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A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
% Novel.
BY
Miss MULOCH.
AUTHOR OPF JOHN HALIFAX, G  uxLMAI," "AGATHA'S HUSBAND,"
"OLIVE," "THE OGILVIES," ETC.
"I some not to all the righteous, but sinners, to repentanoe."
NEW   YORK:
Carleton, Publifher, 4         3 Broadway.
M DCCC LXVI.




SPLENDID NOVELS.
lPblished uniform with this volume, Price $1.75 eb.
By Miss Muloch.
JOHN HALIFAX, Gentleman.
A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
By Charlotte Bronte (" Currer Bell").
JANE EYRE,
THE PROFESSOR.
SHIRLEY,
VILLETTE.
These novels rank among the very best fictions, and their popularity is
immense. Their sale is counted by tiweun ds, and their readers
by tens of thousands. The demani ixteting for a library
style is so great that these new editions have been
issued. Copies will be sent by mail, r, on
receipt of price, $1.75,
by
CARLETON, Publishers
New York.




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
CHAPTER I.
HER STORY.
YES, I hate soldiers.
I can't help writing it-it relieves my mind. All morning have we been driving about that horrid region into
which our beautiful, desolate moor has been transmogrified;
round and round; up and down; in at the south camp and
out at the north camp; directed hither and thither by
muddle-headed privates; stared at by puppyish young
officers; choked with chimney-smoke; jolted over roads
laid with ashes-or no roads at all-and pestered every
where with the sight of lounging, lazy, red groups-that
color is becoming to me a perfect eye-sore! What a treat
it is to get home and lock myself in my own room-the
tiniest and safest nook in all Rockmount-and spurt out
my wrath in the blackest of ink with the boldest of pens.
Bless you! (query, who can I be blessing, for nobody will
ever read this), what does it matter? And after all, I repeat, it relieves my mind.
I do hate soldiers. I always did, from my youth up, till
the war in the East startled every body like a thunder-clap.
What a time it was-this time two years ago! How the
actual romance of each day, as set down in the newspapers,
made my old romances read like mere balderdash: how the
present, in its infinite piteousness, its tangible horror, and
the awfulness of what they called its "glory," cast the
tame past altogether into shade! Who read history then,
or novels, or poetry? Who read any thing but that fearful "Times?"
And now it is all gone by: we have peace again; and
this 20th of September, 1856, I begin with my birthday a
new journal (capital one, too, with a first-rate lock and key,
saved out of my summer bonnet, which I didn't buy).
Nor need I spoil the day-as once-by crying over those,
who, two years since,




6               A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
"Went up
Red Alma's heights to glory."
Conscience, tender over dead heroes, feels not the smallest compunction in writing the angry initiatory line, when
she thinks of that odious camp which has been established
near us, for the education of the military mind, and the
hardening of the military body. Whence red-coats swarm
out over the pretty neighborhood like lady-birds over the
hop gardens-harmless, it is true, yet for ever flying in
one's face in the most unpleasant manner, making inroads
through one's parlor windows, and crawling over one's teatable. Wretched red insects! except that the act would
be murder, I often wish I could put half a dozen of them,
swords, epaulets, mustaches, and all, under the heel of my
shoe.
Perhaps this is obstinacy, or the love of contradiction.
No wonder. Do I hear of any thing but soldiers from
morning till night? At visits or dinner-parties cal I speak
to a soul-and'tis not much I do speak to any body-but
that she (I use the pronoun advisedly) is sure to bring in
with her second sentence something about "the camp!"
I'm sick of the camp. Would that my sisters were!
For Lisabel, young and handsome, there is some excuse,
but Penelope-she ought to know better.
Papa is determined to go with us to the Grantons' ball
to-night. I wish there were no necessity for it; and have
suggested as strongly as I could that we should stay at
home. But what of that?  Nobody minds me. Nobody
ever did that I ever remember. So poor papa is to be
dragged out from his cozy arm-chair, jogged and tumbled
across these wintery moors, and stuck up solemn in a forner of the drawing-room-being kept carefully out of the
card-room because he happens to be a clergyman. And all
the while he will wear his politest and most immovable of
smiles, just as if he liked it. Oh, why can not people say
what they mean and do as they wish? Why must they
be tied and bound with horrible c)ains of etiquette even at
the age of seventy! Why can not he say, " Girls" (no, of
course he would say "young ladies"), "I had far rather
stay at home; go you and enjoy yourselves," or better still,
"go, two of you, but I want Dora?"
No, he never will say that. He never did want any
of us much; me less than any. I am neither eldest nor
youngest, neither Miss Johnston nor Miss Lisabel, only




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.               7
Miss Dora-Theodora —" the gift of God," as my little bit
of Greek taught me. A gift-what for and to whom?
I declare, since I was a baby, since I was a little solitary
ugly child, wondering if I ever had a mother like other
children, since even I have been a woman grown, I never
have been able to find out.
Well, I suppose it is no use to try to alter things. Papa
will go his own way, and the girls theirs. They think the
grand climax of existence is " society;" he thinks the same,
at least for young women, properly introduced, escorted,
and protected there. So, as the three Misses Johnstonsweet, fluttering doves!-have no other chaperon or protector, he makes a martyr of himself on the shrine of paternal duty, alias respectability, and goes.
The girls here called me down to admire them. Yes,
they looked extremely well; Lisabel, majestic, slow, and
fair; I doubt if any thing in this world would disturb the
equanimity of her sleepy blue eyes and soft-tempered
mouth-a large, mild, beautiful animal, like a white Brahmin cow. Very much admired is our Lisabel, and no
wonder. That white bar6ge will kill half the officers in the
camp. She was going to put on her pink one, but I suggested how ill pink would look against scarlet, and so, after
a series of titters, Miss Lisa took my advice. She is evidently bent upon looking her best to-night.
Penelope, also: but I wish Penelope would not wear
such airy dresses, and such a quantity of artificial flowers,
while her curls are so thin and her cheeks so sharp. She
used to have very pretty hair ten years ago. I remember
being exceedingly shocked and fierce about a curl of hers
that I saw stolen in the summer-house, by Francis Charteris,
before we found out that they were engaged.
She rather expected him to-night, I fancy. Mrs. Granton
was sure to have invited him with us; but, of course, he
has not come. He never did come, in my recollection,
when he said he would..
I ought to go and dress; but I can do it in ten minutes,
and it is not worth while wasting more time. Those two
girls-what a capital foil each makes to the other! little,
dark, lively-not to say satirical; large, amiable, ahd fair.
Papa ought to be proud of them-I suppose he is.
Heigho!'Tis a good thing to be good-looking. And next
best, perhaps, is downright ugliness-nice, interesting,




8               A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
attractive ugliness-such as I have seen in some women;
nay, I have somewhere read that ugly women have often
been loved best.
But to be just ordinary; of ordinary height, ordinary
figure, and, oh me! let me lift up my head from the desk
to the looking-glass, and take a good stare at an undeniably
ordinary face.'Tis not pleasant. Well; I am as I was
made; let me not undervalue myself, if only out of reverence for Him who made me.
Surely-Captain Treherne's voice below. Does that
young man expect to be taken to the ball in bur fly?
Truly, he is making himself one of the family already.
And there is papa calling us. What will papa say?
Why, he said nothing; and Lisabel, as she swept slowly
down the staircase with a little silver lamp in her right
hand, likewise said nothing; but she looked"Every body is lovely to somebody," says the proverb.
Query, if somebody I could name should live to the age of
Methuselah, will she ever be lovely to any body?
What nonsense! Bravo! thou wert in the right of it,
jolly miller of Dee!
" I care for nobody, no, not I;
And nobody cares for me."
So, let me lock up my desk and dress for the ball.
*      *      *      *      *     *      *
Really, not a bad ball; even now-when looked at in the
light of next day's quiet-with the leaves stirring lazily in
the fir-tree by my window, and the broad sunshine brightening the moorlands far away.
Not a bad ball, even to me, who usually am stoically contemptuous of such senseless amusements; doubtless from
the mean motive that I like dancing, and am rarely asked
to dance; that I am just five-and-twenty, and get no more
attention than if I were five*and-forty. Of course, I protest
continually that I don't care a pin for this fact (mem. mean
again). For I do care-at the very bottom of my heart, I
do. Many a time have I leaned my head here-good old
desk, you will tell no tales! and cried, actually cried-with
the pain of being neither pretty, agreeable, nor young.
Moralists say, it is in every woman's power to be in a
measure all three: that when she is not liked or admiredby some few at least-it is a sign that she is neither likeable nor admirable. Therefore, I suppose I am neither.
Probably very disagreeable. Penelope often says so, in




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.               9
her sharp, and Lisabel in her lazy way. Lis would apply
the same expression to a gnat on her wrist, or a dagger
pointed at her heart. A "thoroughly amiable woman!"
Now, I never was-never shall be-an amiable woman.
To return to the ball-and really I would not mind returning to it and having it all over again, which is more
than one can say of many hours of our lives, especially of
those which roll on rapidly as hours seem to roll after fiveand-twenty. It was exceedingly amusing. Large, well-lit
rooms, filled with well-dressed people; we do not often make
such a goodly show in our country entertainments; but
then the Grantons know every body, and invite every
body. Nobody would do that but dear old Mrs. Granton,
and "my Colin," who, if he has not three pennyworth of
brains, has the kindest heart and the heaviest purse in the
whole neighborhood.
I am sure Mrs. Granton must have felt proud of her
handsome suite of rooms, quite a perambulatory parterre,
boasting all the hues of the rainbow, subdued by the proper
complement of inevitable black. By-and-by, as the evening
advanced, dot after dot of the adored scarlet made its appearance round the doors, and circulating gradually round
the room, completed the coloring of the scene.
They were most effective when viewed at a distancethese scarlet dots. Some of them were very young and
very small; wore their short hair-regulation cut-exceedingly straight, and did not seem quite comfortable in
their clothes.
" Militia, of course," I overheard a lady observe, who
apparently knew all about it. "None of our officers wear
uniform when they can avoid it."
But these young lads seemed uncommonly proud of
theirs, and strutted and sidled about the door, very valorous and magnificent, until caught and dragged to their
destiny-in the shape of some fair partner'; when they immediately relapsed into shyness and awkwardness-nay, I
might add-stupidity; but were they not the. hopeful defenders of their country, and did not their noble swords lie
idle at this moment on the safest resting-place-Mrs. Granton's billiard-table?
I watched the scene out of my corner in a state of
dreamy amusement; mingled with a vague curiosity as
to how long I should be left to sit solitary there, and
whether it would be very dull, if "with gazing fed"-inA 2




10              A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
eluding a trifle of supper-I thus had to spend the entire
evening.
Mrs. Granton came bustling up.
" iMy dear girl-are you not dancing?"
"Apparently not," said I, laughing, and trying to catch
her, and make room for her. Vain attempt! Mrs. Granton
never will sit down while there is any thing that she thinks
can be done for any body. In a moment she would have
been buzzing all round the room like an amiable bee in
search of some unfortunate youth upon whom to inflict me
as a partner-but not even my desire of dancing would allow me to sink so low as that.
For safety I ran after, and attacked the good old lady
on one of her weak points. Luckily she caught the bait,
and we were soon safely landed on the great blanket, beef,
and anti-beer distribution question, now shaking our parish
to its very foundations. I am ashamed to say, though the
rector's daughter, it is very little I know about our parish.
And though at first I rather repented of my ruse, seeing
that Mrs. Granton's deafness made both her remarks and
my answers most unpleasantly public, gradually I became
so interested in what she was telling me, that we must have
kept on talking for nearly twenty minutes, when some one
called the old lady away.
" Sorry to leave you, Miss Dora, but I leave you in good
company," she said, nodding and smiling to some people
behind the sofa, with whom she probably thought I was
acquainted; but I was not, nor had the slightest ambition
for that honor. Strangers at a ball have rarely any thing
to say worth saying or hearing. So I never turned my
head, and let Mrs. Granton trot away.
My mind and eyes followed her with a half sigh, considering whether at sixty I shall have half the activity, or
cheerfulness, or kindness, of her dear old self.
No one broke in upon my meditations. Papa's white
head was visible in a distant doorway; for the girls, they
had long since vanished in the whirligig. I caught at times
a glimpse of Penelope's rose-clouds of tarletan, her pale
face, and ever smiling white teeth, that contrast ill with
her restless black eyes; it is always rather painful to me to
watch my eldest sister at parties. And now and then Miss
Lisabel came floating, moon-like, through the room, almost
obscuring young, slender Captain Treherne, who yet appeared quite content in his occultation. He also seemed




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.              11
to be of my opinion that scarlet and white were the best
mixture of colors, for I did not see him make the slightest
attempt to dance with any lady but Lisabel.
Several people, I noticed, looked at them and smiled;
and one lady whispered something about "poor clergyman's daughter" and "Sir William Treherne."
I felt hot to my very temples. Oh, if we were all in
Paradise, or a nunnery, or some place where there was
neither thinking nor making of marriages!
I determined to catch Lisa when the waltz was done,
She waltzes well, even gracefully, for a tall woman-but I
wished, I wished-my wish was cut short by a collision
which made me start up with an idea of rushing to the
rescue; however, the next moment Treherne and she had
recovered their balance and were spinning on again. Of
course I sat down immediately.
But my looks must be terrible tell-tales, since some one
behind me said, as plain as if in answer to my thoughts,
"Pray be satisfied; the lady could not have been in the
least hurt."
I was surprised; for, though the voice was polite, even
kind, people do not, at least in our country society, address
a lady without an introduction. I answered civilly, of
course, but it must have been with some stiffness of manner, for the gentleman said,
"Pardon me; I concluded it was your sister who slipped, and that you were uneasy about her," bowed, and immediately moved away.
I felt uncomfortable; uncertain whether to take any more
notice of him or not; wondering who it was that had used
the unwonted liberty of speaking to me-a stranger-and
whether it would have been committing myself in any way
to venture more than a bow or a "Thank you."
At last common-sense settled the matter.
" Dora Johnston," thought I, " do not be a simpleton.
Do you consider yourself so much better than your fellowcreatures that you hesitate at returning a civil answer to a
civil remark-meant kindly too-because you, forsooth,
like the French gentleman who was entreated to save another gentleman from drowning-' should have been most
happy, but have never been introduced.' What! girl, is
this your scorn of conventionality-your grand habit of
thinking and judging for yourself-your noble independence of all the follies of society? Fie! fie I"




12              A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
To punish myself for my cowardice, I determined to turn
round and look at the gentleman.
The punishment was not severe. He had a good face,
brown and dark; a thin, spare, wiry figure; an air somewhat formal. His eyes were grave, yet not without a
lurking spirit of humor, which seemed to have clearly penetrated and been rather amused by my foolish embarrassment and ridiculous indecision. This vexed me for the
moment; then I smiled-we both smiled, and began to
talk.
Of course, it would have been different had he been a
young man, but he was not. I should think he was nearly
forty.
At this moment Mrs. Granton came up, with her usual
pleased look when she thinks other people are pleased with
one another, and said, in that friendly manner that makes
every body else feel friendly together also,
"A partner, I see. That's right, Miss Dora. You shall
have a quadrille in a minute, Doctor."
Doctor! I felt relieved. He might have been worseperhaps, from his beard, even a camp officer.
" Our friend takes things too much for granted," he said,
smiling. "I believe I must introduce myself. My name is
Urquhart."
"Doctor Urquhart?"
"Yes."
Here the quadrille began to form, and I to button my
gloves not discontentedly. He said,
" I fear I am assuming a right on false pretenses, for I
never danced in my life. You do, I see. I must not detain you from another partner." And, once again, my unknown friend, who seemed to have such extreme penetration into my motives and intentions, moved aside.
Of course I got no partner-I never do. When the doctor reappeared, I was unfeignedly glad to see him. He took
no notice whatever of my humiliating state of solitude, but
sat down in one of the dancers' vacated places, and resumed the thread of our conversation as if it had never been
broken.
Often, in a crowd, two people not much interested therein, fall upon subjects perfectly extraneous, which at once
make them feel interested in these and in each other. Thus,
it seems quite odd this morning to think of the multiplicity
of heterogeneous topics which Dr. Urquhart discussed last




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             13
night. I gained from him much various information. He
must have been a great traveler, and observer too; and for
me, I marvel now to recollect how freely I spoke my mind
on many things which I usually keep to myself, partly from
shyness, partly because nobody here at home cares one
straw about them. Among others came the universal theme
-the war.
I said, I thought the three much-laughed-at Quakers, who
went to advise peace to the Czar Nicholas, were much nearer the truth than many of their mockers. War seemed to
me so utterly opposed to Christianity that I did not see
how any Christian man could ever become a soldier.
At this, Dr. Urquhart leaned his elbow on the arm of the
sofa, and looked me steadily in the face.
"Do you mean that a Christian man is not to defend his
own life or liberty, or that of others, under any circumstances? or is he to wear a red coat peacefully while peace
lasts, and at his first battle throw down his musket, shoulder
his Testament, and walk away?"
These words, though of a freer tone than I was used to,
were not spoken in any irreverence. They puzzled me. I
felt as if I had been playing the oracle upon a subject whereon I had not the least ground to form an opinion at all.
Yet I would not yield.
" Dr. Urquhart, if you recollect, I said' become a soldier.'
How, being already a soldier, a Christian' man should act, I
am not wise enough to judge. But I do think, other professions being open, for him to choose voluntarily the profession of arms, and to receive wages for taking away life,
is at best a monstrous anomaly. Nay, however it may be
glossed over and refined away, surely, in face of the plain
command,' Thou shalt not kill,' military glory seems little
better than a picturesque form of murder."
I spoke strongly-more strongly perhaps than a young
woman, whose opinions are more instincts and emotions
than matured principles, ought to speak. If so, Dr. Urquhart gave me a fitting rebuke by his total silence.
Nor did he for some time, even so much as look at me,
but bent his head down till I could only catch the foreshortened profile of forehead, nose, and curly beard. Certainly, though a mustache is mean, puppyish, intolerable,
and whiskers not much better, there is something fine and
manly in a regular Oriental beard.
Dr. Urquhart spoke at last.




14              A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
" So, as I overheard you say to Mrs. Granton, you'hate
soldiers.''Hate' is a strong word-for a Christian woman."
My own weapons turned upon me.
" Yes, I hate soldiers because my principles, instincts, observations, confirm me in the justice of my dislike. Inpeace,
they are idle, useless, extravagant, cumberers of the country-the mere butterflies of society. In war-you know
what they are."
"Do I?" with a slight smile.
I grew more angry.
"In truth had I ever had a spark of military ardor, it
would have been quenched within the last year. I never
see a thing-we'll not say a man-with a red coat on, who
does not make himself thoroughly contempt-"
The word stuck in the middle. For lo! there passed
slowly by my sister Lisabel; leaning on the arm of Captain
Treherne, looking as I never saw Lisabel look before. It
suddenly rushed across me what might happen-perhaps
had happened. Suppose, in thus rashly venting my prejudices, I should be tacitly condemning my-what an odd
idea! - my brother-in-law? Pride, if no better feeling,
caused me to hesitate.
Dr. Urquhart said, quietly enough, " I should tell youindeed, I ought to have told you before-that I am myself
in the army."
I am sure I looked-as I felt-like a downright fool.
This comes, I thought, of speaking one's mind, especially
to strangers. Oh! should lever learn to hold my tongue,
or gabble pretty harmless nonsense as other girls? Why
should I have talked seriously to this man at all? I knew
nothing of him, and had no business to be interested in
him, or even to have listened to him-my sister would say
-until he had been "properly introduced;" until I knew
where he lived, and who were his father and mother, and
what was his profession, and how much income he had a
year.
Still, I did feel interested, and could not help it. Something it seemed that I was bound to say: I wished it to be
civil if possible.
" But you are Dr. Urquhart. An army-surgeon is scarce
ly like a soldier; his business is to save life rather than to
destroy it. Surely you never could have killed any body?"
The moment I had put the question I saw how childish
and uncalled for-in fact, how actually impertinent it was.




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.              15
Covered with confusion, I drew back, and looked another
way. It was the greatest relief imaginable when just then
Lisabel saw me, and came up with Captain Treherne, all
smiles, to say, was it not the pleasantest party imaginable 
and who had I been dancing with?
"Nobody."
"Nay, I saw you myself talking to some strange gentleman. Who was he? A rather odd-looking person, and-"
" Hush, please. It was a Dr. Urquhart."
" Urquhart of ours?" cried young Treherne. " Why, he
told me he should not come, or should not stay ten minutes
if he came. Much too solid for this kind of thing-eh, you
see? Yet a capital fellow. The best fellow in all the world.
Where is he?"
But the "best fellow in all the world" had entirely disappeared.
I enjoyed the rest of the evening extremely-that is, pretty well. Not altogether, now I come to think of it, for
though I danced to my heart's content, Captain Treherne
seeming eager to bring up his whole regiment, successively, for my patronage and Penelope's (N.B. not Lisabel's),
whenever I caught a distant glimpse of Dr. Urquhart's
brown beard, conscience stung me for my folly and want
of tact. Dear me! What a thing it is that one can so seldom utter an honest opinion without offending somebody.
Was he really offended? He must have seen that I did
not mean any harm; nor does he look like one of those
touchy people who are always, wincing as if they trod on
the tails of imaginary adders. Yet he made no attempt to
come and talk to me again; for. which I was sorry; partly
because I would have liked to make him some amends, and
partly because he seemed the only man present worth talking to.
I do wonder more and more what my sisters can find in
the young men they dance and chatter with. To me they
are inane, conceited, absolutely unendurable. Yet there
may be good in some of them. May? Nay, there must
be good in every human being. Alas, me! Well might
Dr. Urquhart say last night that there are no judgments so
harsh as those of the erring, the inexperienced, and the
young.
I ought to add that, when we were wearily waiting for
our fly to draw up to the hall door, Dr. Urquhart suddenly
appeared. Papa had Penelope on his arm; Lisabel was




16              A LIFE FOB A LIFE.
whispering with Captain Treherne. Yes, depend upon it,
that young man will be my brother-in-law. I stood by myself in the doorway, looking out on the pitch-dark night,
when some one behind me said,
" Pray stand within shelter. You young ladies are never
half careful enough of your health. Allow me."
And with a grave professional air, my medical friend
wrapped me closely up in my shawl.
"A plaid, I see. That is sensible. There is nothing for
warmth like a good plaid," he said, with a smile, which,
even had it not been for his name, and a slight strengthening and broadening of his English, scarcely amounting to
an accent, would have pretty well showed what part of the
kingdom Dr. Urquhart came from. I was going, in my
bluntness, to put the direct question, but felt as if I had
committed myself quite enough for one night.
Just then was shouted out " Mr. Johnson's,"-(oh dear!
shall we ever get the aristocratic t into our plebeian name?)
-" Mr. Johnson's carriage," and I was hurried into the fly.
Not by the doctor, though; he stood like a bear on the
doorstep, and never attempted to stir.
That's all.
CHAPTER II.
HIS STORY.
Hospital Memoranda, Sept. 21st.-Private William Carter, set. 24; admitted a week to-day. Gastric fever-typhoid form-slight delirium-bad case. Asked me to write
to his mother; did not say where. Mem.: to inquire
among his division if any thing is known about his friends.
Corporal Thomas Hardman, set. 50-Delirium tremensmending. Knew him in the Crimea, when he was a perfectly sober fellow, with constitution of iron. "Trench
work did it," he says, " and last winter's idleness." Mem.:
to send for him after his discharge from hospital, and see
what can be done; also to see that decent body, his wife,
after my rounds to-morrow.
M. U.-Max Urquhart-Max Urquhart, M.D., M.R.C.S.
Who keeps scribbling his name up and down this paper
like a silly school-boy, just for want of something to do.




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.              17
Something to do! never for these twenty years and more
have I been so totally without occupation.
What a place this camp is! Worse than ours in the
Crimea, by far. To-day especially. Rain pouring, wind
howling, mud ankle-deep; nothing on earth for me to be,
to do, or to suffer, except-yes! there is something to suffer-Treherne's eternal flute.
Faith, I must be very hard up for occupation when I
thus continue this journal of my cases into a personal diary
of the worst patient I have to deal with-the most thankless, unsatisfactory, and unkindly. Physician, heal thyself!
But how?
I shall tear out this page-or stay, I'll keep it as a remarkable literary and psychological fact-and go on with
my article on Gunshot Wounds.
In the which, two hours after, I find I have written exactly ten lines.
These must be the sort of circumstances under which
people commit journals. For some do-and heartily as I
have always contemned the proceeding, as we are prone to
contemn peculiarities and idiosyncrasies quite foreign to
our own, I begin to-day dimly to understand the state of
mind in which such a thing might be possible.
" Diary of a Physician" shall I call it? Did not some
one write a book with that title? I picked it up on shipboard-a story-book or some such thing-but I scarcely
ever read what is called " light literature." I have never
had time. Besides, all fictions grow tame compared to the
realities of daily life, the horrible episodes of crime, the
pitiful bits of hopeless misery that I meet with in my profession. Talk of romance!
Was I ever romantic? Once, perhaps. Or at least I
might have been.
My profession, truly there is nothing like it for me.
Therein I find incessant work, interest, hope. Daily do I
thank heaven that I had courage to seize on it and go
through with it, in order-according to the phrase I heard
used last night-" to save life instead of destroying it."
Poor little girl-she meant nothing-she had no idea
what she was saying.
Is it that which makes me so unsettled to-day?
Perhaps it would be wiser never to go into society. A
hospital Ward is far more natural to me than a ball-room.




18              A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
There, is work to be done, pain to be alleviated, evil of all
kinds to be met and overcome-here, nothing but pleasure,
nothing to do but to enjoy.
Yet some people can enjoy, and actually do so; I am
sure that girl did. Several times during the evening she
looked quite happy. I do not often see people looking
happy.
Is suffering, then, our normal and natural state? Is to
exist synonymous with to endure? Can this be the law
of a beneficent Providence? or are such results allowed to
happen in certain exceptional cases, utterly irremediable
and irretrievable, likeWhat am I writing? What am I daring to write?
Physician, heal thyself. And surely that is one of a
physician's first duties. A disease struck inward-the
merest tyro knows how fatal is treatment which results in
that. It may be I have gone on the wrong track altogether,
at least since my return to England.
The present only is a man's possession; the past is gone
out of his hand, wholly, irrevocably. He may suffer from
it, learn from it-in degree, perhaps, expiate it; but to
brood over it is utter madness.
Now, I have had many cases of insanity, both physical
and moral, so to speak. I call moral insanity that kind of
disease which is superinduced on comparatively healthy
minds by dwelling incessantly on one idea; the sort of
disease which you find in women who have fallen into
melancholy from love-disappointments; or in men for overweening ambition, hatred, or egotism-which latter, carried
to a high pitch, invariably becomes a kind of insanity. All
these forms of monomania, as distinguished from physical
mania, disease of the structure of the brains I have studied
with considerable interest and corresponding success. My
secret was simple enough; one which Nature herself often
tries and rarely fails in-the law of substitution; the slow
eradication of any fixed idea, by supplying others, under
the influence of which the original idea is, at all events
temporarily, laid to sleep.
Why can not I try this plan? Why not do for myself
what I have so many times prescribed and done for others?
It was with some notion of the kind that I went to this
ball, after getting a vague sort of curiosity in Treherne's
anonymous beauty, about whom he has so long been raving




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.              19
to me, boy-like. Ay, with all his folly, the lad is an honest
lad. I should not like him to come to any harm.
The tall one must have been the lady, and the smaller,
the plainer, though the pleasanter to my mind, was no
doubt her sister. And, of course, the name of both was
Johnson.
What a name to startle a man so-to cause him to stand
like a fool at that hall door, with his heart dead still, and
all his nerves quivering! To make him now, in the mere
writing of it, pause and compel himself into common sense
by rational argument-by meeting the thing, be it chimerical or not, face to face, as a man ought to do. Yet as cowardly, in as base a paroxysm of terror, as if likewise face to
face, in my hut corner, stoodHere I stopped. Shortly afterward I was summoned to
the hospital where I have been ever since. William Carter
is dead. He will not want his mother now. What a small
matter life or death seems when one comes to think of it.
What an easy exchange!
Is it I who am writing thus, and on the same leaf which,
closed up in haste when I was fetched to the hospital, I
have just had such an anxious search for, that it might be
instantly burned? Yet I find there is nothing in it that
I need have feared; nothing that could in any way havy
signified to any body, unless, perhaps, the writing of th
one name.
Shall I never get over this absurd folly-this abr
monomania!-when there are hundreds of the sami
to be met with every day; when, after all, it is no
the name!
Yet this is what it cost me. Let me write it
the confession in plain English of such utter
in degree have the same effect as when I havw
desired a patient to recount to me, one by 
of his delusions, in order that, in the mer
they might perhaps vanish.
I went away from that hall door at
nor do I think for my life I could'
that would have set all doubt a
country, up and down, along re
knew whither, for miles, follo"
seemed to rise just as she didyears, ten months, all but tv'
rect, no fear! She lifted?




20              A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
long level waves of moor, till she sat, blood-red, upon the
horizon, with a stare which there was nothing to break,
nothing to hide from-nothing between her and me but
the plain and the sky-just as it was that night.
What am I writing? Is the old horror coming back
again? It can not. It must be kept at bay.
A knock-ah! I see; it is the sergeant of poor Carter's
company. I must return to daily work, and labor is lifeto me.
CHAPTER III.
HIS STORY.
Sept. 30th. Not a case to set down to-day. This high
moorland is your best sanatorium. My "occupation's
gone."
I have every satisfaction in that fact, or in the cause of
it; which, cynics might say, a member of my profession
would easily manage to prevent, were he a city physician
instead of a regimental surgeon. Still, idleness is insupportable to me. I have tried going about among the few
villages hard by, but their worst disease is one to which
this said regimental surgeon, with nothing but his pay, can
i,pply but small remedy-poverty.
To-day I have paced the long, straight lines of the camp;
n the hospital to the bridge, and back again to the hos-; have tried to take a vivid interest in the loungers,.t-ball players, and the wretched awkward squad
ut in never-ending parade. With each hour of the
t mn afternoon I have watched the sentinel mount
tockaded hillock, and startle the camp with the
boom of the great Sebastopol bell. Then, I
hut door, taken to my books, and studied till
i me to stop.
ost-but only business letters. I rarely
~ have no one to write to me-r-no one to'een driven to wish I had; some one
~uld be possible to talk in pen and,n business. Yet, cui bono? to no
~ let out my real self: the only
truly and absolutely me would
"Max Urquhart."




