man's eyes are apt to moisten, in spite of '■ betray any trust, however foolish', that may hava himself, under the influence of any unwonted ■ been confided to him. emotion. 'Perhaps* in writing to you thus, I may feel He employed a part of that afternoon in wri- > something of that blind hopefulness — amidst tho ting the letter which he had promised to send to l^hipwreck of all that commonly gives birth to ' his boy i»h friend. i hope — which the mariner, cast away upon soma ' desert island, feels when he seals his simple story *Mt Dear Arundki., — My purpose in writing 5 in a bottle, and launches it upon the waste of to you to-day is so entirely connected with the ! waters that close him in on every side. Befor* future welfare of my beloved and only child, that ; tny little girl is four years older you will be a man, I shall carefully abstain from any subject not con-! Afundel; with a man's intellect, a man's courage, nectcd with her interests. I say nothing, there- 1 and, above all, a man's keen sense of honor. So fore, respecting your conduct of this morning, ! long as my darling remains poor, her humble which, together with my previous knowledge of | friends will be strong enough to protect her; but your character, has decided me upon confiding to ; if ever Providence should think fit to place her ia you the doubts and' fears which have long tor- J a position of antagonism to Paul Marchmont — mented m« upon the subject of my darling's fu- 1 for he would look upon any one as an enemy who ture. (stood between him and fortune — she would need 'I am a doomed man, Arundel. The doctors s a far more powerful protector than any she could have told me this; but they have told me also that, \ find among her poor mother's relatives. Will yea though I can never escape the sentence of death ! be that protector, Edward Arundel.' I ara a which was passed upon me long ago, I may live I drowning man, you sec, and catch at the frailr t for some years if I live the careful life which only ^ straw that floats past me. I believe in you, Ed- a rich man can lead. If I go on carrying ban-j ward, as much as 1 distrust Paul Marchmont. If ners and breathing sulphur, 1 cannot last long. — the day ever comes in which my little girl should My little girl will be left penniless, but not quite I have to struggle with this man, will you help kCf friendless; for there are humble people, relatives > to fight the battle .'' It will not be an easy ono. of her poor mother, who would help her, kindly I j 'Subjoined to this letter 1 send you an extract am sure, in their own humble way. The trials j from the copy of my grandfather's will, which which I fear for my orphan girl are not so much { will explain to you how he left his property-. Do the trials of poverty as the dangers of wealth. — / not lose either the letter or the extract. If you If the three men who, on rny death, would alone / are willing to undertake the trust which I conlfdo stand between Mary and the Lincolnshire proper- ; to you to-day, you may hare need to refer to them ty, die childless, my poor darling will become the | after ray death. The legacy of a child's help- only obstacle in the pathway of a man whom, I , lessjiess is the only bequest which I can leave to the will freely own to you, I distrust. J only friend I have. John Marchmont. '27 Oaklet St., Lambeth, Dec. 3U, JS38. 'My father, John Marchmont, was the third of> four brothers. The eldest, Philip, died, leaving) one ion, also called Philip, and the present pos- i sessor of Marchmont Towars. The second. Mar-! ,, , ... maduke, is still alive, a bachelor. Th(i i^^'^rdJ JZJ'll^\''Lf^^,^rf}^^^^^^^ ^K"'J" , , , k J. L-.i /■ I T 1 •( mont lowers and .ippurtenanrcs tiicreto belonpne to tbc John; left four children, of whom I alone survive. , use of my eldest son Philip Marchmont during his nCur' I'^Ka Tz-vtiffli Paul lAff n a<-«it nnA 4 r*r ^ ^1 m i o-k * n via ■ 1 : «*<> wWK/^..** tm*.^.! # in common in tall with cross i ', amongst them in t«il nnd if all i]\' parish surgeon, who.practices at Stanfield, in Lin- ' of my said grandson Philip to the n folnnhire; the other is an old maid, and entirely i other son of my said grandson sc dependent upon her brother. ; 'It is this man, Paul Marchmont, the artist, ; whom I fear. | •Do not think me weak, or foolishly iu"ipicious,; Arundel, when 1 tell you that the very thouRht of < f;'''"'*^';'", '''"">' "'=•1'' ""• ?''«", .. • _ u • .1. ij . _i /■ u J ' there shall he hut one such jf ..0^ Jq^ j think I could manace son Marmaduke as tenants iii common in tail with cross ; . . hannv new vear to Miss Marv " remainders between or amongst them in tail and if all the ( "• A "appy new year lo lujss iuary . da^jRlifcs of my said son Marmaduke except one shall die ; -Tithout issue oi- if there shall hn but one sucli daughter J Jt was thus that Mr. Edward Arundel accepted then to the use of such one or only daughter in tail andin / ^^j^ solemn trust which his friend confided to him defnult of such issue ihen to the use of my third son .lohn ) . ,, ,. ., j „„„j /• -jl m m i during the term of 'i.is natural life without impeachmeut m all sMiiplicity and good laith. Mary March- of wasie and from and after his decease then to the useof .lier the deceise of my said g'undson John to < ',' .1 • ;V' j „ t 1 ^ u- ^l the use of the first and every other son of my said grand- < father; nothiiij^ seemed more natural to him than son John severally and euccessively according totheirre- ; to intrust the doubtlul future of his only child to tpective seniority in tail ami f.>r dt^auit of such issufe to ■' jhe bright-faccd, handsome boy, whose early boy- theuse of all and evel-y the daughters and daughter of my ) ^j,^ been luiblemished by a mean sentiment said grandson Jolin as tenants m common in tad with J "'-"^" '. , ,, ,.r t i i\i i ^ u i cross remainders-between or amongtlicmin tail and if all or a dishonorable acti6n. John Marchmont had the daughters of my said grandson John exjbpt one shall f spent three years in the Berkshire Academy, at die wixhout issue or if there shfill be bur. one such daugh-(^hich Edward and his cousin, Martin Mostyn, ter' [This, you will see, is my Uttle iMaryl 'then to the use. , , . prlnntpd- and vounfr Arundpl who wt« of suchoneor only daughter in tail and in default of such ; had been eaucaieci, ana young niunaei, wno was Issue then to the use of ;he eecoud and every other son of far behind his kinsman in ihe comprehension of a my said third son John sVveraily and successiviii/ accord- ' problem in algebra, had been wise enough to rec- ing to his respective.' seniority in tailantiin default of such < o„nize that which Martin Moslyn could not under- Issueto the use of .all and every the ilaughterj and daugh- ; ^P^„^ „ o-p,illprmn*in i sh-ihbv rmt ft wa« thii« ter of my said third son John-as tenants in common in tail i ^^^"'^—^. S^'?V®"^" ,^" a .snaony coat. It was thus witli cross remainders heiween or amongst them in tail that a fritmdship had arisen between the teaclu i- ^nd indii'aul: of such, issue to the use of mv fourth sifu 'of mathematics and his handsojne pupil; and it Paufcdujing the term of l;is natural life without impeach- j/^^^ thus that an unreasoning belief in Edward ment of waste and from and after his decease then to the / » ' S ■ , 1 ,.^^„„„ „,. ;„ 1^1?,, 'c. o;.„„i • 1 use of my grandson Paul the son of niy said son Paul dur- A^'^r^del bad sprung up in .iohn S Simple mind. ichmeiit of wiu^te and/ 'If my little girl were certain of inheriting the " find and ancc I cannot forget how the ing his iiatuial life without impeachmei a daugiiter of my said grandson is such a remote one. every the daughters Paul as tenants in coir.raoi: in tail with cross remainders jews laughed at mc two years aeo, when I tried between or amon*rn- them in tail and if all the daughters ' ,„ borrow moncv unon niv'reversionarv interest of my said grandson Paul except one shah rtie without, issue ,° Durrow moiRj upon my ie> eistoriary iniercsi. or if taei-e shall be but one such daughter then to the use 1 No, I must trust this brave-hearted boy, lor I have of such one oc only daughter in tail and in default of such ^ no one else to confide in ; and who else is there issue then to *e use of the second and every other son of 'who would not ridieuie my fear of my cousin my said fourtj son Paul severally and successively accord- ' pi -,> ing to hi? respective seniority in tail and in default of such ', ^,," , ,» ht 1 .. 1 i . , issue totlK use of all and every the daughters and dau-ii- .' Indeed Mr. Marchniont had some reason to be ter of my said fourth sou Paul as tenants in common in t'^aii 'considerably ashamed ol" his antipathy to the with C10S6 remainder.? between or amongst ihem in tail,' > young artist, working for his bread, and for the *"'''•' ^''^" j bread of his invalid mother and unmarried sister, 'P. S. Then' cones v/hat the lawyers call a > in that bitter winter of ';i8; working patiently and general devise — to trustees to preserve the con- ' hopefully, in spite of ail discouragement, and cori- tingent remainders before devised from beingde- tent to live a joyless and monotonous life in a stroj'sd; but v/hat that means perhaps vou can dingy loflging near Fitzroy Square. 1 can find no gel somebody to tell me. 1 hope it maybe some 'excuse for John Marchmont's prejudice against legal jargon to preserve my i-cj-i/, contingent re- .'an industrious and indefatigable young man, who mainder, as it appears to mc' • was the sole support of two helpless women. — Heaven knoAvs, if to be adored by two women is The tone of Edward Arundel's answer to this any evidence of a man's virtue, Paul must have letter was more characteri.stic of the writer than .been the best of men; for Stephanit; Marchmont in harmony witii poor John's solemn ai)peal. ^and her daughter Clarisse regarded the artist with ,..,. , r 1-1 11 Tt 1 »a reverential idolatry that was notwithout atinge 'You dear, fooash o d Marchmont,' the lad Lf romance. I cdn assign no reason, then, for wrote; 'of course 1 shall lake care of Miss Mary; bohn's ^y^^^-^^ ^f his cousin. They had been aQdraymothershalladopthei-, and sue shall live school-fellows at a wretched suburban school, at Daugerfield, anu tie educuted with my sister i where the children of poor people were boarded, Letitu,who has Ine jolhesL trench governess, lodged, and educated all the year round for a piti- and a Germati maid lor conversation; and don't If ul Stipend of something under twenty pounds.— let Paul Marchmont try ori any oi his games with ? One of the special points of the prospectus was xne, thats ali. i.ut what do you mean, you Uhe announcement that there were no holidays; ridiculous old boy, oy talking about dying, and for the jovial Christmas gatherings of merry faces drowning, and shipwrecked mariners, and catch- which are so delightful to the wealthy citizens of tng at straws, and all that sort of humbug, when Bloomsbury or Tybu-rnia, take another com- you know very well that you 11 live to inherit the plexion in 'poverty-stricken households, whose iiincolnshire property, and that Im coming to Ucantily-stocked larders can ill support the raids you every year to shoot, and that yo^i 're going to i of raw-boned lads clamorous for provender. The build a tennis-court— ol course there is a billiard- two boys had met at a school of this calibre, and room— and that you re gomg to have a stud of had never met since. They may not have been hunters, and be master of the hounds/and tio end I the best friends, perhaps, at the clasgical academy; jOHi\ marchmo;nt's legacy. 13 but their quarrels were by no means desperate. I son, as copying and outdoor clerk, at a salary of They may have rather freely discussed their sev- ( thirty shillings a week. eral chances of the Lincolnshire property; but I ; So little Mary entered now upon a golden age, have no romantic story to tell of a stirring scene ; in which her evenings were no longer desolate and in the humble school-room, no exciting record of '. lonely, but spent pleasantly with her father in the deadly insult and deep vows of vengeance. No J study of such learning as was suited to her years, inkstand was ever flung by one boy inlo the face or perhaps rather to her capacity, which was far of the other; no savage blow from a horsewhip beyond her years; and on certain delicious nights, ever cut a fatal scar across the brow of either of to be remembered ever afterward, John March- the cousins. .Tohn Marehniont would have been mont took his little girl to the gallery of one or almost as puzzled to account for his objection to , other of the transpontine thealre«: and I am sorry his kinsman as was the nameless gentleman who to say that my heroine — for sl'ie is to be my hero- so naively confessed his dislike of Dr. Fell. Ifearine^ by-and-by — sucked oranges, ate Abernethy that a great many of our likings and dislikings ; biscuits, and cooled her delicate nose against the are too apt to be upon fclR- Dr. Fell principle. — iron railing of the gallery, after the manner of the Mr. Wilkie CoUins's Basil could not tell icliy he ; masses when they enjoy the British Drama, fell madly in love with ttic lady whom it was his But all this time .lohn Marchmont was utterly evil fortune to meet in an omnibus; nor why he ignorant of one rather important fact in the his-» entertained an uncomfortable feeling about the tory of those three lives whic^h he was apt to gentleman who was to be her destroyer. David 'speak of as standing between him and Marchmont Coppertield disliked Uriah Ileep even before he Towers. Young Arthur Marchmont, the imme- had any substantial reason for objecting to the jdiatc heir of the estate, had been shot to death evil genius of Agnes Wickfield's father. The j upon the 1st of September, 1838, without blame boy disliked the snake-like schemer of Canterbury •] to any one or any thing but his own boyish care- because his eyes were round and md, and his lessncss, which had induced him to' scramble hands clammy and unpleasant to the touch. Per- through a hedge with a superb fowling-piece, the haps John Marchmont's reasons for his aversion costly present of a doting father, loaded ar^d on to his cousin were about as substantial as these of ^ full-cock. This melancholy event, which had Master Copperfield's. It may be that the school- < been briefly recorded in all the newspapers, had l»oy disliked his comrade because Paul March- never reached the knowledge of poor .tohn March- mont's handsome gray eyes were a little too near ' mont, who had no friends to busy themselves together; because his thin and delicately-chiseled '. about his interests, or to rush eagerly to carry him .lips were a thought loo tightly compressed; be- ;* any intelligence afl'ecting his prosperity. Nor had cause his cheeks would fade to an awful corpse- i he read the obituary notice respecting Aftrma- like whiteness under circumstances which would duke Marchmont, the bachelor, who had breathed have brought thc'rushing»life-blood, hot and red, , his last stertorous breath in a lit of apoplexy ex- into another boy's face; because he was silent and actly one twelvemonth before the day upon which suppressed