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.              21
Were it otherwise-were there any human being to
whom I could lay open my whole heart, trust with my
whole history; but no, that were utterly impossible now.
No more of this.
No more until the end. That end, which at once solves
all difficulties, every year brings nearer. Nearly forty, and
a doctor's life is usually shorter than most men's. I shall
be an old man soon, even if there come none of those sudden chances against which I have of course provided.
The end. How and in what manner it is to be done, I am
not yet clear. But it shall be done, before my death or after.
" Max Urquhart, M.D."
I go on signing my name mechanically with those two
business-like letters after it, and thinking how odd it would
be to sign it in any other fashion. How strange-did any
one care to look at my signature, in any way except thus,
with the two professional letters after it-a commonplace
signature of business. Equally strange, perhaps, that such
a thought as this last should ever have entered my head, or
that I should have taken the trouble, and yielded to the
weakness of writing it down. It all springs from idleness
-sheer idleness; the very same cause that makes Treherne, whom I have known do duty cheerily for twenty-four
hours in the trenches, lounge, smoke, yawn, and play the
flute. There-it has stopped. I heard the postman rapping at his hut door-the young simpleton has got a letter.
Suppose, just to pass away the time, I, Max Urquhart,
reduced to this lowest ebb of inanity by a paternal government, which has stranded my regiment here, high and dry,
but as dreary as Noah on Ararat-were to enliven. my
solitude, drive away blue devils, by manufacturing for myself an imaginary correspondent? So be it.
To begin then at once in the received epistolary form"My dear-"
My dear-what? "Sir?" No-not for this once. I
wanted a change. "Madam?" that is formal. Shall I invent a name?
When I think of it, how strange it would feel to me
to be writing "my dear" before any Christian name. Orphaned early, my only brother long dead, drifting about
from land to land till I have almost forgotten my own,
which has quite forgotten me-I had not considered it before, but really I do not believe there is a human being living whom I have a right to call by his or her Christian




22               A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
name, or who would ever think of calling me by mine.
"Max"-I have not heard the sound of it for years.
Dear, a pleasant adjective-my, a pronoun of possession,
implying that the being spoken of is one's very own-one's
sole, sacred, personal property, as with natural selfishness
one would wish to hold the thing most precious. My dear
-a satisfactory total. I rather object to "dearest," as a
word implying comparison, and therefore never to be used
where comparison should not and could not exist. Witness, " dearest mother," or " dearest wife," as if a man had
a plurality of mothers and wives, out of whom he chose the
one he loved best. And, as a general rule, I dislike all ultra expressions of affection set down in ink. I once knew
an honest gentleman-blessed with one of the tenderest
hearts that ever man had, and which in all his life was only
given to one woman; he, his wife told me, had never, even
in their courtship days, written to her otherwise than as
" My dear Anne," ending merely with " Yours faithfully,"
or " yours truly."  Faithful-true-what could he write,
or she desire more?
If my pen wanders to lovers and sweethearts, and moralizes over simple sentences in this maundering way, blame
not me, dear imaginary correspondent, to whom no name
shall be given at all-but blame my friend-as friends go
in this world-Captain Augustus Treherne. Because, happily, that young fellow's life was saved at Balaclava, does he
intend to invest me with the responsibility of it, with all
its scrapes and follies, now and forevermore? Is my clean,
sober hut to be fumigated with tobacco and poisoned with
brandy and water, that a love-sick youth may unburden
himself of his sentimental tale? Heaven knows why I listen to it! Probably because telling me keeps the lac out
of mischief; also because he is honest, though an ass, and I
always had a greater leaning to fools than to knaves. But
let me not pretend reasons which make me out more generous than I really am, for the fellow and his love-affair
bore me exceedingly sometimes, and would be quite unendurabe any where but in this dull camp. I do it for a certain abstract pleasure which I have always taken in dissecting character, constituting myself an amateur demonstrator
of spiritual anatomy.
An amusing study is, not only the swain, but the goddess. For I found her out, spelled her over satisfactorily,
even in that one evening. Treherne little guessed it-he




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.              23
took care never to introduce me-he does not even mention her name, or suspect I know it. Vast precautions
against nothing! Does he fear lest Mentor should put in
a claim to his Eucharis? You know better, dear Imaginary Correspondent.
Even were I among the list of "marrying men," this
adorable she would never be my choice; would never attract me for an instant. Little as I know about women, I
know enough to feel certain that there is a very small residuum of depth, feeling, or originality in that large handsome physique of hers. Yet she looks good-natured, goodtempered; almost as much so as Treherne himself.
"Speak o' the de'il," there he comes. Far away down
the lines I can catch his eternal "Donna e Mobile"-how
I detest that song! No doubt he has been taking to the
post his answer to one of those abominably-scented notes
that he always drops out of his waistcoat by the merest
accident, and glances round to see if I am looking, which I
never am. What a young puppy it is! Yet it hangs after one kindly, like a puppy; after me too, who am not the
pleasantest fellow in the world; and, as it is but young, it
may mend if it falls into no worse company than the present.
I have known what it is to be without a friend when one
is very inexperienced, reckless, and young.
Evening.
" To what base uses may we come at last."
It seems perfectly ridiculous to see the use this memorandum-book has come to. Cases forsooth! The few pages
of them may as well be torn out in favor of the new specimens of moral disease which I am driven to study. For
instance:
No. 1. Better omit that.
No. 2. Augustus Treherne, ast. 22, intermittent fever,
verging upon yellow fever occasionally, as to-day. Pulse
very high, tongue rather foul, especially in speaking of Mr.
Colin Granton. Countenance pale, inclining to livid. A
bad case altogether.
Patient enters, whistling like a steam-engine, as furious
and as shrill, with a corresponding puff of smoke. I point
to the obnoxious vapor.
"Beg pardon, Doctor, I always forget. What a tyrant
you are!"
"Very likely; but there is one thing I never will allow




24              A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
-smoking in my hut. I did not, you know, even in the
Crimea."
The lad sat down, sighing like a furnace.
"Heigho, Doctor, I wish I were you."
"Do you?"
"You always seem so uncommonly comfortable; never
want a cigar or any thing to quiet nerves and keep you in
good-humor. You never get into a scrape of any sort;
have neither a mother to lecture you nor an old governor
to bully you."
"Stop there."
" I will, then; you need not take me up so sharp. He's
a trump after all. You know that, so I don't mind a word
or two against him. Just read there."
He threw over one of Sir William's ultra-prosy moral
essays, which no doubt the worthy old gentleman flatters
himself are, in another line, the very copy of Lord Chesterfield's letters to his son. I might have smiled at it had I
been alone, or laughed at it were I young enough to sympathize with the modern system of transposing into " the governor" the ancient reverend name of " father."
" You see what an opinion he has of you.'Pon my life,
if I were not the meekest fellow imaginable, always ready
to be led by a straw into Virtue's ways, I should have cut
your acquaintance long ago.' Invariably follow the advice
of Doctor Urquhart'-'I wish, my dear son, that your
character more resembled that of your friend Doctor Urquhart. I should be more concerned about your many follies were you not in the same regiment as Doctor Urquhart. Doctor Urquhart is one of the wisest men I ever
knew,' and so on, and so on. What say you?"
I said nothing; and I now write down this, as I shall
write any thing of the kind which enters into the plain relation of facts or conversations which daily occur. God
knows how vain such words are to me at the best of times
-mere sounding brass and tinkling cymbal-as the like
must be to most men well acquainted with themselves.
At some times, and under certain states of mind, they become to my ear the most refined and exquisite torture that
my bitterest enemy could desire to inflict. There is no
need, therefore, to apologize for them. Apologize to whom,
indeed? Having resolved to write this, it were folly to
make it an imperfect statement. A journal should be fresh,
complete, and correct-the man's entire life, or nothing;




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             25
since, if he sets it down at all, it must necessarily be for his
own sole benefit; it would be the most contemptible form
of egotistic humbug to arrange and modify it, as if it were
meant for the eye of any other person.
Dear, unknown, imaginary eye-which never was and
never will be-yet, which I like to fancy shining somewhere
in the clouds, out of Jupiter, Venus, or the Georgium Sidus,
upon this solitary me-the foregoing sentence bears no reference to you.
" Treherne," I said, " whatever good opinion your father
is pleased to hold as to my wisdom, I certainly do not share
in one juvenile folly-that, being a very well-meaning fellow on the whole, I take the greatest pains to make myself
out a scamp."
The youth colored.
" That's me, of course."
"Wear the cap if it feels comfortable. And now, will
you have some tea?"
"Any thing; I feel as thirsty as when you found me
dragging myself to the brink of the Tchernaya. Hey, Doctor, it would have saved me a deal of bother if you had
never found me at all, except that it would vex the old governor to end the name and have the property all going to
the dogs-that is, to Cousin Charteris, who would not care
how soon I was dead and buried."
" Were dead and buried, if you please."
"Confound it, to stop a man about his grammar when he
is in my state of mind! Kept from his cigar too! Doctor,
you never were in love, or a smoker."
"How do you know?"
"Because you never could have given up the one or the
other; a fellow can't;'tis an impossibility."
" Is it? I once smoked six cigars a day for two years."
" Eh! what? And you never let that out before? You
are so close. Possibly the other fact will peep out in time.
Mrs. Urquhart and half a dozen brats may be living in some
out-of-the-way nook-Cornwall, or Jersey, or the centre of
Salisbury Plain. Why, what? nay, I beg your pardon,
Doctor."
What a horrible thing it is that by no physical effort, added to years of mental self-control, can I so harden my nerves
that certain words, names, suggestions, shall not startle me
-make me quiver as under the knife. Doubtless Treherne
will henceforth retain, so far as his easy mind can retain
B




26              A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
any thing, the idea that I have a wife and family hidden
somewhere. Ludicrous idea! if it were not connected
with other ideas, from which, however, this one will serve
to turn his mind.
To explain it away was of course impossible. I had only
power to slip from the subject with a laugh, and bring him
back to the tobacco question.
" Yes; I smoked six cigars a day for at least two years."
"And gave it up? Wonderful!"
" Not very, when a man has a will of his own, and a few
strong reasons to back it."
"Out with them-not that they will benefit me, however-I'm quite incorrigible."
"Doubtless. First, I was a poor medical student, and
six cigars per diem cost fourteen shillings a week-thirtyone pounds eight shillings a year. A good sum to give
for an artificial want-enough to have fed and clothed a
child."
" You're weak on the point of brats, Urquhart. Do you
remember the little Russ we picked up in the cellar at Sebastopol? I do believe you'd have adopted and brought
it home with you if it had not died."
Should I? Rut, as Treherne said, it died.
" Secondly, thirty-one pounds eight shillings per annum
was a good deal to give for a purely selfish enjoyment, annoying to almost every body except the smoker, and at the
time of smoking-especially when with the said smoker it
is sure to grow from a mere accidental enjoyment into an
irresistible necessity-a habit to which he becomes the
most utter slave. Now, a man is only half a man who allows himself to become a slave of any habit whatsoever."
" Bravo, Doctor! all this should go into the Lancet."
" No, for it does not touch the question on the medical
side, but the general and practical one-namely, that to
create an unnecessary luxury, which is a nuisance to every
body else, and to himself of very doubtful benefit, is-excuse me-the very silliest thing a young man can do. A
thing which, from my own experience, I'll not aid and
abet any young man in doing. There, lecture's overkettle boiled-unless you prefer tobacco and the open
air."
He did not; and we sat down, four feet upon a fender,"
as the proverb says..' Heigho! but the proverb doesn't mean four feet in




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.              27
men's boots," said Treherne, dolefully. "I wish I was
dead and buried."
I suggested that the light mustache he curled so fondly,
the elegant hair, and the aristocratic outline of phiz, would
look exceedingly well-in a coffin.
Faugh! how unpleasant you are."
And I myself repented the speech; for it ill becomes a
man under any provocation to make a jest of death. But
that this young fellow, so full of life, with every attraction
that it can offer-health, wealth, kindred, friends-should
sit croaking there, with such a used-up, lack-a-daisical air,
truly it irritated me.
" What's the matter, that you wish to rid the world of
your valuable presence? Has the young lady expressed a
similar desire?"
"She? hang her! I won't think any more about her,"
said the lad, sullenly. And then out poured the grand de.
spair, the unendurable climax of mortal woe. " She canter.
ed through the north camp this afternoon with Granton,
Colin Granton, and upon Granton's own brown mare."
"Ha! horrible vision! And you? you'Watched them go: one horse was blind;
The tails of both hung down behind.
Their shoes were on their feet.'"
"Doctor!"
I stopped-there seemed more reality in his feelings than
I had been aware of; and it is scarcely right to make a
mock of even the fire-and-smoke, dust-and-ashes passion of
a boy.
" I beg your pardon; not knowing the affair had gone so
far. Still, it isn't worth being dead and buried for."
" What business has she to go riding with that big clodhopping lout? And what right has he to lend her his
brown mare?" chafed Treherne, with a great deal more
which I did not much attend to. At last, weary of play
ing Friar Lawrence to such a very uninteresting Romeo, 1
hinted that if he disapproved of the young lady's behavior
he ought to appeal to her own good sense, to her father, or
somebody-or, since women understand one another best,
get Lady Augusta Treherne to do it.' My mother! She never even heard of her. Why, you
speak as seriously as if I were actually intending to marry
her."
Here I could not help rousing myself a trifle.




28              A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
" Excuse me; it never struck me that a gentleman could
discuss a young lady among his acquaintance, make a public show of his admiration for her, interfere with her proceedings or her conduct toward any other gentleman, and
not intend to marry her. Suppose we choose another subject of conversation."
Treherne grew hot to the ears, but he took the hint and
spared me his sentimental maunderings.
We had afterward some interesting conversation about
a few cases of mine in the neighborhood, not on the regular
list of regimental patients, which have lately been to me a
curious study. If I were inclined to quit the army, I believe the branch of my profession which I should take up
would be that of sanitary reform-the study of health
rather than of disease, of prevention rather than cure. It
often seems to me that we of the healing art have begun
at the wrong end, that the energy we devote to the alleviation of irremediable disease would be better spent in the
study and practice of means to preserve health.
Thus, I tried to explain to Treherne, who will have plenty of money and influence, and whom, therefore, it is worth
while taking pains to inoculate with a few useful facts and
ideas, that one half of our mortality in the Crimea was
owing, not to the accidents of war, but to the results of
zymotic diseases, all of which might have been prevented
by common sense and common knowledge of the laws of
health, as the statistics of our sanitary commission have
abundantly proved.
And, as I told him, it saddens me, almost as much as
doing my duty on a battle-field, or at Scutari, or Renkioi,
to take these amateur rounds in safe England, among what
poets and politicians call the noble British peasantry, and
see the frightful sacrifice of life-and worse than life-from
causes perfectly remediable.
Take, for instance, these cases, as set down in my notebook.
Amos Fell, 40, or thereabouts, down with fever for ten
days; wife and five sons; occupy one room of a cottage on
the Moor, which holds two other families; says, would be
glad to live in a better place, but can not get it; landlord
will not allow more cottages to be built. Would build
himself a peat hut, but doubts if that would be permitted;
so just goes on as well as he can.
Peck family, fever also, living at the filthiest end of the




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.              29
village; themselves about the dirtiest in it; with a stream
rushing by fresh enough to wash and cleanse a whole.
town.
Widow Haynes, rheumatism, from field-work, and living
in a damp room with earthen floor, half underground; decent woman, gets half a crown a week from the parish; but
will not be able to earn any thing for months; and what is
to become of all the children?
Treherne settled that question, and one or two more;
poor fellow, his purse is as open as his heart just now; but
among his other luxuries he may as well taste the luxury
of giving.'Tis good for him; he will be Sir Augustus
one of these days. Is his goddess aware of that fact, I
wonder?
What! is cynicism growing to be one of my vices? and
against a woman too? One of whom I absolutely know
nothing, except watching her for a few moments at a ball.
She seems to be one of the usual sort of officers' belles in
country quarters. Yet there may be something good in
her. There was, I feel sure, in that large-eyed sister of
hers. But let me not judge-I have never had any opportunity of understanding women.
This subject was not revived, till, the tobacco-hunger
proving too strong for him, my friend Romeo began to
fidget, and finally rose.
" I say, Doctor, you won't tell the governor-it would
put him in an awful fume?"
" What do you mean?"
"Oh! about Miss -, you know. I've been a great
ass, I suppose, but when a girl is so civil to one-a fine girl,
too-you saw her, did you not, dancing with me? Now,
isn't she an uncommonly fine girl?"
I assented.
" And that Granton should get her, confound him! a great
logger-headed country clown."
"Who is an honest man and will make her a kind husband. Any other honest man who does not mean to offer
himself as her husband, had much better avoid her acquaintance.5
Treherne colored again: I saw he understood me, though
he turned it off with a laugh.
" You're preaching matrimony, Doctor, surely. What an
idea! to tie myself up at my age. I shan't do the ungentlemanly thing either. So good-night, old fellow."




30               A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
He lounged out, with that lazy, self-satisfied air which is
misnamed aristocratic. Yet I have seen many a one of
these conceited, effeminate-looking, drawing-room darlings,
a curled and scented modern Alcibiades-fight-like Alcibiades; and die-as no Greek ever could die-like a
Briton.
" Ungentlemanly"-what a word it is with most men,
especially in the military profession. Gentlemanly-the
root and apex of all honor. Ungentlemanly-the lowest
term of degradation. Such is our code of morals in the
army; and, more or less, probably every where.
An officer I knew, who, for all I ever heard or noticed,
was himself as true a gentleman as ever breathed; polished,
kindly, manly, and brave, gave me once, in an argument on
dueling, his definition of the word. "A gentleman"-one
who never does any thing he is ashamed of, or that would
compromise his honor.
Worldly honor, this colonel must have meant, for he considered it would have been compromised by a man's refusing to accept a challenge. That " honor" surely was a little
lower thing than virtue; a little less pure than the Christianity which all of us profess, and so few believe. Yet there
was something at once touching and heroic about it, and in
the way this man of the world upheld it. The best of our
British chivalry-as chivalry goes-is made up of materials
such as these.
But is there not a higher morality-a diviner honor?
And if so, who is he that can find it?
CHAPTER IV.
HER STORY.'TIS over-the weary dinner-party. I can lock myself in
here, take off my dress, pull down my hair, clasp my two
bare arms one on each shoulder-such a comfortable attitude! and stare into the fire.
There is something peculiar about our fires. Most likely
the quantity of fir-wood we use for this region gives them
that curious aromatic smell. How I love fir-trees of any
sort in any season of the year! How I used to delight
myself in our pine-woods, strolling in and out among the
boles of the trees, so straight, strong, and unchangeable



A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             31
grave in summer, and green in winter! How I have stood
listening to the wind in their tops, and looking for the fircones, wonderful treasures! which they had dropped on
the soft, dry, mossy ground. What glorious fun it was to
fill my pinafore-or in more dignified days-my black silk
apron-with fir-cones; to heap a surreptitious store of them
in a corner of the school-room, and burn them, one by one,
on the top of the fire. How they did blaze!
I think I should almost like to go hunting for fir-cones
now. It would be a great deal more amusing than dinnerparties.
Why did we give this dinner, which cost so much time,
trouble, and money, and was so very dull? At least I
thought so. Why should we always be obliged to have a
dinner-party when Francis is here? As if he could not exist a week at Rockmount without other people's company
than ours! It used not to be so. When I was a child, I
remember he never wanted to go any where, or have any
body coming here. After study was over (and papa did
not keep him very close either), he cared for nothing except to saunter about with Penelope. What a nuisance
those two used to be to us younger ones; always sending
us out of the room on some pretense, or taking us long
walks and losing us, and then-cruelest of all-keeping us
waiting indefinitely for dinner. Always making so much
of one another, and taking no notice of us; having little
squabbles with one another, and then snubbing us. The
great bore of our lives was that love-affair of Francis and
Penelope; and the only consolation we had, Lisabel and I,
was to plan the wedding, she to settle the bridesmaids'
dresses, and I thinking how grand it would be when all is
over, and I took the head of the table, the warm place in
the room, permanently, as Miss Johnston.
Poor Penelope! She is Miss Johnston still, and likely to
be, for all that I can see. I should not wonder if, after all,
it happened in ours as in many families, that the youngest
is married first.
Lisabel vexed me much to-day; more than usual. People will surely begin to talk about her; not that I care a
pin for any gossip, but it's wrong, wrong. A girl can't
like two gentlemen so equally that she treats them exactly
in the same manner-unless it chances to be the manner of
benevolent indifference. But Lisabel's is not that. Every
day I watch her, and say to myself, "She's surely fond of




32               A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
that young man;" which always happens to be the young
man nearest to her, whether Captain Treherne, or "my
Colin," as his mother calls him. What a lot of "beaux"
our Lisa has had' ever since she was fourteen, yet not one
" lover" that ever I heard of-as of course I should, together
with her half-dozen very particular friends. No one can
accuse Lis of being of a secretive disposition.
What, am I growing ill-natured, and to my own sister?
a good-tempered, harmless girl, who makes herself agreeable to every body, and whom every body likes a vast deal
better than they do me.
Sometimes, sitting over this fire, with the fir-twigs crackling and the turpentine blazing-it may be an odd taste, but
I have a real pleasure in the smell of turpentine-I take myself into serious, sad consideration.
Theodora Johnston, aged twenty-five; medium looks,
medium talents, medium temper; in every way the essence
of mediocrity. This is what I have gradually discovered
myself to be; I did not think so always.
Theodora Johnston, aged fifteen. What a different creature that was. I can bring it back now, with its long curls
and its short frocks-by Penelope's orders preserved as
late as possible-running wild over the moors, or hiding
itself in the garden with a book; or curling up in a corner
of this attic, then unfurnished, with a pencil and the back
of a letter, writing its silly poetry. Thinking, planning,
dreaming, looking forward to such a wonderful, impossible
life; quite satisfied of itself and all it was to do therein,
since
The world was all before it where to choose:
Reason its guard, and Providence its guide.
And what has it done? Nothing. What is it now?
The aforesaid Theodora Johnston, aged twenty-five.
Moralists tell us, self-examination is a great virtue, an indispensable duty. I don't believe it. Generally, it is utterly useless, hopeless, and unprofitable. Much of it springs
from the very egotism it pretends to cure. There are not
more conceited hypocrites on earth than many of your
"miserable sinners."
If I can not think of something or somebody better than
myself I will just give up thinking altogether: will pass entirely to the uppermost of my two lives, which I have now
made to tally so successfully that they seem of one material: like our girls' new cloaks, which every body imagines




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.              33
sober gray, till a lifting of the arms shows the other side
of the cloth to be scarlet.
That reminds me in what a blaze of scarlet Captain Treherne appeared at our modest dinner-table. He was engaged to a full-dress party at the camp, he said, and must
leave immediately after dinner-which he didn't. Was his
company much missed, I wonder? Two here could well
have spared it; and these were Colin Granton and Francis
Charteris.
How odd that until to-night Captain Treherne should
have had no notion that his cousin was engaged to our Penelope, or even visited at Rockmount. Odd, too, that other
people never told him. But it is such an old affair, and we
were not likely to make the solemn communication ourselves; besides, we never knew much about the youth, except that he was one of Francis's fine relations. Yet, to
think that Francis all these years should never have even
hinted to these said fine relations that he was engaged to
our Penelope.
If I were Penelope-but I have no business to judge other
people. I never was in love, they say.
To see the meeting between these two was quite dramatic, and as funny as a farce. Francis sitting on the sofa
by Penelope, talking to Mrs. Granton and her friend Miss
Emery, and doing a little bit of lazy love-making between
whiles; when enters, late and hurried, Captain Treherne.
He walks straight up to papa, specially attentive; then bows
to Lisabel, specially distant and unattentive (I thought,
though, at sight of her he grew as hot as if his regimental
collar were choking him); then hastens to pay his respects
to Miss Johnston, when lo! he beholds Mr. Francis Charteris.
"Charteris! what the-what a very unexpected pleasure!"
Francis shook hands in what we call his usual fascinating
manner.
" Miss Johnston!" in his surprise Captain Treherne had
quite forgotten her-" I really beg your pardon. I had not
the slightest idea you were acquainted with my cousin."
Nor did the youth seem particularly pleased with the discovery.
Penelope glanced sharply at Francis, and then saidHow did she manage to say it so sharply and composedly?B2




34              A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
"' Oh yes, we have known Mr. Charteris for a good many
years. Can you find room for your cousin on the sofa, Francis?"
At the "Francis," Captain Treherne stared, and made
some remarks in an abstract and abstracted manner. At
length, when he had placed himself right between Francis
and Penelope and was actually going to take Penelope down
to dinner, a light seemed to break upon him. He laughed
— gave way to his cousin-and condescended to bestow his
scarlet elbow upon me; saying, as we went across the hall:
"I'm afraid I was near making a blunder there. But
who would have thought it?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"About those, there. I knew your sister was engaged
to somebody-but Charteris! Who would have thought of
Charteris going to be married? What a ridiculous idea."
I said, that the fact had ceased to appear so to me, having been aware of it for the last ten years.
" Ten years! You don't say so!" And then his slow
perception catching the extreme incivility of this great astonishment-my scarlet friend offered lame congratulations,
fell to his dinner, and conversed no more.
Perhaps he forgot the matter altogether-for Lisabel sat
opposite, beside Colin Granton-and what between love
and hate my cavalier's attention was very much distracted.
Truly, Lisabel and her unfortunate swains reminded me of
a passage in "Thomson's Seasons" describing two young
bulls fighting in a meadow:
"While the fair heifer balmy-breathing near,
Stands kindling up their rage."
I blush to set it down. I blush almost to have such a
thought, and concerning my own sister; yet it is so, and I
have seen the like often and often. Surely it must be
wrong; such sacred things as women's beauty and women's
love were not made to set men mad at one another dike
brute beasts. Surely the woman could help it if she chose.
Men may be jealous, and cross, and wretched; but they do
not absolutely hate one another on a woman's account unless she has been in some degree to blame. While free,
and showing no preference, no one can well fight about her,
for all have an equal chance: when she has a preference,
though she might not openly show it toward its object, she'
certainly would never think of showing it toward any body
else. At least, that is my theory.




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.              35
However, I am taking the thing too seriously, and it is
no affair of mine. I have given up interfering long ago.
Lisabel must "gang her ain gate," as they say in Scotland.
By-the-by, Captain Treherne asked me if we came from
Scotland, or were of the celebrated clan Johnstone?
Time was when, in spite of the additional t, we all grumbled at our plebeian name, hoping earnestly to change it
for something more aristocratic, and oh, how proud we
were of Charteris! How fine to put into the village post
letters addressed "Francis Charteris, Esq.," and to speak
of our brother-in-law elect as having "an office under government!" We firmly believed that office under government would end in the premiership and a peerage.
It has not, though. Francis still says he can not afford
to marry. I was asking Penelope yesterday if she knew
what papa and his first wife, not our own mamma, married
upon? Much less income, I believe, than what Francis has
now. But my sister said I did not understand: " The cases
were widely different." Probably.
She is very fond of Francis. Last week, preparing for
him, she looked quite a different woman; quite young and
rosy again; and though it did not last, though after he was
really come, she grew sharp and cross often, to us, never to
him, of course, she much enjoys his being here. They do
not make so much fuss over one another as they did ten
years ago, which indeed would be ridiculous in lovers over
thirty. Still, I should hardly like my lover, at any age, to
sit reading a novel half the evening, and spend the other
half in the sweet company of his cigar. Not that he need
be always hankering after me, and "paying me attention."
I should hate that. For what is the good of people being
fond of one another, if they can't be content simply in one
another's company, or, without it even, in one another's
love? letting each go on their own several ways and do
their several work in the best manner they can. Good
sooth! I should be the most convenient and least troublesome sweetheart that ever a young man was blessed with;
for I am sure I should sit all evening quite happy-he at
one end of the room, and I at the other, if only I knew he
was happy, and caught now and then a look and a smile
-provided the look and the smile were my own personal
property, nobody else's.
What nonsense am I writing? And not a word about the:i.ner-party. Has it left so little impression on my mind?




36              A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
No wonder! It was just the usual thing. Papa as host,
grave, clerical, and slightly wearying of it all. Penelope
hostess. Francis playing "friend of the family," as handsome and well-dressed as ever-what an exquisitely embroidered shirt-front, and what an aerial cambric kerchief!
which must have taken him half an hour to tie! Lisabel
-but I have told about her; and myself. Every body else
looking as every body hereabouts always does at dinnerparties-ex uno disce omnes-to muster a bit of the Latin
for which, in old times, Francis used to call me " a juvenile
prig."
Was there, in the whole evening, any thing worth remembering? Yes, thanks to his fit of jealousy, I did get a
little sensible conversation out of Captain Treherne. He
looked so dull, so annoyed, that I felt sorry for the youth,
and tried to make him talk; so, lighting on the first subject
at hand, asked him if he had seen his friend, Doctor Urquhart, lately?
" Eh, who? I beg your pardon."
His eyes had wandered where Lisabel, with one of her
white elbows on the table, sat coquetting with a bunch of
grapes, listening with downcast eyes to " my Colin."
" Doctor Urquhart, whom I met at the Cedars last week.
You said he was a friend of yours."
" So he is-the best I ever had," and it was refreshing
to see how the youing fellow brightened up. " He saved
my life. But for him I should assuredly be lying with a
cross over my head, inside that melancholy stone wall round
the top of Cathcart's Hill."
" You mean the cemetery there. What sort of a place
is it?"
" Just as I described-the bare top of a hill, with a wall
round it, and stones of various sorts, crosses, monuments,
and so on. All our officers were buried there."
"And the men?"
"Oh, any where. It didn't matter."
It did not, I thought; but not exactly from Captain Treherne's point of view. However, he was scarcely the man
with whom to have started an abstract argument. I might,
had he been Doctor Urquhart.
"Was Doctor Urquhart in the Crimea the whole time?"
" To be sure. He went through all the campaign, from
Varna to Sebastopol; at first unattached, and then was appointed to our regiment. Well for me that! What a three




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.              37
months I had after Inkerman! Shall I ever forget the day
I first crawled out and sat on the benches in fiont of the
hospital on Balaclava Heights, looking down on the Black
Sea?"
I had never seen him serious before. My heart inclined
even to Captain Treherne.
"Was he ever hurt-Doctor Urquhart, I mean?"
"Once or twice, slightly, while looking after his wounded on the field. But he made no fuss about it, and always
got well directly. You see, he is such an extremely temperate man in all things-such a quiet temper-has himself
in such thorough control, that he has twice the chance of
keeping in health that most men have, especially our fellows there, who, he declares, died quite as much of eating,
drinking, and smoking as they did of Russian bullets."
" Your friend must be a remarkable man."
"He's a-a brick! Excuse the word; in ladies' society
I ought not to use it."
" If you ought to use it at all, you may do so in ladies'
society."
The youth looked puzzled.
" Well, then, Miss Dora, he really is a downright brick,
since you know what that means-though an odd sort of
fellow too; a tough customer to deal with; never lets go
the rein; holds one in as tight as if he were one's father.
I say, Charteris, did you ever hear the governor speak of
Doctor Urquhart, of ours?"
If Sir William had named such a person, Mr. Charteris
had, unfortunately, quite forgotten it. Stay-he fancied
he had heard the name at his club, but it was really impossible to remember all the names one knew, or the men.
" You wouldn't have forgotten that man in a hurry, Miss
Dora, I assure you. He's worth a dozen of-but I beg
your pardon."
If it was for the look which he cast upon his cousin, I
was not implacable. Francis always annoys me when he
assumes that languid manner.' For some things, I prefer
Captain Treherne's open silliness-nothing being in his
head, nothing can come out of it-to the lazy superciliousness of Francis Charteris, who, we know, has a great deal
more in him than he ever condescends to let out, at least
for our benefit. I should like to see if he behaves any better at his aforesaid club, or at Lady This's and the Countess
of That's, of whom I heard him speak to Miss Emery.




38              A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
I was thinking thus, vaguely contrasting his smooth,
handsome face with that sharp one of Penelope's-how
much faster she grows old than he does, though they are
exactly of an age!-when the ladies rose.
Captain Treherne and Colin rushed to open the doorFrancis did not take that trouble-and Lisabel, passing,
smiled equally on both her adorers. Colin made some stupid compliments; and the other, silent, looked her full in
the face. If any man so dared to look at me, I would like
to grind him to powder.
Oh, I'm sick of love and lovers-or the mockery of them
-sick to the core of my heart!
In the drawing-room I curled myself up in a corner beside Mrs. Granton, whom it is always pleasant to talk to.
We revived the great blanket, beef, and anti-beer question,
in which she said she had found an unexpected ally.
" One who argues, even more strongly than your father
and I, my dear-as I was telling Mr. Johnston to-day at
dinner, and wishing they were acquainted-argues against
the beer."
This was a question whether or not our poor people
should have beer with their Christmas dinner. Papa, who
holds strong opinions against the use of intoxicating drinks,
and never tastes them himself, being every year rather in ill
odor on the subject, I asked who was this valuable ally.
"None of our neighbors, you may be sure. A gentleman
from the camp-you may have met him at my house-a
Doctor Urquhart."
I could not help smiling, and said it was curious how I
was perpetually hearing of Doctor Urquhart.
"Even in our quiet neighborhood such a man is sure to
be talked about. Not in society, perhaps-it was quite a
marvel for Colin to get him to our ball-but because he
does so many things while we humdrum folk are only
thinking about them."
I asked, what sort of things? In his profession?
" Chiefly, but he makes professional business include so
much. Imagine his coming to Colin as ground-landlord of
Bourne hamlet, to beg him to see to the clearing of the village pool, or writing to the lord of the manor, saying that
twenty new cottages built on the moor would do more
moral good than the new county reformatory. He is one
of the few men who are not ashamed to say what they
think, and makes people listen to it, too, as they rarely do




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.              39
to those not long settled in the neighborhood, and about
whom they know little or nothing."
I asked if nothing were known about Doctor Urquhart?
Had he any relations? Was he married?
" Oh, no, surely not married. I never inquired, but took
it for granted. However, probably my son knows. Shall
I find out, and speak a good word for you, Miss Dora?"
" No, thank you," said I, laughing. "You know I hate
soldiers."'Tis Mrs. Granton's only fault-her annoying jests after
this fashion. Otherwise, I would have liked to have asked
a few more questions about Doctor Urquhart. I wonder
if I shall ever meet him again? The regiments rarely stay
long at the camp, so that it is not probable.
I went over to where my sisters and Miss Emery were
sitting over the fire. Miss Emery was talking very fast,
and Penelope listening with a slightly scornful lip-she protests that ladies, middle-aged ladies particularly, are such
very stupid company.  Lisabel wore her good-natured
smile, always the same to every body.
" I was quite pleased," Miss Emery was saying, " to notice how cordially Captain Treherne and Mr. Charteris met:
I always understood there was a sort of a-a coolness, in
short. Very natural. As his nephew, and next heir, after
the captain, Sir William might have done more than he did
for Mr. Charteris. So people said, at least. He has a splendid property, and only that one son. You have been to
Treherne Court, Miss Johnston?"
Penelope abruptly answered, "No;" and Lisabel added
amiably, that we seldom went from home-papa liked to
have us at Rockmount all the year round.
I said willfully, wickedly, may be, lest Miss Emery's long
tongue should carry back to London what was by implication not true-that we did not even know where Treherne
Court was, and that we had only met Captain Treherne accidentally among the camp-officers who visited at tle Cedars.
Lis pinched me; Penelope looked annoyed. Was it a
highly virtuous act thus to have vexed both my sisters?
Alack, I feel myself growing more unamiable every day.
What will be the end of it?
" First come, first served," must have been Lisabel's motto for the evening, since, Captain Treherne reappearing,
scarlet beat plain black clear out of the field. I was again




40               A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
obliged to follow, as Charity, pouring the oil and wine of
my agreeable conversation into the wounds made by my
sister's bright eyes, and receiving as gratitude such an
amount of information on turnips, moorlands, and the true
art of sheep-feeding, as will make me look with respect and
hesitation on every leg of mutton that comes to our table
for the next six months.
" Oh, Colin, dear Colin, my Colin, my dear,
Who wont the wild mountains to trace without fear,
Oh, where are thy flocks that so swiftly rebound,
And fly o'er the heath without touching the ground?"
A remarkable fact in natural history, which much impressed me in my childhood. What is the rest?
"Where the birch-tree hangs weeping o'er fountain so clear,
At noon I shall meet him, my Colin, my dear."
What a shame to laugh at Mrs. Grant of Laggan's nice
old song-at the pretty Highland tune which ere now I
have hummed over the moor for miles! Since, when we
were children, I myself was in love with Colin! a love
which found vent in much petting of his mother, and in shy
presents to himself of nuts and blackberries; until, stung
by indifference, my affection
"Shrunk
Into itself, and was missing ever after."
Do we forget our childish loves? I think not. The objects change, of course, but the feeling, when it has been
true and unselfish keeps its character still, and is always
pleasant to remember. It was very silly, no doubt, but I
question if now I could love any body in a fonder, humbler,
faithfuler way than I adored that great, merry, good-natured
schoolboy. And though I know he has not an ounce of
brains, is the exact opposite of any body I could fall in love
with now-still, to this day, I look kindly on the round,
rosy face of" Colin, my dear."
I wonder if he ever will marry our Lisa. As far as I notice, people do not often marry their childish companions;
they much prefer strangers. Possibly from mere novelty
and variety, or else from the fact that as kin are sometimes
"less than kind," so one's familiar associates are often the
farthest from one's sympathies, interests, or heart.
With this highly moral and amiable sentiment-a fit conclusion for a social evening, I will lock my desk.
ucky I did   What if isabel had found me writing at
Lucky I did! What if Lisabel had found me writing at




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.              41
-one in the morning! How she would have teased meeven under the circumstances of last night, which seem to
have affected her mighty little, considering.
I heard her at my door, from without, grumble at it being bolted. She came in and sat down by my fire. Quite
a picture, in a blue flannel dressing-gown, with her light
hair dropping down in two wavy streams, and her eyes as
bright as if it were any hour rather than 1.30 a.m., as I
showed her by my watch.
"Nonsense! I shall not go to bed yet. I want to talk a
bit, Dora; you ought to feel flattered by my coming to tell
you first of any body. Guess now-what has happened?"
Nothing ill, certainly-for she held her head up, laughing
a little, looking very handsome and pleased.
" You will never guess, for you never believed it would
come to pass, but it has. Treherne proposed to me tonight."
The news quite took my breath away, and then I questioned its accuracy. "He has only been giving you a few
more of his silly speeches; he means nothing. Why don't
you put a stop to it all?"
Lisabel was not vexed-she never is-she only laughed.
" I tell you, Dora, it is perfectly true. You may believe
or not, I don't care; but he really did it."
"How, when, and where, pray?"
" In the conservatory, beside the biggest orange-tree, a
few minutes before he left."
I said, since she was so very matter-of-fact, perhaps she
would have no objection to tell me the precise words in
which he " did it."
" Oh dear, no, not the smallest objection. We were joking about a bit of orange-blossom Colin had given me, and
Treherne wanted me to throw away; but I said'No, I
liked the scent, and meant to wear a wreath of natural orange-flowers when I was married.' Upon which he grew
quite furious, and said it would drive him mad if I ever
married any man but him. Then he got hold of my hand,
and-the usual thing, you know." She blushed a little.
"It ended by my telling him he had better speak to papa,
and he said he should to-morrow. That's all."
"All!"
"Well?" said Lisabel, expectantly.
It certainly was a singular way in which to receive one's
sister's announcement of her intended marriage; but, for




42              A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
worlds, I could not have spoken a syllable. I felt a weight
on my chest; a sense of hot indignation which settled down
into inconceivable melancholy.
Was this, indeed, all? A silly flirtation; a young lad's
passion; a young girl's cool business-like reception of the
same; the formal " speaking to papa," and the thing was
over! Was that love?
"Haven't you a word to say, Dora? I had better have
told Penelope; but she was tired, and scolded me out of
her room. Besides, she might not exactly like this, for
some reasons. It's rather hard; such an important thing to
happen, and not a soul to congratulate one upon it."
I asked why might Penelope dislike it?
"Can't you see? Captain Treherne roving about the
world, and Captain Treherne married and settled at home,
might make a considerable difference to Francis's prospects.
No, I don't mean any thing mean or murderous-you need
not look so shocked-it is merely my practical way of regarding things. But what harm? If I did not have Treherne, some one else would, and it would be none the better for Francis and Penelope."
"You are very prudent and far-sighted; such an idea
would never have entered my mind."
"I dare say not. Just give me that brush, will you,
child?"
She proceeded methodically to damp her long hair, and
plait it up in those countless tails which gave Miss Lisabel
Johnston's locks such a beautiful wave. Passing the glass,
she looked into it, smiled, sighed.
" Poor fellow. I do believe he is very fond of me."
"And you?"
" Oh, I like him —like him excessively. If I didn't, what
should I marry him for?"
"What, indeed?"
" There is one objection papa may have: his being younger than I, I forget how much, but it is very little. How
surprised papa will be when he gets the letter to-morrow."
"Does Sir William know?"
"Not yet; but that will be soon settled, he tells me.
He can persuade his mother, and she his father. Besides,
they can have no possible objection to me."
She looked again in the mirror as she said this. Yes,
that "me" was not a daughter-in-law likely to be objected
to, even at the Treherne court.




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.              43
"I hope it will not vex Penelope," she continued. "It
may be all the better for her, since, when I am married, I
shall have so much influence. We may make the old gentleman do something handsome for Francis, and get a richer
living for papa, if he will consent to leave Rockmount.
And I'd find a nice husband for you, eh, Dora?"
" Thank you, I don't want one. I hate the very mention of the thing. I wish, instead of marrying, we could
all be dead and buried."
And, whether from weariness, or excitement, or a sudden, unutterable pang at seeing my sister, my playfellow,
my handsome Lisa, sitting there, talking as she talked, and
acting as she acted, I could bear up no longer. I burst out
sobbing.
She was very much astonished, and somewhat touched,
I suppose, for she cried too a little, and we kissed one another several times, which we are not much in the habit of
doing. Till, suddenly, I recollected Treherne, the orangetree, and " the usual thing." Her lips seemed to burn me.
" Oh, Lisa, I wish you wouldn't. I do wish you wouldn't."
"Wouldn't what? Don't you want me to be engaged
and married, child?"
" Not in that way."
" In what way, then?"
I could not tell. I did not know.
" After the fashion of Francis and Penelope, perhaps?
Falling in love like a couple of babies, before they knew
their own minds, and then being tied together, and keeping the thing on in a stupid, meaningless, tiresome way, till
she is growing into an elderly woman, and he- No, thank
you, I have seen quite enough of early loves and long engagements. I always meant to have somebody whom I
could marry at once, and be done with it."
There was a half-truth in what she said, though I could
not then find the other half to fit into it, and prove that
her satisfactory circle of reasoning was partly formed of
absolute, untenable falsehood, for false I am sure it was.
Though I can not argue it, can hardly understand it, Ifeel
it. There must be a truth somewhere. Love can not be
all a lie.
My sister and I talked a few minutes longer, and then
she rose, and said she must go to bed.
"Will you not wish me happiness?'Tis very unkind
of you."




44               A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
I told her outright that I did not think as she thought
on these matters, but that she had made her choice, and I
hoped it would be a happy one.
"I am sure of it. Now go to bed, and don't cry any
more, there's a good girl, for there really is nothing to cry
about. You shall have the very prettiest bridesmaid's
dress I can afford, and Treherne Court will be such a nice
house for you to visit at. Good-night, Dora."
Strange, altogether strange!
And writing it all down this morning I feel it stranger
than ever still.
CHAPTER V.
HIS STORY.
I WILL set down, if only to get rid of them a few incidents of this day.
Trivial they are, ludicrously so, to any one but me; yet
they have left me sitting with my head in my hands, stupid
and idle, starting, each hour, at the boom of the bell we
took at Sebastopol-starting and shivering like a nervous
child.
Strange! there, in the Crimea, in the midst of danger,
hardship, and misery of all kinds, I was at peace, even happy; happier than for many years. I seemed to have lived
down, and nearly obliterated from thought, that one day,
one hour, one moment, which was but a moment. Can it,
ought it, to weigh against a whole existence? or, as some
religionists would tell us, against an eternity? Yet what
is time, what is eternity? Nay, rather, what is man, measuring himself, his, atom of good or ill, either done or suffered, against God?
These are vain speculations, which I have gone over and
over again, till every link in the chain of reasoning is painfully familiar. I had better give it up, and turn to ordinary
things. Dear imaginary correspondent, shall I tell you the
story of my day?
It began peacefully. I always rest on a Sunday, if I can.
I believe, even had Heaven not hallowed one day in the
seven-Saturday or Sunday matters not, let Jews and
Christians battle it out-there would still be needful a day
of rest; and that day would still be a blessed day. Instinct, old habit, and later conviction always incline me to




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             45
"keep the sabbath;" not, indeed, after the strict fashion
of my forefathers, but as a happy, cheerful, holy time, a
resting-place between week and week, in which to enjoy
specially all righteous pleasures and earthly repose, and to
look forward to that rest which, we are told, "remaineth
for the people of God." The people of God; no other people ever do rest, even in this world.
Treherne passed my hut soon after breakfast, and popped
his head in, not over welcomely, I confess, for I was giving
myself the rare treat of a bit of unprofessional reading. I
had not seen him for two or three days, not since we appointed to go together to the general's dinner, and he never appeared till the evening.
" I say, Doctor, will you go to church?"
Now I do usually attend our airy military chapel, all
doors and windows, open to every kind of air, except airs
from heaven, of which, I am afraid, our chaplain does not
bring'with him a large quantity. He leaves us to fatten
upon Hebrew roots, without throwing us a crumb of Christianity; prefers Moses and the prophets to the New Testament; no wonder, as some few doctrines there, " Do unto
others as you would they should do unto you," "He that
taketh the sword shall perish by the sword," etc., would
sound particularly odd in a military chapel, especially with
his elucidation of them, for he is the very poorest preacher
I ever heard. Yet a worthy man, a most sincere man; did
a world of good out in the Crimea; used to spend hours
daily in teaching our men to read and write, got personally acquainted with every fellow in the regiment, knew all
their private histories, wrote their letters home, sought
them out in the battle-field and in the hospital, read to
them, cheered them, comforted them, and closed their eyes.
There was not an officer in the regiment more deservedly
beloved than our chaplain. He is an admirable fellowevery where but in the pulpit.
Nevertheless, I attend his chapel, as I have always been
in the habit of attending some' Christian worship somewhere, because it is the simplest way of showing that I am
not ashamed of my Master before men.
Therefore I would not smile at Treherne's astonishing
fit of piety, but simply assented, at which he evidently was
disappointed.'" You see, I'm turning respectable, and going to church.
I wonder such an exceedingly respectable and religious




46              A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
fellow as you, Urquhart, has not tried to make me go
sooner."
" If you go against your will and because it's respectable,
you had better stop away."
"Thank you; but suppose I have my own reasons for
going?"
He is not a deep fellow; there is no deceit in the lad.
All his faults are uppermost, which makes them bearable.
" Come, out with it. Better make a clean breast to me.
It will not be the first time."
"Well, then-ahem!" twisting his sash and looking
cown with most extraordinary modesty, "the fact is, she
wished it."
"Who?"
"The lady you know of. In truth, I may as well tell
you, for I want you to speak up for me to her father, and
also to break it to my governor. I've taken your advice,
and been, and gone, and done for myself."
"Married!" for his manner was so queer that I should
not have wondered at even that catastrophe.
"Not quite, but next door to it. Popped, and been accepted. Yes, since Friday I've been an engaged man, Doctor."
Behind his foolishness was some natural feeling, mixed
with a rather comical awe of his own position.
For me, I was a good deal surprised; yet he might have
come to a worse end. To a rich young fellow of twentyone, the world is full of many more dangerous pitfalls than
matrimony. So I expressed myself in the customary congratulations, adding that I concluded the lady was the one
I had seen.
Treherne nodded.
" Sir William knows it?"
" Not yet. Didn't I tell you I wanted you to break it
to him? Though he will consent, of course. Her father
is quite respectable-a clergyman, you are aware; and she
is such a handsome girl-would do credit to any man's
taste. Also, she likes me-a trifle!"
And he pulled his mustache with a satisfied recognition
of his great felicity.
I saw no reason to question it, such as it was. He was
a well-looking fellow, likely to please women; and this one,
though there was not much in her, appeared kindly and
agreeable. The other sister, whom I talked with, was




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             47
something more. They were, no doubt, a perfectly unobjectionable family; nor did I think that Sir William, who
was anxious for his son to marry early, would refuse consent to any creditable choice. But, decidedly, he ought to
be told at once-ought indeed to have been consulted beforehand. I said so.
"Can't help that. It happened unexpectedly. I had,
when I entered Rockmount, no more idea of such a thing
than-than your cat, Doctor. Upon my soul'tis the fact!
Well, well, marriage is a man's fate. He can no more help
himself in the matter than a stone can help rolling down a
hill. All's over, and I'm glad of it. So, will you write,
and tell my father?"
" Certainly not. Do it yourself, and you had better do
it now.' No time like the present,' always."
I pushed toward him pens, ink, and paper; and returned to my book again; but it was not quite absorbing; and
occasional glimpses of Treherne's troubled and puzzled face
amused me, as well as made me thoughtful.
It was natural that, having been in some slight way concerned in it, this matter, foreign as it was to the general tenor
of my busy life, should interest me a little. Though I viewed it, not from the younger, but from the elder side. I
myself never knew either father or mother; they died
when I was a child; but I think, whether or not we possess it in youth, we rarely come to my time of life without
having a strong instinctive feeling of the rights of parents,
being worthy parents. Rights, of course modified in their
extent by the higher claims of the Father of all; but second to none other, except, perhaps, those which He has
himself made superior-the rights of husband and wife.
I felt, when I came to consider it, exceedingly sorry that
Treherne had made a proposal of marriage without consulting his father. But it was no concern of mine. Even
his " taking my advice," was, he knew well, his own exaggeration of an abstract remark which I could not but make;
otherwise, I had not meddled in his courting, which, in my
opinion, no third party has a right to do.
So I washed my hands of the whole affair, except consenting to Treherne's earnest request that I would go with
him, this morning, to the little village church of which the
young lady's father was the clergyman, and be introduced.
"A tough old gentleman too; as sharp as a needle, as




48              A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
hard as a rock-walking into his study, yesterday morning, was no joke, I assure you."
"But you said he had consented?"
"Ah! yes, all's right. That is, it will be when I hear
from the governor."
All this while, by a curious amatory eccentricity, he had
never mentioned the lady's name. Norihad I asked, because I knew it. Also, because that surname, common as
it is, is still extremely painful to me, either to utter or to
hear.
We came late into church, and sat by the door. It was
a pleasant September forenoon; there was sunshine within, and sunshine outside, far away across the moors. I had
never been to this village before; it seemed a pretty one,
and the church old and picturesque. The congregation
consisted almost entirely of poor people, except one family,
which I concluded to be the clergyman's. He was in the
reading-desk.
"That's her father," whispered Treherne.
" Oh, indeed."  But I did not look at him for a minute
or so; I could not. Such moments will come, despite of
reasoning, belief, conviction, when I see a person bearing
any name resembling that name.
At last I lifted up my head to observe him.
A calm, hard, regular face; well-shaped features; high,
narrow forehead, aquiline nose-a totally different type
from one which I so well remember that any accidental
likeness thereto impresses me as startlingly and vividly as,
I have heard, men of tenacious, fervent memory will have
impressed on them, through life, as their favorite type of
beauty, the countenance of their first love.
I could sit down now, at ease, and listen to this gentleman's reading of the prayers. His reading was what might
have been expected from his face-classical, accurate, intelligent, gentlemanly. And the congregation listened with
respect as to a clever exposition of things quite beyond
their comprehension. Except the gabble-gabble of the Sunday-school, and the clerk's loud "A-a-men!" the minister
had the service entirely to himself.
A beautiful service; as I, though at heart a Presbyterian,
still must avow; especially when heard-as I have heard it
-at sea, in hospital, at the camp. Not this camp, but ours
in the Crimea, where, all through the prayers, guns kept
booming, and shells kept flying, sometimes within a short




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.              49
distance of the chapel itself. I mind of one Sunday, little
more than a year ago, for it must have been on the ninth
of September, when I stopped on my way from Balaclava
hospital, to hear service read in the open air, on a hill-side.
It was a cloudy day, I remember; below, brown with long
drought, stretched the Balaclava plains; opposite, gray and
still, rose the high mountains on the other side of the Tchernaya; while far away to the right, toward our camp, one
could just trace the white tents of the Highland regiments;
and to the left, hidden by the Col de Balaclava, a dull, perpetual rumble, and clouds of smoke hanging in the air,
showed where, six miles off, was being enacted the fall of
Sebastopol-though at the time we did not know it; this
little congregation, mustered just outside a hospital tent,
where, I remember, not a stone's throw from where we,
the living, knelt, lay a row of those straight, still, formless
forms, the more awful because from familiarity they had
ceased to be felt as such-each sewn up in the blanket, its
only coffin, waiting for burial-waiting also, we believe and
hope, for the resurrection from the dead.
What a sermon our chaplain might have preached! what
words I, or any man, could surely have found to say at such
a time, on such a spot! Yet what we did hear were the
merest platitudes-so utterly trivial and out of place, that
I do not now recall a single sentence. Strange that peoplegood Christian men, as I knew that man to be-should go
on droning out "words, words, words," when bodies and
souls perish in thousands round them; or splitting theological hairs to poor fellows, who, except in an oath, are ignorant even of the Divine Name; or thundering anathemas
at them for going down to the pit of perdition without even
so much as pointing out to them the- bright but narrow
way.
I was sitting thus, absorbed in the heavy thoughts that
often come to me when thus quiet in churci, hearing some
man, who is supposed to be one of the Church's teachers,
delivering the message of the Church's Great Head, when,
looking up, I saw two eyes fixed on me.
It was one of the clergyman's three daughters; the
youngest, probably, for her seat was in the most uncomfortable corner of the pew, apparently the same I had talked with at Mrs. Granton's, though I wasg not suie-ladies
look so different in their bonnets. IHers was close, I noticed, and decently covering the head, not dropping off on
C




50              A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
her shoulders like those I see ladies wearing, which will assuredly multiply ophthalmic cases, with all sorts of head
and face complaints, as the winter winds come on. Such
exposure must be very painful, too, these blinding sunny
days. How can women stand the torments they have to
undergo in matters of dress? If I had any womankind belonging to me-pshaw! what an idle speculation.
Ihose two eyes, steadfastly inquiring, with a touch of
compassion in them, startled me. Many a pair of eager
eyes have I had to meet, but it was always their own fate, or
that of some one dear to them, which they were anxious to
learn; they never sought to know any thing of me or mine.
Now these did.
I am nervously sensitive of even kindly scrutiny. Involuntarily I moved so that one of the pillars came between
me and those eyes. When we stood up to sing she kept
them steadily upon her hymn-book, nor did they wander
again during church-time, either toward me or in any other
direction.
The face being just opposite in the line of the pulpit, I
could not help seeing it during the whole of the discourse,
which was, as I expected, classical, belabored, elegant, and
interesting, after the pattern of the preacher's countenance.
His daughter is not like him. In repose, her features are
ordinary; nor did they for one moment recall to me the
flashing, youthful face, full of action and energy, which had
amused me that night at the Cedars. Some faces catch the
reflection of the moment so vividly that you never see them
twice alike. Others, solidly and composedly handsome,
scarcely vary at all, and I think it is of these last that one
would soonest weary. Irregular features have generally
most character. The Venus di Medici would have made a
very stupid fireside companion, nor would I venture to enter for Oxford honors a son who had the profile of the
Apollo Belvidere.
Treherne is evidently of a different opinion. He sat beaming out admiration upon that large, fair, statuesque woman,
who had turned so that her pure Greek profile was distinctly visible against the red cloth of the high pew. She might
have known what a pretty picture she was making. She
will please Sir William, who admires beauty, and she seems
refined enough even for Lady Augusta Treherne. I thought
to myself the lad might have gone farther and fared worse.
His marriage was sure to have been one of pure accident:




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             51
he is not a young man either to have had the decision to
choose, or the firmness to win and keep.
Service ended, he asked me what I thought of her, and I
said much as I have written here. He appeared satisfied.
"You must stay and be introduced to the family; the
father remains in church. I shall walk home with them.
Ah! she sees us."
The lad was all eagerness and excitement. He must be
considerably in earnest.
"Now, Doctor, come-nay, pray do."
For I hesitated.
Hesitation was too late, however; the introduction took
place; Treherne hurried it over; though I listened acutely,
I could not be certain of the name. It seemed to be, as I
already believed, Johnson.
Treherne's beauty met him, all smiles, and he marched
off by her side in a most determined manner, the eldest sister following and joining the pair, doubtless to the displeasure of one or both. She, whom I did not remember seeing
before, is a little sharp-speaking woman, pretty, but fadedlooking, with very black eyes.
The other sister, left behind, fell in with me. We walked side by side through the church-yard, and into the road.
As I held the wicket-gate open for her to pass, she looked
up, smiled, and said,
" I suppose you do not remember me, Doctor Urquhart?"
I replied, " Yes, I did;" that she was the young lady who
"hated soldiers."
She blushed extremely, glanced at Treherne, and said,
not without dignity,
" It would be a pity to remember all the foolish things I
have uttered, especially on that evening."
"I was not aware they were foolish; the impression left
on me was that we had had a very pleasant conversation,
which included far more sensible topics than are usually
discussed at balls."
"You do not often go to balls?"
" No."
"Do you dislike them?"
"Not always."
"Do you think they are wrong?"
I smiled at her cross-questioning, which had something
fresh and unsophisticated about it, like the inquisitiveness
of a child.