when it would have been more natural Edward Arundel had breakfasted in Oaklev to be loud and clamorous; because he could smile Street, under provpcations that would have made another ^ frown; because, in short, there was that about ' . • him which, let^t tie found where it will, always ^ *^* gives birth to suspicion — mtstery. So the cousins had parted, neither friends nor '• foes, to tread most praiseworthy discretion, and did not lorget an Afghan resegade's sabre, because the young) lo remind the young liaveler liiatshe expeclrd to Shah of Persia had been contumacious .' ) rpeeive a mu?lin frock embroidered with beetle- Mary Marchmont wept silently that day over a ;! wings by an early mail. And as Algernon Fair- three-volume rovel,>whileher father was away > Hix Dangerfield Arundel, the heir, was away at 8e> ving writs upon wretched insolvents, in his ca- / college, there was no one else to mourn. So Ed- pacity of outdoor clerk to Messrs. Paulette, Pau-') ward left the house of liis forefathers by a branch lette, and Mathewson. < coach, which started from the 'Arundel Arms in The young ladv no longer spent her quiet day,s ■ time to meet the 'Telegraph' at Exeter; and nu in the two-pair bark. Mr. Marchmont and his noisy lamentations shook the sky above Uangcr- daiigbter had remained fathfnl to OaU ley Strtet, ;• field Park, no mourning voices eclioid through and the proiirictress of the ladies' wardrobe, who the spacious rooms. The oW servants Avera was a good, motherly creatuio; but they had de-;' sorry to lose the ymingcr-born, whose easy, ge- Bcended to the grandeur of the first floor, whose nial temperament had made him an especial la- gorgeous decorations Mary had glanced at fur-' vo-ite; but there was a certain adiiiixtuie of jo- lively in the days gone by, when the splendid :• viality with liuir sorrow, as there generally is chambers were Occupied by'aa elderly and repro-,' with all niournii.g in the baseuictil; and the strong bate commission agent, who seemed ikleriy indif-'ale, the famous Dangcrfield October, went lasttr fcrent to the delights of a convex mirror, sup- ,■ upon that 3Ist of January than upon any day ported by a gilded but crippled eagle, whose dig- 'since Christmas. • uity was somewhat impaired l)y the loss of^^ ■ I doubt if any one at Dangerfield Patk sor- wing; but which bijou appeared to Mary to be alrowed as bitterl} for the departure of the boyish fitting adornment for the joung Queen's pciiacf in soldier as a romantic young lady cf nine yeais St. James's Park. • -old, in Oakky >treei, Lambeth, vshose onestnti- But neither the eagle nor the third volun* of ajmenta! day-dream, half childish, half womanly-, thrilling romance could comfort Mary upon ihisi owned Edward Arundel as its centre figure, bleak January day. She shut her book, and stood So tile curiam (i^ls on the picture of a brave by the window, looking out into the dreary street, ! sbip sailing eastward, her white canva.s strained .that seemed so blotted and dim under the falling j against the cold gray February sky, and a little 9U0W. » \ girl weeping over the tattered pages ol a stupid 'It snowed in the Puss of Bolan,' she thought;- novel in a shabby London lodging, 'and the treacherous Indians harassed the brave : ioldiers, and killed their camels. What will be- ^j^ come of him in that drcad/ul country.' Shall " .*** wc ever see him again.'' * Yes, Mary, to your sorrow. Indian cimeters , will let him go scathless, famine and fever will •. pass him by; but the hand which points to tliut ■; far-away day on which you and he arc to meet , will never fail or falter in it«"|purpose |unlil that ;'. Therk is a lapse of three years and a half be- day comeg. ! tween the acts; and the curtain rises to reveal a ! widely-ditTcr»-nl picture: the picture of a noble We hare no need to dwell upon the prepara- mansion in the tlat Lincolnshire country ; a Stately tions which were made for the young soldier s de- / pile of building, standing proudly forth ag«inst uarture from home, nor on the tender farewells ) a back-ground of black woodland; a noble build- between the mother and son. / '"g» supported *upon either side by an odagon Mr. Arundel was a country gentleman ;)ur e/ j tow-er, whose solid masonry is half hidden by simple; a hearty, broad-shouldered squire, who ;; the ivy which clings about the stone-work, trail- had no thought above his farm and his dog-keimel, . ing here and there, and flapping restlessly with Br the hunting of the red*iecr, with which hi.'^ ; every breath of wind against the narrow case- neighborhood abounded. He sent his younger son ) nients. to India as coolly as he had senf the elder lo Ox-; A broad stone terrace stretches the entire length ford. The hoy had little lo inherit, and must be ; of the grim fu(;^ade, from tower to tower, and jtrovided for in a gentlemanly manner. Other three flinhls of steps lead from the terrace to the younger sous of the house of Arundel had fought ; broad lawn, whi/h loses itself in a vasl grassy and conquered in the Honorable East India Com- ^ flat, only broken by a few clumps of trees and a pany's service; and was Kdirard" any better than ;, dispial pool of black water, but called by cour- them, that there should be sentimental whining^ lesy ;« park. Giim stone pri(fin-i surmount the because the lad was going away to fight his wav^ terrace slcps, and griffins' heaiN and oilier ar- to fortune, if he could.' He even went fnrthar < chileclural nionstrosiiies, worn and mo-'-'-grown, than this, and declared that Master Edward was ) keep watch and ward over every door and win- a lucky dog to be going out at such a time, whfn J (low, every archway and abulinent, frownmg there was plenty of fightiug, and a very fair ; threat and defiance upon the daring visitor who ehance of speedy promotion for a good soldier. • approaches the great lious^by this, the formidable He gave.thc young cadet his blessing, reminded \ chief entrnnco. him of the limit of such supplies as he was to ex- 1 The mansion looks westward; but there ii pect froDD home, bade bim keep clear of the ^ another approach, a low ai;phwa7 0D the loutlierD CHAPTER V. M.\RCH.MON'T TOWEBB. 16 lOHxN MARCHMONT'3 LEGACY. side, which Jfiads into a quadrangle, where there '- is a quaint little door under a stone portico, ivy- covert-d like the rest — a comfortable little door of massive bat, studded with knobs of rusty iron — a door generally affected bj visitors familiar with the house. This is Marchmont Towers — a grand and stately mansion, which had been a monastery in the days when England and the Pope were friends and al- lies; and which had been bestowed upon Hugh I Marchiiiont, gentleman, by his Sovereign Lord \ and most Christian Majesty the King, Henry VIH, of blessed memory, and by that gentleman com- \ moner extended and improved at considerable outlay. This is Marchmont Towers — a splendid , and a princely habitation, truly; but perhaps scarcely the kind of dwelling one would choose, ; out of every other resting-place upon earth, for ; the holy resting-place we call home. The great \ mansion is a little too dismal in its lonely gran- ; deur; it lacks shelter when the dreary winds come swf eping across the grassy flats in the bleak winter ' weather; it lacks shade when thS western sun ; blazes on every window-pane in the stifling sum- mer evening. It is at all times rather too stony '• in its aspect, and is apt to remind one, almost ; painfully, of every* v/eird and sorrowful story ! treasured in the storehouse of memory. Ancient } tales of enchantment, (lark German legends, wild J Scottish fancies, grim fragments of half-forgotten j demonology, strange stones of murder, violence, ; mystery, and wrong, vaguely intermingle in the , stranger's mind, as he looks, for the first^time; at , Marchmont Towers. ^ ; But of course these feelings wear off in time, i So invincible is the power of custom, that we | misht make ourselves comfortable in the Cas.lle • of Otrarito after a reasonable sojourn within its ; mysterious walls. Familiarity would breed con- 1 tempt for the giant helmet, and all the other grim apparitions of the haunted .dwelling. The com- j monplace and ignoble*wants of everyday life! must surely bring disenchantment with them.t The ghost and the butcher's boy cannot well exist J contemporaneously; and the avenging shade can ; scarcely continue tolurk beneath the portal which ; is visited by the matutinal milkman. Indeed, • this is doubtless the reason, that the most restless ^ and impatient spirit, bent on early vengeance and immediate retribution, will yet wait until the ; sha#es of night have fallen before he reveals , himself, rather than run the risk of an ignomin- ! ious encounter with the postman or the parlor-: maid. Be it how it might, the phantoms of? Marchmont Towers were not intrusive. They may have perambulated the long tapestried cor- '\ ridors, the tenantless chambers, the broad black staircase of .shining oak; all the dead and gone bieauties, and soldiers, and lawyers, and parsons, and simple country sipiires of the Marchmont ' race,, may have descended from their picture- frames* to hold a witches' sabbath in the old house;' hut as the Lincolnshire servants were hearty eaters and hcMvy sleepers, the ghosts had it allto themselves. I believe there was one dismal story attached to the house — the story of a Marchmontiif the time of Charles 1., who had murdered his coachman in a fit of insensate rage: and it was even asserted, upon the au- thority of an old housekeeper, that John AFarch- niout's grandmother, when a young woman and lately come as a bride to the Towers, had be- held the murdered coachmaa stalk into her chamber, ghastly and blood-bedabbled, io the dim summer twilight. But as this story was not par- ticularly romantic, and possessed none of the elements likely t9 insure popularity, such as love, jealousy, revenge, mystery, youth, and beauty, it had never been very widely disseminated. I should think that the new owner of March- mont Towers — new within the last six months — was about the last person jn Christendom to be hypercritical, or to raise fanciful objections to his dwelling; for inasmuch as he had come straight from a wretched transpontine lodging to . this splendid Lincolnshire mansion, and had at the same time exchanged a stipend of thirty shil- lings a week for an income of eleven thousand a year, derivable from lands that spread far away over fenny flats and low-lying farms, to the soli- tary sea-shore, he had ample reason to be grate- ful to Providence, and well pleased with his new abode. Yes; Philip Marchmont, the childless widower, had died six months before, at the close of the year '4.3, of a broken heart, his old servants said — broken by the loss of his mily and idolized son; after which loss he had never been known to smile. He was one of those undemonstrative men, who can take a great sorrow quietly, and only — die of it. Philip Marchmont lay in a vel- vet-covered cofl'm, above his son's, in a stone re- cess set apart for them in the Marchmont vault beneath Ivemberling Church, three miles from the Towers; and Jolm reigned in his stead. John iWarthmont, the supernumerary, the patient, con- scientious copying and outdoor clerk of Lincoln's Inn, was now sole owner of the Lincolnshire es- tate, Side master of a household of well-trained old servants, sole proprietor of a very decent country gentleman's stud, and cff chariots, ba- rouches, chaises, phaetons, and other vehicles — a little old-fashioned and out of date, it may be, but very comfortable to a man for whom an om- nibus ride had long«been a treat and a I'arity. — Nothing had been touched or disturbed since Philip Marchmont 's death. The rooms he had used were still the occupied apartments ; the CTiambers he had chosen to shut up were still kept with lockfed doors; the servants who had served him waited upon his successor, whom they de- clared to be a quiet, easy gentleman, far too wise tointerfere with old servants, every one of whom knew the ways of the house a great deal better than he did, though he was the master of it., , There was therefore no shadow of change in th,e stately mansion. The dinner-bell still rang at the same hour; the same trades-people left the same species of wares at the low oaken door; the old housekeeper, angSnging her simple menu. planned her narrow round of soups and roasts, sweets and made dishes, exactly as she had been wont to do, and had no new tastes to consult. A gray-haired bachelor, who had been own man j^o Philip, was now own man to Jolin. The carriage which had conveyed the late lord every Sunday to morning and.afternoon service at Kemberling conveyed the new lord, who sat in the same seat that his predecessor had occupied in the great family-pew, and read his prayers out of the same book— a noble, crimson morocco-covered volume, in which George, our most gracious King and Governor, and all manner of dead and gone prhi- ces and princesses were prayed for. The presence of Mary Marchmont made the only ^change in the old house; and even that change was a very trifling one. Mary and her father were as closely united at Marchmont Tow- JOHN MARCHMONT'S LEGACY. 17 ers as they had been In Oakley Street. Tlie little girl cl^ng to her father as tenderly as ever — more tenderly than ever, perhaps; for she kncvr some- thing of that jyhich the physicians had said, and she knew thawohn Marchmont.'s lease of life was not a long one. Perhaps it would be better to say that he had no lease at all. His soul was a tenant on sufferance in its frail earthly habitation, receiving a respite now and again, when the flicker of the lamp was very low, every chance breath of wind threatening to extinguish it for- ever. It was only those who knew .lolin March- niont very intimately who were fully acquainted with the extent of his danger. He no longer bore any of those fatal outward signs of consumption, which fatigue and deprivation had once made painfully conspicuous. The hectic flush and the unnatural brightness of the eyes had subsided: indeed, John seemed much stronger and beartiei than of old; and it is only great medical prac- titioners who can tell to a nicety what is gohig on inside, a man, when he presents a very fair ex- terior to the unprofessional eye. But John was decidedly better than he had been. He might live three years, five, seven, possibly even ten years; but he must live the life of a man who holds him- self perpetually upon his defence against death; and he must recognize in every bleak current of wind, in every chilling damp, or perilous heat, or over-exertion, or ill-chosen morsel of food, or hasty emotion, or sudden passion, an iusidrous at- tack upon the part of his dismal enemy. Mary Marchmont knew all this<— or divined it, perhaps, rather than knew it, with the child-wo- man's subtle power of divination, which is even stronger than the actual woman's; for her father had done his best tokcep all sorr.owful knowledge from her. She knew that he was in danger; and she loved him all the more dearly as the one pre- cious thing which was in constant peril of being snatched away. The child's love for her fathei has not grown any less morbid in its intensity since Edward Arundel's departure for India; nor has Mary become more childlike since her coming to Marchmont Towers, and her abandonment of all those sordid cares, those pitiful every day duties, which had made her Momanly. N It may be that the last lingering glamour of childhood had forever faded away with the reali- zatign "of the day-dream which she had carried about with her so often in the dingy transpontine thoroughfares around Oakley Street. Marchmont Towers, that fairy palace, whose lighted windows had shone upon her far away across a cruel forest of poverty and trouble, like the enchanted castle > which appears to the lost wAtiderer of the child's story, was now the home of the father she loved., The grim encliantcr, Death, the only magician of our modern histories, had waved his skeleton hand, more powerful than the star-gemmed wand of any fairy eodinolhcr, and the obstacles which had stood betwcin John MMtthmont and his in- heritance had one by one beln swept awaj'. But was Marchmimt Towers ([uite as beautiful as that fairy palace of Mary's day-dream ? >fo, not quite; not quite. The rooms were handsome — handsomer and larger, even, than the room^ ^he had dreamed of; but perhaps none the better for that. They were grand and gloomy and magnifi- cent; but tlic.y were, not the sunlit chambers w/)ich her fancy had built up, and decorated with .^uch «hred9 and pafchesof splendor as her narrow experience enabled her to devise. I'erhaps it was rather a disappointmeot to Miss Marchmont 3 to discover that the mansioQ was completely fur- nished, and that there was no room for any of those splendors which she had so often contem- plated in the New Cut. The parrot at the green- grocer's was a vulgar bird, and not by any means admirable in Lincolnshire. The carrying away and providing for her favorite tradespeople was not practicable; and John Marchmont had de- murred to her proposal of adoptiag the butcher's daughter. There is always something to be given up even when our brightest visions are realized; there is always some one figure, a low one, perhaps, missing in the fullest sum of earthly happiness. I dare say, if AInaschar had married the Vizier's daughter, he would have found her a shrew, and would have looked back yearningly to the humble days in which he had been an itinerant vendor of crockery-ware. If, therefore, Mary Marchmont found her sun- lit fancies not quite realized by the great stony mansion that frowned .u^on the fenny country- side, the wide grassy plat, the black pool, with its dismal shelter of weird pollard-willows, whose ugly shadows, distorted on the ibsoni of the quiet water, looked like the shadows of hump-backed^ men — if these things did not compose as beautiful a picture as that which the little girl had carried so long in her mind, she had no more reason to be sorry than the rest of us, and had been no more foolish than other dreamers. Well, the dream was over, and she v.as quite a woman now; a woman, very grateful to Providence when she re- membered tiiat her father had no longer need to toil for his daily bread, and that he was luxuri- ously lodged, and could have the first physicians in the land at his beck and call. 'Oh, papa, it is so" nice to be rich !' the young , lady would exclaim now and then, in a flectinj transport of enthusiasm. 'How good we ought to be to the poor people, when we remember how poor we once were !' * And the little girl did not forget to be good to the poor about Kembcrling and Marchmont Tow- ers. There were plenty of poor, of course; free and eas- pensionefs, who came to the Towers for brandy, and wine, and milk, and woolen stuff's, and grocery, precisely as they would have gone to • a shop, except that there was to be no bill. The housekeeper doled out her bounties with many .*hort homilies upon the depravity and ingratitude of the recipients, and gave tracts of an awful and denunciatory nature lo the pitiful petitioners. — Tracts interrogatory, and tracts fiercely impera- tive; tracts that asked. Where arc yott going J Why arc you wicked 9 Will i/ok repent ? Ifliat uill become nf you ! and other tracts, which cried. Stop, and Ihink ! Pause, u-hilc there islivt^c ! Sinner, consider .' Eril-doer, beware ! Perhaps id comforting words, which were Kpoken upon a mountain near at hand to Jerusa- lem, and spoken to an auditory among which there must have been many sinful creatures; but there is more of blessing than cursing in that sub- lime discourse, and it might be rather a "nder father pleading gently with his wayward children than an ollended Deity dealing out denunciation upon a stubborn and refractory race. But the authors of the tracts may have never read thig sermon, perhaps, and they may take their ideal 18 JOHN MARCHMONT'S LEGACY. • of composition from that comforting service which I implored her father to write to Edward Amndcl, we read on Ash Wednesday, cowering in fear, | recalling him to England. and trembling in our pews, and calling downj; 'God knows how glad I should be to have the curses upon ourselves and our neighbors. Beit as iljboy here, Polly,' John said, as he drew his little might, the tracts were not popular among the pen- ■' girl closer to his breast^she sat on his knee still, sioners of Marchmont Towers. They infinitely ^ though she was thirteen years of age— 'but Ed- preferred to hear Mary read a chapter in the New 'f ward has a career before him, my dear, and could Testament, or some pretty patriarchal story of i' not give it up for an inglorious life in this ram- primitive obedience and faith. The little girl i bling old house. It isn't as if I could hold out any would discourse upon the Scripture histories in < inducement to him, you know, Polly. I can't; her simple, old-fashioned manner; and many a < for 1 mustn't leave any money away from my stout Lincolnshire farm laborer was content to sit 1; little girl.' over his hearth, with a pipe of shag-tobacco and / t^ut he might have half my money, papa, or a mug of fettled beer, while Miss Marchmont > all of it,' Mary added, piteously. 'What could read and expounded the history of Abraham and ^ j do with monei)- if ' Isaac, or Joseph and his brethren. / g,^^ ^.^^,^ ^^^i^^ ^^^ sentence; she never could 'It's joost loike a story-book to hear her,' the complete any such sentence as this; but her father man would say to his wife; 'and yet she brings it;; knew what she meant. all hoanae too, loike If she reads about Abra- f, g^ ^j^ ^^^^,^3 ^^^ ^^^^^ ^.^^^ ^ ^^^^^ j^^_ ■ ham, she'll say, maybe. "That s joost how you ^ ^^,^^.^^^ 5^1^^ Marchmont had read f.^TfJ„^^,L°i^.'Z.f°".J:„'?f..f.„^°lfe^^ Tinges that ho could of somethmg greatly to his advantage by ing to a certain solicitor, whose ofiices were loor but one to those of Messrs. Paulette, „,. ., u » 1 )ii ui v,^- ifti„ K„„.,t I o^ ^ Paulette, and Mathewson's. His heart began to Iha 's wha she'll say, bless her little heart ! so ^^^^ ^^^.^ violently when he'read that advertise-' gen le and tender lo.ke. The worst o chaps ^^^^^ .^\^^ supplement which it was one of his couldn t but hsten to her. , ^^^j^g ^^ ^i^ before the fire in the clerks' office; Mary Marchmont's morbidly sensitive nature ;; but he .showed no other sign of emotion. He adapted her to all charitable offices. No chance ;; waited until he took the papers to his employer; word.in her simple talk ever inflicted a wound ;; and as he laid them at Mr. Mathewson's elbow, upon the listener. She had a subtle and intuitivev murmured a res'pectful request to be allowed to comprehension of other people's feelings, derived ;; go out for half an hour upon his own business, from the exti;cme susceptibility of her own. She^. .^^^^ gracious me, Marchmont!' crifed the had never been vulgarized by the association? of j j ^j^^t ^^„ ^^^^ ^^ ^^^ ^^^ ^^ ^^.^ poverty; for her self-contained nature took rio.^^^^.^^^^^^^^^^. i You've only just come;" and color from the things that surrounded her, and she j,^^^^,^ ^^^^ agreement between Higgs and Sandy- was only at Marchmont Towers that which she ; ^^^^ ^^^^ ^^ % .^^ before-' had been from the age of six-a litlle lady, grave .y^ ^ know. Sir; I'll be back in time to at- and gentle, dignified, discreet, and wise. ] ^^^^ ^^ jt; but I-l think I've come into a for- There was one brightfigure missingoutof the pic-^; tune, Sir; and I should like to go and see about ture which she had been wont of late years to make j it.' of the Lincolnshire mansion, and that was the fig-/ The solicitor turned in his revolving library- ure of the yellow-haired boy w{>o had breakfasted ^ chair and looked aghast at his clerk. Had this upon haddocks and hotrolls'ln Oakley Street. She ^ Marchmont— always rather unnaturally reserved had imagined Edward Arundel an inhabitant of ; and eccentric— gone suddenly mad? No; the that fair Utopia. He would live with them; or, if/ copying-clerk stood by his side, grave, self-pos- he could not live with tbem, he would be with them ;;sessed as ever, with his forefinger upon the ad-' as a visitor — often — almost always. He would O^ertisement. leave off being a soldier, for, of course, her papa^ 'Marchmont— John — call— Messrs. Tindal and could give him more money than he could get by ^ Trollam—' gasped Mr. Mathewson. 'Do you being a soldier — (you see that Mary's experience <; mean to tell me it's you ?' of poverty had ta.ught her to take a mercantile ^ 'Yes, Sir.' and sordid view of military life)— and he would ^ 'Egad, I'll go with you!' cried the solicitor,^ come to Marchmont Towers, and ride, and drive. ^ hooking his arm through that of his clerk, snatch- and play tennis— what was tennis ? she wondered ■; ing his hat from an adjacent stand, and dashing — and read three-volume novels all day long. Hut J; through the outer office, down the great stair- that part of the dream was at least broken. — ^case, and into the next door but one, before John Marchmont Towers was Mary's home, but the 5 Marchmont knew where he was. young soldier v/as far away; in the Pass of Bolan \ John had not decked his employer. March- perhaps— Mary had a picture of that cruel rocky 5 mont Towers was Im, with all its appurtenances, pass almost always in -her mind— or cutting his ^ Messrs. Paulette, Paulette, and Mathewson took way through a black jungle, with the yellow eyeshiim in hand, much to the chagrin of Messrs. Tin- of hungry tigers glaring out at him through the \ dal and Trollam, and proved"'hiJ; identity in less loathsome tropical foliage; or dying of thirst and i than a week. On a shelf above the high wooden fever-under a scorching sun, with no better pillow | desk at which John had sat, copying law-papers, than The rveck of a dead camel, with no more ten-| vv~ith a weary hand and an aching spine, appeared der watcher than the impatient vulture flapping 'two bran-new deed-boxes, inscribed, in white her wings above his head, and waiting till he 'too < letters, with the name and address of Johv should be carrion. What was the good of wealth, j Marchmont, Esq., Marchmont Towers. The if it could not bring this young soldier home to a \ copying-clerk's sudden accession to fortune was safe shelter in his native land .> John Marchmont I the talk of all the employes in 'the Fields. ' March- smiled when his daughter asked this fjUestion, and i mont Towers was exaggerated into all Lincoln- JOHN MARCHMONT'S LEGACY. ^ l-j siiitc and a tidy slice of Yorkshire. Eleven thou- 1 woman, who made a moi'ning call every Monday sand a year was expanded into an annual million, i with John Marchmont's shabby shirts. The shirts Every body expected largesse from the legatee. — were not shabby now; and it was no longer Mary's How fond people had been of the quiet clerk, and i duty to watch them day by day, and manipulate how magnanimously they had concealed their sen- 1 them tenderly when the linen grew frayed at the timents during his poverty, lest they should wound sharp edges of the folds, or the button-holes gavo him, as they urged, 'which' they knew he was signs of weakness. Corson, Mr. Marchmont's sensitive; and how expansively they now dilated own ^an, had care of the shirts now; and John on their long-suppressed emotioqs ! . Of course, wore diamond studs and a black satin waistcoat under these circumstances, it is hardly likely that ! when he gave a dinner-party. They were not every body could be satisfied; so it is a small thing ■ very lively, those Lincolnshire dinner-parties; to say that the dinner which John gave— by his • though the dessert was a sight to look upon, in late employers' suggestion (he was about the last < Mary's eyes. The long, shining table, the red man to think of giving a dinner)— at the 'Albion : and gold.and purple and green Indian china, the Tavern,' to the legal staff of Messrs. Paulctte, ! lIuflTy woolen d'ny leys, the sparklmg cut-glass, the "Pauletter, and MathcTvson, and such actiuaintancc sticky preserved ginger and guava-jclly, and dried of the legal profession as they should choose to orange rings and* chips, and all llic stereotyped invite, was a failure; and that gcntlei^jen who sweetmeats, were very grjtnd and beautiful, no were pretty well used to dine upon liver and ba- doubt; but Mary had seen livelier desserts in Oak- con, or beef-steak and onions, or tlic joint, vegc- ley Street, though there had been nothing bolter tables, bread, cheese, and celery for a shilling, . than a brown-paper bag of oranges from the turned up their noses at the turbot, murmured at VVestmiifstcr Road, and a bottle of two-and-two- llic paucity of green fat in the soup, made light penny Marsala from a Mecnsed victualcr's in the of red mullet and ortolans, objected to the flavor .Borough, to promote conviviality, of the trulHes, and were contemptuous about the • wines. John knew nothing of this. He had lived a ^''* separate and secluded existence; and his only thought now was of getting away to Marchmont CHAPTER VJ. Towers, which had been familiar to him in his .