52              A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
"Really, I have never very deeply considered the question; my going, or not going, is purely a matter of individual choice. I went to the Cedars that night because
Mrs. Granton was so kind as to wish it, and I was only too
happy to please her. I like her extremely, and owe her
much."
"She is a very good woman," was the earnest answer.
"And Colin has the kindest heart in the world."
I assented, though amused at the superlatives in which
very young people delight; but, in this case, not so far
away firom truth as ordinarily happens.
" You know Colin Granton-have you seen him latelyyesterday, I mean? Did Captain Treherne see him yesterday?"
The anxiety with which the question was put reminded
me of something Treherne had mentioned, which implied
his rivalry with Granton; perhaps this kind-hearted damsel
thought there would be a single-handed combat on our parade-ground, between the accepted and rejected swains. I
allayed her fears by observing that, to my certain knowledge Mr. Granton had gone up to London on Saturday
morning, and would not return till Tuesday. Then, our
eyes meeting, we both looked conscious; but, of course,
neither the young lady nor myself made any allusion to
present circumstances.
I said, generally, that Granton was a fine young fellow,
not over sentimental, nor likely to feel any thing very deeply; but gifted with great good sense, sufficient to make an
admirable country squire, and one of the best landlords in
the county, if only he could be brought to feel the importance of his position.
" How do you mean?"
His responsibility, as a man of fortune, to make the
most of his wealth."
"But how? what is there for him to do?"
"Plenty, if he could only be got to do it."
"Could you not get him to do it?" with another look of
the eager eyes.' I? I know so very little of the young man."
"But you have so much influence, I hear, over every
body. That is, Mrs. Granton says. We have known the
Grantons ever since I was a child."
From her blush, which seemed incessantly to come, sudden and sensitive as a child's, I imagined that time was not




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.              53
so very long ago, until she said something about " my youngest sister," which proved I had been mistaken in her age.
It was easier to talk to a young girl sitting forlorn by
herself in a ball-room, than to a grown-up lady, walking in
broad daylight, accompanied by two other ladies, who,
though clergymen's daughters, are as stylish fashionables
as ever irritated my sober vision. She did not, I must confess; she seemed to be the plain one of the family: unnoticed-one might almost guess, neglected. Nor was there
any flightiness or coquettishness in her manner, which,
though abrupt and original, was quiet even to demureness.
Pursuing my hobby of anatomizing character, I studied
her a good deal during the pauses of conversation, of which
there were not a few. Compared with Treherne, whom I
heard in advance, laughing and talking with his usual lightheartedness, she must have found me uncommonly sombre
and dull.
Yet it was pleasant to be strolling leisurely along, one's
feet dropping softly down through rustling dead leaves into
the dry, sandy mould which is peculiar to this neighborhood: you may walk in it, ankle-deep, for miles, across
moors and under pine-woods, without soiling a shoe. Pleasant to see the sunshine striking the boughs of the trees,
and lying in broad, bright rifts on the ground here and
there, wherever there was an opening in the dense green
tops of those fine Scotch firs, the like of which I have never
beheld out of my own country, nor there, since I was quite
a boy. Also, the absence of other forest trees, the high elevation, the wide spaces of moorland, and the sandy soil,
give to the atmosphere here a rarity and freshness which
exhilarates, mentally and bodily, in no small degree.
I thank God I have never lost my love of nature; never
ceased to feel an almost boyish thrill of delight in the mere
sunshine and fresh air.
For miles I could have walked on, thus luxuriating, without wishing to disturb my enjoyment by a word, but it
was necessary to converse a little, so I made the valuable
and original remark " that this neighborhood would be very
pretty in the spring."
My companion replied with a vivacity of indignation most
unlike a grown young lady and exceedingly like a child:
" Pretty? It is beautiful! You can never lave seen it,
I am sure."
I said, " My regiment did not come home till May; I had
spent this spring in the Crimea."




54              A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
" Ah! the spring flowers there, I have heard, are remarkably beautiful, much more so than ours."
"Yes;" and as she seemed fond of flowers, I told her of
the great abundance which in the peaceful spring that followed the war, we had noticed, carpeting with a mass of
color those dreary plains; the large Crimean snow-drops,
the jonquils, and blue hyacinths, growing in myriads about
Balaclava and on the banks of the Tchernaya; while on every rocky dingle, and dipping into every tiny brook, hung
bushes of the delicate yellow jasmine.
" How lovely! But I would not exchange England for
it. You should see how the primroses grow all among that
bank, and a little beyond, outside the wood, is a hedge-side,
which will be one mass of blue-bells."
" I shall look for them. I have often found blue-bells till
the end of October."
" Nonsense!" What a laugh it was, with such a merry
ring. "I beg your pardon, Doctor Urquhart, but, really,
blue-bells in October! Who ever heard of such a thing?"
"I assure you I have found them myself, in sheltered
places, both the larger and smaller species; the one that
grows from a single stem, and that which produces two or
three bells from the same stalk-the campanula-shall I
give you its botanical name?"
" Oh, I know what you mean-hare-bell,"
" Blue-bell; the real blue-bell of Scotland. What you
call blue-bells are wild hyacinths."
She shook her head with a pretty persistence.
"No, no; I have always called them blue-bells, and I always shall. Many a scolding have I got about them when
I used, on cold March days, to steal a basket and a kitchen
knife, to dig them up before the buds were formed, so as
to transplant them safely in time to flower in my garden.
Many's the knife I broke over that vain quest. Do you
know how difficult it is to get at the bulb of a blue-bell?"
" Wild hyacinth, if you please."
"'Blue-bell," she laughingly persisted. "I have sometimes picked out a fine one, growing in some easy, soft
mould, and undermined him, and worked round him, ten
inches deep, fancying I had got to the root of him at last,
when slip went the knife, and all was over. Many a time
I have sat with the cut-off stalk in my hand, the long, white,
slender stalk, ending in two delicate green leaves, with a
tiny bud between-you know it; and actually cried, not




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.              55
only for vexation over lost labor, but because it seemed
such a pity to have destroyed what one never could'make
alive again."
She said that, looking right into my face with her innocent eyes.
This girl, from her habit of speaking exactly as she
thinks, and whether from her solitary country rearing, or
her innate simplicity of character, thinking at once more
naturally and originally than most women, will, doubtless,
often say things like these.
An idea once or twice this morning had flitted across
my mind, whether it would not be better for me to break
through my hermit ways, and allow myself to pay occasional visits among happy households, or the occasional society of good and cultivated women; now it altogether
vanished. It would be a thing impossible.
This young lady must have very quick perceptions, and
an accurate memory of trivial things, for scarcely had she
uttered the last words when all her face was dyed crimson
and red, as if she thought she had hurt or offended me. I
judged it best to answer her thoughts out plain.
" I agree with you that to kill wantonly, even a flower,
is an evil deed. But you need not have minded saying
that to me, even after our argument at the Cedars. I am
not in your sense a soldier, a professed man-slayer; my vocation is rather the other way. Yet even for the former I
could find arguments of defense."
" You mean there are higher things than mere life, and
greater things than taking it away? So I have been thinking myself lately. You set me thinking, for the which I
am glad to own myself your debtor."
I had not a word of answer to this acknowledgment, at
once frank and dignified. She went on:
"If I said foolish or rude things that night, you must remember how apt one is to judge from personal experience,
and I have never seen any fair specimen of the army. Except," and her manner prevented all questioning of what
duty elevated into a truth, "except, of course, Captain Treherne."
He caught his name.
"Eh, good people. Saying nothing bad of me, I hope?
Anyhow, I leave my character in the hands of my friend
Urquhart. He rates me soundly to my face, which is the
best proof of his not speaking ill of me behind my back."




5 6             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
"So that is Doctor Urquhart's idea of friendship! bitter
outside and sweet at the core. What does he make of
love, pray? All sweet and no bitter?"
" Or all bitter and no sweet?"
These speeches came from the two other sisters, the latter fiom the eldest; their flippancy needed no reply, and I
gave none. The second sister was silent, which I thought
showed better taste, under the circumstances.
For a few minutes longer we sauntered on, leaving the
wood and passing into the sunshine, which felt soft and
warm as spring. Then there happened-I have been slow
in coming to it-one of those accidents, trivial to all but
me, which, whenever occurring, seem to dash the peaceful
present out of my grasp, and throw me back years-years,
to the time when I had neither present nor future, but
dragged on life, I scarcely know how, with every faculty
tightly bound up in an inexorable, intolerable past.
She was carrying her prayer-book, or Bible I think it
was, though English people oftener carry to church prayer-books than Bibles, and seem to reverence them quite as
much, or more. I had noticed it as being not one of those
velvet things, with gilt crosses, that ladies delight in, but
plain-bound, the edges slightly soiled as if with continual
use. Passing through a gate, she dropped it; I stooped to
pick it up, and there, on the fly leaf, I saw written:
" Theodora Johnston"-" Johnston."
Let me consider what followed, for my memory is not
clear.
I believe I walked with her to her own door, that there
was a gathering and talking, which ended in Treherne's
entering with the ladies, promising to overtake me before
I reached the camp. That the gate closed upon them, and
I heard their lively voices inside the garden wall while I
walked rapidly down the road and back into the fir wood.
That, gaining its shadow and shelter, I sat down on a felled
tree to collect myself.
Johnson her name is not, but Johnston. Spelled precisely
the same as I remember noticing on his handkerchief, Johnston, without the final e.
Yet, granting that identity, it is still a not uncommon
name; there are whole families, whole clans of Johnstons
along the Scottish border, and plenty of English Johnstons,
and Johnstones likewise.
Am I fighting with shadows, and torturing myself in
vain? God grant it!




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.              57
Still, after this discovery, it is vitally necessary to learn
more. I have sat up till midnight waiting Treherne's return. He did not overtake me-I never expected lie would,
or desired it. I came back, when I did come back, another
way. His hut, next to mine, is still silent and unoccupied.
So is the whole camp at this hour. Refieshing myself
a few minutes since by standing bare-headed at my hut
door, I saw nothing but the stars overhead, and the long
lines of lamps below; heard nothing but the sigh of the
moorland wind, and the tramp of the sentries relieving
guard.
I must wait a little longer; to sleep would be impossible, till I have tried to find out as much as I can.
What if it should be that-the worst? which might inevitably produce-or leave me no reason longer to deferthe end.
*    *     *    *    *    *     *I'  *
Here it seemed, as if with long pondering, my faculties
became torpid. I fell into a sort of dream, which being
broken by a face looking in at me through the window, a
sickness of perfectly childish terror came over me. For
an instant only, and then I had put away my writing materials, and unbolted the door.
Treherne came in, laughing violently. " Why, Doctor,
did you take me for a ghost?"
" You might have been. You know what happened last
week to those poor young fellows coming home fiom a
dinner-party in a dog-cart."
" By George I do!" The thought of this accident, which
had greatly shocked the whole camp, sobered him at once.
"To be knocked over in action is one thing, but to die with
one's head under a carriage-wheel-ugh! Doctor, did ye
really think something of the sort had befallen me? Thank
you; I had no idea you cared so much for a harum-scarum
fellow like me."
He could not be left believing an untruth; so I said my
startled looks were not on his account; the fact was, I had
been writing closely for some hours, and was nervous,
rather.
The notion of my having " nerves" afforded him considerable amusement. " But that is just what Dora persisted
— good sort of creature, isn't she? the one you walked with
from church. I told her you were as strong as iron and as
hard as a rock, and she said she didn't believe it-that
C2




58              A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
yours was one of the most sensitive faces she had ever
seenl."
"I am very much obliged to Miss Theodora; I really
was not aware of it myself"
"Nor I either, faith! but women are so sharp-sighted.
Ahl! Doctor, you don't know half their ways."
I concluded he had staid at Rockmount; had he spent a
pleasant day?
" Pleasant? ecstatic. Now acknowledge, isn't she a glorious girl?  Such a mouth-such an eye-such an arm!
Altogether a magnificent creature. Don't you think so?
Speak out-I shan't be jealous."
I said, with truth, she was an extremely handsome young
woman.
LI Handsome? Divine. But she's as lofty as a queenwon't allow any nonsense-I didn't get a kiss the whole
day. She will have it we are not even engaged till I hear
-fiom the governor; and I can't get a letter till Tuesday,
at soonest. Doctor, it's maddening. If all is not settled
in a week, and that angel mine within six more-as she
says she will be, parents consenting-I do believe it will
drive me mad."
"Having her, or losing?"
"Either. She puts me nearly out of my senses."
"Sit down, then, and put yourself into them again-for
a few minutes, at least."
For I perceived the young fellow was warm with something besides love. He had been solacing himself with wine
and cigars in the mess-room. Intemperance was not one
of his failings, nor was he more than a little excited nownot by any means what men consider "overtaken," or, to
use the honester and uglier word, "drunk."  Yet, as he
stood there, lolling against the door, with hot cheeks and
watery eyes, talking and laughing louder than usual, and diffusing an atmosphere both nicotian and alcoholic, I thought
it was as well, on the whole, that his divinity did not see
her too human young adorer. I have often pitied women,
mothers, wives, sisters. If they could see some of us men
as we often see one another!
Treherne talked rapturously of the family at Rockmount
-the father and the three young ladies.
I asked if there were no mother.
"No. Died, I believe, when my Lisabel was a baby.
Lisabel-isn't it a pretty name? Lisabel Treherne, better
still-beats Lisabel Johnston hollow."




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.              59
This seemed an opportunity for questions which must be
put; safer put them now than when Treherne was in a
soberer and more observant mood.
"Johnston is a border name. Are they Scotch?"
"Not to my knowledge-I never inquired. Will, if you
wish, Doctor. You canny Scots always hang togetherha! ha! But I say, did you ever see three nicer girls?
Shouldn't you like one of them for yourself?"
I!
"Thank you-I am not a marrying man; but you will
find them a pleasant family, apparently. Are there any
more sisters?"
"No-quite enough too."
" Nor brothers?"
" Not the ghost of one!"
"Perhaps"-was it I, or some mocking imp speaking
through my lips-" perhaps only the ghost of one. None
now living, probably?"
" None at all that I ever heard of. So much the better;
I shall have her more to myself. Heigho! it's an age till
Tuesday."
"You'd better go to your bed, and shorten the time by
ten hours."
" So I will. Night, night, old fellow, as they teach little
brats to say on disappearing from dessert.'Pon my life, I
see myself the venerated head of a household and pillar of
the state already. You'll be quite proud of my exceeding
respectability."
He put his head in again, two minutes after, with a nod
and a wink.
"I say, think better of it. Try for Miss Dora-the second. Charteris one, me the other, and you the third. What
a jolly lot of brothers-in-law. Do think better of it."
"Hold your tongue, and go to your bed."
It was not possible to go to mine, till I had arranged my
thoughts.
What he stated must be correct. If otherwise, it is next
to impossible that, in his position of intimacy, he should
not have heard it. Families do not, I suppose, so easily
forget, even'to the very name. There must have been only
these three daughters.
I may lay me down in peace. Thou who seest not as
man sees, wilt Thou make it peace, even for me?




60              A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
CHAPTER VI.
HE3R STORY.
"Gone to be married? gone to swear a peace?
Shall Lewis have Blanche, and Blanche those provinces?"
Which means, "shall Treherne have Lisa, and Lisa Treherne Court?"
Yes, it is to be: I suppose it must be. Though not literally "gone to be married," they are certainly "going."
For seven days the balance hung doubtful. I do not
know exactly what turned the scale; sometimes a strong
suspicion strikes me that it was Doctor Urquhart; but I
have given up cogitating on the subject. When one is utterly powerless-a mere iota in a house-when, whatever
one might desire, one's opinion has not a straw's weight
with any body, what is the good of vexing one's self in
vain!
I shall content myself with giving a straightforward,
succinct account of the week; this week which I can not
deny, has made a vital difference in our family. Though
outwardly all went on as usual-our quiet, monotonous life
unbroken by a single "event"-breakfast, dinner, tea, and
sleep coming round in ordinary rotation; still the change
is made. What a long time it seems since Sunday week!
That day, after the tumult of Saturday, when I fairly
shut myself up to escape out of the way of both suitors,
the coming and the going one-sure that neither of my
sisters would particularly want me-that Sunday was not
a happy one. The only pleasant bit in it was the walk
home from church; when, Penelope mounting guard over
the lovers, I thought it no more than right to be civil to
Dr. Urquhart. In so doing, I resolutely smothered down
my annoyance at their joining us, and at the young gentleman's taking so much upon himself already, forsooth; lest
Captain Treherne's fiiend should discover that I was not
in the most amiable mood possible with regard to this marriage. And in so valorously "putting myself into my
pocket"-the bad self which had been uppermost all daysomehow it slipped away, as my pin-cushions and pencilcases are wont to do-slid down to the earth and vanished.




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.               61
I enjoyed the walk. I like talking to Dr. Urquhart, for
he seems honest. IIe makes one feel as if there were some
solid good somewhere in the world, if only one could find
it; instead of wandering among mere shams of it, pretenses
of heroism, simulations of virtue, selfish abortions of benevolence. It seems to me, at times, as if this present world
were not unlike that place in Hades-is it Dante's or Virgil's making?- where trees, beasts, ghosts, and all, are
equally shadowy and unsubstantial. That Sunday morning, which happened to be a specially lovely one, was one
of the few days lately when things about me have seemed
tangible and real. Including myself, who not seldom appear to myself as the biggest sham of all.
Dr. Urquhart left us at the gate: would not come in,
though Penelope invited him. Indeed, he went away rather abruptly, I should say rudely-but that he is not the sort
of man to be easily suspected of discourtesy-Captain Treherne declared his secession was not surprising, as he had
a perfect horror of ladies' society. In which case, why did he
not avoid mine? I am sure he need not have had it unless
he chose; nor did he behave as if in a state of great martyrdom. Also, a lover of flowers is not likely to be a woman-hater, or a bad man, either; and those must be bad men
who have an unqualified "horror" of women. I shall take
the liberty, until farther evidence, of doubting Captain Treherne-no novelty! The difliculty is to find any man in
whom you can believe.
We spent Sunday afternoon chiefly in the garden, Lisabel
and her lover strolling about together, as Penelope and
Francis used to do.
Penelope sat with me some time, on the terrace before
the drawing-room windows; then bidding me stay where
I was, and keep a look-out after those two, lest they should
get too sentimental, she went indoors, and I saw her afterward, through the parlor-window, writing-probably one
of those long letters which Francis gets every Monday
morning. What on earth can she find to say?
The lecture against sentimentalism was needless. Nothing of that in Lisabel. Her courtship will be of the most
matter-of-fact kind. Every time they passed me, she was
talking or laughing. Not a soft or serious look has there
been on her face since Friday night; or, rather, Sunday
morning, when my sobbing made her shed a few tears.
She did not afterward-not even when she told what has
occurred to papa and Penelope.




62              A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
Penelope bore it well-if there was any thing to bear,
and perhaps there was-to her. It might be trying to
have her youngest sister married first, and to a young man
but for whom Francis would himself long ago have been in
a position to marry. He told us, on Saturday, the whole
story: how, as a boy, he was meant for his uncle's heir, but
late in life Sir William married. There was a coldness
afterward, till Mrs. Charteris died, when her brother got
Francis this government situation, from which we hoped so
much, but which still continues, he says, " a ntere pittance."
It is certainly rather hard for Francis. He had a long talk
with papa, before he left, ending, as usual, in nothing.
After he went away, Penelope did not appear till teatime, and was "as cross as two sticks," to use a childish
expression, all evening. If these are lover's visits, I heartily wish Francis would keep away.
She was not in much better humor on Sunday, especially
when, coming hastily into the parlor with a message from
Lisabel, I gave her a start-for she was sitting, not writing, but leaning over her desk, with her fingers pressed
upon her eyes. It startled me, too, to see her; we have
grown so used to this affair, and Penelope is so sharp-tempered, that we never seem to suspect her of feeling any
thing. I was foolish enough to apologize for interrupting,
and to attempt to kiss her, which irritated her so that we
had almost a quarrel. I left the room, put on my bonnet,
and went off to evening-church-God forgive me! for no
better purpose than to get rid of home.
I wonder, do sisters ever love one another? Not after
our fashion, out of mere habit and long familiarity, also a
certain pride, which, however we differ among ourselves,,
would make us, I believe, defend one another warmly
against strangers, but out of voluntary sympathy and affection. Do families ever live in open-hearted union, feeling
that blood is blood, closer than acquaintance, friendship, or
any tie in the world, except marriage? That is, it ought
to be. Perhaps it may so happen once in a century, as
true love does, or there would not be so much romancing
about both.
Thus I meditated, as, rather sick and sorry at heart, I returned from church, tramping through the dark lanes after
papa, who marched ahead, crunching the sand and dead
leaves in his usual solid, solitary way, now and then calling
out to me:




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.              63
"Keep close behind me. What a pity you came to
church to-night."
It was foolish, but I think I could have cried.
At home, we found my sisters waiting tea. Captain Treherne was gone. They never mentioned to papa that he
had been at Rockmount to-day.
On Monday, he did not make his appearance. I asked
Lisabel if she had expected him?
" What for? I don't wish the young man to be always
tied to my apron-strings."
"But he might naturally want to see you."
"Let him want then. My dear little simpleton, it will
do him good. The less he has of me, the more he will
value me."
I observed that that was an odd doctrine with which to
begin married life, but she laughed at me, and said the cases
were altogether different.
Nevertheless, when Tuesday also passed, and no word
from her adorer, Lisabel looked a little less easy. Not unhappy, our Lis was never seen unhappy since she was born,
but just a little what we women call "fidgety;" a state of
mind, the result of which generally affects other people
rather than ourselves. In short, the mood for which, as
children, we are whipped and sent to bed as "naughty;"
as young women, petted, and pitied for "low spirits;" as
elderly people, humored on account of "nerves."
On Wednesday morning when the post came, and brought
no letter, Lisabel declared she would stay in-doors no longer, but would go out for a drive.
"To the camp, as usual?" said Penelope.
Lisa laughed, and protested she should drive wherever
she liked.
"Girls, will you come or not?"
Penelope declined, shortly. I said, I would go any where
except to the camp, which I thought decidedly objectionabre under the circumstances.
"Dora, dpn't be silly. But do just as you like. I can
call at the Cedars for Miss Emery."
"And Colin too, who will be exceedingly happy to go
with you," suggested Penelope.
But the sneer was wasted. Lisabel laughed again,
smoothed her collar at the glass, and left the parlor, looking as contented as ever.
Ere she went out, radiant in her new hat and feathers,




64              A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
her blue cloth jacket, and her dainty little driving-gloves
(won in a bet with Captain Treherne), she put her head in
at my door, where I was working at German, and trying
to forget all these follies and annoyances.
"You'll not go, then?"
I shook my head, and asked when she intended to be
back?
" Probably at lunch: or I may stay dinner at the Cedars.
Just as it happens. Good-by."
" Lisabel," I cried, catching her by the shoulders, " what
are you going to do?"
"I told you. Oh, take care of my feather! I shall drive
over to the Cedars."
"Any farther? To the camp?"
"It depends entirely upon circumstances."
" Suppose you should meet him?"
" Captain Treherne? I shall bow politely, and drive on."
"And what if he comes here in your absence?"
"My compliments and regrets that unavoidable engagements deprived me of the pleasure of seeing him."
" Lisabel, I don't believe you have a bit of heart in you."
"Oh, yes I have; quite as much as is convenient."
Mine was full, and she saw it. She patted me on the
shoulder good-naturedly.
"If there ever was a dear little dolt, its name is Theodora Johnston. Why, child, at the worst, what harm am I
doing? Merely showing a young fellow, who, I must say,
is behaving rather badly, that I am not breaking my heart
about him, nor mean to do it."
"But I thought you liked him?"
"So I do; but not in your sentimental sort of way. I
am a practical person. I told him, exactly as papa told
him, that if he came with his father's consent I would be
engaged to him at once, and marry him as soon as he liked.
Otherwise, let him go! That's all. Don't fret, child; I
am quite able to take care of myself."
Truly she was! But I thought, if I were a man, I certainly should not trouble myself to go crazy after a woman, if men ever do such a thing.
Scarcely was my sister gone, than I had the opportunity
of considering that latter possibility. I was called down
stairs to Captain Treherne. Never did I see an unfortunate
youth in such a state of mind.
What passed between us I can not set down clearly; it




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.              65
was on his side so incoherent, on mine so awkward and uncomfortable. I gathered that he had just had a letter from
his father, refusing consent, or, at least, insisting on the delay of the marriage, which his friend, Dr. Urquhart, also
advised. Exceedingly obliged to that gentleman for his
polite interference in our family affairs, thought I.
The poor lover seemed so much in earnest that I pitied
him. Missing Lisabel, he had asked to see me, in order to
know where she was gone.
I told him to the Cedars. He turned as white as a
sheet.
"Serves me right, serves me right,for my confounded
folly and cowardice. I never will take any body's advice
again. What did she think of my keeping away so long?
Did she despise-hate me?"
I said my sister had not confided to me any such opinion
of him.
" She shall not meet Granton, that fool, that knave, thatCould I overtake her before she reaches the Cedars?"
I informed him of a short cut across the moor, and he
was out of the house in two minutes, before Penelope came
into the drawing-room.
Penelope said I had done exceedingly wrong-that to
send him after our Lisa, and allow her to be seen driving
with him about the country, was the height of indecorum
-that I had no sense of family dignity, or prudence, or
propriety, was not a woman at all, but a mere sentimental
book-worm.
I answered, I was glad of it, if to be a woman was to resemble the woman I knew best.
A bitter, wicked speech, bitterly repented of when uttered. Penelope has a sharp tongue, though she does not
know it; but when she rouses mine, I do know it, therefore
am the more guilty. Many an unkind or sarcastic word
that women drop, as carelessly as a minute seed, often fructifies into a whole gardenful of noisome weeds, sprung up,
they have forgotten how, but the weeds are there. Yet
still I can not always command my tongue. Even, sometimes, when I do, the effort makes me think all the more
angrily of Penelope.
It was not now in an angry, but a humbled spirit, that
when Penelope was gone to her district visiting-she does
far more in the parish than either Lis or I-I went out
alone, as usual, upon the moor.




6 GA LIFE FOR A LIFE.
My moorlands looked dreary; the heather is fading from
purple to brown; the autumn days are coming on fast.
That afternoon they had that leaden uniformity which always weighs me down. I felt weary, hopeless-longed for
some change in my dull life; wished I were a boy, a man
-any thing, so that I might be something-do something.
Thus thinking, so deeply that I noticed little, some one
overtook and passed me. It is so rare to meet any one
above the rank of a laborer hereabout, that I looked round
and saw it was Doctor Urquhart. Hte recognized me, apparently; mechanically I bowed, so did he, and went on.
This broke the chain of my thoughts; they wandered to
my sister, Captain Treherne, and this Doctor Urquhart, with
whom, now I came to think of it-I had not done so in
the instant of his passing-I felt justly displeased. What
right had he to meddle with my sister's affairs-to give his
sage advice to his obedient young friend, who was foolish
enough to ask it?  Would I marry a man who went consulting his near, dear, and particular friends as to whether
they were pleased to consider me a suitable wife for him?
Never! Let him out of his own will love me, choose me,
and win me, or leave me alone.
So, perhaps, the blame lay more at Mr. Treherne's door
than his friend's, whom I could not call either a bad man or
a designing man, his countenance forbade it. Surely I had
been unjust to him.
He might have known this, and wished to give me a
chance of penitence, for I shortly saw his figure reappearing
over the slope of the road, returning toward me. Should I
go back? But that would seem too pointed, and we should
only exchange another formal bow.
I was mistaken. He stopped, bade me " good-morning,"
made some remarks about the weather, and then abruptly
told me that he had taken the liberty of turning back because he wanted to speak to me.
I thought, whatever will Penelope say! This escapade
will be more "improper" than Lisabel's, though my friend
is patriarchal in his age and preternatural in his gravity.
But the mischievous spirit, together with a little uncomfortable surprise, went out of me when I looked at Doctor Urquhart. In spite of himself, his whole manner was so exceedingly nervous that I became quite myself, if only out
of compassion.
" May I presume on our acquaintance enough to ask you




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.              67
a question-simple enough, but of great moment to me. Is
Captain Treherne at your house?"
(" No."
"Has he been there to-day?"
" Yes."
"I see you think me extremely impertinent.'
"Not impertinent, but more inquisitive than I consider
justifiable in a stranger. I really can not engage to answer
any more questions concerning my family or acquaintance."
" Certainly not. I beg yopr pardon. I will wish you
good-morning."
"Good-morning."
But he lingered.
" You are too candid yourself not to permit candor in
me. May I, in excuse, state my reasons for thus interrupting you."
I assented.
" You are aware that I know, and have known all along,
the present relations of my friend Treherne with your family?"
"I had rather not discuss that subject, Doctor Urquhart."
"No; but it will account for my asking questions about
Captain Treherne. He left me this morning in a state of
the greatest excitement. And at his age, with his temperament, there is no knowing to what a young man may not
be driven."
" At present, I believe, to nothing worse than the Cedars,
with my sister as his charioteer."
" You are satirical."
"I am exceedingly obliged to you."
Doctor Urquhart regarded me with a sort of benignant
smile, as if I were a naughty child, whose naughtiness partly grieved and partly amused him.
" If, in warrant of my age and my profession, you will
allow me a few words of serious conversation with you, I,
in my turn, shall be exceedingly obliged."
"You are welcome."
"Even if I speak about your sister and Captain Treherne?"
There he roused me.
" Doctor Urquhart, I do not see that you have the slightest right to interfere about my sister and Captain Treherne.
He may choose to make you his confidant-I shall not; and
I think very meanly of any man who brings a third person,




68              A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
either as umpire or go-between, betwixt himself and the
woman he professes to love."
Doctor Urquhart looked at me again fixedly, with that
curious, half-melancholy smile, before he spoke.
"At least, let me beg of you to believe one thing-I am
not that go-between."
He was so very gentle with me in my wrath, that, perforce, I could not be angry. I turned homeward, and he
turnedr with me; but I was determined not to give him another syllable.
Nevertheless, he spoke.
" Since we have said thus much, may I be allowed one
word more? This matter has begun to give me extreme
uneasiness. It is doing Treherne much harm. He is an
only son, the son of his father's old age; on him much hope
rests. He is very young-I never knew him to be serious
in any thing before. He is serious in his attachment-I
mean in his ardent desire to marry your sister."
" You think so? We are deeply indebted to him."
" My dear young lady, when we are talking on a matter
so important, and which concerns you so nearly, it is a pity
to reply in that tone."
To be reproved in this way by a man and a stranger! I
was so astonished that it made me dumb. He continued:
"You are aware that, for the present, Sir William's consent has been refused?"' I am aware of it."
" And indignant, probably. Yet there are two sides to
this subject. It is rather trying to an old man, when his
son writes suddenly and insists upon bringing home a
daughter-in-law, however charming, in six weeks; natural,
too, that the father should urge-' Take time to consider,
my dear boy.'"
" Very natural."
"Nay, should he go farther, and wish some information
respecting the lady who is to become one of his familydesire to know her family, in order to judge more of one
on whom are to depend his son's happiness and his house
and honor, you would not think him unjust or tyrannical?"
"Of course not. We," I said, with some pride, alas!
more pride than truth, " we should exact the same."
"I know Sir William well, and he trusts me. You will,
perhaps, understand how this trust and the-the flexible
character of his son, make me feel painfully responsible.