^m: vocxg soldier's retirn. boyhood, when he had been wont to go ther« on occasional visits to his grandfather. He wanted Tut; rain beats down upon the battlemented to get away from the turmoil and confusion of the roof of Marchmont Towers this July day as if it big, heartless city, in which he had endured so bad a mind to Hood the old mansion. The flat much; he wanted to carry away his little girl to. waste of grass, and the lonely clumps of trees, a qu^et country home, and live and die there in arc almost blotted out by the falling rain. The peace. He liberally rewarded all the good people low gray sky shuts out the distance. This part of about Oakley Street who had been liind to littLe ' Lincolnshire— fenny, misty, and flat always— Mary; and there was weeping and regret in the seems flatter and mistier than usual Jq-day. The regions ofthc Ladies' Wardrobe when Mr. March- rain beats hopelessly upon the l,eaves4n ttie wood mont and his daughter went away one bitter win- behind Marchmont Towers, and flashes, into ler's morning, in a cab which was to, carry them great pools beneath the trees, until* tlie ground is to the hostelry whence the coach started for Lin- ; almost hidden by the falling water, and the trees coin. . seem to be growing out of a black lake. The land It is. strange to think ho\t far those Oakley is lower behind Marchmont Towers, and slopes Street days of privation and endurance seem to down gradually to the bank of a dismal liver, have receded in the memories of both father and , which straggles througli the Marchmont property daughter. The impalpable past fades away, and : at a snail's pace, to gain an impetus farther on, it is difficult for John and his little girl to believe , until it hurries into the sea somewhere northward that they were once so poor and desolate. It is of Grimsby. The wood is not held in any great Oakley Street now that is- visionary and unreal. : favor by the household at the Towers; and it has The stately county families bear down upon ' been a pet project of several Marchmonts to level Marchmont Towers in great lumbering chariots, [and drain it, but a project not very easily to be with brazen crests upon the hammer-cloths, and carried out. Marchmont Towers is said to be un- sulky coachmen in Crown-George wigs. The healthy, as a dwelling-house, by reason of this county mammas patronize and caress Miss March- ; wood, from which miasmas rise in certain stales mont — what a match she will be for one* of the of the weather; and it is on this account that the county sons by-and-by !— the county daughters dis- back of the house— the eastern front, at least, as course with Mary about her poor, and her fancy- it is called, looking to the wood— is very littlo work, and lier pianor She is getting on slowly used. enougli witTi her piano, poor little girl, under the Mary Marchmont sits at a window in the west- tuition of the organist of Siframpington, who gives , ern drawing-room, 'watching the ceaseless falling lessons^o that part of the county. And there are 'of the rain upon this dreary summer afternoon, solemn dinners now and then at Marchmont Tow- ; She is little changed since the day upon which ors; dinners at which Miss Marj appears when Edward Arundel saw her in Oakley Street. She the clotli has been removed, and reflects in silent is taller, of course; but her figure is as slender wonder upon 'the change that has nome to her 'and childish as ever; it i^ only her face in which lather and herself. Can it be true that she has ; the earnestness of premature womanhood reveals ever lived in Oakley Street ? whither came no itself, in a grave and sweet serenity very beauli- more aristocratic visitors than her Aunt Sophia, , ful to contemplate. Her soft brown cjes have a whowasthe wife of a Berkshire farmer, and always : pensive shadow in their gentle light; her mouth brought hogs-puddings, and butter, and home- : is even more pensive. It has bcin said of Jano made bread, and other rustic delicacies to her : Grey, of Mary Stuart, of Mane A utoiDctlo, Char brother-ia-law, or Mrs. Brigsomc, the washer- ' lott© Corduy, and other fated women, that in iho 20 JOHN MARCHMONT'S LEGACY. gayest houi;s of their youtli they bore upon some | years before in the two-pair back in Oakley feature or in some expression, the shadow of the j Street, was almost. too much for her to bear with- End; an impalpable, indescribable presage of an j out the relief of tears. But she controlled her awful future, vaguely felt by those who looked emotion as bravely as if she had been a woman upon them. ■ of twenty. Js it thus with Mary Marchmont? Has the; 4 am so glad to see you,' she said, quietly; «and solemn hand of Destiny set that siiadowy bfand \ papa will be so glad too. It is the only thing we upon the face of this child, that even in her pros- '^ want, now v/e are rich, to have you with us. We perity, as in her adversity, she should be so utterly ; have talked of you so often; and I — we— have different from all other children ? Is she already \ been so unhappy sometimes, thinking that — ' marked out for some womanly martyrdom;; 'That I should be killed, 1 suppose?' already set apart for more than common suffering?! 'Yes; or wounded very, very badly. The bat- She sits alone this afternoon, for hex father is •. ties in India have been dreadful, have they not?' busy with his agent. Wealth does not mean im- ; Mr. Arundel smiled at her earnestness, munity from all care and trouble; and Mr. March- 'They have not been exactly child's play,' he mont has plenty of work to gef through, in con- >, said, shaking back his auburn hair and smoothing junction with his land-steward, a hard-headed ; his. thic^i mustache. He was a man now, and a Yorkshireman, who lives at Kemberling, and in- J very handsome one; somcthingof that type which sists on doing his duty with pertinacious honesty. 1 is known in this year of grace as 'swell;' but The large brown eyes looked wistfully out at | brave and chivalrous withal, and not afflicted with the dismal waste and the falling rain. There was { any impediment in his speech. '■The men who • a wretched equestrian making his way along the | talk of the Afghans as a chicken-hearted set of carriage-drive. < fellows are rather out of their reckoning. The I 'Who can come to see us on such aday ?' Mary ! Indians can fight, Miss Mary, and fight like the thought. 'It must be Mr. Gormby, I suppose' — \ devil; but we can lick 'em.' the agent's name was. Gormby — 'Mr. Gormby He walked over to the fire-place, where there never cares about the wet; but then I' thought he ^ was a fire burning upon this chilly wet day; and was with papa. Oh, I hope it isn't any body ; began to shake himself dry. Mary, following coming to call.' | him with her eyes, wondered if there was such But Mary forgot all about the struggling eques- ; another soldier in all her Majesty's dominions, Irian the next moment. She had some morsel of | and how soon he would be made General-iri-chief fancy-work upon. her lap, and picked it up and \ of the Army of the Indus. went on with it, setting slow stitches, and letting J 'Then you've not been wounded at all, Mr. her thoughts wander far awny from Marchmont ■', Arundel ?' she said, after a pause. Towers. To India, I. am afraid; or to that imagi- ; 'Oh yes, I've been wounded; and I got a bullet nary India which bhe had created for herself out of) in my shoulder from an Afghan musket, and I'm 'fi^ch images as were to be picked up in the 'Ara- ', home on sick-leave.' bi^h Nights^ She was roused suddenly by the '; This time he saw tlie expression of her face, opening'of \i TJoo^^at the fart:her end of the room, ■; and interpreted her look of alarm- and by the*v6icc^ of a servant who mumbled a j 'But I'm not ill, you know. Miss Marchmont,' name which gounded something like Mr. Armen- ; he said, laughing. 'Our fellov/s are very glad of ger. \ ^ a wound when they feel home-sick. The 8th She rose, blushing a little, to do honor to one , come home before long, all of 'em; and I've a . of her father's country acquaintance, as she ; twelvemonth's leav^ of absence; and we're pretty thought; when a fair-haired p;en,tleman dashed in, > sure to be ordered out again by the end of that very much excited and very wet, and made his .> time, as I don't believe there's much chance of W£Ly toward her. ' quiet over there. ' 'I would come. Miss Marchmont,' he said, — 'I ; 'You will go out again 1' would come, though the day was so v/et; every. Edward Arundel smiled at her mournful tone. body vowed 1 was mad to think of.it, and it vvas 'To be sure. Miss Mary; I have my captaincy as much as my poor brute of a horse could do to ■ to win you know. I'm only a lieutenant as yet.' get over the ten miles of swamp between this and ( 'It was only a twelvemonth's reprieve, after all, my uncle's house; but I would come. Where's i then,' Mary thought. He would go again to suf- John? • I want to see John. Didn't I always tell - fer, and to be wounded, and to die, perhaps. But him. he'd come into the Lincolnshire property ?: then, on the other hand, there was a twelve- Didn't I always say so, now? You should have ■ month's respite, and her father, might hi thattime seen Martin Mostyn's face — he's got a capital ': prevail upon the young soldier to stay at March- berth in, the War Office, and he's such a §nob ! — j mont Towers. It was such inexpressible happi- when I told him the news ! It was as long as my { ness to see him once more, to know that he was arm. But I must see John, dear old fellow; I j safe and well, that she could scarcely do other- long to congratulate him.' • { wise than see all things in a sunny light just now. Mary stood with her hands clasped, and her' She ran to John Marchmont's itudy to%ell him breath coming quickly. The blush had quite faded of the coming of this welcome visitor; but she out, and left her unusually pale, but Edward Arun- ':, v/ept upon her father's shoulder before she could del did not see this. Young gentlemen of four- ; explain who it was whose coming had made her and-twenty are not vcry^attentive to every change i so glad. Very few friendships had broken the of expression in little girls of thirteen. i monotony of her solitary existence; and Edward •Oh, is it you, Mr. Arundel ? Is it really you ?' Arundel was the only, chivalrous image she had She spoke in a low voice, and it was almost dif- ever known out of her books, fteuit to keep the rushing tears back while she did j John Marchmont was scarcely less pleased than so. She had pictured him so often in peril, in j his child to see the man who had befriended hiiu famine, in sickness, in d.eath, that to see him here, in his poverty. Never has more heart-felt weJ- well, happy, light-hearted, cordial, handsome, j come been given than that which greeted Edward and brave, as she had seen him four and a half; Arundel at Marchmont Towers. JOHN*MARCHMONT'S LEGACY. 21 , 'You will stay with us, of course, my dear ( Arundel,' Jolin said; 'you will stop for Septem- ! ber and the shooting. You know you promised \ you'd make this j'our shooting-box; and we'll | build the tennis-court. Heaven knows there's . I'oom eaougli for it in the g^eat quadrangle, and ( there's a billiard-room overtliis, though I'm afraid ! the table is out of order. But we can soon set i that right, can't we, Polly?' . \ 'Yes, yes, papa; out of my pocket-money, if ( you like.' . ( Mary Marchmont said this in all good faRh. It \ was sometimes difficult for her to remeaiber that \ her father w^ really ricli, and had no need of ^ help out of her pocket-money. The slender sav- ) ings in the little purse had often given him some \ luxury tliat he would not otherwise have had in 5 the time gone by. ; 'You got my letter, then ?' John said; 'the letter ; in which 1 told you — ' ; 'That Marchmont Towers was yours. Yes, my j dear old boy. That letter was among a packet my < agent brought me half an hour before 1 left Cal- < cutta. God bless you, dear old fellow; how glad ' ^ was to hear of it! I've only been in England a | fortnight. I went straiglit from Southampton to < Dangerfield to see my fatiier and mother, staid i there little over ten days, and then oHended them | all by running away. I reached Swampington < yesterday, slept at my uncle Hubert's, paid my '( respects to my cousin Olivia, who is — well, I've < told you wliat she is — ibd rode over here this j morning, much to the annoyance of. the inhabi- tants of the Rectory. It is~ an exceptional place, and somewhat inter- "berling Parish.' . f esting thereby. The great Norman church upon •To be sure; and Swampington is ten miles off. , the swampy wasfe, the scattered tombstones, bor- But, for all that, I should have tl]ought Olivia : dered by the low and moss-grown walls, make a would have called upon you. I'll drive you over picture which is apt to dwell in the minds of those to-morrow, if John thinks me whip enough to who look upon it, though it is by no means a trust you with me, and you shall see Livy. The, pretty picture. The Rectory lies close to the Kectory's such a queer old place !' ■ church-yard; and a wicket-gate opens from Mr. Perhaps Mr. Marchmont was rather doubtful ) Arundel's garden into a narrow pathway, leading as to the propriety of committing, his little girl to across a patch of tangled grass and through a Edward Arundel's charioteership for a ten-mile , lane of sunken and lop-sided tombstones, to the drive upon a wretched road. Be it as it might, a ' loW vestry door. The Rectory. itself is a long, lumbering- barouche, with a pair of overfed horses, irregular building, to which one incumbent after was ordered next morning, instead of the high, another has built the additional chamber, or old-fashioned gig which the soldier had proposed; chimney, or porch, or bow-window, necessary for drivin''; and the safety of the two young people; his accommodation. There is very little garden was confided to a sober old coachman, rather in front of the house, but a patch of lawn and sulky at the prospect of a drive to Swampington : shrubbery and a clump of old trees at the back, so soon after the rainy weather. 'It's not a pretty house, is it, Miss Marchmont^ It does not rain always even in this part of ; asked Edward, as he lifted his companion out ol Lincolnshire; and the 'July morning was bright' the carriage. and pleasant, the low hedges fragrant with starry,/ 'No, not very pretty,' Mary answered; 'but I opal-tinted wild roses and waxen honey-suckle,) don't think anything is pretty in Lincolnshire, the vellowing corn waving in the light summer}' Oh, there's the seaV she cried, looking suddenly breeze. Mary assured her companion that she; across the marshes to the low gray line in the dis- had no objection whatever to the odor of cigar Stance. 'How I wish we were as near the sea at smoke; so Wr. Arundel lolled upon the comfort-/ Marchmont Towers !'• able cushions of the barouche, with his back to'' The young lady had something of a romantic the horses, smoking chei'oots and talking gayly,tpassion for the wide-spre!^ding ocean. It was an while Miss Marchmont sat in the place of state/ unknown region, that stretched far away, and opposite to him. A happy drive: a drive in a/ that was wonderful and beautiful by reason of its fairy chariot through regions of Tairy-land, for-/ solemn mystery. All her Corsair stories were ever and forever to be remembered by Mary,' allied to that far, fathomless deep. The white Marchmont. ^ sail in the distance was Conrad's, perhaps; and They left the straggling hedges and the yellow-- he was speeding homeward to find Mcdora dead ing corn behind them by-and-by, as they drew/ in her lonely watch-tower, with fading flowers near the outskirts of Swampington. The town.' upon her breast. The black hull yonder was the lies lower even than the surrounding country, ', bark of some terrible pirate bound on rapine and Hat and low as that country is- A. narrow and !' r^ivage. (She was a coal-barge, I have no doubt, dismal river crawls at the base of a half-ruined ■; sailing Londenward with her black burden.) — wclU, which once formed part of the defenses of-; Nymphs and Lurleis, Mermaids and Mermen, and the place. Black barges lie at anchor here, and ;; tiny water-babies with silver tails, forever splash- a stone bridge, guarded by a toll-house, spans the !; ing in the sunshine, were all more or less asso- river. Mr. Marchmont's carriage lumbered across ; ciated with the long gray line toward which this bridge, and under an arch-way, low, dark, >, Mary Marchmont looked with solemn, yearning stony, and grim, into a narrow street of solid, •; eyes. well-built houses, low, dark, stony, and grim,> 'We'll drive down to the sea-shore some morn- like the arch-way, but beanng the stamp of repu-Jj^ i^ljy,' said Mr. Arundel. He was beginning table occupation. I believe the grass grew, and ;^q ^.^U j^er Polly, now and then, in the easy fa- still grows, in this street, as it does in all the ^ jj^i]i^^.j,j. ^f thgjr intercourse. 'We'll spend a other streets and in the market-place of Swamp-; jo„^j^yo„ ^^g sands, and I'll smoke cheroots inglon. They are all pretty much m- the same •; ^^,,-,3 you pick up shells and sea-weed.' style, tliesestreels--all stony narr^^^^^^^^^ Marchmont clasped her hands in silent grim; ^'^^^'^^J '':''''^ ^^1'^''']}''^}^^^^ Her face was irradiated by the new cini* in and out, m a manner utterJy Dewudering ;. r/ r i. ■ m 11*1 an(T m anu uu.., 1 ^ppino- iiipf ,v,p* light of happiness. How good he was to her, ^re'al aSias'r r^dmtk; ?Sr"hfs ^Mant' t4 brave sSSlier, who must undoubtedly be made There are two handsome churches, both bear-' Commander-.n-chief of the Army of the Indus m ing an early date in the history of Norman su- ', ^ y^^i" or so • nremacv- one crowded into an inconvenient cor- : Ldward Arundel led his companion across the ner of a back street, and choked by the houses ( flagged way between the iron gate of the Rectory built up round about it; the other lying a little ' garden and a half-glass door leading into the o'lt oitlffe town, upon a swampy waate looking ; hall. Out of this ^simple hall, only furnished toward the sea, which flows within a mile of ; with a couple of chairs, a barometer, and an um- Swamninffton Indeed, there is no lack of water , brella-stantl, they went, without announcement, in that Lincolnshire borough. The river winds; into alow old-fashioned room, half study, half about the outskirts of the town; unexpected ; parlor, where a young lady was sitting at a tabic creeks and inlets meet you at every angle; shallow { writing. JOHN MARCHMONT'S LEGACY. 23 She rose as Edward opened the door, and came ! to meet him. 'At last !' she said; 'I thought your rich friends | engrossed all your attention.' • ' She paused, seeing Mary. f 'This is Miss Marchniont, Olivia,' said Ed-, ward; 'the only daughter of ray old fri/and. — ] You must be very fond of her, please; for she is ' a dear little girl, and I know she means to love ^ you.' ; Mary lifted her soft brown eyes to the face of ' the young lady, and then dropped her eyelids sud- denly, as if half frightened by what she had seen there. Whatwas'it? What was it in Olivia A'-un-' del's handsome. face from which those who lot 'icd j at her so often shrank, repelled and disappointed r ; Every line in those perfectly-modeled features ; w.-fs beautiful to look at; but as a whole the face :• was not beautiful. Perhaps it was too much like ; a marble mask, exquisitely chiseled, but wanting) in variety of expression. The handsome mouth J wa#rigid; the dark gray eyes had a cold light in j them. The thick bands of raven-black hair were j drawn tightly .off' a square forehead, which was j the brow of an intellectual and determined man j rather than of a woman. Yes, womanhood was ; the something wanted in Olivia Arundel's. face. Intellect, resolution, courage, are rare gifts; but t they are not the gifts whose itokens we look for .' most anxiously in a woman's face. "If Miss Arun- ■ del had been a queen, her diadem would have be- ! come hei' nobly, and she might have been a very ■ great queen; but Heaven help the wretched crea- \ ture who had appealed from milder tribunals to : /ler mercy ! Heaven help delinquents of every ■ kind whose last lingering hope had been in her ; compassion ! | Perhaps Mary Marchmont vaguely 'felt some- j thing of all this. At any rate, the enthusiasm with which she had been ready to regard Edward | Arundel cooled suddenly beneath the winter in | that pale, quiet face. I Miss Arundel said a few words td her guest, ; kindly enough, but rather too much as if she had been addressing a child of six. Mary, who was ^ accustomed to be treated as a woman, was wound- ed by her manner. • 'llotr different she is to Edward !' thought Miss Marchmont. '1 shall never like her as 1 like him.': 'So this is the pale-faced child who is to iiave Marchmont Towers by-and-by,' thought Miss) Arundel; 'and these rich fn'ends are tiie people- for whom Edward stays away from us.' The lines about the rigid mouth grew harder, i the cold light in the gray eyes grew colder, as the young lady thought this. It was thus that these two women met: while one was but a child in years; while the other was yet in the early bloom of womanhood: these two, who were predestined to hate each other, and in- flict suffering upon each other in the days that were to come. It wns llius that they thought of one another; each with an unreasoning dread, an undefined aversion gathering in her breast, heart, to boast of his prowess before Mary and her father. The young man was by this time familiar with every nook and corner of Marchmont Towers; and the builders were already at work at the ten- nis-court which John had promised to erect for his friend's pleasure. The site ultimately chosen was a bleak corner of the eastern front, looking to the wood; but as Edward declared the spot in every way eligible, John had no inclination to find fault with his friend's choice. There was other work for the builders; for Mr. Arundel had taken a won- derful fancy to a ruined boat-house upon the brnik of the rivcf ; and this boat-house was to be rebuilt and restored, and made into a delightful pavilion, in the upper chambers of which Mary might sit with her father in thchot%ummer weather, while Mr. Arundel kept a couple of trim wherries in the recesses below. So you see the young man made himself very much at home, in his own innocent, boyish fash- ion , at Marchmont Towers. Hut as he had brought life and light to the old Lincolnshire mansion, no- body was inclined to ([uarrel with him for an\ liberties which he might choose to take; and ever} one looked forward sorrowfully to the dark daj^ before Christmas, at which time he was under a promise to return to Dangertield Park, there lo spend the remainder of .his leave of absence. CHAPTER VII. OLIVIA. While busy workmen were employed at March- mont Towers, hammering at the fragile wood<*n walls of the tennis-court — while Mary March- mont and lidward Arundel wandered, with the dogs at their heels, among the rustle of the fallen leaves in the wood beliind the great gaunt Lin- colnshire mansion — 'Jlivia, the Rector's daughter, sat ill her father's quiet study, or walked to and fro in the gloomy streets of Swampinglon, doing tier duty day by day. Yes, the lifc'of ttiis woman is told in these few wordi; she did her duty. From the earliest age at which responsibility can begin she had done her duty, uncomplainingly, unswervingly, as it seemed to those who watched her. She was a good woman. The bishop of the di- ocese had specially complimented her for her active devotion to the holy work which falls some- what heavily upon the only daugiiterof a widowtd rector. All the stately dowagers about Swamp- ington v/eie loud in the praises of Olivia Arun- del. Such devoti^, such untiring zeal in a young jicrson of three-and-twenly years, of age, weje really most laudable, these solemn elders said, in terms of sujiremc patronage; for the young saint of whom ihcy spoke wore shahby gowns, and was the portionless daughter of a poor man who had let the world slip by him, and who i-at now amidst the dreaiy rums of a wasted life, look- ing yearningly backward with hollow, regretful ejcs, and bewailing the < liancc? he had lost. Hu- bert Arundel loved his daughter; loved her With that passionate, sorrowful afl'eclion we feel for those who suffer for our sins, whose lives have been blighted by our follies. Every shabby gai'meiit which Olivia wore was a separate reproach to her father; every depriva. lion she endured stung Mm as cruelly as if shr 24 JOHN MARCHMONT'S LEGAC'i'. had turned upon hiai and loudly upbraided him ] every side with calm, scrutinizing eyes; rigidly for his wasted life and* his squandered patrimony. | just, terribly perfect. He loved her; and he watched her day after day, ) It was a fearfully monotonous, narrow, and un- doing her duty to him as to all others; doing her ; e\entful life which Olivia Arundel led at Swamp- duty forever and forever; but when he most ,' ingtoa Rectory. At three-and-twenty years of yearned to take lier to his heart, her own cold per- 1 age she could have written her history upon a few fections arose and separated him from the child ( pages. The world outside that dull Lincolnshire he loved. What was he but a poor, vacillating, ) town was shaken by convulsions, and made irre- erring creature: weak, supine, idle, epicurean; : cognizable by repeated change; but all these outer unworthy to approach this girl, who never seemed ; changes and revolutions made themselves but little to sicken of the hardness of her life — w:ho never ; felt in- the quiet grass-grown streets, and the flat grew weary of well-doing? ^ ■ surrounding swamps, within whose narrow bound- But how was it that, for all her goodness, 01i-;ary Olivia Arundel had lived from infancy to via Arundel won so small a share of Qarthly re- 1 womanhood; performing and repeating the same ward ? I do not speak of the gold and jewels and ; duties from day to day, with no other progress to other worldly benefits with which the fairies in j mark the lapse of her existence than the slow our children's story-books reward the benevolent ; alternation of the seasons, and the dark hollow mortals who take compassion upon them in the ; circles which had lately deepened beneath her guise of old women; but rather of the io.ve and ^ gray eyes, and the depressed lines about the cor- gratitude, the tenderness and blessings Avhich usu- < ners of her firm lower lip. ally wait upon the footsteps of those who do good ; These outward tokens, beyond her own control, deeds. Olivia Arundel's charities were never ; Slone betrayed this woman's secret. She was (jcasing; her life was one perpetual sacrifice to | weary of her life. She sickened under thedull» her father's parishioners. There v^as no natural ! burden which she had borne so long, and carried womanly vanity, no simple girlish fancy, which [ so patiently. The slow round of duty was loath- this woman ha^d not trodden underfoot, and tram- j some to her. The horrible, narrow, unchanging pled out in the hard pathway she had chosen for ] existence, shut in by huge walls, which bounded herself. , her on every side and kept her prisoner to her- The poor people knew this. Rheumatic men '• self, was odious to her. The powerful intellect and women, crippled and bedridden, knew that j revolted against the fetters that bound and galled the blankets which covered them hadt)een bought ' it. The proud heatt beat with murderous vio- out of money that would have purchased silk / lence against the bonds that kept it captive, dresses for the Rector's handsome daughter, or > 'Is my life always to be this — always, always, luxuries for the frugal table at the Rectory. — ; always ?' The passionate nature burst forth some- They knew this. Tliey knew that, through frost i times, and the voice that had so long been stifled and snow, through storm and rain, Olivia Arun- ; cried aloud in the black stillness of the night, *Is del would come to sit beside thcirdreary hearths, ' it to go on forever and forever, like the slow river thftir desolate sick-beds, and read holy books to ' that creeps under the broken wall ? Oh my God ! them; sublimely indifferent to the foul weather ' is the lot of other women never to be mine .> Am without, to the stifling atmosphere wiihin, to din, I I never to be loved and admired; never tO be discomfort, poverty, inconvenience; heedless of ^ sought and chosen? Is my life to be all of one all except the performance of the task she had > dull, gray, colorless monotony; without one sud- set herself. j den gleam of sunshine, without one burst of rain- People knew this, and they were grateful to i bow light?'. Miss Arundel, and submissive and attentive in her ; How shall 1 anatomize this woman, who, gifted presence; they gave her such return as they were | with no womanly tenderness of nature, unen- able to give, for the benefits, spiritual and tempo- dowed with that pitiful and unreasoning affection ral, which she bestowed upon them; but they did > which makes womanhood beautiful, yet tried, and not love her. ; tried unceasingly, to do her duty and to be good; They spoke of her in reverential accents, and ( clinging, in the very blindness of her soul,*to the praised her whenever her name was mentioned; | rigid formulas of her faith, but unable to seize but they spo'ke with tearless eyes and unfaltering ■ upon'its spirit. Some latent comprehension of the voices. Her virtues were beautiful, of course, ; want in her nature made her only the more scru- as virtue in the abstract must always be; but d ; pulous in the performance of those duties which think there was a want of individuality in her !' she had meted out for herself. The holy «enten- goodness, a lack of personal tenderness in her J ces slie had heard, Sunday after Sunday, feebly kindness, whicfb separated her from the people i read by her father, haunted her perpetually, and she benefited. ^ ,^ would not be put away from her. The tenderness Perhaps there was something almost chilling in > in every word of those familiar gospels was a re- the dull monotony of Mhs Arundel's benevolence, j proanh to the want of tenderness in her own 'rhere was no blemish of moral weakness upon i heart. She could be good to her father's parish- the good deeds she performed; tind the recipients ] ioners, and she could make sacrifices for them: of her bounties, seeing her so fur ofi', grew afraid j but she .could not love them any more than they of her, even by reason of her goodness, and c.ouldY could love lier. ^ not love her. _ • ' That divine and universal pity, that spontane- She made no favorites ^mong her father's pn- ous and bo|mdless affection, which is the chief rishioners. Of all the school-children she had loveliness of womanhood and Christianity, had taught, she had never chosen one curly-hoaded iiroliin for a pet. She liad no good dajs and had day: she was never f)olishly indulgent or ex'rnv- agatitiy cordial. She was always the saine — (yhurch-of-Kngland charity jictsonified; meting no part in ner nature. She could understand Ju- dith with the Assyrian general's gory head held- aloft in her up'ifted hand; but she could not conr- prohend that diviner mystery of sinful Magda- lene sittim^ at her Master's feet with the shame out all mercies by line and rule; doing good with ! ani^love in her lace half-hidden by a veiiof droop- a note-book and a pencil in her hand; looking on J ing hair. JOHN MARCHMONT'S LEGACY. 