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             69
Also, I know what youth is when thwarted. If that young
fellow should go wrong, it would be to me-you can not
conceive how painful it would be to me."
His hands nervously working one over the other, the sorrowful expression of his eyes, indicated sufficient emotion
to make me extremely grieved for this good-hearted man.
I am sure he is good-hearted.
I said I could not, of course, feel the same interest that he)
did in Captain Treherne, but that I wished the young man
well.
" Can you tell me one thing; is your sister really attached to him?"
This sudden question, which I had so many times asked
of myself-ought I to reply to it? Could I? Only by a
prevarication.
" Mr. Treherne is the best person from whom to obtain
that information."
And I began to walk quicker, as a hint that this very odd
conversation had lasted quite long enough.
" I shall not detain you two minutes," my companion
said, hastily. " It is a strange confidence to put in you, and
yet I feel I may. Sir William wrote to me privately to-day.
On my answer to his inquiries his consent will mainly depend."
" What does he want to know? If we are respectable;
if we have any money; if we have been decently educated;
so that ouy connection shall not disgrace his family?"
"You are almost justified in being angry; but I said
nothing of the kind. His questions only referred to the
personal worth of the lady, and her personal attachment to
his son."
" My poor Lisa! That she should have her character
asked for like a housemaid! That she should be admitted
into a grand family, condescendingly, on sufferance!"
"You quite mistake," said Doctor Urquhart, earnestly.
You are so angry, that you will not listen to what I say.
Sir William is wealthy enough to be indifferent to money.
Birth and position he might desire, and his son has already
satisfied him upon yours; that your father is a clergyman,
and that you come of an old English family."
"We do not; we come of nothing and nobody. My
grandfather was a farmer; he wrote his name Johnson,
plain, plebeian Johnson. We are, by right, no Johnstons
at all."




70              A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
The awful announcement had not the effect I anticipated.
True, Doctor Urquhart started a little, and walked on silently for some minutes, but when he turned his face round
it was quite beaming.
"If I did tell this to Sir William, he is too honorable a
man not to value honor and honesty in any family, whether
plebeian, as you call it, or not. Pardon me this long intrusion, with all my other offenses, Will you shake hands?"
We did so-quite friendly, and parted.
I found Lisabel at home. By some chance, she had missed the Grantons, and Captain Treherne had missed her; I
know not of which accident I was the most glad.
Frankly and plainly, as seemed to me best, I told her of
my meeting Doctor Urquhart, and of all that had passed
between us; saving only the fact of Sir William's letter to
him, which, as he said it was "in confidence," I felt I was
not justified in communicating even to my sister.
She took every thing very easily-laughed at Mr. Treherne's woes, called him "poor fellow," was sure all would
come right in time, and went up stairs to dress for dinner.
On Thursday she got a letter fiom him which she gave
me to read-very passionate and fill of nonsense. I wonder any man can write such rubbish, or any woman care
to read it-still more to show it. It gave no information
on facts-only implored her to see him; which, in a neat
little note, also given for my perusal, Lisabel declined.
On Friday evening, just after the lamp was lit and we
were all sitting round the tea-table,'who should send in his
card with a message begging a few minutes' conversation
with Mr. Johnston, but Doctor Urquhart?  " Max Urquhart, M.D.," as his card said. How odd he should le called
"Max."
Papa, roused from his nap, desired the visitor to be shown
in, and with some difficulty I made him understand that this
was the gentleman Mrs. Granton had spoken of-also-as
Penelope added ill-naturedly, " the particular friend of Captain Treherne."
This-for, though he has said nothing, I am sure he has
understood what has been going on-made papa stand up
rather frigidly when Doctor Urquhart entered the parlor.
He did so hesitatingly, as if, coming out of the dark night,
the blaze of our lamp confused him. I noticed he put his
hand to shade his eyes.
"Doctor Urquhart, I believe? Mrs. Granton's friends
and Captain Treherne's?"




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.              71
"The same."
"Will you be seated?"
He took a chair opposite; and he and papa scanned one
another closely. I caught, in Doctor Urquhart's face, that
peculiar uneasy expression about the mouth. What a comfort a beard must be to a nervous person!
A few common-place remarks passed, and then our visitor asked if he might speak with papa alone. He was the
bearer of a message-a letter in short-from Sir William
Treherne, of Treherne Court.
Papa said, stiffly-he had not the honor of that gentleman's acquaintance.
" Sir William hopes, nevertheless, to have the honor of
making yours."
Lisabel pinched me under the table; Penelope gazed
steadily into the tea-pot; papa rose and walked solemnly
into his study-Doctor Urquhart following.
It was-as Lisa cleverly expressed it, " all right."  All
parties concerned had given full consent to the marriage.
Captain Treherne came the day following to Rockmount,
in a state of exuberant felicity, the overplus of which he
vented in kissing Penelope and me, and requesting us to
call him " Augustus."  I am afraid I could willingly have
dispensed with either ceremony.
Doctor Urquhart we have not seen again, he was not at
church yesterday. Papa intends to invite him to dinner
shortly. He says he likes him very much.
CHAPTER VII.
HIS STORY.
HOSPITAL work, rather heavy this week, with other things
of lesser moment, have stopped this my correspondence with
an " airy nothing;" however, the blank will not be missed —
naught concerning Max Urquhart would be missed by any
body.
Pardon, fond and faithful Nobody, for whose benefit I
write, and for whose good opinion I am naturally anxious.
I believe two or three people would miss me, my advice
and conversation, in the hospital.
By-the-by, Thomas Hardman, to my extreme satisfaction,
seems really reforming. His wife told me he has not taken




72              A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
a drop too much since he came out of the hospital. She
says " this illness was the saving of him, since, if he had
been flogged, or discharged for drunkenness, he would have
been a drunkard all his days." So far, so good.
I was writing about being missed, literally, by Nobody.
And, truly, this seems fair enough; for is there any body I
should miss? Have I missed, or been relieved by the lost
company of my young friend who has so long haunted my
hut, but who, now, at an amazing expense in carriage-hire,
horse-flesh, and shoe-leather, manages to spend every available minute at a much more lively abode, as Rockmount
probably is, for he seems to find a charm in the very walls
which inclose his jewel.
For my part, I prefer the casket to the gem. Rockmount
must be a pleasant house to live in; I thought so the first
night, when, by Sir William's earnest desire, I took upon
myself the part of " father" to that willful lad, and paid the
preliminary visit to the lady's father, Mr. Johnston.
Johnson it is, properly, as I learned from that impetuous
young daughter of his, when, meeting her on the moor, the
idea suddenly struck me to gain from her some knowledge
that might guide my conduct in the very anxious position
wherein I was placed. Johnson, only Johnson. Poor child!
had she known the load she lifted off me by those few impetuous words, which accident only won; for Treherne's
matter had for once driven out of my mind all other thoughts,
or doubts, or fears, which may now henceforward be completely set aside.
I must, of course, take no notice of her frank communication, but continue to call them "Johnston." Families
which "come from nothing and nobody"-the foolish lassie! as if we did not all come alike from Father Adamare very tenacious on these points; which may have their
value-to families. Unto isolated individuals they seem ridiculous. To me, for instance, of what benefit is it to bear
an ancient name, bequeathed by ancestors whom I owe
nothing besides, and which I shall leave to no descendants?
I, who have no abiding place on the whole earth, and to
whom, as I read in a review extract yesterday, "MIy home
is any room where I can draw a bolt across the door."
Speaking of home, I revert to my first glimpse of the interior of Rockmount, that rainy night, when weary with
my day and night journey, and struck more than ever with
the empty dreariness of Treherne Court, and the restless



A LIFE FOR A LIFE.              73
ness of its poor gouty old master, able to enjoy so little out
of all his splendors, I suddenly entered this snug little
"home." The fire, the tea-table, the neatly-dressed daughters, looking quite different from decked-out beauties, or
hospital slatterns, which are the two phases in which I most
often see the sex. Certainly, to one who has been much
abroad, there is a great charm in the sweet looks of a thorough English woman by her own fireside.
This picture'fixed itself in my mind, distinct as a photograph; for truly it was printed in light. The warm, bright
parlor, with a delicate-tinted paper, a flowered carpet, and
amber curtains, which I noticed because one of the daughters was in the act of drawing them to screen the draught
from her father's arm-chair. The old man-he must be
seventy, nearly-standing on the hearth-rug, met me coldly enough, which was not surprising, prior to our conversation. The three ladies I have before named.
Of these, the future Mrs. Treherne is by far the handsomest; but I still prefer the countenance of my earliest
acquaintance, Miss Theodora-a pretty name. Neither she
nor her sisters gave me more than a formal bow; shaking
hands is evidently not their custom with strangers. I should
have thought of that two days before.
Mr. Johnston took me into his study. It is an antique
room, with dogs for the fire-place, and a settle on either
side the hearth; many books or papers about, and a large,
neatly-arranged library on shelves.
Inoticed these things because, as I say, my long absence
from England caused them to attract me more than they
might have done a person accustomed to English domestic
life. That old man, gliding peacefully down hill in the arms
of his three daughters, was a sight pleasant enough. There
must be many compensations in old age-in such an old age
as this.
Mr. Johnston-I am learning to write the name without
hesitation-is not a man of many words. His character
appears to me of that type which I have generally found
associated with those specially delicate and regular features; shrinking from any thing painful or distasteful, putting it aside, forgetting it, if possible, but any how trying
to get rid of it. Thus, when I had delivered Sir William
Treherne's most cordial and gentlemanly letter, and explained his thorough consent to the marriage, the lady's father took it much more indifferently than I had expected.
D




'74             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
He said, "that he had never interfered with his daughters' choice in such matters, nor should he now; he had no
objection to see them settled; they would have no protector
when he was gone." And here he paused.
I answered, it was a very natural parental desire, and I
trusted Captain Treherne would prove a good brother to
the Misses Johnston, as well as a good son to himself.
"Yes-yes," he said, hastily, and then asked me a few
questions as to Treherne's prospects, temper, and moral
character, which I was glad to be able to answer as I did.
" Harum-scarum," as I call him, few young men of fortune
can boast a more stainless life, and so I told Mr. Johnston.
He seemed satisfied, and ended our interview by saying,
" that he should be happy to see the young gentleman tomorrow."
So I departed, declining his invitation to re-enter the
drawing-room, for it seemed that, at the present crisis in
their family history, there was an indelicacy in any strangers breaking in upon that happy circle. Otherwise, I
would have liked well another peep at the pretty homepicture, which in walking to the camp through a pelting
rain, flitted before my eyes again and again.
Treherne was waiting in my hut. He looked up, fevered
with anxiety.
"Where the devil have you been gone to, Doctor? Nobody has known any thing about you for the last two days.
And I wanted you to write to the governor, and-"
" I have seen the' governor,' as you will persist in calling
the best of fathers-"
"Seen him!"
"And the Rockmount father too. Go in and win, my
boy; the coast's all clear. Mind you ask me to the wedding."
Truly there is a certain satisfaction in having had a hand
in making young folks happy. The sight does not happen
often enough to afford my smiling even at the demonstrations of that poor lad on this memorable evening.
Since then, I have left him to his own devices, and followed mine, which have little to do with happy people.
Once or twice, I have had business with Mr. Granton, who
does not seem to suffer'acutely at Miss Lisabel's marriage.
He need not cause a care, even to that tender-hearted damsel, who besought me so pitifully to take him in hand. And
so, I trust the whole Rockmount family are happy, and ful



A LIFE FOR A LIFE.              75
filling their destiny —in the which, little as I thought it, when
I stood watching the solitary girl in the sofa corner, Max
Urquhart has been made more an instrument than he ever
dreamed of, or than they are likely ever to be aware.
The matter was beginning to fade out of my memory, as
one of the many episodes which are always occurring to
create passing interests in a doctor's life, when I received
an invitation to dine at Rockmount.
I dislike accepting casual invitations. Primarily, on principle-the bread-and-salt doctrine of the East, which considers hospitality neither as a business nor an amusement,
but as a sacred rite, entailing permanent responsibility to
both host and guest. When I sit by a man's fireside, or
(Treherne loquitur) "put my feet under his mahogany," I
feel bound not merely to give him back the same quantity
and quality of meat and drink, but to regard myself as
henceforth his friend and guest, under obligations closer
and more binding than one would submit to from the world
in general. It is, therefore, incumbent on me to be very
choice in those with whom I put myself under such bonds
and obligations.
My secondary reasons are so purely personal, that they
will not bear enlarging upon. Most people of solitary life,
and conscious of many peculiarities, take small pleasure in
general society; otherwise to go out into the world, to rub
up one's intellect, enlarge one's social sympathies, enjoy the
mingling of wit, learning, beauty, and even folly, would be
a pleasant thing-like sitting to watch a pyrotechnic display, knowing all the while that when it was ended one
could come back to see one's heart in the perennial warmth
of one's own fireside. If not-better stay away: for one
is inclined to turn cynical, and perceive nothing but the
smell of the gunpowder, the wrecks of the Catherine-wheels,
and the empty shells of the Roman candles.
The Rockmount invitation was rather friendly than formal, and it came from an old man. The feeble handwriting,
the all but illegible signature, weighed with me, in spite of
myself. I had no definite reason to refuse this politeness,
which is not likely to extend beyond an occasional dinnerparty, of the sort given hereabouts periodically, to middleaged respectable neighbors-in which category may be
supposed to come Max Urquhart, M.D. I accepted the
courtesy and invitation.
Yet let me confess to thee, compassionate unknown, the




76              A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
ridiculous hesitation with which I walked up to this friendly door, from which I should certainly have walked away
again, but for my dislike to break any engagement, however trivial, or even a promise made only to myself: Let
me own the morbid dread with which I contemplated four
mortal hours to be spent in the society of a dozen friendly
people, made doubly sociable by the influence of a good
dinner and the best of wines.
But the alarm was needless, as a little common sense,
had I exercised it, would soon have proved.
In the drawing-room, lit with the warm duskiness of firelight, sat the three ladies. The eldest received me politely:
the youngest apologetically.
" We are only ourselves, you see; we understand you
dislike dinner-parties, so we invited nobody.". "We never do give dinner-parties more than once or
twice a year."
It was the second daughter who made that last remark.
I thought whether it was for my sake or her own, that one
young lady had taken the trouble to give me a false impression, and the other to remove it. And how very indifferent I was to both attempts! Surely, women hold trifles of
more moment than we men can afford to do.
Curious enough to me was the thoroughly feminine atmosphere of the dainty little drawing-room, set out, not
with costly splendors, like Treherne Court, but pretty homemade ornaments, and, above all, with plenty of flowers.
My olfactories are acute; certain rooms always possess to
me certain associated scents through which, at whatever
distance of time I revisit them, the pristine impression survives; sometimes pleasant, sometimes horribly painful.
That pretty parlor will, I fancy, always carry to me the
scent of orange-flowers. It came through the door of a little green-house, from a tree there, the finest specimen I had
yet seen in England, and I rose to examine it. There followed me the second daughter, Miss Theodora.
In the minute picture which I have been making of my
evening at Rockmount, I ought not to omit this young girl,
or young woman, for she appears both by turns; indeed,
she has the most variable exterior of any person I ever met.
I recall her successively; the first time of meeting, quite
childlike in her looks and ways; the second, sedate and
womanly, save in her little obstinacy about the blue-bells;
the third, dignified, indignant, pertinaciously reserved; but




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.              77
this night I saw her in an entirely new character, neither
childish nor woman-like, but altogether gentle and girlish
-a thorough English girl.
Her dress, of some soft, dark color, which fell in folds,
and did not rustle or spread; her hair, which was twisted
at the back, without any bows or laces, such as I see ladies
wear, and brought down, smooth and soft, over the forehead, formed a sufficient contrast to her sisters to make me
notice her; besides, it was a style more according to my
own taste. I hate to see a woman all flounces and filligigs,
or with her hair torn up by the roots like a Chinese Mandarin. Hair curved over the brow like a Saxon arch, under the doorway of which two modest intelligent eyes stand
sentinel, vouching for the worth of what is within-grant
these, and the rest of the features may be any thing you
choose, if not absolutely ugly. The only peculiarity about
these was a squareness of chin, and closeness of mouth, indicating more strength than sweetness of disposition, until
the young lady smiled.
Writing this, I am smiling myself to reflect how little
people would give me credit for so much observation; but
a liking to study character is, perhaps, of all others, the
hobby most useful to a medical man.
I have left my object of remark all this while standing
by her orange-tree, and contemplating a large caterpillar
slowly crawling over one of its leaves. I recommended her
to get Treherne to smoke in her conservatory, which would
remove the insects from her flowers.
"They are not mine, I rarely pay them the least attention."
I thought she was fond of flowers.
" Yes, but wild flowers, not tame, like these of Penelope's.
I only patronize those she throws away as being not'good.'
Can you imagine mother Nature making a' bad' flower?"
I said, I concluded Miss Johnston was a scientific horti.
culturist.
" Indeed she is. I never knew a girl so learned about
flowers, well-educated, genteel, green-house flowers, as our
Penelope."
"Our" Penelope. There must be a pleasure in these
family possessive pronouns.
I had the honor of taking in to dinner this lady, who is
very sprightly, and nothing at all Odyssean about her.
During a lack of conversation, for Treherne, of course, de



78              A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
voted himself to his ladye-love, and Mr. Johnston is the
most silent of hosts, I ventured to remark that this was the
first time I had ever met a lady with that old Greek name.
"Penelope!" cried Treherne. "'Pon my life I forget
who was Penelope. Do tell us, Dora. That young lady
knows every thing, Doctor; a regular blue-stocking; at
first she quite frightened me, I declare."
Captain Treherne seems to be making himself uncommonly familiar with his future sisters-in-law. This one did
not exactly relish it, to judge by her look. She has a will
of her own, and a temper, too, " that young lady." It is
as well Treherne did not happen to set his affections upon
her.
Poor youth! he never knows when to stop.
"Ha! I have it now, Miss Dora. Penelope was in the
Odyssey-that book of engravings you were showing my
cousin Charteris and me that Friday night. And how I
laughed at what Charteris said-that he thought the good
lady was very much over-rated, and Ulysses in the right of
it to ride away again, when, coming back after ten years,
he found her a prudish, psalm-singing, spinning old woman.
Halloo! have I put my foot into it, Lisabel?"
It seemed so, by the constrained silence of the whole
party. Miss Johnston turned scarlet and then white, but
immediately said to me, laughingly:
"Mr. Charteris is an excellent classic; he was papa's pupil for some years. Have you ever met him?"
I had not, but I had often heard of him in certain circles
of our camp society, as well as from Sir William Treherne.
And I now suddenly recollected that, in talking over his
son's marriage, the latter had expressed some surprise at
the news Treherne had given that this gay bachelor about
town, whose society he had always been chary of cultivating for fear of harm to " the boy," had been engaged for
some time to a member of the Johnston family. This was,
of course, Miss Johnston-Penelope.
I would have let the subject drop, but Miss Lisabel revived it.
"So you have heard a deal about Francis? No wonder!
-is he not a charming person?-and very much thought
of in London society? Do tell us all you heard about him."
Treherne gave me a look.
" Oh! you'll never get any thing out of the Doctor. He
knows every body, and every body tells him every thing,




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.'79
but there it ends. He is a perfect tomb-a sarcophagus
of silence, as a fellow once called him."
Miss Lisabel held up her hands, and vowed she was really afraid of me. Miss Johnston said, sharply, " She liked
candid people; a sarcophagus of silence implied a'body'
inside." At which all laughed, except the second sister,
who said, with some warmth, " She thought there were few
qualities more rare and valuable than the power of keeping
a secret."
" Of course Dora thinks so. Doctor, my sister there, is
the most secretive little mouse that ever was born. Redhot pincers could not force from her what she did not choose
to tell, about herself or other people."
I well believe that. One sometimes finds that combination of natural frankness and exceeding reticence, when reticence is necessary.
The " mouse" had justified her name by being silent nearly all dinner-time, though it was not the silence of either
sullenness or abstraction. But when she was afterward accused of delighting in a secret, " running away with it, and
hiding it in her hole, like a bit of cheese," she looked up,
and said, emphatically,
That is a mistake, Lisabel."
"A fib, you mean. Augustus, do you know, my sisters
call me a dreadful story-teller," smiling at him, as if she
thought it the best joke in the world.
" I said a mistake, and meant nothing more."
" Do tell us, child, what you really meant, if it is possible
to get it out of you," observed the eldest sister; and the
poor " mouse," thus driven into a corner, looked round the
table with those bright eyes of hers.
"Lisabel mistakes; I do not delight in secrets. I think
people ought not to have any, but to be of one mind in a
house." (She studies her Bible, then, for the phrase came
out as naturally as one quotes habitual phrases, scarcely
conscious whence one has learned them.) " Those who really care for one another are much happier when they tell
one another every thing; there is nothing so dangerous as
a secret. Better never have one, but, having it, if one ought
to keep it at all, one ought to keep it to the death."
She looked-quite accidentally, I do believe-but still
she looked at me. Why is it, that this girl should be the
instrument of giving me continual stabs of pain? Yet there
is a charm in them. They take away a little of the feeling




80              A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
of isolation-the contrast between the inside and outside
of the sarcophagus. Many true words are spoken in jest.
They dart, like a thread of light, even to "the body" within. Corruption has its laws. I marvel in what length of
time might a sunbeam, penetrating there, find nothing worse
than harmless dust?
But I will pass into ordinary life again. Common sense
teaches a man in my circumstances that this is the best
thing for him. What business has he to set himself up as
a Simon Stylites on a solitary column of woe? as if misery
constituted saintship. There is no arrogance like the hypocrisy of humility.
When Treherne had joined the ladies, Mr. Johnston and
myself started some very interesting conversation, alpropos
of Mrs. Granton and her doings in the parish, when I found
that he has the feeling, very rare among country gentlemen
of his age and generation-an exceeding aversion for strong
drinks. He discountenances Father Mathew and the pledge
as popish, a crotchet not surprising in an old Tory, whose
opinions, never wide, all run in one groove, as it were, but
he advocates temperance, even to teetotalism.
I tried to draw the line of moderation, and argued that,
because some men, determined on making beasts of themselves, required to be treated like beasts, by compulsion
only, that was no reason why the remainder should not have
free-will, man's glorious privilege, to prove their manhood
by the choice of good or evil.
"Like Adam-and Adam fell."
"Like a greater than Adam; trusting in Whom we need
never fall."
The old man did not reply, but he looked much excited.
The subject seemed to rouse in him something beyond the
mere disgust of an educated gentleman at what offended
his refined tastes. Had not certain other reasons made that
solution improbable, I could have imagined it the shudder
of one too familiar with the vice he now abhorred; that he
spoke about drunkenness with the terrified fierceness of one
who had himself been a drunkard.
As we sat talking across the table, philosophically, abstractedly, yet with a perceptible undertone of reserve-I
heard it in his voice; I felt it in my own-or listening silently to the equinoctial gale, which rattled the window,
made the candles flicker, almost caused the wine to shake
in the untouched decanters-as I have heard table-rapping




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.              81
tales, of wine beginning to shake when there was " a spirit
present"-the thought,truck me more than once-if either
of us two men could lift the curtain from one another's past,
what would be found there?
He proceeded to close our conversation by saying,
"You will understand now, Doctor Urquhart, and I wish
to name it as a sort of apology for my former close questioning, my extreme horror of drunkenness and my satisfaction
at finding that Mr. Treherne has no propensity in this direction."
I answered," Certainly not; that, with all the temptations
of a mess-table, to take much wine was, with him, a thing
exceedingly rare."
" Rare! I thought you said he never drank at all?"
"I told you he was no drunkard, nor at all in the habit
of drinking."
"Habits grow, we know not how," cried the old man,
irritably. "Does he take it every day?"
" I suppose so. Most military men do."
Mr. Johnston turned sharp upon me.
" I must have no modifications, Doctor Urquhart. Can
you declare positively that you never saw Captain Treherne
the worse for liquor?"
To answer this question directly was impossible, I tried
to remove the impression I had unhappily given, and which
the old man had taken up so unexpectedly and fiercely, by
enlarging on the brave manner in which Treherne had withstood many a lure to evil ways.
" You can not deceive me, sir. I must have the truth."
I was on the point of telling him to seek it from Treherne
himself, when, remembering the irritation of the old man,
and the hot-headed imprudence of the young one, I thought
it would be safer to bear the brunt myself. I informed Mr.
Johnston of the two only instances when I had seen Treherne not himself. Once after twenty-four hours in the
trenches, when unlimited brandy could hardly keep life in
our poor fellows, and again when Miss Lisabel herself must
be his excuse.
"Lisabel? Do not name her, sir; I would rather see a
daughter of mine in her grave than the wife of a drunkard."
"Which, allow me to assert, Captain Treherne is not,
and is never likely to be."
Mr. Johnston shook his head incredulously. I became
more and more convinced about the justice of my conjectD 2.




82              A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
ure about his past life, which delicacy forbade me to inquire into, or to use as any argument against his harshness
now. I began to feel seriously uneasy.
"Mr. Johnston," I said, "would you for this accidental
error-"
I paused, seeing at the door a young lady's face, Miss
Theodora's.
" Papa, tea is waiting."
" Let it wait then; shut the door. Well, sir?"
I repeated, would he, for an accidental error, condemn
the young man entirely?
" He has condemned himself; he has taken the first step,
and his downward course will be swift and sudden. There
is no stopping it, sir," and he struck his hand on the table.
" If I had a son, and he liked wine, as a child does, perhaps
-a pretty little boy, sitting at table and drinking healths
at birthdays; or a schoolboy, proud to do what he sees his
father doing-I would take his glass from him, and fill it
with poison-deadly poison-that he might kill himself at
once, rather than grow up to his friends' curse and his own
damnation-a drunkard."
I urged, after a minute's pause, that Treherne was neither a child nor a boy; that he had passed through the
early perils of youth, and succumbed to none; that there
was little fear he would ever become a drunkard.
"He may."
"Please God he never shall! Even if he had yielded to
temptation; if, even in your sense and mine, Mr. Johnston,
the young man had once been' drunk,' would you for that
brand him as a hopeless drunkard? I think not-I trust
not."
And, strongly excited myself, I pleaded for the lad as if
I had been pleading for my own life, but in vain.
It was getting late, and I was in momentary dread of
another summons to the drawing-room.
In cases like these there comes a time when, be our opponents younger or older, inferior or superior to ourselves,
we feel we must assert what we believe to be right, " taking the upper hand," as it is called-that is, using the power
which the few have in guiding the many. Call it influence,
decision, will-one who possesses it rarely gets through
half a lifetime without discovering the fact, and what a
weighty and solemn gift it is.
I said to Mr. Johnston, very respectfully, yet resolutely,




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.              83
that, in so serious a matter, of which I myself was the unhappy cause, I must request him, as a personal favor, to
postpone his decision for to-night.
"And," I continued, "forgive my urging that, both as a
father and a clergyman, you are bound to be careful how
you decide.  By one fatal word you may destroy your
daughter's happiness for life."
I saw him start; I struck bolder.
" Also, as Captain Treherne's friend, let me remind you
that he has a future too. It is a dangerous thing for a
young man's future when he is thwarted in his first love.
What if he should go all wrong, and you had to answer to
Sir William Treherne for the ruin of his only son?"
I was not prepared for the effect of my words.
" His only son-God forgive me! is he his only son?"
Mr. Johnston turned fiom me; his hands shook violently;
his whole countenance changed. In it there was as much
remorse and anguish as if he, in his youth, had been some
old man's only and perhaps erring son.
I could pity him if he were one of those who suffer to
their life's end for the evil deeds of their youth. I abstaiped from any farther remarks, and he made none. At last,
as he expressed some wish to be left alone, I rose.
"Doctor," he said, in a tremulous voice, "I will thank
you not to name this conversation to my family. For the
subject of it, we'll pass it over this once."
I thanked him, and earnestly begged forgiveness for any
warmth I had shown in the argument.
" Oh yes, oh yes! Did I not say we would pass it over?"
He sank wearily back in his arm-chair, but I felt the point
was gained.
In course of the evening, when Treherne and Miss Lisabel, in happy ignorance of all the peril their bliss had gone
through, were making believe to play chess in the corner,
and Miss Johnston was reading the newspaper to her father,
I slipped away to the green-house, where I stood examining some orchids, and thinking how curious it was that I,
a perfect stranger, should be so mixed up with the private
affairs of this family.
"Doctor Urquhart."
Soft as the whisper was, it made me start. I apologized
for not having seen Miss Theodora enter, and began admiring the orchidaceous plants.
"Yes, very pretty. But I wanted to ask you, what were
you and papa talking about?"




84              A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
"Your father wished me not to mention it."
"But I heard part of it, I could not help hearing, and I
guessed the rest. Tell me only one thing. Is Mr. Treherne
still to marry our Lisa?"
"I believe so. There was a difficulty, but Mr. Johnston
said he would'pass it over.'"
" Poor papa," was all she replied. "Poor papa."
I expressed my exceeding regret at what had happened.
"No, never mind, you could not help it; I understand
exactly how it was. But the storm will blow over; papa
is rather peculiar. Don't tell Mr. Treherne."
She stood meditative a good while, and then. said,
" I think you are right about Captain Treherne; I begin
to like him myself a little. That is-  No, I will not make
pretenses. I did not like him at all until lately."
I told her I knew that.
" How? Did I show it? Do I show what I feel?"
" Tolerably," said I, smiling. " But you do like him
now?"
" Yes."
Another pause of consideration and then a second decisive
" yes."
" I like him," she went on, " because he is good-natured
and sincere. Besides, he suits Lisabel, and people are so
different, that it would be ridiculous to expect to choose
one's sister's husband after the pattern of one's own. The
two would probably not agree in any single particular."
"Indeed," said I, amused at her frankness. "For instance?"
" Well, for Instance, Lisa likes talking, and I silence, or
being talked to, and even that in moderation. Hark!"
We listened a minute to Treherne's hearty laugh and incessant chitter-chatter.
" Now, my sister enjoys that, she says it amuses her; I
am sure it would drive me crazy in a week."
I could sympathize a little in this sentiment.
"But," with sudden seriousness, "I beg you to understand, Doctor Urquhart, that I am not speaking against
Captain Treherne. As I told you, I like him; I am quite
satisfied with him, as a brother-in-law. Only he is not exactly the sort of person one would choose to spend a week
with in the Eddystone Lighthouse."
I asked if that was her test for all her friends? since few
could stand it.