25 No; Olivia Arundel was not a good woman in ^ ' Miss Arundel stood by the Rectory gate in the the commoner sense we attach to the phrase. It 'early September evening, watching the western was not natural to uer to be gentle and tender, to , sunlight on the low sea-line beyond the marshes, he beneficent, compassionate, and kind, as it is to She was wearied and worn out By a long day de- the women we are- accustomed to call 'good.' , voted to visiting among her parishioners; and she She was a woman who was forever fighting against ,' stood with her elbow leaning on the pate, and her her nature; who was forever striving to do right; | head resting on her hand, in an attitude peculiarly forever walking painfully upon the difficult road expressive of fatigue. She had thrown off her mapped out for her; forever measuring herself by bonnet, and her black hair was pushed carelessly the standard she had setup fo^her self-abase- from her forehead. Tiiose masses of hair had not ment. And who shall soy that such a woman as ;> that purple lustre, nor yet that wandering glimmer this, if she persevere unto the end, shall not wear 'of red gold, which gives peculiar beauty to some a brighter cro%vn than her more gentle sisters — raven tresses. Olivia's hair was long and luxu- Ihe starry circlet of a martyr? riant, but it was of that dead inky blackness, Jf she persevere unto the end ! But was Olivia which is all shadow. It was dark, fathomless, Arundel the woman to do this? The deepening inscrutable, like herself. The cold pray eyes circles about her eyes, the hollowing cheeks, and , looked tboughtfufty seaward. Another day's dutj the feverish restlessness of manner which siie had been done. Long chapters of Holy Writ had could not always control, told how terrible the been read to troublesome old women allHcted with long^strugglc had become to her. If she could perpetual coughs; stifling, airless cottages had have dieir then— if she had fallen beneath the ; been visited; the dull, unvarying track had been Aveight of her burden — what a record of sin and ; beaten by the patient feet, and the yellow sim was anguisii might have remained unwritten in the 'going down upon another joyless day. But did history of woman's life ! But this woman was the still evening hour bring peace to that restless one oi those who can suffer, and yet not die. She spirit? No: by the rigid compression of the lips, bore her burden a little longer; only to fling it ; by the feverish lustre in the eyes, by the faint down by-and-by, and to abandon herself to tlie • hectic flush in the oval cheeks, by every outward eager devils who had been watching_for her so *. sign of inward unrest, Olivia Arupdel was not at untiringly. ' J peace. The listlassness of her attitude was merely Hubert Arundel was afraid of his daughter, the listlessness of physical fatigue. The mental The knowledge that he had wronged her — ^vronged struggle was not finished with the close of the her even before her birth by the foolish waste of day's work. , his patrimony, and wronged her through life by ' The young lady looked up suddenly as the tramp his lack of energy in seeking such advancement, of a horse's hoofs, slow and lazy-sounding on the as a more ambitious man might have won — the smooth road, met her ear. Her eyes dilated, and knowledge of this, and of his daughter's superior; her breath went and came more rapidly, but she virtues, combined to render the^ father ashamed ,' did not stir from her weary attitude, and humiliated by^the presence of his only child. ' The horse was from the stables at Marchmont Tiie struggle between this fear and his passionate Towers, ar-I the rider was Mr. Arundel. He came love of her was a very painful one; but fear had smiling to the Rectory gate, with the low sun- the mastery, and the Rector of Swampington was shine glittering in his yellow hair, and the light content to stand aloof, mutely watchful of his of careless, indill'erent happiness irradiating his daughter, wondering feebly whether she was ^ hantjsome face. happy, striving vainly to discover that one secret, 'You must have thought I'd forgotten you and that keystone of the soul, which must exist in my uncle, my dear Livy,' he said, as he sprang every nature, however outwardly commonplace. : lightly from his horse. 'We've been so busy with Mr. Arundel had hoped that his daughter would the tennis-court, and the boat-house, and the par- inarry, and marry well, even at Swampington; tridges, and goodness knows what besides at the (or there were rich young land-owners who visited Towers, that I couldn't get the time to ride over at the Rectory. But Olivia's handsome face won till this evening. But to-day we 'dined early, her no admirers, and at three-and-twenty Miss , on purpose that I might have the chance of gel*. Arundel had received no offer 9f marriage. The ting here. I come upon an important mission, father reproached himself for this. It was he Livy, I assure you.' who had blighted the lite of this penniless girl; 'What do you mean ?' it was his fault that no suitors came to woo his There was no change in Miss Arundel's voire motherless child. Yet many dowerless maiden? ;' when she spoke to her cousin ; but there was a have been sought and loved; and I do not think < ciiange, not easily to he defined, in her jace when it was Olivia's lack of fortune which kept admi- r ^hc looked at him. It seemed as if tfiat weary rers at bay. I believe it was rather that inhereni ; hopelessness of expression which had settled on want of tenderness which chilled and dispirited ' her countenance lately grew more weary, more the timid young Lincolnshire squires. \ hopeless, as she turned toward this bright Joung Had Olivia ever been in love? Hubert Arun- > soldier, glorious in the beauty of his own light- del constantly asked himself this question. He | heartedness. It may have been merely the sharp- ilid so because hf saw that some blighting influ- 1 ness of contrast which produced this effect. It rnre, even beyond the poverty and dulncss of her i may have been an actual change arising out ol home, had fallen upon the life of his only child.! some secret hidden in Olivia's breast. What was it? What was it? Was it some hope- 1 'What do you mean by an important mission, less attachment, some secret tenderness, which ( Edward ?' she said, had never won the sweet return of love for love?! She had need to repeat the question; for tin* He would no more have ventured to question young man's attention had wandered from her, his daughterupon this subject than he would have I and he was watching his horse aa the animal dared to ask n is fair young Queen, newly mar-' cropped the tangled herbage about the Rectory ried in those days, whether she was happy with gate, her handsome husband, 'Why, I've come witlj aQ iaTitaUontO »dinnc^ :it, JOHN MARCHMONT'S LEGACY. at Marchmont Towers. There's to be a dinner- < were talking of you, and praising your goodness, party; and, in point of fact, it's to be given on ;! and speaking of your schools, and your blanket purpose for you and my uncle. John and Polly ;! associations, and your invalid societies, and your are full of it. You'll come, won't you, Livy ?' ;: relief clubs, and all your plans for the parish. — Miss Arundel shrugged her shoulders, with an 'i Why, you must work as hard as a prime minister, impatient sigh. f Livy, by their account; you, who are only a few 'Ihatedinner-parties, 'she said; 'but, of course, '^ years older than me.' if papa accepts Mr. Marchmont's invitation, \', Only a few years ! She started at the phrase, can not refuse to go. Papa must choose for him- \ and bit her lip. self.. 'i '1 was three^and-twenty last month,' she said. There Iiad been some interchange of civilities ^ 'Ah, yes; to be sure. And I'm one-and-twenty. between Marchmont Towers and Swampington ;'Then you're only two years older than me, Livy. Rectory duripg the six weeks which had passed ;! But, then, you see, you're so clever, that you seem since Mary's introduction to Olivia Arundel; and < much older than you are. You make a fellow feel this dinner-party was the result of John's simple ^rather afraid of you, you know. Upon my word desire to do honor to his friend'% kindred. ^you do, Livy.' 'Oh, you must come, Livy,' Mr. Arundel ex-^ Miss Arundel did not reply to this speech of her claimed. 'The tennis-court is going on capitally, o cousin's. She was walking by his side up and I want you to give us your opinion again. Shall ^down a narrow graveled pathway, bordered by a I take my horse round to the stable ? I am going ^ hazel -hedge; she had gathered one of the slen- to stop an hour or two, and ride back by moon- ^der twigs, and was idly stripping away the fluffy light.' ^ends. Edward Arundel took the bridle in his hand, < 'What do you think, Livy ?' cried Edward, sud- and the cousins walked slowly round by the low ;,denly, bursting out laughing at the end of the garden wall to a dismal and rather dilapidated ;; question. 'What do you think? It's my belief stable at the back of the Rectory, where Hubert ;; you've made a conquest.' Arundel kept a wall-eyed white horse, long-legged, < 'What do you mean r' shallow.chested^ and large-headed, and a fearfully i 'There you go; turning upon a fellow as if you and wonderfully made phaeton, with high wheels ■) could eat him. Yes, Livy; it's no use your look- and a mouldy leathern hood. ^Jing savage. You've made a conquest; aiad of one Olivia walked by the young soldier's side with < of the best fellows in the world, too. John March - that air of weary indifi'erence that had so grown ;;mont^ in love with you.* upon her very lately, her eyelids drooped with J Olivia Arundel's lace flushed a vivid crimson to a look of sullen disdain; but the gray, eyes glanced •) the roots of her black hair. furtively now and again at her companion's hand- < 'How dare you come here to insult me, Edward some face. He was very handsome. The glitter ;' Arundel.-' she cried, passionately, of golden hair and of bright fearless blue eyes vs 'Insult you ! Now, Livy dear, that's too bad, the careless grace peculiar to the kind of man we ^ upon my word,' remonstrated the young man. 'I eall 'a swell;' the gay ' insouciance of an easy,;; come and tell you that as good a man as ever candid, generous nature — all combined to make ;; breathed is over head and ears in love with you, Edward Arundel singularly attractive. These '. and that you may be mistress of one of the finest spoiled children of nature demand our admira- < estates in Lincolnshire if you please, and you turn tion, in very spite of ourselves. These beautiful < round upon me like no end of furies.* useless creatures caH upon us to rejoice in their ,! 'Because 1 hate to hear you talk nonsense,' valueless beauty, like th^ flaunting poppies in the ; answered Olivia, her bosom still heaving with that corn-field, and the gaudy wild-flowers in the ; first outburst of emotion, but her voice suppressed grass. < and cold. 'Am I so beautiful, or so admired or The darkness of Olivia's face deepened after '^ beloved, that a man who has not seen me half a each furtive ^ance she cast at her cousin. Could [ dozen times should fall in love with me.' Do those ^^ be that this girl, to whom nature had given ijvho know me estimate me so much, or prize me strength but denied grace, envied the superficial "so highly, that a stranger should think of me.' — attractions of the young man at her side ? She : You do insult me, Edward Arundel, when you talk did envy him; she envied him that sunny temper- : as you have talked to-night.' ament which was so unlike her own; she envied ^ She looked out toward the low yellow light in him that wondrous power of taking life Hghtly. {the sky with a black gloom upon herfa'ce, which Why should existence be so bright and careless to ■; no reflected glimmer of the sinking 'un could il- him, whikf to her it was a terrible fever-dream, a ; lumine; a settled darkness, near akin to the utter long sickness, a never-ceasing battle .' ■ blackness of despair. 'Is my uncle in the house .'' Mr. Arundel asked, ; 'But, good Heavens, Olivia, what do you mean .-' ashegtrolled from the stable into the garden, ^ cried the young man. 'I tell you something that with his cousin by his side. ) I think a good joke, atid you go and make a trag- 'No; he has been owt since dinner,' Olivia j edy out of it. If I'd told Letitia that a rich wid- answered; 'but I expect him back every minute, ; ower had fallen in love with her, she'd think it I came out into the garden — the house seemed so ;■ the finest fun in the world.' hot and stiflit^g to-night, and I have been sitting '^ 'I'm not your sister Letitia.' in close cpttages all day.' 'No; but"l wish you'd half as good a temper as 'Sitting in close cottages !' repeated Edward. ; she has, Livy. However, never mind; I'll say no 'Ah, to be sure; visiting your rheumatic old pen- • more. If poor old Marchmont has fallen in love sioners, I suppose. How good you are, Olivia!' : with you, that's his look-out. Poor dear old boy, 'Good !' . ' he's let out the secret of his weakness half a dozen She echoed the word in the very bitterness of a ways within these last few days. Ij^s Miss Arun- icorn that could not be repressed. •■ del this, and Miss Arundel the other; so handj «Yes; every body says so. The Millw^rds were \ some, so dignified, so ladylilce, so good ! That's \\ Marchmont Towcre the other day, and they ^ the way he goes on, poor gimple old dear, without JOHN MARCHjMONT'S LECrAGV 27 having Ihe remotest notion tliat he's making a ^ in my father's study, poring over tlic books tiiat confounded fool of himself.' were too difiicult for him ? What have I made of O)ivia»tossed the rumpled hair from her fore- myself in my pride of intellect? What reward' have 1 won for my patience Olivia Arundel looked hack at her lone; life of dutjjp— a dull, dead level, unbroken by one of those monuments whicii mark the desert of the pa, t; a desolate-Hat, unlovely as the marshes between the low Rectory wall and the shimmei-ing gray sea. CHAPTER VIU. TEMPTATION. head with an impatient gesture of the hand. 'Why should this Mr. Marchmont think all this of me?' she said, 'when — ' She stopped ab- ruptly. 'When— what, Livy?' 'When other people don't think it.' 'How do you know what other people think? — You haven't asked them, I suppose?* The young soldier treated his cousin in very much the same free-and-easy manner which he displayed toward his sister Letitia. It would have been almost difficult for him to recognize anyde- srree in his relationship to the two girls. He loved JiCtitia better than Olivia; but his affection for both was of exactly the same character. Hubert Arundel came into the garden, wearied Mii. Ricuarp Paulettl, of that eminent legal out, like his daughter, while the two cousins were firm, Paulelte, Paulette, and Mathewson, coming walking under ttie shadow of the neglected ha- to Marchmont Towers on business, was surprised Zeis. He declared his willingness to accept the to behold the quiet ease with which the sometime invitation to Marchmont Towers, and promised to copying-clerk received the punctilious country answer John's ceremonious ritlle the next day. gentry who came to sit at his board and do him 'Cookson, from Kemberlin^i will be there, I honor, suppose,' he said, alluding to a brother parson. Of all the legal fairy tales, of'all tlie parch- 'and the usual set? Well, I'll come, Ned, if you meht-recorded romances, of all the poetry run wish it. You'd like to go, Olivia:' into affidavits, in which the solicitor had ever been 'If you like, papa.' concerned, this story seemed the strangest. Not There was a *^uty to be performed now — the so very strange in ii&elf, for such romances are duty of placid obedience to her father; and Miss ) not uncommon in the history of a lawyer's expe- Arundel's manner changed from angry impatience i rience; but strange by reason of the tranquil man- to a grave respect. She owed no special duty, be \ ner in which John Marchmont accepted his new it remembered, to her cousin. She had no line or position, and did the honors of his house to his rule by which to measure her conduct to him. \ late employer. She stood at the gate nearly an hour later, and | 'Ah, Paulette,' Edward Arundel said, clappinj watched the young man ride away in the dim! the solicitor on the. back, '1 don't suppose you moonlight. If every separate tramp of his horse's .believed me when I told you that my friend iTere hoofs had struck upon her heart, it could scarcely was heir-presumptive to a handsome fortune. i have given her more pain than she felt as the The dinner-party at the Towers was conducted sound of those slow footfalls_ died away in the i with that stately grandeur peculiar to such solem- distance. nities. There was the usual round of couotry- 'Oh my God!' she cried, 'is this madness to talk and parish-talk; the hunting squires leading undo all that I have done? Is this folly to be the .the former section of the discourse, the rectors climax of my dismal life? Am I to die for the . and rectors' wives supporting the latter part of k)ve of a frivolous, fair-haired boy, who laugh*, the conversation. You heard on one sido that in my face when he tells me tiiat his friend has 'Martha Harris's husband had left off drinking, and pleased to "take a fancy to me ?" ' i attended church morning and evening; and on the She walked away toward the house; then stop-; other, that the old gray fox that ha'd been hunted ping, with a sudden shiver, she turned, and went: nine seasons between Crackbin Bottom and HoJ- back to the hazel-alley she had paced with Ed- ' lowcraft Gorse had perished ignobly in the poul- ward Arundel. ) try-yard of a recusant farmer. While your left 'Oh, my narrow life !' she muttered between > ear became conscious of the fact that little Billy her set teeth ; 'my narrow^ life ! It is that which ; Smithers had fallen into a copper of scalding wa- lias made me the slave of this madness. 1 love ;ter, your right received the dismal tidings that all him because he is the brightest and fairest thing the young partridges had been drowned by ih» I have ever seen. 1 love him because he brings /rains after St. Swithin, and that there were hardly me all I have ever known of a more beautiful any of this year's birds, Sir; world than that I live in. Bah ? why do I reason Mary Marchmont had listened to gayer talk in with myself?' she cried, with a sudden change of Oakley Street than any that was to be heard that manner. 'I love him because I am mad.' night in her father's drawing-rooms, except in She paced up and down the hazel-shaded path- deed when Edward Arundel left off flirting >vii way till the moonliglit grew broad and full, and .some pretty girls in blue, and hovered near ht every ivy-grown gable of the Rectory stood sharp- /side for a little while, quizzing the company.- ly out against the vivid purple of the sky. She / Heaven knows the young soldier's jokes were com paced up and down, trying to trample the folly /monplace enough; but Mary admired him as thr within her under her feet as she went; a fierce,; most brilliant and accomplished of wits. passionate, impulsive woman, fighting againat her ; 'How do you like my cousin, Polly?' he a.skt>d mad love for a bright-faced boy. at last. 'Two years older — only two years!' she said; r, 'Your cousin, Miss Arundel ?' 'but he spoke of the difference between us as if it ^ 'Yes.' had been half a century. And then I am so clever, > 'She is very handsome.' that 1 seem older than I am; and he is afraid of > 'Yes, I suppose so,' the young man answered, me! Is it for this that I have sat night aftcrnight/ carelessly. 'Every body «ay3 uiatLiivy'a hanil- f}8 JOHN MARCHMONT'S LEGACY. some: but it's mthcr a cold style of beauty, isn't 'Not if it was to grieve you, Polly, I dare say,' it? A little too much of the Pallas Athene about ; Edward answered, soothingly. . it for my taste. I like those girls in blue, with ' He had been dumbfounded by Mary* passion- the crinkly auburn hair — there's a touch of red in ate .sorrow. He had expected that she would have it in the light — and the dimples. You've a dim- ^ been rather pleased than otherwise at the idea of pie, Polly, when you smile. ' • | a young step-mother — a companion in those vast Miss Marchmont blushed as she received tbis , lonely rooms, an instructress and a friend as she informatiop, and her soft brown eyes wandered grew to womanhood. away, looking very earnestly at the pretty girls in j 'I was only talking nonsense, Polly darling,' he blue. She looked at them with a strange inter- said. 'You mustn't make yourself unhappy about est, ea^-er to discover what it was that Edward j any absurd fancies of mine. I think your papa admired. i admires my cousin Olivia, and I thought, perhaps, 'But you haven't answesred my question, Polly,' you'd be glad to have a step-mother. ' said Mr. Arundel. 'I am afraid you have been 'Glad to have any one who would take papa's drinking too much wine, Miss Marchmont, and Jove away from mer' Mary said, plaintively. — muddling that sober little head of yours with the 'Oh, Mr. Arundel, how could you think so?' fumes of your papa's tawny port. I asked you In all their familiarity the little girl had never how you liked Olivia.' learned to call her father's friend by his Christian Mary blushed again. name, though he had often told her to do so. Slie 'I don't know Miss Arundel well enough to like trembled to pronounce that simple Saxon name, her — ^jet,' she answered, timidly. • which was so beautiful and wonderful because it 'But shall you like her when you've known her was his; but whenj^he read a very stupid n'ovel, longer? Don't be Jesuitical, Polly. Likings and in which the heroo^^as, a namesake of iNIr. Arun- disUkings are instantaneous and instinctive. I ; del's, the vapid pages seemed to be phosphores- liked you before IW ^aten half a dozen mouthfuls : cent with light whenever the name appeared upon of the roll you buttered far me at that breakfast them. " " '' ' • . » - • , , , ]VJarchmont lingered . heard her praises in Oakley Street, Polly. You don't like my cousin ' I scarcely know why John Mat Olivia, Miss; I can see that very plainly. You're ; by Miss Arundel's chair. He had i jealous of her.' 'Jealous of her '.' The bright color faded out of Mary March mont's face, and left her ashy pale. 'Do you like her, then ?' she asked. from every one. She was a paj^igon of goodnes; an uncan'onized saint, ever sacrificing herself for the benefit of others. . Perhaps he v.as thinking that such a woman as this would be the best friend he could win for his little girl. He turned from But Mr. Arundel wa^not such a coxcomb as to ; the county matrons, the tender, kindly, motherly catch at the secret so naively betrayed in that ; creatures, who would have been ready to take breathless question. little Mary to the loving shelter of their arms, 'IJfo, Polly,' he said, laugirmg; 'she's my cousin, and looked to Olivia Arundel — this cold, perfect you know, and I've knov/n her all my life; and .benefactress of tlie poor — for help in his diih- couiins are like sisters. One likes to tease and culty She who is so good to all her father's parish- ioners, could not refuse to be kind to my poor Mary,' he thought. But how was he to win this woman's friendshijt for his darling? He asked himself this question even in the midst of the frivolous people about him', and with the buzz of their conversatioif in his ears. He was perpetually tormenting himself aggravate them, and all that; but one doesn't fall in love with them. But 1 think 1 could mention somebody who thinks a great deal of Olivia.' 'Who ?■' ^ 'Your papa.' JMary lookdd at the young sold iciJVn utter bewil- derment. 'Papa'.' she echoed. 'Yes, Polly. How would you like a stcpmamma? about the future of his darling, which seemed How would you like your.papa to marry again ?' more dimly, perplexing now than it had ever ap- Mary Marchmont started to her feet as if she ] peared in Oakley Street, when the Lincolnshire w'ould have gone to her father in the midst of all ' property was a far-away dream, never to be re- those spectators. John was standing near Olivia ' alized. He felt that his brief lease of life was and her father, talking to them, and playing ner- j running out; he felt as if he and Mary had been vously with his slender watch-chain v/hen he ad- [ standing upon a narrow track of yellow sand, very dressed the young lady. < bright, very pleasant under the sunshine, but with 'My papa— marry again !' gasped Mary. 'How • the slow-coming tide rising like a wall about dare you say such a thing, Mr. Arundel)' Uhem, and creepmg stealthily onward to over- Her childish devotion to her father arose in all j "^^SS/^mTght gather bright-colored shells and its force; a flood of passionate emotion that over- sea-weed in her childish icnorance- but he whelmed her senhtive nature. Marry again !; ^«t^^„^^;7,Vl^h^^^ marry a woman who would separate h^^^^^ ^t heart with the dull hon-or of that onlv child ! Could he ever dream for one brief ) \^^^^^^- joom. If the black waters'had been only child ' moment of such a horrible cruelty i ^ , ^^^^^^ ^^ ^j^^^ ^^,^^ ^j^^^ ^^^^j^^ ^1^^ ^^^^^^, ^.^^^ She looked at Olivia's sternly handsome face have been content to go down under the sullen and trembled. She could almost picture that very ' ^aves, with his daughter clasped to his breast, woman standing between her and her father, and ; gy^ n ^as not to be so. He was to sink in that putting her away from him. Her indignation ) unknown stream, while she was left upon the tem- quickly melted into grief, indignation, however { pest-tossed surface, to be beaten hither and thither, intense, was always short-lived in that gentle na- i feebly battling with the stormy billows. tare. > Could John Marchmont be a' Christian, and yet 'Oh, Mr. Arundel 1' she said,piteously, apppal- \ feel this horrible dread of the death which must ing to the young man;, 'papa would never, never, J separate him from his daughter? I fear this frail, ucycr marry again— weuld he?' ' consumptiTe widower loved his child with an in- JOHN MAllCHMONT'S LEGACY. ^y tensity of afTcction that is scarcely reconcilable with Christianity. Such great passions as these must be put away before the cross can be taken up and the troublesome path followed. In all love and kindness toward his fellow-creatures, in all patient endurance of the pains and troubles that befell himself, it would liavc been diflicult to find a more single-hearted follower of Gospel teaching than John Marchmont; but in his all'ection for his motherless child he was a very pagan. He set up an idol for himself, and bowed himself before it. Doubtful and fearful of the future, he looked hopelessly forward. He could not trust his orphan child into the hands of vGod, and drop away him- self into the fathomless darkness, serene in tiie belief that she would be cared for and protected. No; he could not trust. He could be faithful for himself; simple and confiding as a child; but not for her. He saw the gloomy rocks lowering black in the distance; the pitiless waves beating far away yonder, impatient to devour the frail boat that was so soon to be left alone upon the waters. In the thick darkness of the future he could see no ray of light, except one — a new hope that had lately risen in his mind; the hope of winning ■some noble and perfect woman to be the future friend of his daughter. The days were past in which, in his simplicity, ho had looked to Edward Arundel as the future shelter of his child. The generous boy had grown into a stylish young man, a soldier, whose duty lay faraway from Marchmont Towers. No; it was to a good woman's guardianship the father must leave his child. Thus the very intensity of his love was the one motive which led John Marchmont to contemplate the step that Mary thought such a cruel and bitter wrong to her. It was not till long after the dinner-party at Marchmont Towers that these ideas resolved Ihemselves into any positive form, and that John began to think that lor his daughter's sake he might be led to contemplate a second marriage. Edward Arundel had spoken the truth when he told his cousin that John Marchmont hid repeat- «:dly mentioned her name; but the careless and impulsive young man had be en utterly unable to fathom the feeling lurking in his friend's mind. It was not Olivia Arundel's handsonie face which had won John's admiration; it was the constant reiteration of her praises upon every side which had led him to believe that thi.s woman, of all others, was the one whom be should win to be his child's friend and guardw.n in the dark days that were to come. The knowledge that Oli.via's intellect was of no common order, together with the somewhat im- perious dignity of her manner, strengthened this Itelief in John Marchmont's mind. It wa^ not a good woman only whom b.e must seek in the friend he needed for his child; jt was a woman powerful enough to shield her in thic lonely path she would have to tread; a woman strong enough to help her, perhaps, by-and-by, to do battle with Paul Marchmont. So, in the blind paganism of his love, John re- fused to trust his child into the hands of Provi- dence, and chose for himself a friend and guar- dian who should shelter Viis darling. He made his choice with so much deliberation, and after such long nights and days of earnest thouglit, that he may be forgiven if ho believed he had chosen wisely. Thus it was that in the dark November days, while Edward and Mary played chess by the wide fire-place in the western drawing-room, or ball in the newly-erected tennis-court, John March- mont sat in his study examining his papers, and calculating the amount of money at his own dis- posal, in serious contemplation of a second mar- riage. Did he love Olivia Arundel .