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.              85
She laughed.
"Possibly not. When one comes to reflect there are
very few whose company one can tolerate so well as one's
own."
"Which is itself not always agreeable."
"No, but the less evil of the two. I don't believe there
is a creature living whose society I could endure, without
intermission, for a month, a week, or even two days. No.
Emphatically no."
She must then, though a member of a family, live a good
deal alone-a fact I had already begun to suspect.
" Therefore, as I try to make Lisa feel-being the elder,
I have a right to preach, you know-what an awful thing
marriage must be, even viewed as mere companionship.
Putting aside love, honor, obedience, and all that sort of
thing, to undertake the burden of any one person's constant
presence and conversation for the term of one's natural life!
the idea is frightful!"
" Very, if you do put aside love, honor,'and all that sort
of thing."'
She looked up, as if she thought I was laughing at her.
"Am I talking very foolishly? I am afraid I do sometimes."
" Not at all," I said, " it was pleasant to hear her talk."
Which unlucky remark of mine had the effect of wholly
silencing her.
But, silent, it was something to watch her moving about
the drawing-room, or sitting still over her work. I like to
see a woman sewing; it gives her an air of peaceful homelikeness, the nearest approach to which, in us men, who are
either always sullenly busy or lazily idle, is the ungainly
lounge with our feet on the fender. Mr. Johnston must be
happy in his daughters, particularly in this one. He can
scarcely have regretted that he has had no sons.
It seems natural, seeing how much too well acquainted
we are with our sex, its weaknesses and wickednesses, that
most men should long for, and make much of daughters.
Certainly, to have in one's old age a bright girlish face to
look at, a lively original girlish tongue to freshen one's
mind with new ideas, must be a pleasant thing. Whatever
may have been the sorrows of his past life, Mr. Johnston is
a fortunate man now.
With regard to Treherne, I had the satisfaction of perceiving that, as Miss Theodora had prophesied, the old




86              A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
man's anger had blown over. His manner indicated not
merely forgiveness, but a degree of kindly interest in that
light-hearted youth, who was brimming over with fun and
contentment.
I had an opportunity of satisfying myself on this point,
in another quarter, while waiting in the hall for Treherne's
protracted adieu in the dining-room; when Miss Theodora,
passing me, stopped to interchange a word with me.
" Shall you tell your friend what occurred to-night?with papa, I mean."
I replied, I was not sure-but perhaps I should. It might
act as a warning.
"Do you think he needs a warning?"
" I do not. I believe Treherne is as likely to turn out a
good man, especially with a good wife to help him, as any
young fellow of my acquaintance; and I sincerely hope that
you, as well as your father, will think no worse of him for
any thing that is past. An old man has had time to forget,
and a girl is never likely to understand, the exceeding temptations which every young man has to fight through, more
especially a young man of fortune, and in the army."
"Ah! yes," she sighed, "that is too true. Papa must
have felt it. Papa wished this to be kept secret between
himself and you?"
" I understood him so."
"Then keep it. Do not tell Mr. Treherne. And have
no fear that I shall be too hard upon him. It would be sad,
indeed, for all of us, who do wrong every day, if every error
of youth were to be regarded as unpardonable."
God bless her good heart, and the kindly hand she held
out to me; which for the second time I dared to take in
mine. Ay, even in mine.
CHAPTER VIII.
HER STORY.
I DO not feel inclined for sleep, and there is a large round
moon looking in at my window. My foolish old moon, what
a time it is since you and I had a quiet serious look at one
another. What curious things you used to say to me, and
what confidences I used to make in you, at this very window, leaning my elbow in this very spot. That was when




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.              87
I was a child, and fond of Colin-" Colin, my dear." How
ridiculous it seems now, and what a laugh it would raise
against me if any body had known it. Yet what an innocent, simple, devoted child-love it was! I hardly think any
after-love, supposing I should ever feel one, will be, in its
way, more tender or more true.
M oon have you forgotten me? Am I becoming a middle-aged person; and is a new and younger generation
growing up to have confidences with you as I used to
have? Or is it I who have forsaken you? Most likely.
You have done me a deal of harm-and good, too-in my
time. Yet you seem friendly and mild to-night. I will
forgive you, my poor old moon.
It has been a pleasant day. My head aches a little, with
the unusual excitement-query, of pleasure? Is pleasantness so very rare, then? No: I am weary with the exertion of having to make myself agreeable; for Penelope is
full of housekeeping cares, and a few sad thoughts, too,
may be, concerning the wedding; so that she takes little
trouble to entertain visitors. And Lisabel is "in love,"
you know, moon.
You would not think it, though, except from the license
she takes to be lazy when Augustus is here, and up to the
eyes in business when he is away. I never thought a
wedding was such a "piece of work," as the old women
say; such a time of incessant bustle, worry, and confusion.
I only saw the "love" side of it, Lisabel avers, and laughs
at me when I wonder at her for wearing herself out from
morning till night in consultation over her trousseau, and
how we shall possibly manage to accommodate the eightand-forty particular friends who must be asked to the
breakfast.
Happily, they are only the bride's friends. Sir William
and Lady Augusta Treherne can not come, and Augustus
does not care a straw for asking any body. He says he
only wants his Lisa. His Lisa unfortunately requires a
few trifles more to constitute her bridal happiness; a
wreath, a veil, a breakfast, and six bridesmaids in Indian
muslin. Rather cold, for autumn, but which she says she
can not give up on any account, since a wedding-day comes
but once, and she has been looking forward to hers ever
since she was born.
A wedding-day! Probably there are few of us who
have not speculated on it a little, as the day which, of all




88              A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
others, is the most decisive in a woman's life. I am not
ashamed to confess having occasionally thought of mine.
A foolish dream that comes and goes with one's teens;
imagined paradise of utterly impossible joy, to be shared
with some paragon of equally impossible perfection-I
could sit and laugh at it now, if the laughter were not bitterer than tears.
There, after writing this, I went and pulled down my
hair, and tied it under my chin to prevent cold-oh! most
prudent five-and-twenty-leaned my elbow on the windowsill, in the old attitude of fifteen, staring up at the moon
and out across the fir-woods for a long time. Returning,
I have relit my candle, and taken once more to my desk,
and I say again, O inquisitive moon, that this has been a
pleasant day.
It was one of our quiet Rockmount Sundays, which
Doctor Urquhart says he enjoys so much. Poor Lisabel's
last Sunday but one. She will be married to-morrow week.
We had our indispensable lover to dinner, and Doctor
Urquhart also. Papa told me to ask him as we were
coming out of the church. In spite of the distance, he
often attends our church now, at which papa seems gratified.
I delivered the message, which was not received with as
much warmth as I thought it ought to have been, considering that it came from an elderly gentleman, who does
not often pay a younger man than himself the compliment
of liking his society. I was turning away, saying I concluded he had some better engagement, when Doctor Urquhart replied quickly"No, indeed. That were impossible."
" Will you come then? Pray don't, if you dislike it."
For I was vexed at a certain hesitation and uneasiness in
his manner, which implied this; when I had been so glad
to bring him the invitation and had taken the trouble to
cross half the church-yard after him, in order to deliver it;
which I certainly would not have done for a person whom
every body liked.
N.B.-This may be one of the involuntary reasons for
my liking Doctor Urquhart; that papa and I myself are
the only two persons of our family who unite in that opinion. Lisabel makes fun of him; Penelope is scarcely civil
to him; but that is because Francis, coming down last week
for a day, took a violent aversion to him.




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             89
I heard the girls laughing within a stone's throw of
where we stood.
"Pray please yourself, Doctor Urquhart; come, or not
come; but I can't wait."
He looked at me with an amused air-yes, I certainly
have the honor of amusing him, as a child or a kitten
would-then said,
" He would be happy to join us."
I was ashamed of myself for being thus pettish with a
person so much older and wiser than I, and who ought to
be excused so heartily for any peculiarities he has; yet he
vexed me. He does vex me very much, sometimes. I can
not understand why; it is quite a new feeling to be so
irritated with any body. Either it is his manner, whieh is
rather variable, sometimes cheerful and friendly, and then
again restless and cold; or an uncomfortable sensation of
being under control, which I never yet had, even toward
my own father. Once, when I was contesting something
with him, Augustus noticed it, and said, laughing"Oh, the Doctor makes every body do what he likes:
you'd better give in at once. I always do."
But I can not, and I will not.
To feel vexed with a person, to know they have the
power of vexing you-that a chance word or look can
touch you to the quick, make you feel all over in a state
of irritation, as if all the world went wrong, and you were
ready to do any thing cross, or sullen, or childishly naughty
-until another chance word or look happens to set you
right again-this is an extremely uncomfortable state of
things.
I must guard against it. I must not allow my temper to
get way. Sensitive it is, I am aware, quick to feel sore,
and to take offense; but I am not a thoroughly ill-tempered
woman. Doctor Urquhart does not think so: he told me
he did not. One day, when I had been very cross with
him, he said "I had done him no harm; that I often did
him good."
Me-to do good to Doctor Urquhart! What an extraordinary thing!
I like to do people good-to do it my own self, too-a
mean pleasure, perhaps, yet it is a pleasure, and I was
pleased with this saying of Doctor Urquhart's. If I could
but believe it! I do believe it sometimes. Iknow that I can
make him smile, let him look ever so grave; that something




90              A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
in me and my ways interests and amuses him in an inglorious, kittenish fashion, as I said; yet, still, I draw him
out of himself, I make him merry, I bring light into his
face, till one could hardly believe it was the same face that
I first saw at the Cedars; and it is pleasant to me to think
that, by some odd sympathy or other, I am pleasant to
him, as I am to few-alas! to very few.
I know when people dislike me-know it keenly, painfully; I know, too, with a sort of stolid patience, when
they are simply indifferent to me. Doubtless, in both
cases, they have every reason; I blame nobody, not even
myself, I only state a fact. But with such people I can no
more be my natural self, than I can run about barefooted
and bareheaded in our north winds or moorland snows.
But if a little sunshine comes, my heart warms to it, basks
in it, dances under it, like the silliest young lamb that ever
frisked in a cowslip meadow, rejoicing in the May.
I am not, and never pretend to be, a humble person. I
feel there is that in me which is worth something, but a
return for which I have never yet received. Give me its
fair equivalent, its full and honest price, and oh, if I could
expend it every mite, how boundlessly rich I should grow!
This last sentence means nothing; nor do I quite understand it myself. Writing a journal is a safety-valve for
much folly, yet I am by no means sure that I ought to
have written the last page.
However, no more of this; let me tell the story of my
day.
Walking from church, Doctor Urquhart told me that
Augustus had asked him to be best-man at the wedding.
I said I knew it, and wished he would consent.
" Why?"
Though the abrupt question surprised me, I answered,
of course, the truth; that if the best-man were not himself,
it would be one of the camp officers, and I hated-"
" Soldiers?"
I told him it was not kind to be always throwing in my
teeth that unfortunate speech, that he ought not to tease
me so.
" Do I tease you? I was not aware of it."
"Very likely not, and I am a great simpleton for allowing myself to be teased with such trifles; but Doctor Urquhart can not expect me to be as wise as himself, he is a great
deal older than I."




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.              91
"Tell me, then," he continued, in that kind tone which
always makes me feel something like a little pet donkey I
once had, which, if I called it across the field, would come
and lay its head on my hand-not that, donkey as I am, I
incline to trouble Doctor Urquhart in that way, "tell me
what it is you do hate?"
" I hate to have to entertain strangers."
"Then you do not consider me a stranger?"
"No; a friend."
I may say that, for, short as our acquaintance dates, I
have seen more of Doctor Urquhart, and seem to know him
better than any man in the whole course of my life. He
did not refuse the title I gave him, and I think he was
gratified, though he said only,
"You are very kind, and I thank you."
Presently I recurred to the subject of discussion, and
wished him to promise what Augustus, and Lisabel, and we
all desired.
He paused a moment, then said, decisively,
" I will come."
"That is right. I know we can always depend upon
Doctor Urquhart's promises."
Was my gladness over-bold? Would he misconstrue
it? No; he is too clear-sighted, too humble-minded, too
wise. With him I have always the feeling that I need
take no trouble over what I do or say, except that it should
be true and sincere. Whatever it is, he will judge it fairly.
And if he did not, why should I care?
Yes, I should care. I like him-I like him very much.
It would be a comfort to me to have him for a friend, one
of my very own. In some degree he treats me as such;
to-day, for instance, he told me more about himself than he
ever did to any one of us. It came out accidentally. I can
not endure a man who, at first acquaintance, indulges you
with his autobiography in full. Such a one must be either
a puppy or an idiot.
Ah! there I am again at my harsh judgments, which
Doctor Urquhart has so tacitly reproved. This good man,
who has seen more of the world and its wickedness than I
am ever likely to see, is yet the most charitable man I ever
knew. To return.
Before we reached Rockmount the sky had clouded
over, and in an hour it was a thoroughly wet afternoon.
Penelope went up stairs to write her Sunday letter, and




92               A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
Augustus and Lisabel gave broad hints that they wished
the drawing-room all to themselves. Perforce, Doctor
Urquhart and I had to entertain ourselves.
I took him into the green-house, where he lectured to
me on the orchidacea and vegetation of the tropics generally, to his own content, doubtless, and partially to mine.
I like to hear his talking, so wise, yet so simple; a freshness almost boyish seems to linger in his nature still, and
he has the thoroughly boyish peculiarity of taking pleasure
in little things. He spent half an hour in reviving a big
brown bee which had grown torpid with cold, and there
was in his eyes a kindness, as over a human creature, when
he gave into my charge his " little patient," whom I promised to befriend. (There he is, poor old fellow, fast asleep
on a flower-pot, till the first bright morning I can turn him
out.)
"I am afraid, though, he will soon get into trouble again,
and not find so kind a friend," said I to Doctor Urquhart.
" He will intoxicate himself in the nearest flower-cup, and
seek repentance and restoration too late."
"I hope not," said the doctor, sadly and gravely.
I said I was sorry for having made a jest upon his favorite doctrine, of repentance and restoration of sinners; which
he seemed always both to preach and to practice.
" Do I? Perhaps. Do you not think it is very much
needed in this world?"
I said I had not lived long enough in the world to find
out.
"I forgot how young you were."
He had once, in his direct way, asked my age, and I had
told him, much disposed likewise to return the question,
but was afraid. Sometimes I feel quite at home with him,
as if I could say any thing to him, and then again he makes
me, not actually afraid-thank goodness, I never was afraid
of any man yet, and hope I never shall be-but shy and
quiet. I suppose it is because he is so very good; because
in his presence my little follies and wickednesses hide their
heads. I cease perplexing myself about them, or about
myself at all, and only think-not of him so much as of
something higher and better than either him or me. Surely this can not be wrong.
The bee question settled, we sat down, silent, listening
to the rain pattering on the glass roof of the green-house.
It was rather a dreary day. I began thinking of Lisabel's




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             93
leaving more than was good for me; and with that penetrative kindness which I have often noticed in him, Doctor
Urquhart turned my sad thoughts away by various information about Treherne Court, and the new relations of our
Lisa-not many. I said, "happily, she would have neither
brother nor sister-in-law."
" Happily! You can not be in earnest?"
I half wished I had not been, and yet I could not but
speak my mind-that brothers or sisters, in law or in blood,
were often any thing but a blessing.
"I must emphatically differ from you there. I think it
is, with few exceptional cases, the greatest misfortune to
be an only child. Few are so naturally good, or reared
under such favorable circumstances, that such a position
does not do them harm. A lonely childhood and youth
may make a great man, a good man, but it rarely makes a
happy man. Better all the tussles and troubles of family
life, where the angles of character are rubbed off, and its
inclinations to morbidness, sensitiveness, and egotism knocked down. I think it is a great wonder to see Treherne
such a good fellow as he is, considering he has been an only
child."
"You speak as if you knew what that was yourself."
"No; we were orphans, but I had one brother."
This was the first time Doctor Urquhart had reverted to
any of his relatives, or to his early life. My curiosity was
strong. I risked a question: was this brother older or younger than he?
" Older."
"And his name?"
"Dallas."
"Dallas Urquhart-what a nice iame."
"It is common in the family. There was a Dallas Urquhart, younger brother to a Sir John Urquhart, who, in the
religious troubles, seceded to Episcopacy. He was in love
with a minister's sister-a Presbyterian. She died brokenhearted, and in despair at her reproaches, Dallas threw himself down a precipice, where his whitened bones were not
found till many years after. Is not that a romantic history?"
I said romantic and painful histories were common
enough; there had been some even in our matter-of-fact
family. But he was not so inquisitive as I; nor should I
have told him farther; we never speak on this subject if




94              A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
we can help it. Even the Grantons-our intimate friends
ever since we came to live at Rockmount-have never been
made acquainted with it. And Penelope said there was no
need to tell Augustus, as it could not affect him, or any person now living, and, for the sake of the family, the sad story
was better forgotten. I think so too.
With a sigh, I could not help observing to Doctor Urquhart that it must be a very happy thing to have a brother
-a good brother.
"Yes. Mine was the best that any one ever had. He
was a minister of the Kirk-that is, he would have been,
but he died."
"In Scotland?"
"No-at Pau, in the Pyrenees."
" Were you with him?"
" I was not."
This seemed a remembrance so acutely painful, that shortly afterward I tried to change the subject by asking a question or two about himself-and especially what I had long
wanted to find out-how he came by that eccentric Christian name.
" Is it eccentric? I really never knew or thought after
whom I was called."
I suggested, Max Piccolomini.
"Who was he, pray? My unprofessional reading has
been small. I am ashamed to say I never heard of Max
Piccolomini."
Amused by this naive confession of ignorance, I offered
jestingly to give him a course of polite literature, and begin
with that grandest of German dramas, Schiller's Wallenstein.
" Not in German, if you please; I don't know a dozen
words of the language."
"Why, Doctor Urquhart, I must be a great deal cleverer
than you."
I had said this out of utter incredulity at the ludicrous
idea; but, to my surprise, he took it seriously.
" You are right. I know I am a coarse, uneducated person; the life of an army surgeon allows few opportunities
of refinement, and, like many another boy, I threw away my
chances when I had them."
"At school?"
" College, rather."
"Where did you go to college?"




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.              95
"At St. Andrew's."
The interrogative mood being on me, I thought I would
venture a question which had been often on my mind to
ask-namely, what made him choose to be a doctor, which
always seemed to me the most painful and arduous of professions.
He was so slow in answering, that I began to fear it was
one of my too blunt queries, and apologized.
" I will tell you, if you desire it. My motive was not un
like one you once suggested-to save life instead of destroying it; also, because I wished to have my own life
always in my hand. I can not justly consider it mine. It
is owed."
To heaven, I conclude he meant, by the solemnity of his
manner. Yet, are not all lives owed? And, if so, my early
dream of perfect bliss, namely, for two people to spend their
lives together in a sort of domestic Pitcairn's Island, cradled in a spiritual Pacific Ocean, with nothing to do but to
love one another-must be a delusion, or worse. I am beginning to be glad I never found it. We are not the birds
and butterflies, but the laborers of the earthly vineyard. To
discover one's right work, and do it, must be the grand secret of life. With or without love, I wonder? With it, I
should imagine. But Doctor Urquhart, in his plan of existence, never seems to think of such an insignificant necessity.
Yet let me not speak lightly. I like him-I honor him.
Had I been his dead brother, or a sister-which he never
had-I would have helped rather than have hindered him,
in his self-sacrificing career. I would have scorned to put
in my poor claim over him or his existence. It would have
seemed like taking for daily uses the gold of the sanctuary.
And here, pondering over all I have heard of him and
seen in him, the self-denial, the heroism, the religious purity
of his daily life-which has roused in even the light heart
of Augustus Treherne an attachment approaching to positive devotion, that all the jesting of Lisabel is powerless to
shake, I call to mind one incident of this day which startled,
shocked me; concerning which even now I can scarcely
credit the evidence of my own ears.
We had all gathered round the fire waiting papa's return
from the second service; Penelope, Lisabel, Augustus, Doctor Urquhart, and I; the rain had cleared off, and there
was only a soft drip, drip, on the glass of the green-house
outside. We were very peaceful and comfortable; it felt




96              A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
almost like a family circle-which indeed it was with one
exception. The new member of our family seemed to make
himself very much at ease-sat beside his Lisa, and held
her hand under cover of her apron-at which I thought I
saw Doctor Urquhart smile. Why should he? It was
quite natural.
Penelope was less restless than usual, owing, may be, to
her long letter and the prospect of seeing Francis in a week;
he comes to the marriage, of course. Poor fellow! what a
pity we can not have two weddings instead of one; it is
rather hard for him to be only a wedding guest, and Penelope only a bridesmaid. But I am ceasing to laugh at even
Francis and Penelope.
I myself, in my own little low chair in its right angle on
the hearth-rug, felt perfectly happy. Is it the contrast between it and the life of solitude of which I have only lately
had any knowledge, that makes my own home life so much
sweeter than it used to be?
The gentlemen began talking together about the difference between this quiet scene and that of November last
year, when, Sebastopol taken, the army was making up its
mind to winter in idleness, as merrily as it could. And
then Doctor Urquhart reverted to the former winter, the
terrible time, until its miseries reached and touched the
English heart at home. And yet, as Doctor Urquhart said,
such misery seems often to evoke the noblest half of man's
nature. Many an anecdote, proving this, he told about
"his poor fellows," as he called them; tales of heroism, patient endurance, unselfishness, and generosity-such as, in
the mysterious agency of Providence, are always developed
by that great purifier as well as avenger, war.
Listening, my cheek burned to think I had ever said I
hated soldiers. It is a solemn question, too momentous for
human wisdom to decide upon, and, probably, never meant
to be decided in this world-the justice of carnage, the necessity of war. But thus far I am convinced-and intend,
the first opportunity, to express my thanks to Doctor Urquhart for having taught me the lesson-that to set one's
self in fierce aversion against any class, as a class, is both
foolish and wicked. We should "hate" nobody. The
Christian warfare is never against sinners, but against sin.
Speaking of the statistics of mortality in the army, Doctor Urquhart surprised us by stating how small a percentage-bless me, I am beginning to talk like a blue-book



A LIFE FOR A LIFE.              97
results from death in battle and from wounds. And, strange
as it may appear, the mortality in a campaign, with all its
fatal chances, is less than in barracks at home. He has long
suspected this, from the accounts of the men, and having
lately, from clear data, ascertained its accuracy, intends urging it at the Horse Guards, or failing there, in the public
press, that the causes may be inquired into and remedied.
It will be at some personal risk-Government never likes
being meddled with; but he seems the sort of man who,
having once got an idea into his head, would pursue it to
the death-and very right too. If I had been a man I
would have done exactly the same.
All this while I have never told-that thing. It came
out, as well as I can remember, thus:
Doctor Urquhart was saying that the average mortality
of soldiers in barracks was higher than that of any corresponding class of working men. He attributes this to want
of space, cleanliness, fresh air, and good. food.
"Also to another cause, which you always find flourishing under such circumstances-drink. It is in a barracks
just as in the courts and alleys of a large city-wherever
you find people huddled together in foul air, ill smells, and
general wretchedness-they drink. They can not help it, it
seems a natural necessity."
"There, we have the doctor on his hobby. Gee-up, Doctor!" cried Augustus. I wonder his friend stands his nonsense so good-humoredly.
"You know it is true, though, Treherne," and he went
on speaking to me. "In the Crimea, the great curse of
our army was drink. Drink killed more of us than the
Russians did. You should have seen what I have seenthe officer maddening himself with Champagne at the messtable-the private stealing out to a rum-store to booze secretly over his grog. The thing was obliged to be winked
at, it was so common."
" In hospital, too," observed Captain Treherne, gradually
listening. "Don't you remember telling me there was not
a week passed that you had not cases of death solely from
drinking?"
"And, even then, I could not stop it, nor keep the liquor
outside the wards. I have come in and found drunken orderlies carousing with drunken patients; nay, more than
once I have taken the brandy-bottle from under a dead
man's pillow."
E




98              A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
"Ay, I remember," said Augustus, looking grave.
Lisabel, who never, likes his attention diverted from her
charming self, cried saucily:
"All very fine talking, Doctor, but you shall not make
me a teetotaller, nor Augustus neither, I hope."
"' I have not the slightest intention of the kind, I assure
you; nor does there seem any necessity. Though, for those
who have not the power to resist intoxication, it is much
safer never to touch stimulants."
"Do you not touch them?"
"I have not done so for many years."
"Because you are afraid? Well, I dare say you were
no better once than your neighbors."
" Lisabel!" I whispered, for I saw Doctor Urquhart wince
under her rude words; but there is no stopping that girl's
tongue.
"Now confess, Doctor, just for fun. Papa is not here,
and we'll tell no tales out of school-were you ever in your
life, to use your own ugly word, drunk."
" Once."
Writing this, I can hardly believe he said it, and yet he
did, in a quiet, low voice, as if the confession was forced
from him as a sort of voluntary expiation.
Doctor Urquhart drunk I What a frightful idea! Under what circumstances could it possibly have happened?
One thing I would stake my life upon-it never happened
but that once.
I have been thinking, how horrible it must be to see
any body one cared for drunk: the honest eyes dull and
meaningless; the wise lips jabbering foolishness; the whole
face and figure, instead of being what one likes to look at,
takes pleasure to see in the same room, even-growing
ugly, irrational, disgusting-more like a beast than a man.
Yet some women have to bear it, have to speak kindly
to their husbands, hide their brutishness, and keep them
from making worse fools of themselves than they can help.
I have seen it done, not merely by working-men's wives,
but lady-wives in drawing-rooms. I think, if I were married, and I saw my husband the least overcome by wine,
not "drunk," may be, but just excited, silly, otherwise
than his natural self, it would nearly drive me wild. Less
on my own account than his. To see him sink-not for a
great crime) but a contemptible, cowardly bit of sensualism-from the height where my love had placed him; to




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.              99
have to take care of him, to pity him; ay, and I might
pity him, but I think the full glory and passion of my love
would die out, then and there, forever.
Let me not think of this, but go on relating what occurred to-day.
Doctor Urquhart's abrupt confession, which seemed to
surprise Augustus as much as any body, threw an awkwardness over us all; we slipped out of the subject, and
plunged into the never-ending theme-the wedding and its
arrangements. Here I found out that Doctor Urquhart
had, at first, refused, point-blank, his friend's request that
he would be best-man, but, on my entreating him this mQrning, had changed his mind. I was glad, and expressed my
gladness warmly. I would not like Doctor Urquhart to
suppose we thought the worse of him for what he had confessed, or rather had been forced into confessing. It was
very wrong of Lisabel. But she really seemed sorry, and
paid him special attention in consultations about what she
thinks the important affairs of Monday week. I was almost cross at the exemplary patience with which he examined the orange-tree, and pronounced that the buds
would open in time, he thought: that if not, he would try,
as in duty bound, to procure some. He also heroically
consented to his other duty, of returning thanks for "the
bridesmaids," for we are to have healths drunk, speeches
made, and all the rest of it. Mercy on us! how will papa
ever stand it!
These family events have always their painful side. I
am sure papa will feel it. I only trust that no chance observations will strike home, and hurt him. This fear
haunted me so much, that I took an opportunity of suggesting to Doctor Urquhart that all the speeches had better be as short as possible.
"Mine shall be, I promise. Were you afraid of it?"
asked he, smiling; it was just before the horses were
brought up, and we were all standing out in the moonlight
-for shame, moon, leading us to catch cold just before our
wedding, and very thoughtless of the doctor to allow it,
too. I could see by his smile that he was now quite himself again-which was a relief.
" Oh, nonsense! I shall expect you to make the grandest
speech that ever was heard. But, seriously, these sort of
speeches are always trying, and will be so especially to
papa."




100             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
"I understand. We must take care: you are a thoughtful little lady." He sometimes has called me " Little Lady,"
instead of "Miss Theodora."  "Yes, your father will feel
acutely this first break in the family."
I said I did not mean that exactly, as it was not the
case. And, for the first time, it struck me as sad, that one
whom I never knew, whom I scarcely ever think of, should
be lost from among us, so lost as not to be even named.
Doctor Urquhart asked me why I looked so grave? At
first I said I had rather not tell him, and then I felt as if
at that moment, standing quietly talking in the lovely night,
after such a happy day, it were a comfort, almost a necessity, to tell him any thing, every thing.
" I was thinking of some one belonging to me whom nobody knows of, whom we never speak about. Hush, don't
let them hear."
" Who was it? But I beg your pardon, do not tell me
unless you like."
From his tone-he thought, I know he thought-  Oh,
what a ridiculous, impossible thing! Then I was determined to tell.
" It was one-who was papa's favorite-among us all."
" A sister?"
" No, a brother."
I had not time to say any more, for they were just starting, nor am I satisfied that I was right in saying so much.
But the confidence is safe with him, arid he will never refer
to it; he will feel, as we do, that a subject so painful is
best avoided, even among ourselves-on the whole I am
glad he knows.
Coming indoors, the girls made me very angry by their
jests, but the anger has somehow evaporated now. What
does it matter? As I told Lisabel, friends do not grow
on every hedge, though lovers may, and when one finds a
good man one ought to value him, nor be ashamed of it
either.
No, no, my sweet moon, setting so quickly behind that
belt of firs, I will like him if I choose, as I like every thing
true and noble wherever I find it in this world.
Moon, it is a good world, a happy world, and grows
happier the longer one lives in it. So I will just watch
your silver ladyship-a nice "little lady" you are tooslipping away from it with that satisfied farewell smile, and
then-I shall go to bed.