- No. He admired her and respected her, and he firmly believed her to be the most perfect of women. No impulse had prompted the step he contemplated taking. He had loved his first wife truly and tenderly, but he had never sull'ered very acutely from any of those torturing emotions which form the sev- eral stages of»tlie great tragedy called Love. But had he ever thought of the likelihood of his deliberate olFer being rejected by the young lady v/ho had been the object of such careful consid- eration ? Yes; ho had thought of this, and was prepared to abide the issue. He should, at least, have tried his uttermost to secure a friend for hi-> darling. With such unloverliko feelings as these the ov/ner of Marchmont Towers drove into Swamp- ington one morning, deliberately bent upon offer- ing Olivia Arundel his hand. He had consulted with his land-steward, and with Messrs. Pauleltc, and had ascertained how far he could endow his bride with the goods of this world. It was not much that he could give her, for the estate was strictly entailed, but there would be his own saviligs for the brief term of his life, and if he lived only a few years these savings might accu- mulate to a considerable amount, so limited were the expenses of the quiet Lincolnshire household; and there was a bum of money, something over nine thousand pounds, left him iDy Philip March- , mont, senior. He had something, then, to oH'er to the woman he sought to make his wife, and, above all, he had a supreme belief in 01ivi;i Arundel's utter disinterestedness. He had seen her frequently since the dinner-p;^"ty, and had always seen. her the same — grave, reserved, dip, uified; patiently employed in the strict perform ance of her duty.' He found Miss Arundel sitting in her father';* . study, busily cutting out coarse garments for the , poor. A newly-written sermon lay open on the ; table. Had Mr. Marchmont looked closely at the manuscript, he would have seen that the ink was , wet and that tlic writing was Olivia's. It was a relief to this strange woman to write sermons sometimes — fierce ^denunciatory protests against the inherent wickedness of the human heart. Can you imagine a woman with a wicked heart stead- fastly trying lo do good, and to be good .- It is a dark and horrible picture, but it is the only true ; picture of the woman whom .John Marchmont sought to win for his wife. The interview between Mary's father and Olivia Arundel was not a very sentimental one, but it WHS certainly the very reverse of common-place. ; John was too simple-hijarted to disguise the pur- pose of his wooing. He pleaded not for a wife I for himscjf, but a mother for his orphan child. He talked of Mary's helplessness in the future, : not of his own love in the present. Carried av/ay \ by the egotism of his one affection, he let his mo- tives appear in all their nakedness. He spoke , long and earnestly; he spoke until the blinding tears in his eyes made the face of her he looked at seem blotted and dim. Miss Arundel watched liim as he pleaded ; 3U sternly, uuHinchingly. But she uttered no word until he had finished; and then, rising suddenly, with a dusky flush upon her face, she began to pace up and down the narrow room. She had for- gotten Jolin Marchmont. In the strength and vigor of her intellect this weak-minded widower, whose one passion was a pitiful love for his child, appeared so utterly insignificant that for a few moments she' had forgotten his presence in that room — his very existence, perhaps. She turned to him presently, and looked him full in the face. 'You do not love me, Mr. Marchmont ?' she said. . , , ,. 'Pardon me,' John stammered; 'believe me, Miss Arundel, I respect, I esteem you so much, that—' , . ^ ^ 'That you choose me as a fitting friend for your child. 1 understand. I am not the sort of wo- man to be loved. I have long comprehended that. My cousin Edward Arundel has often taken the trouble to tell me as much. And you wish me to be your wife in order that you may have a guar- dian for your child.? It is very much the "same thing as engaging a governess; only the engage- ment is to be more binding. ' 'Miss Arundel,' exclaimed John Marchmont. 'forgive me! You misunderstand me; indeed you do. Had I thought that I could have offended you—' , , I . 'I am not offended. You have spoken the truth where another man would have told a lie. 1 ought to be flattered by your confidence in me. It pleases me that people should think me good, and worthy of their trust. ' She broke into a weary sigh as she finished speaking. 'And you will not reject my appeal r • 'I scarcely know what to do,' answered Olivia, pressing her hand to her forehead. She leaned against the angle of the deep case- ment window, looking out at the bleak garden, desolate and neglected in the black winter weather. She was silent for some minutes. John March- mont did not interrupt her; he was content to wait patiently until she should choose to speak. 'Mr. Marchmont,' she said at last, turning upon poor John with an abrupt vehemence that almost startled him, 'I am three-and-twenty; and in the long, dull memory of the three-and-twenty years that have made ray life I can not look back upon one joy — no, so heip me Heaven, not one !' she cried passionately, lifting her hand toward the low ceiling as she spoke. No prisoner in the Bas- tile, shut in a cell below the level of the Seine, and making companions of rats and spiders in his misery, ever led a life more hopelessly narrow, more pitifully circumscribed than mine has been. These grass-grown streets have made the bound- ary of my existence. The flat fenny country round me is not flatter or more dismal than my life- You will say that I should take an interest in tiie duties which I do; and that they should be enough for mc. Heaven knows 1 have tried to do so- but my life is hard. Do you think there has been nothing in all this^o warp my nature? Do you'think, after hearing this, that I am the wo- man to be a second mother to your ohildr' . She sat down as she finished speaking, and her hands dropped listlessly in her lap. The unquiet spirit raging in her breast had been stronger than herself, and had spoken. She had lifted the dull veil through which the outer world beheld her, and had shown John Marchmont her natural face. »I think you are a good woman, Miss Arundel,' JOHN MARCHMONT'S^LEGAGY. ' he said, earnestly, 'hi had thought otherwise, il should not have come here to-day. I want a good woman to be kind to my child; kind to her v/hen I am dead and gone;' he added, in a lower voice. Olivia Arundel sat silent and motionless, look- ing straight before her out into the black dullness of the garden. She was trying to think out the ' dark problem of her life. Strange as it may seem, there was a certain ; fascination for her in John Marchmont 's offer. He offered her something, no matter what, it would be a change. She had compared herself to a prisoner in the Bastile; and 1 think she felt very ; much as such a prisoner might have felt upon hiM jailer's offering to remove him to Vincennes. The , new prison might be worse than the old one, per- haps; but it would be different. Life at March- ' mont Towers might be more monotonous, more : desolate than at Swampington; but it would be a new monotony, another desolation. Have you : never felt, when suffering the hideous throes of \ toothache, that it would be a relief to have the earache or the rheumatism — that variety even in ' torture would be agreeable ? Then again, Olivia Arundel, though unblessed ' with many of the charmsof womanhood, was not ') entirely without its weaknesses. To marry John i Marchmont would be to avenge herself upon Ed- ' ward Arundel. Alas ! she forgot how impossible \ it is to inflict a dagger-thrust upon him who is ' guarded by the impenetrable armor of indifler- ; encc. She saw herself the mistress of March: ; mont Tovv^ers, waited upon by liveried servants, courted, not patronized, by the country gentry, ■ avenged upon the mercenary aunt who had slighted her, who had bade her go out and get her living ( as a nursery governess. She saw this; and all ; that was ignoble in her nature arose, and urged her to snatch the chance offered her — the one f chance of lifting herself out of the horrible ob- scurity of her life. The ambition which might \ have made her an empress lowered its crest, and cried, 'Take this; at least it is something. ' But ; through all the better voices which she had en- ' listed to do battle with the natural voice of her soul cried 'This is a temptation of the devil; put ; it away from thee !' : But this temptation came to her at the very mo- ; mcnt when her life had become most intolerable; ' too intolerable to be borne, she thought. She ; knew now, fatally, certainly, that Edward Arun- ) del did not love her; that the one only day-dream ' she had ever made for herself had been a snare ' apd a delusion. That one dream had been the ■ single light of her life. That taken away from ; her, the darkness was blacker than the blackness ! of death; more horrible than the obscurity of the ; grave. In all the future she had not one hope; no, not ( one. She had loved Edward Arundel with all ( the strength of her soul; she had wasted a world } of intellect and passion upon this bright-haired . ^ boy. This foolish, groveling madness bad been i the blight of her life. i3ut for this she might have . grown out of her natural self by force of her ; conscientious desire to do right, and might have > become, indeed, a good and perfect woman. If I her life had been a wider one, this wasted love j would perhaps have shrunk into its proper insig- s nificance; she would have loved, and suffered, J and recovered, as so many of us recover from I this foolish epidemic. But all the volcanic forces ^of an impetuous naturei concentrated into one JOHN MARCHMONT'S LEGACY. 31 narrow focus, wasted themselves upon this one^ 'Will you be sorry when I am married, Rl - feeling, until what should have been a sentiment ; ward Arundel r' she murmured; 'will you he became a madness. ;; sorry. To think that in some far-away future time / ^^^ , she might cease to love Edward Arundel, and \ learn to love somebody else, would have seemed prp^D ty about as reasonable to Olivia as to hope that she ;■ CHAr IhK, 1\. could have new legs and arms in that distant • .^^jj^.^^ ^^^j^^ i ceask to be am, Ai.oyjr..-'- lime. She could cut away this fatal passion with - a desperate stroke, it maybe, just as she could ^ Hubert Arundei, was not so much surprised cut off her arm; but to believe that a new love / as might have been anticipated at the proposal would grow in its place was quite as absurd as to / made him by his wealthy neighbor. Edward believe in the growing of a new arm. Some ;; Arundel .had prepared his uncle for the possi- cork montrosity might replace the amputated ^ bility of such a proposal by sundry jocose allu- limb; some sham aii^d simulated affection might ;: sions and arch hints upon the subject of John succeed the old love. / Marchmont's admiration for Olivia. The frank Olivia Arundel thought of all these things in i] and rather frivolous joung man thought it >yas about ten minutes, by the little skeleton clock : l>>s cousin's l>andsome face that had captivated upon the mantle-peee, and while John March- : the master of Marchmont Towers and w^^^^^^^^ mont waited very patiently for some definite an- > unable to fa horn the hidden motne underlying swcr'to his appeil. Iler mind came back at s all Johns talk about Miss ArundeK^ ^ ^^ last, after all its passionate wanderings, to the ■, ^he Rector of Swampington being a s.mp^^^^^^ rigid channel she had so laboriously woni for it- hearted and not ;.e'-y /^/'^^f "? . 7"' ^^Ji^f the narrow groove of duty. Ilcr first words tes- «od heartily for the chance that had befalle, iifipfl fhU "J ^ ; his daughter. She would be well off and well cared tmeaims. ■ for, then, by the mercy of Providence, in spite 'If I accept this responsibility I will perform ^f ^j^ ^^j, shortcomings, which had left her with it faithfully,' she said; rather to herself than to ,; ^^ ^,p^^p^. pro^^^jsion for the future than a pitiful Mr. Marchmont. ; poij^y upon her father's life. She would be well 'I am sure you will, Miss Arundd,' John an-, provided for henceforward, and would live in u swered, eagerly; 'I am sure you will. You mean ;: handsome house; and all those noble qualities to undertake it, then r you mean to consider my ;• which had been dwarfed and crippled in a nar- offer.-" May I speak to your father .•' may 1 tell % row sphere would now expand, and display them- him that 1 have spoken to you r may 1 say that ; selves in unlooked-for grandeur, you have given me a hope of your ultimate con- s 'People have called her a good girl,' he sent?' ;• thought; 'but how could they ever know her 'Yes, yes,' Olivia said, rather impatiently;' goodness, unless they had seen, as I have, the •speak to my father; tell him any thing you ; horrible deprivations she has borne so uncom- please. Let him decide for me; it is my duty to :plainingly? obey him.' " John Marchmont, being newly instructed by mu . ui J- • 41 • 'M- • his lawver, was able to give Mr. Arundel a very There was a terrible cowardice m this. Ohvia ; ^ ^^^ement of the p^rovision be could make Arundel shrank from marrying a ^an she dm ; ^ , ^ 'J,^ could settle upon her not love, prompted by no better desire than he , « ^ ^^„j^ ,^fj ^i^ by'phillip mad wish to wrench herself away from her haled ; ^j^,,,,^,ont. He would alrt,w her five hundre.l life She wanted to fling he burden of respon-; pj^.n^oney during his lifetime; he woul.l s.bility in this matter away Irom her. Letanother f J J ^^. ^J ^^°,,i^ ^^^,^ ^^^ he would decide; let another urge her to do this wrong; ^^^^S- his life for her benelh. and let tbe wrong be called a sacrifice. ; ^^^ ^^^^^,^^ ^^. ^hes?" savings would, of course. So for the first time she set to work delib- ^(^epend upon the length of .John's life; but the erately to cheat her own conscience. For the firsi ' jnopgy would accumulate very quickly, as his time she put a false mark upon the standard she income was eleven thousand a year, and his ex- had made for the measurement of her moral ' pciditure was not likely to exceed three, progress. T^g Swampington living was worth little She sank into a crouching altitude on a low ' ^ore than three hundred and fifty pounds a stool by the fire-place, in utter prostj-ation lol ..gar; and out of that sum Hubert Arundel and body and mind, when John Marchmont had left 1,^ daughter had done treble as much good for her. She let her weary head fall heavily against the numcrous'poor of the parish as ever had been the carved oaken shall that supported the old- , gphieved by any previous Kector or his family, fashioned mantle-piece, lieedless that her brow / Hubert and his daughter bad patiently endured struck sharply against the corner of tlie wood-! the most grinding poverty, the burden ever fall- work. / i„g heavi(!r on Olivia, who had the heroic facifllv If she could have died then, with no more sin-, of endurance as regards all physical di-^cnin' ful secret than a woman's natural weakness hid- 'fort. Cm it be wondered, then, that Ihe Hrc den in her breast— if she could have died then, | tor of Swampington thought the prospect oflered while yet the first step upon lla- dark pathway to his child a very brilliant one? Can it be won of her life was untrodden— how happy for her-/(jpred that he urged his daughter to accept this self, how happy for others! How nuserable a ^ jiiered lot? record of sin and suffering might have remained i He did urge her, pleading John Marchmonl's unwritten in the history of v,om:iii's life! cause'a great deal more warmly than the wid- iower had himself plesded. She sat long in the same altitude. Once, and <