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.              101
CHAPTER IX.
HIS STORY.
IT is a fortnight since I wrote a line here.
Last Sunday week I made a discovery-in truth, two
discoveries-after which I lost myself, as it were, for many
days.
It will be advisable not to see any more of that family.
Not that I have any proof that they are the family-the
name itself, Johnson, and their acknowledged plebeian origin, is sufficient evidence to the contrary. But, if they had
been!
The mere supposition, coming, instinctively, that Sunday
night, before reason argued it down, was enough to cause
me twelve such hours as would be purchased dearly with
twelve years of life-even a life full of such happiness as, I
then learned, is possible for a man. But not for me. Never
for me!
This phase of the subject is, however, so exclusively my
own, that even here I will pass it over. It will be conquered by-and-by —being discovered in time.
I went to the marriage-having promised. She said,
Doctor Urquhart never breaks his promises. No. There
is one promise-nay, vow-kept unflinchingly for twenty
years; could it be broken now? It never could. Before
it is too late-I will take steps to teach myself that it never
shall.
I only joined the marriage party during the ceremony.
They excused me the breakfast, speeches, etc. Treherne
knew I was not well. Also, she said I looked "overworked," and there was a kind of softness in her eye, the
pity that all women have, and so readily show.
She looked the very picture of.a white fairy, or a woodnymph-or an angel, sliding down on a sunshiny cloud to a
man asleep. He wakes and it is all gone.
While the register was being signed-and they wished
me to be one of the attesting witnesses-an idea came into
my mind.
The family must have settled at Rockmount for many
years. Probably, the grandfather, the farmer who wrote




102             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
himself, plebeianly, "Johnson," was buried here. Orif he were dead-whether it was so or not, I had no clew
-here, probably, would be registered the interment of
that brother to whom allusion had been made as " papa's
favorite," but in such a manner, and with such evident distress, that to make farther inquiry about him was impossible. Besides, I must have no more private talk with her
-with the one of the Misses Johnston whom I know best.
This brother-I have calculated his possible age, compared with theirs. Even were he the eldest of them, he
could not now be much above thirty-if alive. That per.
son would now be at least fifty.
Still, at once and forever to root up any such morbid,
unutterable fancies, I thought it would be as well to turn
over the register-books, as, without suspicion, it was this
day easy to do. On my way home I stopped at the church
-and, helped by the half-stupid sexton and bell-ringer,
went over the village records of, he declared, the last
twenty years and more. In none of them was once named
the family of Johnston.
No proof, therefore, of my cause of dread-not an atom,
not a straw. All evidence hitherto going directly counter
to a supposition-the horror of which would surpass all
horrible coincidences that fate could work out for a man's
punishment. Let me put it aside.
The other thing-God help me! I believe I shall also
be able to put aside-being entirely my own affair-and I
myself being the only sufferer.
Now Treherne is married and away, there will be no
necessity to visit at Rockmount any more.
CHAPTER X.
HER STORY.
WHAT a change a marriage makes; what a blank it
leaves in a house! Ours has been very dull since poor
Lisa went away.
I know not why I call her " poor Lisa." She seems the
gayest of the gay, and the happiest of the happy; two
characters which, by the way, are not always identical.
Her letters from Paris are full of enjoyment. Augustus
takes her every where, and introduces her to every body.




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             103
She was the "belle maride" of a ball at the British Embassy, and has been presented to my old aversion, though
he is really turning out a creditable individual in some
things; "never too late to mend," even for a Louis Napoleon. Of course, Lisabel now thinks him " the most charming man in the world," except Augustus.
Strange that she should take delight in such dissipations.
She not three weeks married. How very little she must have
of her husband's society. Now, I should think the pleasantest way of spending a honeymoon would be to get out
of every body's way, and have a little peace and quiet,
rambling about at liberty, and looking at pretty places together. But tastes differ; that is not Lisabel's fancy, nor
was hers the sort of marriage likely to make such a honeymoon desirable. She used to say she should get tired of
the angel Gabriel if she had him all to herself for four
mortal weeks. Possibly; I remember once making a similar remark.
But surely that dread and weariness of two people, in
being left to one another's sole society, must apply chiefly
to cases of association for mere amusement or convenience;
not to those who voluntarily bind their lives together, " for
better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in
health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part." How
solemn the words are! They thrilled me all through on
the morning of Lisabel's marriage.
I have never set down here any thing about that day. I
suppose it resembled most other wedding-days-came and
went like a dream, and not a very happy dream either.
There seemed a cloud over us all.
One of the reasons was, Francis did not come. At the
last minute he sent an apology, which was not behaving
well, I thought. Nor did the excuse seem a valid one.
But it might have been a painful day to him, and Francis
is one of those sort of people-very pleasant, and not illmeaning people either-who like to escape pain, if possible.
Still, he might have considered that it was not likely to be
the happiest of days to Penelope herself, nor made more so
by his absence, which she bore in perfect silence; and nobody, except Augustus, who observed, laughingly, that it
was "just like Cousin Charteris," ventured any comment
on the subject.
I do not join Mrs. Granton and our Lisa in their tirades
against long engagements. I do not see why, when people




104              A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
are really fond of one another, and can not possibly be married, they should not live contentedly betrothed for an indefinite time. It is certainly better than living wholly apart,
forlorn and hopeless, neither having toward the other any
open right, or claim, or duty. But, then, every betrothal
should resemble marriage itself, in its perfect confidence,
patience, and unexacting tenderness. Also, it ought never
to be made so public or allowed to be so cruelly talked over
as this engagement of Penelope's.
Well, Francis did not appear, and every body left earlier
than we had expected. On the marriage evening we were
quite alone, and the day after Rockmount was its dull self
again, except the want of poor Lisa.
I still call her so; I can not help it. We never discover
the value of things till we have lost them. Out of every
corner I miss our Lisa: her light laugh that used to seem
heartless, yet was the merriest sound in the house; her tall,
handsome figure sailing in and about the rooms; her imperturbable good temper, which I often tried; her careless, untidy ways, that used forever to aggravate Penelope, down
to her very follies and flirtations, carried on to the last in
spite of Augustus.
My poor Lisa! The putting away of her music from the
piano, her books from the shelf, and her clothes from the
drawers, cost me as sharp an agony as I ever had in my
life. I was not half good enough to her when I had her.
If I had her again how different it should be. Ah! that is
what we always say, as the great shadow Time keeps advancing and advancing, yet we always let it slip by, and we
can not make it go back for a single hour.
Mrs. Granton and Colin came to tea to-night. Their company was a relief; our evenings are often very dull. We
sit all three together, but none has much sympathy with
what the other is doing or thinking; as not seldom happens in families, we each live in a distinct world of our own,
never intruded on, save when we have collectively to entertain visitors. Papa asked Doctor Urquhart to dinner
twice, but received an apology both times, which rather offended him, and he says he shall not invite him again until
he has called. He ought to call, for an old man likes attention, and is justified in exacting it.
To-night, while Mrs. Granton gossiped with papa and
Penelope, Colin talked to me. He bears Lisabel's marriage
far better than I expected, probably because he has got




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             105
something to do. He told me a long story about a row of
laborers' cottages, which Doctor Urquhart advised him to
build at the corner of the moor, each with its bit of land,
convertible into a potato-field or a garden. There Colin
busies himself from morning till night, superintending, planning, building, draining, "working like a horse," he protests, "and never enjoyed any thing more in his life." He
says he has seen a great deal of Doctor Urquhart lately,
and had great assistance from him in the matter of these
cottages.
Then can he be so exceedingly occupied as not to have
an hour or two for a visit? Shame on me for the suspicion! The idea that Doctor Urquhart would, even in a
polite excuse, state a thing which was not true!
Colin is much improved. He is beginning to suspect
that Colin Granton, Esq., owner of a free estate, and twenty-seven years old, has got something to do besides lounge
about, shoot rabbits, and play billiards. He opened up to
my sympathy a long series of schemes about these cottages;
how he meant to instigate industry, cleanliness, and, indeed,
all the cardinal virtues, by means of cottagers' prizes for
tidy houses, well-kept gardens, and the best brought-up
and largest families. He will never be clever, poor Colin!
but may be a most useful character in the county, and he
has the kindest heart in the world. By the way, he told
me in his ultra-simple fashion that somebody had informed
him one of the Rockmount young ladies said so! I felt
myself grow hot to the ears, which exceedingly astonished
Colin.
Altogether, a not unpleasant evening; but oh, moon!whom I saw making cross-panes on the carpet when I came
in-it was not like the evenings a month ago, when Lisabel
was at home.
I think women as-well as men, require something to do.
I wish I had it; it would do me as much good as it has
done Colin. I am beginning to fear I lead a wretchedly
idle life; all young ladies at home do, it seems, except, perhaps, the eldest sister, if she chances to be s'uch a woman
as our Penelope. Why can not I help our Penelope? Mrs.
Granton took it for granted that I do; that I shall be the
greatest comfort and assistance to Miss Johnston, now Miss
Lisabel is gone.
I am not the least in the world! which I was tempted to
explain, only mere friends can never understand the ins and
E2




106             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
outs of a family. If I offered to assist her in the house,
how Penelope would stare! or even in her schools and parish, but that I can not do. Teaching is to me perfectly intolerable. The moment I have to face two dozen pairs of
round eyes every particle of sense takes flight, and I become the veriest of cowards, ready to sink through the
floor. The same, too, in district visiting. What business
have I, because I happen to be the clergyman's daughter,
to go lifting the latch and poking about poor people's
houses, obliging them to drop me courtesies, and receive
civilly my tracts and advice, which they neither read nor
follow, and might be none the better for it if they did?
Yet this may be only my sophistries for not doing what
I so heartily dislike. Others do it, and successfully; take
by storm the poor folks' hearts, and what is better, their
confidence; never enter without a welcome, and depart
without a blessing; as, for instance, Doctor Urquhart.
Mrs. Granton was telling about his doings among the poor
families down with fever and ague, near the camp at Mooredge.
Why can not I do the same good? not so much, of
course, but just a little. Why can not somebody show me
how to do it?
No, I am not worthy. My quarter century of life has
been of no more use to myself or any human creature than
that fly's which my fire has stirred up to a foolish buzzing
in the window-curtain before it drops and dies. I might
drop down and die in the same manner, leaving no better
memorial.
There! I hear Penelope in her room fidgeting about her
drawers, and scolding the housemaid. She is always taking juvenile, incompetent housemaids out of her village
school, teaching and lecturing them for a twelvemonth, and
then grumbling because they leave her. Yet, this is doing
good; sometimes they come back and thank her for having made capital servants of them;, and very seldom indeed
does such a case happen as pretty, silly Lydia Cartwright's,
who went up to London and never came back any more.
My dear sister Penelope, who, except in company, hardly has a civil word for any body, Francis excepted-Penelope, who has managed the establishment ever since she was
a girl of sixteen-has kept the house comfortable, and maintained the credit of the family to the world without —truly,
with all your little tempers, sneers, and crabbednesses, you
are worth a dozen of your sister Theodora.




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             107
I wonder if Doctor Urquhart thinks so. He looked at
her closely, more than once, when we were speaking about
Francis. He and she would have many meeting points of
interest, if they only knew it, and talked much together.
She is not very sweet to him, but that would not matter;
he only values people for what they are, and not for the
manner in which they behave to himself. Perhaps, if they
were better acquainted, Penelope might prove a better
friend for him than the "little lady."
"Little lady!" That is just such a name as one would
give to an idle, useless, butterfly creature, of no value but
as an amusement, a plaything of leisure hours, in time of
business or care to be altogether set aside and forgotten.
Does he think me that? If he does-why, let him.
A fine proof of how dull Rockmount is, and how little I
have to write about, when I'go on scribbling such trivialities as these. If no better subjects can be found, I shall
give up my journal. Meantime, I intend next week to begin a serious course of study, in history, Latin, and German. For the latter, instead of desultory reading, I shall
try written translations, probably from my favorite Wallenstein. To think that any body should have been ignorant even of the name of Max Piccolomini! He always
was my ideal of a hero-faithful, trustful, brave, and infinitely loving, yet able to renounce love itself for the sake of
conscience. And then once a week I shall have a long letter to write to Lisabel-I, who never had a regular correspondence in my life. It will be almost as good as Penelope's with Francis Charteris.
At last I hear Penelope dismiss her maiden, bolt the door,
and settle for the night. When, for a wonder, she finds
herself alone and quiet, with nothing to do, and nobody to
lecture, I wonder what Penelope thinks about? Is it Francis? Do people in their position always think about one
another the last thing? Probably. When all the day's
cares and pleasures are ended, and the rest of the world
shut out, the heart would naturally turn to the only one in
whom, next to Heaven, is its real rest, its best comfort,
closer than either friend, or brother, or sister-less another
person than half itself.
No sentiment! Go to bed, Theodora,




108             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
CHAPTER XI.
HIS STORY.
I HAD almost given up writing here. Is it wise to begin
again? Yet, to-day, in the silent hut, with the east wind
howling outside almost as fiercely as it used to howl last
winter over the steppes of the Caucasus, one must do something, if only to kill time.
Usually, I have little need for that resource; this barrack
business engrosses every leisure hour.
The commander-in-chief has at length promised a commission of inquiry, if sufficient data can be supplied to him
to warrant it. I have, therefore, been collecting evidence
from every barrack in the United Kingdom, and visiting
personally all within a day or two days' leave from the
camp. The most important were those of the metropolis.
It is needless here to recur to details of which my head
has been full all the week, till a seventh day's rest and
change of ideas become almost priceless. Unprofessional
men can not understand this; young Granton could not
when coming down from town with me last night; he was
lamenting that he should not get at his cottage-building,
which he keeps up, in defiance of winter weather, till Monday morning.
Mr. Granton indulged me with much conversation about
some friends of his, which inclines me to believe that " the
kindest heart in the world" has not suffered an incurable
blow, and is already proceeding to seek consolation elsewhere. It may be so. The young are pleasant to the
young; the happy delight in the happy.
To return to my poor fellows; my country bumpkins and
starving mechanics, caught by the thirteenpence a day, and
after all the expensive drilling that is to make them proper
food for powder, herded together like beasts in a stall, till,
except under strong coercion, the beast nature is apt to get
uppermost, and no wonder. I must not think of rest till I
have left no stone unturned for the furtherance of this
scheme concerning my poor fellows.
And yet, the older one grows, the more keenly one feels
how little power an individual man has for good, whatever




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             109
he may have for evil. At least, this is the suggestion of a
morbid spirit, after aiming at every thing and doing almost
nothing, which seemed the brief catalogue of my week's
labor last night.
People are so slow to join in any reformatory schemes.
They will talk enough of the need for it, but they will not
act; it is too much trouble. Most men are engrossed in
their own private concerns, business, amusements, or ambitions. It is incredible, the difficulty I had in hunting up
some who were the most active agents of good in the Crimea; and of these, how few could be convinced that there
was any thing needed to be done at home!
At the Horse Guards, where my face must be as familiar
as that of the clock on the quadrangle to those gentlemanly young dlerks, no attention was wanting but that of furthering my business. However, the time was not altogether
wasted, as in various talks with former companions, whom
I there by chance waylaid, ideas were thrown out that may
be brought to bear in different quarters. And, as always
happens, from some of the very last quarters where any
thing was to be expected, the warmest interest and assistance came.
Likewise-and this forms the bright spot in a season not
particularly pleasant-during my brief stay in London, the
first for many years, more than one familiar face has come
across me out of far back times, with a welcome and remembrance, the warmth and heartiness of which both surprised and cheered me.
Among those I met on Thursday was an old colonel,
under whom I went out on my first voyage as assistantsurgeon, twelve years ago. He stopped me in the Mall,
addressing me by name; I had almost forgotten his, till
his cordial greeting brought it to my mind. Then we fell
to upon many mutual questions and reminiscences.
He said that he should have known me any where, though
I was altered a good deal in some respects.
"All for the bettter, though, my boy-beg pardon, Doctor-but you were such a slip of a lad then. Thought we
should have had to throw you overboard before the voyage was half over, but you cheated us all, you see; and,'pon my life, hard as you must have been at it since then,
you look as if you had -many years more of work in you
yet."
I told him I hoped so, Which I'do, for some things; and




110             A LIFE FOR A. LIFE.
then, in answer to his friendly questions, I entered into the
business which had brought me to London.
The good colonel was brimful of interest. He has a
warm heart, plenty of money, and thinks that money can
do every thing. I had the greatest difficulty in persuading
him that his check-book would not avail me with the commander-in-chief, or the honorable British officers, whom I
hoped to stir up to some little sympathy with the men
they commanded.
"But can't I help you at all? can't my son neither?
you remember Tommy, who used to dance the sailor's
hornpipe on the deck. Such a dandy young fellow; got
him a place under government; capital berth, easy hourseleven till four, and regular work; the whole Times to read
through daily. Ha! ha! you understand, eh?"
I laughed too, for it was a pretty accurate description
of what I had this week seen in government offices; indeed, in public offices of all kinds, where the labor is so
largely subdivided as to be in the responsible hands of very
few, and the work and the pay generally follow in an opposite ratio of progression. In the present instance, from
what I remember of him, no doubt such a situation would
exactly suit Master Tommy Turton.
His father and I strolled up and down the shiny halfdried pavement till the street lamps were lighted, and the
club windows began to brighten and glow.
"You'll dine with me, of course-not at the United
Service-it's my day with Tom at his club, the New Universal-capital club, too.  No apologies-we'll quarter
ourselves upon Tommy; he will be delighted. He's extremely proud of his club; the young rogue costs me-it's
impossible to say what Tom costs me per annum over and
above his pay. Yet he is a good lad, too-as lads goholds up his head among all the young fellows of the club,
and keeps the very best of company."
So went on the worthy old father-with more, which I
forget. I had been on my feet all day, and was what
women call "tired," when they delight to wheel out armchairs and push warmed slippers under wet feet-at least
so I have seen done.
London club-life was new to me; nor was I aware that
in this England, this "home"-words which abroad we
learn to think synonymous and invest with an inexpressible charm-so large a proportion of the middle classes as



A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             111
sume by choice the sort of life which, on foreign service,
we put up with of necessity; the easy, selfish life into which
a male community is prone to fall. The time-honored United
Service I was acquainted with, but the New Universal was
quite a dazzle of brilliant plate, a palace of upholstery. Tom
had not come in, but his father showed me over his domains
with considerable pride.
" Yes, this is how we live-he at his club, and I at mine.
We have two tidy bedrooms, somewhere or other, hard
by, and that's all. A very jolly life, I assure you, if one
hasn't the gout or the blues; we have kept it ever since
the poor mother died and Henrietta married. I sometimes
tell Tom he ought to settle; but he says it would be slow,
and he can't afford it. Halloo! here's the boy."
Tom-a "boy" six feet high, good-looking, and welldressed, after the exact pattern of a few dozen more, whom
we had met strolling arm-in-arm down Pall-Mall-greeted
me with great civility, and said he remembered me perfectly, though my unfortunately quick ears detected him
asking his father, aside, "where on earth he had picked up
that old fogie?"
We dined well, and a good dinner is not a bad thing.
As a man gets old he may be allowed some cheer-in fact,
he needs it. Whether, at twenty-four, he requires to dine
on five courses and half a dozen kinds of wine, is another
question. But Master Tom was my host, so silence! Perhaps I am becoming " an old fogie."
After dinner the colonel opened out warmly upon my
business, which his son evidently considered a bore.
"He really did not understand the matter; it was not
in his department of public business; the governor always
thought they must know every thing that was going on,
when, in truth, they knew nothing at all. He should be
most happy, but had not the least notion what he could do
for Doctor Urquhart."
Doctor Urquhart labored to make the young gentleman
understand that he really did not want him to do any thing,
to which Tom listened with that philosophical laissez-faire,
kept just within the bounds of politeness, that we of an
elder generation are prone to find fault with. At last an
idea struck him.
"Why, father, there's Charteris-knows every thing
and every body-would be just the man for you. There
he is."




112             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
And he pointed eagerly to a gentleman, who, six tables
off, lounged over his wine and newspaper.
That morning, as I stood talking in an ante-room, at the
Horse Guards, this gentleman had caught my notice, leaning over one of the clerks, and enlivening their dullness by
making a caricature. Now my phiz was quite at their
service, but it seemed scarcely fair for any but that king
of caricature, "Punch," to make free with the honest,
weather-beaten features of the noble old veteran who was
talking with me.
So I just intervened-not involuntarily-between the
caricaturist and my-may I honor myself by calling him
my friend? The good old warrior might not deny it. For
Mr. Charteris, he apparently did not wish to own my acquaintance, nor had 1 any desire to resume his. We passed without recognition, as I would willingly have done
now, had not Colonel Turton seized upon the name.
"Tom's right. Charteris is the very man. Has enormous influence, and capital connections, though between
you and me, Doctor, calls himself as poor as a churchmouse."
"Five hundred a year," said Tom, grimly. "Wish I'd
as much! Still, he's a nice fellow, and jolly good company. Here, waiter, take my compliments to Mr. Charteris, and will he do us the honor of joining us?"
Mr. Charteris came.
He appeared surprised at sight of me, but we both went
through the ceremony of introduction without mentioning
that it was not for the first time. And during the whole
conversation, which lasted until the dinner sounds ceased,
and the long, bright, splendid dining-room was all but deserted, we neither of us once adverted to the little parlor
where, for a brief five minutes, Mr. Charteris and myself
had met, some weeks before.
I had scarcely noticed him then; now I did. He bore
out Tom's encomium and the colonel's. He is a highly intelligent, agreeable person, apparently educated to the utmost point of classical refinement. The sort of man who
would please most women, and who, being intimate in a
family of sisters, would with them involuntarily become
their standard of all that is admirable in our sex.
In Mr. Charteris was much really to be admired: a grace
bordering on what in one sex we call sweetness, in the other
effeminacy. Talent, too, not original or remarkable, but in



A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             113
dicating an evenly-cultivated, elegant mind. Rather narrow,
it might be-all about him was narrow, regular; nothing in
the slightest degree eccentric, or diverging from the ordinary, being apparently possible to him. A pleasure-loving
temperament, disinclined for active energy in any direction
-this completed my impression of Mr. Francis Charteris.
Though he gave me no information; indeed, he seemed
like my young friend Tom to make a point of knowing as
little, and taking as slight interest as possible in the state
machinery of which he formed a part-he contributed very
considerably to the enjoyment of the evening. It was he
who suggested our adjournment to the theatre.
"Unless Doctor Urquhart objects. But I dare say we
can find a house where the performance trenches on none
of the ten comtnandments, about which, I am aware, he is
rather particular."
"Oh," cried Tom, "'Thou shalt not steal' from the
French; and'Thou shalt do no murder' on the queen's
English, are the only commandments indispensable on the
stage. Come away, father."
" You're a sad dog," said the father, shaking his fist at
him, with a delighted grin, which reminded me of hornpipedays.
But the sad dog knew where to find the best bones to
pick, and by no means dry, either. Now, though I am not
a book-man, I love my Shakspeare well enough not to like
him acted-his grand old flesh and blood digged up and
served out to this modern taste as a painted, powdered,
dressed-up skeleton. But this night I saw him "in his
habit as he lived," presented " in very form and fashion of
the time." There was a good deal of show, certainly, it
being a pageant play, but you felt show was natural; that
just in such a way the bells must have rung, and the people shouted, for the living Bolingbroke. The acting, too,
was natural; and to me, a plain man, accustomed to hold
women sacred, and to believe that a woman's arms should
be kept solely for the man who loves her, I own it was a
satisfaction, when the stage queen clung to the stage King
Richard, in that pitiful parting, where,
"'Bad men, ye violate
A twofold marriage,'twixt my crown and me,
And then between me and my married wife,"
it was a satisfaction, I say, to know that it was her own
husband the actress was kissing.




114             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
This play, which Tom and the colonel voted "slow,"
gave me two hours of the keenest, most utterly oblivious
enjoyment; a desideratum not easily attainable.
Mr. Charteris considered it fine in its way; but, after all,
there was nothing like the Opera.
"Oh, Charteris is opera-mad," said Tom. "Every subscription-night, there he is, wedged in the crowd at the
horrid little passage leading out of the Haymarket-among
a knot of his cronies, who don't mind making martyrs of
themselves for a bit of tootle-te-tooing, a kick-up, and a
twirl. Well, I'm not fond of music."
" I am," said Mr. Charteris, dryly.
"And of looking at pretty women, too, eh, my dear
fellow?"
" Certainly."
And here he diverged to a passing criticism on the pretty women in the boxes round us: who were not few. I
observed them, also-for I notice women's faces more than
I was wont-but none were satisfactory, even to the eye.
They all seemed over-conscious of themselves and their
looks, except one small creature, in curls, and a red mantle,
about the age of the poor wounded Russ, who might have
been my own little adopted girl, by this time, if she had
not died.
I wish, sometimes, she had hot died. My life would have
been less lonely, could I have adopted that child.
There may be more beauty-I have heard there is-in
the upper class of Englishwomen than in any race of
women on the globe. But a step lower in rank, less
smoothly cosmopolitan, more provincially and honestly
Saxon; reserved, yet frank; simple, yet gay; would be
the Englishwoman of one's heart. The man who dare
open his eyes, fearlessly, to the beauties of such a oneseek her in her virtuous midde-class home, ask her of a
proud father and mother, and then win her, and take her
joyfully, to sit by his happy hearth, a wife, matron,
motherI forget how that sentence was to have ended; however,
it is of little consequence. It was caused partly by reflection on this club-life, and another darker side of it, of which
I caught some glimpse when I was in London.
We finished the evening at the theatre pleasantly. In
the sort of atmosphere we were in, harmless enough, but
glaring, unquiet, and unhome-like, I was scarcely surprised




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.            115
that Mr. Charteris did not once name the friends at whose
house I first met him; indeed, he seemed to avoid the
slightest approach to the subject. Only once, as we were
pushing together, side by side, into the cool night air, he
asked me, in a low, hurried tone, if I had been to Rockmount lately? He had heard I was present at the marriage.
I believe I made some remark about his absence being
much regretted that day.
"Yes-yes. Shall you be there soon?" The question
was put with an anxiety which my answer in the negative
evidently relieved.
"Oh, then, I need send no message. I thought you
were very intimate. A charming family-a very charming
family."
His eyes were wandering to some ladies of fashion who
had recognized him-whom he put into their carriage with
that polite assiduity which seems an instinct with him, and
in the crowd we lost sight of Mr. Charteris.
Twice afterward I saw him; once driving in the park,
with two ladies in a coroneted equipage; and again, walking in the dusk of the afternoon down Kensington Road.
This time he started, gave me the slightest recognition
possible, and walked on faster than ever. He need not
have feared: I had no wish or intention of resuming our
acquaintance. The more I hear of him, the more increases
my surprise-nay, even not unmixed with anxiety-at his
position in the family at Rockmount.
*      *      *     *      g      *      *
Here I was suddenly called out to a bad accident case,
some miles across the country; whence I have only returned in time for bed.
It was impossible to do any thing for the poor fellow;
one of Granton's laborers, who knew me by sight. I
could only wait till all was over, and the widow a little
composed.
At her urgent request, I sent a note to Rockmount, hard
by, begging Miss Johnston would let her know if there
had been heard any thing of Lydia-a daughter, once in
service with the Johnstons, afterward in London-nowas the poor old mother mournfully expressed it-" gone
wrong."
To my surprise, Miss Johnston answered the message in
person, and a most painful conversation ensued. She is a




116             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
good woman-no doubt of that; but she is, as Treherne
once said of her father, "as sharp as a needle and as hard
as a rock."
It being already dark, of course I saw her safe back to
her own gate. She informed me that the family were all
quite well, which was the sole conversation that passed
between us, except concerning the poor dead laborer,
James Cartwright, and his family, of whom, save Lydia,
she spoke compassionately, saying they had gone through
much trouble.
Walking along by her side, and trying to find a cause
for the exceeding bitterness and harshness she had evidenced, it struck me that this lady was herself not ignorant
of trouble.
I left her at the gate under the bush of ivy. Through
the bars I could see, right across the wet garden, the light
streaming from the hall door.
Now to bed, and to sleep, if this head will allow; it
has been rather unmanageable lately, necessitating careful
watching, as will be the case till there is nothing here but
an empty skull.
If only I could bring this barrack matter to a satisfactory start, from which good results might reasonably be
expected, I would at once go abroad. Any where-it is
all the same. A rumor is afloat that we may soon get the
route for the East, or China; which I could be well content
with, as my next move.
Far away-far away; with thousands of miles of tossing
sea between me and this old England; far away out of all
sight or remembrance. So best.
Next time I call on Widow Cartwright shall be after
dark, when, without the slightest chance of meeting any
one, it will be easy to take a few steps farther up the village. There is a cranny in one place in the wall, whence
I know one can get a very good view of the parlor window, where they never close the shutters till quite bedtime.
And, before our regiment leaves, it will be right I should
call-to omit this would hardly be civil, after all the hospitality I have received. So I will call some wet day,
when they are not likely to be out-when, probably, the
younger sister will be sitting at her books up stairs in the
attic, which she told me she makes her study, and gets
out of the way of visitors. Perhaps she will not take the




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             117
trouble to come down. Not even for a shake of the hand
and a good-by-good-by forever.
Oh, mother! unknown mother-who must have surely
loved my father; well enough, too, to leave all friends, and
follow him, a poor lieutenant of a marching regiment, up
and down the world-if I had but died when you brought
me into this same troublesome world, how much it would
have saved!
CHAPTER XII.
HER STORY.
JUST finished my long letter to Lisabel, and lingered
over the direction, " Mrs. Treherne, Treherne Court."
How strange to think of our Lisa as mistress there.
Which she is in fact, for Lady Treherne, a mild, elderly
lady, is wholly engrossed in tending Sir William, who is
very infirm. The old people's rule seems merely nominal
-it is Lisabel and Augustus who reign. Their domain is
a perfect palace-and what a queen Miss Lis must look
therein! How well she will maintain her position, and
enjoy it too. In her case, are no poetical sufferings from
haughty parents, delighted to crush a poor daughter-inlaw
"With the burden of an honor
Unto which she was not born."
Already they both like her and are proud of her, which is
not surprising. I thought I had never seen a more beautiful creature than my sister Lisa when, on her way to
Treherne Court, she came home for a day.
Home! I forget, it is not her home now. How strange
this must have been to her, if she thought about it. Possibly she did not, being never given to sentiment. And,
though with us she was not the least altered, it was amusing to see how, to every body else, she appeared quite the
married lady; even with Mrs. Granton, who, happening to
call that day, was delighted to see her, and seems. not to
cherish the smallest resentment in the matter of "my Colin." Very generous-for it is not the good old lady's first
disappointment-she has been going a wooing forther son
ever since he was one-and-twenty, and has not found a
daughter-in-law yet.




118              A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
Colin, too, conducted himself with the utmost sangfroid;
and when Augustus, who is beaming with benevolence to
the whole human race, invited him to escort his mother,
Penelope, and me, on our first visit to Treherne Court, he
accepted the invitation as if it were the pleasantest in the
world. Truly, if women's hearts are as impressionable as
wax, men's are as tough as gutta-percha. Talk of breaking them-faugh!
I hope it indicates no barbarity on my part if I confess
that it would have raised my opinion of him, and his sex
in general, to have seen Colin for a month or so, at least,
wholesomely miserable.
Lisabel behaved uncommonly well with regard to him,
and, indeed, in every way. She was as bright as a May
morning, and full of the good qualities of her Augustus,
whom she really likes very much after her fashion. She
will doubtless be among the many wives who become extremely attached to their husbands after marriage. To my
benighted mind, it has always seemed advisable to have a
slight preference before that ceremony.
She told me, with a shudder that was altogether natural
and undisguised, how glad she was that they had been
married at once, and that Augustus had sold out, for there
is a chance of the regiment's being soon ordered on foreign service. I had not heard of this before. It was some
surprise.
Lisabel was very affectionate to me the whole day, and,
in going away, said she hoped I did not miss her much,
and that I should get a good husband of my own soon; I
did not know what a comfort it was.
"Somebody to belong to you-to care for you-to pet
you-your own personal property, in short-who can't get
rid of you, even when you're old and ugly. Yes, I'm glad
I married poor dear Augustus. And, child, I hope to see
you married also. A good little thing like you would
make a capital wife to somebody. Why, simpleton, I declare she's crying!"
It must have been the over-excitement of this day; but
I felt as if, had I not cried, my temples and throat would
have burst with a choking pain, that lasted long after Lisabel was gone.
They did not altogether stay more than four hours.
Augustus talked of riding over to the camp, to see his
friend, Doctor Urquhart, whom he has heard nothing of




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.              119
since the wedding-day; but Lisabel persuaded him against
it.  Men's friendship with one another is worth little,
apparently.
Penelope here said she could answer for Doctor Urquhart's being in the land of the living, as she had met him
a week before at Cartwright's cottage, the day the poor
old man was killed. Why did she not tell me of this?
But then she has taken such a prejudice against him, and
exults so over what she calls his " rude behavior to the
family."
It always seemed to me very foolish to be forever de,
fending those whose character is itself a sufficient defense.
If a false word is spoken of a friend, one must of course
deny it, disprove it. But to be incessantly battling with
personal prejudice or animosity, I would scorn it! Ay, as
utterly as I would scorn defending myself under similar
attacks. I think, in every lesser affection that is worth the
name, the same truth holds good which I remember being
struck with in a play, the only play I ever saw acted. The
heroine is told by her sister,
"Katherine,
You love this man-defend him."
She answers:
"You have said,
I love him. That's my defense. I'll not
Assert, in words, the truth on which I've cast
The stake of life. I love him, and am silent."
At least, I think the passage ran thus, for I cut it out of
a newspaper afterward, and long remembered it. What
an age it seems since the night of that play, to which Francis took us. And what a strange, dim dream has become
the impression it left; something like that I always have
in reading of Thekla and Max —of love so true and strong
-so perfect in its holy strength, that neither parting, grief,
nor death have any power over it. Love which makes
you feel that once to have possessed, must be bliss unutterable, unalienable-better than all happiness or prosperity
that this world could give-better than any thing, in the
world or out of it, except the love of God.
I sometimes think of this Katherine in this play, when
she refuses to let her lover barter his conscience for his life,
but when the test comes, says to him herself, "No-die/"
Also of that scene in Wallenstein, when Thekla bids her
lover be faithful to his honor and his country, not to her



120             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
when, just for one minute, he holds her tight, tight in his
arms-Max, I mean. Death afterward could not have
been so very hard.
I am beginning to give up-strange, perhaps, that it
should have lasted so long-my belief in the possible happiness of life. Apparently, people were never meant to be
happy. Small flashes of pleasantness come and go; or it
may be that in some few lives are ecstatic moments, such
as this I have been thinking of, and then it is all over.
But many people go plodding along to old age, in a dull,
straight road, with little sorrow and no joy. Is my life to
be such as this? Probably. Then the question arises,
what am I to do with it?
It sometimes crosses my mind what Doctor Urquhart
said, about his life being "owed." All our lives are, in
one sense: to ourselves, to our fellow-creatures, or to God;
or, is there some point of union which includes all three?
If I only could find it out!
Perhaps, according to Colin Granton's lately learned doctrine-I know whence learned-it is the having something
to do. Something to be, your fine preachers of self-culture
would suggest; but self-culture is often no better than
idealized egotism: people sick of themselves want some,
thing to do.
Yesterday, driving with papa along the edges of the
camp, where we never go now, I caught sight of the slope
where the hospital is, and could even distinguish the poor
fellows sitting in the sun, or lounging about in their blue
hospital clothes. It made me think of Smyrna and Scutari.
No; while there is so much misery and sin in the world,
a man has no right to lull himself to sleep in a paradise of
self-improvement and self-enjoyment; in which there is but
one supreme Adam, one perfect specimen of humanity,
namely himself. He ought to go out and work-fight, if
it must be, wherever duty calls him. Nay, even a woman
has hardly any right, in these days, to sit still and dream.
The life of action is nobler than the life of thought.
So I keep reasoning with myself. If I could only find a
good and adequate reason for some things which perplex
me sorely, about myself and-other people, it would be a
great comfort.
To-day, among a heap of notes which papa gave me to
make candle-lighters of, I found this note, which I kept,
the handwriting being peculiar-and I have a few crotchets
about handwriting.




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             121
"DEAR SIR,-Press of business, and other unforeseen
circumstances, with which I am fettered, make it impossible for me to accept any invitations at present. I hope you
will believe that I can never forget the hospitalities of Rockmount, and that I am ever most gratefully
"Your faithful servant,
"MAX URQUHART."
Can he, then, mean our acquaintance to cease? Should
we be a hinderance in his busy, useful life-such a frivolous family as ours? It may be so. Yet I fear papa will
be hurt.
This afternoon, though it was Sunday, I could not stay
in the house or garden, but went out, far upon the moor,
and walked till I was weary. Then I sat me down upon a
heather-bush, all in a heap, my arms clasped round my
knees, trying to think out this hard question-what is to
become of me; what am I to do with my life? It lies before
me, apparently as bleak, barren, and monotonous as these
miles of moorland-stretching on and on in dull undulations, or dead flats, till a range of low hills ends all! Yet,
sometimes, this wild region has looked quite different. I
remember describing it once-how beautiful it was, how
breezy and open, with the ever-changing tints of the moor,
the ever-shifting and yet always steadfast arch of the sky.
To-day I found it all colorless, blank, and cold; its monotony almost frightened me. I could do nothing but crouch
on my heather-bush and cry.
Tears do one good occasionally. When I dried mine,
the hot weight on the top of my head seemed lighter. If
there had been any body to lay a cool hand there, and say,
"Poor child, never mind!" it might have gone away. But
there was no one: Lisa was the only one who ever "petted" me.
I thought I would go home and write a long letter to
Lisa.
Just as I was rising from my heather-bush-my favorite
haunt, being as round as a mushroom, as soft as a velvet
cushion, and hidden by two great furze-bushes from the
road-I heard footsteps approaching. Having no mind to
be discovered in that gipsy plight, I crouched down again.
People's footsteps are so different, it is often easy to recognize them. This step, I think I should have known any
where-quick, regular, determined; rather hasty, as if no
F




122             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
time could be lost; as if it would never "let the grass
grow under it," as the proverb says. Crouching lower yet,
I listened; I heard him stop, and speak to an old woman,
who had been coming up the road toward the village. No
words were distinguishable, but the voice, I could not have
mistaken it-it is not like our English voices.
How strange it is, listening to footsteps or voices, when
the owners do not know you are near them. Something
like being a ghost, and able to watch them-perhaps watch
over them-without feeling it unnatural or wrong.
He stood talking-I ought to explain, Doctor Urquhart
stood talking-for several minutes. The other voice, by
its querulousness, I guessed to be poor Mrs. Cartwright's;
but it softened by degrees, and then I heard distinctly her
earnest "thank'ee, Doctor-God bless'ee, sir," as he walked away, and vanished over the slope of the hill. She looked after him a minute, and then, turning, toddled on her
way.
When I overtook her, which was not for some time, she
told me the whole story of her troubles, and how good
Doctor Urquhart has been. Also, the whole story about
her poor daughter-at least as much as is known about it.
Mrs. Cartwright thinks she is still somewhere in London,
and Doctor Urquhart has promised to find her out, if he
can. I don't understand much about these sort of dreadful things-Penelope never thought it right to tell us: but
I can see that what Doctor Urquhart has said has given
great comfort to the mother of unfortunate Lydia.
"Miss," said the old woman, with the tears running
down, "the doctor's been an angel of goodness to me, and
there's many a one in these parts as can say the samethough he be only a stranger, here to-day and gone to-morrow, as one may say. Eh, dear, it'll be an ill day for many
a poor body when he goes."
I am glad I saw him-glad I heard all this. Somehow,
hearing of things like this makes one feel quieter.
It does not much matter after all-it does not indeed!
I never wanted any body to think about me, to care for
me, half as much as somebody to look up to-to be satisfied in-to honor and reverence. I can do that still!
Like a fool, I have been crying again, till I ought, properly, to tear this leaf out, and begin afresh. No, I will not.
Nobody will ever see it, and it does no harm to any human
being.




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             123
"God bless him!" the old woman said. I might say
something of the like sort too; for he did me a deal of
good; he was very kind to me.
CHAPTER XIII.
HER STORY.
PAPA and Penelope are out to dinner. I myself was out
yesterday, and did not return till they were gone; so I sit
up for them; and, meantime, shall amuse myself with writing here.
The last date was Sunday, and now it is only Tuesday,
but much seems to have happened between. And yet nothing really has happened but two quiet days at the Cedars,
and one gay evening-or people would call it gay.
It has been the talk of the neighborhood for weeks, this
amateur concert at the camp. We got our invitation, of
course; the such and such regiments (I forget which; at
least, I forget one) presenting their compliments to the
Reverend William Henry and the Misses Johnston, and requesting their company. But papa shook his head, and
Penelope was indifferent. Then I gave up all thoughts of
going, if I ever had any.
The surprise was almost pleasant when Mrs. Granton,
coming in, declared she would take me herself, as it was
quite necessary I should have a little gayety to keep me
from moping after Lisabel. Papa consented, and I went.
Driving along over the moors was pleasant, too, even
though it snowed a little. I found myself laughing back
at Coin, who sat on the box, occasionally turning to shake
the white flakes off him, like a great Polar bear. His kindly, hearty face was quite refreshing to behold.
I have a habit of growing attached to places, independently of the persons connected with them. Thus, I can not
imagine any time when it would not be an enjoyment to
drive up to the hall door of the Cedars, sweeping round in
the wide curve that Colin is so proud of making his carriage wheels describe; to look back up the familiar hillside, where the winter sun is shining on that slope of trees;
then run into the house, through the billiard-room, and out
again by the dining-room windows, on to the broad terrace.
There, if there is any sunshine, you will be sure to get it;




124             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
any wind, it will blow in your face; any bit of color or
landscape beauty, you will catch it on this green lawn; the
grand old cedars, the distant fir-woods, lying in a still mass
of dark-blue shadow, or standing up, one by one, cut out
sharply against the brilliant west. Whether it is any meteorological peculiarity I know not; but it seems to me as
if, whatever the day has been, there is always a fair sunset
at the Cedars.
I love the place. If I went away for years-if I never
saw it again-I should always love it and remember it;
Mrs. Granton too, for she seems an integral part of the picture. Her small, elderly figure trotting in and out of the
rooms; her clear loud voice-she is a little deaf-along the
up-stair passages; her perpetual activity-I think she is
never quiet but when she is asleep; above all, her unvarying goodness and cheerfulness. Truly the Cedars would
not be the Cedars without my dear old lady!
I don't think she ever knew how fond I was of her, even
as a little girl. Nobody could help it; never any body had
to do with Mrs. Granton without becoming fond of her.
She is almost the only person living of whom I never heard
any one speak an unkind word, because she herself never
speaks an ill word of any human being. Every one she
knows is "the kindest creature," "the nicest creature,"
" the cleverest creature"-I do believe if you presented to
her Diabolus himself, she would only call him "poor creature;" would suggest that his temper must have been aggravated by the unpleasant place he had to live in, and
set about some plan for improving his complexion, and concealing his horns and tail.
At dinner, I took my favorite seat, where, seen through
this greatest of the three windows, a cedar, with its " broad,
green layers of shade," is intersected by a beech, still faintly yellow, as I have seen it, autumn after autumn, from the
same spot. It seemed just like old times. I felt happy, as
if something pleasant were about to happen, and said as
much.
Mrs. Granton looked delighted.
" I am sure, my dear, I hope so; and I trust we shall see
you here very often indeed. Only think, you have never
been since the night of the ball. What a deal has happened between now and then."
I had already been thinking the same.
It must be curious to any one who, like our Lisa, had




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             125
married a. stranger and not an old acquaintance, to analyze
afterward the first impressions of a first meeting, most likely brought about by the merest chance. Curious to try
and recall the face you then viewed critically, carelessly, or
with the most absolute indifference-how it gradually altered and altered, till only by a special effort can memory
reproduce the pristine image, and trace the process by
which it has become what it is now-a face by itself, its
peculiarities pleasant, its plainnesses sacred, and its beauties
beautiful above all faces in the world.
In the course of the afternoon Colin was turned out, that
is corporeally, for his mother talked about him the whole
time of his absence, a natural weakness, rather honorable
than pardonable. She has been very long a widow, and
never had any child but Colin.
During our gossip, she asked me if we had seen Doctor
Urquhart lately, and I said no.
" Ah! that is just like him. Such an odd creature. He
will keep away for days and weeks, and then turn up as
unexpectedly as he did here yesterday. By-the-by, he inquired after you, if you were better. Colin had told him
you were ill."
I testified my extreme surprise and denial of this,
" Oh, but you looked ill. You were just like a ghost the
day Mrs. Treherne was at Rockmount-my son noticed it.
Nay, you need not flush up so angrily; it was only my
Colin's anxiety about you-he was always fond of his old
play-fellow."
I smiled, and said his old play-fellow was very much
obliged to him.
So this business is not so engrossing but that Doctor
Urquhart can find time to pay visits somewhere. And he
had been inquiring for me. Still he might have made the
inquiry at our own door. Ought people, even if they do
lead a busy life, to forget ordinary courtesy-accepting hospitality, and neglecting it-cultivating acquaintance, and
then dropping it? I think not; all the respect in the world
can not make one put aside one's common-sense judgment
of another's actions. Perhaps the very respect makes one
more tenacious that no single action should be even questionable. I did think then, and even to-day I have thought
sometimes, that Doctor Urquhart has been somewhat in
the wrong toward us at Rockmount. But as to acknowledging it to any one of them at home-never.




126             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
Mrs. Granton discussed him a little, and spoke gratefully
of Colin's obligations to him, and what a loss it would be
for Colin when the regiment left the camp.
" How fortunate that your brother-in-law sold out when
he did. He could not well have done so now, when there
is a report of their being ordered on active service shortly.
Colin says we are likely to have war again, but I do hope
not."
" Yes," I said.
And just then Colin came to fetch me to the green-houses,
to choose a camellia for my hair.
Likely to have war again! When Mrs. Granton left me
to dress, I sat over my bedroom fire, thinking-I hardly
know what. All sorts of visions went flitting through my
mind-of scenes I have heard talked about, in hospital, in
battle, on the battle-field afterward. Especially one, which
Augustus has often described, when he woke up, stiff and
cold, on the moonlight plain, from under his dead horse,
and saw Doctor Urquhart standing over him.
Colin whistling through the corridor, Mrs. Granton's
lively " Are you ready, my dear?" made me conscious that
this would not do.
I stood up, and dressed myself in the silver-gray silk I
wore at the ball; tried to stick the red camellia in my hair,
but the buds all broke off under my fingers, and I had to
go down without it. It was all the same. I did not much
care. However, Colin insisted on going with a lantern to
hunt for another flower, and his mother took a world of
pains to fasten it in, and make me look " pretty."
They were so kind-it was wicked not to try and enjoy
one's self.
Driving along in the sharp, clear twilight, till we caught
sight of the long lines of lamps which made the camp so
picturesque at nighttime, I found that compelling one's
self to be gay sometimes makes one so.
We committed all sorts of blunders in the dark-came
across a sentry, who challenged us, and, nobody thinking
of giving the password, had actually leveled his gun, and
was proceeding in the gravest manner to do his duty and
fire upon us, when our coachman shrieked, and Colin
jumped out, which he had to do a dozen times, tramping
the snow with his thin boots, to his mother's great uneasiness, and laughing all the time-before we discovered the
goal of our hopes-the concert-room. Almost any one else




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             127
would have grown cross, but this good mother and son
have the gayest spirits and the best tempers imaginable.
The present-the present is, after all, the only thing certain. I began to feel as cheery as they..
Giving up our ticket to the most gentlemanly of sergeants, we entered the concert-room. Such a blaze of
scarlet, such a stirring of pretty heads between, such a
murmur of merry chat. For the first minute, coming out
of the dark, it dazzled me. I grew sick and could see
nothing; but when we were quietly seated I looked round.
There were many of our neighbors and acquaintances
whom I knew by sight or to bow to-and that was all. I
could see every corner of the room-still that was all.
The audience seemed in a state of exuberant enjoyment,
especially if they had a bit of scarlet beside them, which
nearly every one had, except ourselves.
"' You'll be quite ashamed of poor Colin, in his plain black,
Dora, my dear?"
Not very likely, as I told her, with my heart warmly
grateful to Colin, who had been so attentive, thoughtful,
and kind.
Altogether a gay and pretty scene. Grave persons might
possibly eschew it or condemn it; but no! a large liberal
spirit judges all things liberally, and would never see evil
in any thing but sin.
I sat enjoying all I could. But more than once ghastly
imaginations intruded, picturing these young officers otherwhere than here, with their merry mustached faces pressed
upon the reddened grass, their goodly limbs lopped and
mangled; or, worse, themselves, their kindly, lightsome
selves, changed into what soldiers are, must be, in battlefiends rather than men, bound to execute that slaughter
which is the absolute necessity of war. To be the slain or
the slayer-which is most horrible? To think of a familiar
hand-brother's or husband's-dropping down powerless,
nothing but clay; or of clasping, kissing it, returned with
red blood upon it-the blood of some one else's husband or
brother!
To have gone on pondering thus would have been dangerous. Happily, I stopped myself before all self-control
was gone.
The first singer was a slim youth, who, facing the footlights with an air of fierce determination, and probably
more inward cowardice than he would have felt toward a




128             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
regiment of Russians, gave us, in a rather uncertain tenor,
his resolution to "love no more," which was vehemently
applauded-and vanished. Next came " The Chough and
Crow," executed very independently, none of the vocalists
being agreed as to their " opening day." Afterward, the
first soprano, a professional, informed us with shrill expression, that-" Oh, yes, she must have something to
love;" which I am sure I hope she had, poor body! There
was a duet, of some sort, and then the primo tenore came
on for an Italian song.
Poor youth! a fourth-rate opera-singer might have done
it better; but'tis mean to criticise; he did his best; and,
when, after a grand roulade, he popped down, with all his
heart and lungs, upon the last note, there arose a cordial
English cheer, to which he responded with an awkward
duck of the head, and a delighted smile; very unprofessional, but altogether pleasant and natural.
The evening was now half over. Mrs. Granton thought
I was looking tired, and Colin wrapped my feet up in his
fur coat, for it was very cold. They were afraid I was not
enjoying myself, so I bent my whole appreciative faculties
to the comical-faced young officer who skipped forward,
hugging his violin, which he played with such total selfoblivious enjoyment that he was the least nervous and the
most successful of all the amateurs; the timid young officer
with the splendid bass voice, who was always losing his
place and putting his companions out; and the solemn
young officer who marched up to the piano-forte as though
it were a redan, and pounded away at a heavy sonata as if
feeling that England expected him to do his duty; which
he did, and was deliberately retreating, when, in that freeand-easy way with which audience and stage intermingled,
some one called him:
" Ansdell, you're wanted!"
" Who wants me?"
"Urquhart." At least I was almost sure that was the
name.
There was a good deal more of singing and playing;
then " God save the Queen," with a full chorus and military band. That grand old tune is always exciting; it was
so, especially, here to-night.
Likely to have war. If so, a year hence, where might
be all these gay young fellows, whispering and flirting with
pretty girls, walked about the room by proud mothers and




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             129
sisters? I never thought of it, never understood it, till
now-I who used to ridicule and despise soldiers! These
mothers-these sisters! they might not have felt it for
themselves, but my heart felt bursting. I could hardly stand.
We were some time in getting out to the door through
the long line of epaulets and swords, the owners of which
-I beg their pardon, but can not help saying it-were not
too civil; until a voice behind cried:
"Do make way there-how do you expect those ladies
to push past you?"
And a courteous helping hand was held out to Mrs.
Granton, as any gentleman ought to any lady-especially
an old lady.
" Doctor, is that you? What a scramble this is! Now,
will you assist my young friend here?"
Then-and not till then, I am positive-he recognized
me.
Something has happened to him-something has altered
him very much. I felt certain of that on the very first
glimpse I caught of his face. It shocked me so that I never
said "how d'ye do?" I never even put out my hand.
Oh, that I had!
He scarcely spoke, and we lost him in the crowd almost
immediately.
There was a great confusion of carriages. Colin ran
hither and thither, but could not find ours. Some minutes
after, we were still out in the bitter night; Mrs. Granton
talking to somebody, I standing by myself. I felt very
desolate and cold.
" How long have you had that cough?"
I knew who it was, and turned round. We shook
hands.
" You had no business out here on such a night. Why
did you come?"
Somehow, the sharpness did not offend me, though it
was rare in Doctor Urquhart, who is usually extremely
gentle in his way of speech.
I told him my cough was nothing-it was indeed as
much nervousness as cold, though, of course, I did not
confess that-and then another fit came on, leaving me all
shaking and trembling.
"You ought not to have come: is there nobody to take
better care of you, child?  No-don't speak. You must
submit, if you please."
F2




130             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
He took off a plaid he had about him, and wrapped me
up in it, close and warm. I resisted a little, and then
yielded.
" You must!"
What could one do but yield? Protesting again, I was
bidden to " hold my tongue."
"Never mind me! I am used to all weathers; I'm not a
little delicate creature like you."
I said, laughing, I was a great deal stronger than he had
any notion of-but as he had begun our acquaintance by
taking professional care of me, he might just as well continue it; and it certainly was a little colder here than it
was that night at the Cedars.
" Yes."
Here Colin came up, to say "we had better walk on to
meet the carriage, rather than wait for it." He and Doctor Urquhart exchanged a few words, then he took his
mother on one arm-good Colin, he never neglects his old
mother-and offered me the other.
" Let me take care of Miss Theodora," said Doctor Urquhart, rather decidedly. " Will you come?"
I am sure he meant me to come. I hope it was not
rude to Colin, but I could not help coming-I could not
help taking his arm. It was such a long time since we had
met.
But I held my tongue, as I had been bidden; indeed,
nothing came into my head to say. Doctor Urquhart
made only one observation, and that not particularly striking:
" What sort of shoes have you got on?"
"Thick ones."
"That is right. You ought not to trifle with your
health."
Why should one be afraid of speaking the truth right
out, when a word would often save so much of misunderstanding, doubt, and pain? Why should one shrink from
being the first to say that word when there is no wrong in
it, when in all one's heart there is not a feeling that one
need be ashamed of either before any human being, or, I
hope, before God?
I determined to speak out.
"Doctor Urquhart, why have you never been to see us
since the wedding? It has grieved papa."
My candor must have surprised him; I felt him start.




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             131
When he replied, it was in that peculiar nervous tone I
know so well, which always seems to take away my nervousness, and makes me feel that for the moment I am the
stronger of the two.
"I am very sorry. I would not on any account grieve
your papa."
" Will you come, then, some day this week?"
" Thank you, but I can not promise."
A possibility struck me.
"Papa is rather peculiar. He vexes people sometimes,
when they are not thoroughly acquainted with him. Has
he vexed you in any way?"
"I assure you, no."
After a little hesitation, determined to get at the truth,
I asked,
" Have I vexed you?"
"You! What an idea!"
It did seem at this moment preposterous, almost absurd.
I could have laughed at it. I believe I did laugh. Oh,
when one has been angry or grieved with a friend, and all
of a sudden the cloud clears off-one hardly knows how or
why, but it certainly is gone, perhaps never existed but in
imagination-what an infinite relief it. is! How cheerful
one feels, and yet humbled; ashamed, yet inexpressibly
content. So glad, so satisfied to have only one's self to
blame.
I asked Doctor Urquhart what he had been doing all
this while? that I understood he had been a good deal
engaged; was it about the barrack business and his memorial?
"Partly," he said, expressing some surprise at my remembering it.
Perhaps I ought not to have referred to it. And yet
that is not a fair code of friendship. When a friend tells
you his affairs, he makes them yours, and you have a right
to ask about them afterward. I longed to ask-longed to
know all and every thing; for by every carriage. lanmp we
passed I saw that his face was not as it used to be-that
there was on it a settled shadow of pain, anxiety, almost
anguish.
I have only known Doctor Urquhart three months, yet
in those three months I have seen him every week, often
twice and thrice a week, and, owing to the preoccupation
of the rest of the family, almost all his society has devolved




132             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
on me. He and I have often and often sat talking, or, in
"playing decorum" to Augustus and Lisabel, walked up
and down the garden together for hours at a time. Also,
from my brother-in-law, always most open and enthusiastic
on the subject, I have heard about Doctor Urquhart nearly
every thing that could be told.
All this will account for my feeling toward him after so
short an intimacy as people usually feel, I suppose, after a
friendship of years.
As I have said, something must have happened to make
such a change in him.. It touched me to the quick. Why
not at least ask the question, which I should have asked in
a minute of any body else, so simple and natural was it"Have you been quite well since we saw you?"
"Yes — No, not exactly. Why do you ask?"
"Because I thought you looked as if you had been ill."
"Thank you, no; but I have had a great deal of anxious business on hand."
More than that he did not say, nor had I a right to ask.
No right!  What was I, to be wanting rights-to feel
that in some sense I deserved them-that if I had them I
should know how to use them; for it is next to impossible
to be so sorry about one's friends without having also some
little power to do them good, if they would only give you
leave.
All this while Colin and his mother were running hither
and thither in search of the carriage, which had disappeared again. As we stood, a blast of moorland wind almost
took my breath away. Doctor Urquhart turned, and
wrapped me up closer.
"What must be done? You will get your death of
cold, and I can not shelter you. Oh! if I could,"
Then I took courage. There was only a minute more,
perhaps, and the news of threatened war darted through
my memory like an arrow-perhaps the last minute we
might ever be together in all our lives. My life-I did not
recollect it just then; but his, busy indeed, yet so wandering, solitary, and homeless-he once told me that ours was
the only family hearth he had been familiar at for twenty
years. No, I am sure it was not wrong either to think
what I thought or to say it.
"Doctor Urquhart, I wish you would come to Rockmount. It would do you good, and papa good, and all of
us; for we are rather dull now Lisabel is gone. Do come."




A LIFE FOE A LIFE.             138
I waited for an answer, but none was given. No excuse,
or apology, or even polite acknowledgment. Politeness!
that would have been the sharpest unkindness of all.
Then they overtook us, and the chance was over.
Colin advanced to my side, but Doctor Urquhart put me
in the carriage himself, and as Colin was restoring the
plaid, said, rather irritably,
" No, no; let her wrap herself in it going home."
Not another word passed between us, except that, as I
remembered afterward, just before they came up, he had
said, "Good-by," hastily adding to it, "God bless you."
Some people's words-people who usually express very
little-rest in one's mind strangely. Why should he say
"God bless you?" Why did he call me "child?"
I sent back his plaid by Colin next morning, with a message of thanks, and that "it had kept me very warm." I
wonder if I shall ever see Doctor Urquhart again?
And yet it is, not the seeing one's friends, the having
them within reach, the hearing of and from them, which
makes them ours-many a one has all that, and yet has
nothing. It is the believing in them, the depending on
them, assured that they are true and good to the core, and
therefore could not but be good and true toward every
body else, ourselves included; ay, whether we deserve it or
not. It is not our deserts which are in question; it is
their goodness, which, once settled, the rest follows as a
matter of course. They would be untrue to themselves if
they were insincere or untrue to us. I have half a dozen
friends, living within half a dozen miles, whom I feel farther
off from than I should from Doctor Urquhart if he lived at
the Antipodes.
He never uses words lightly. He never would have
said " God bless you!" if he had not specially wished God
to bless me-poor me! a foolish, ignorant, thoughtless
child.
Only a child-not a bit better nor wiser than a child;
full of all kinds of childish'naughtinesses, angers, petulances, doubts-oh, if I knew he was at this minute sitting
in our parlor, and I could run down and sit beside him, tell
him all the hard things I have been thinking of him of late,
and beg his pardon, asking him to be a faithful friend to
me, and help me to grow into a better woman than I am
ever likely to become-what an unutterable comfort it
would be!




134             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
A word or two more about my pleasant morning at the
Cedars, and then I must close my desk and see that the
study-fire is all right; papa likes a good fire when he
comes home.
There they are! what a loud ring! it made me jump
from my chair. This must be finished to-morrow, whenCHAPTER XIV.
HIS STORY.
I ENDED the last page with " I shall write no more here."
It used to be my pride never to have broken a promise nor
changed a resolution. Pride! What have I got to do
with pride?
And resolutions, forsooth! What, are we omnipotent
and omniscient, that against all changes of circumstances,
feelings, or events we should set up our paltry resolutions,
urge them and hold to them, in spite of reason and conviction, with a tenacity that we suppose heroic, god-like, yet
which may be merely the blind obstinacy of a brute?
I will never make a resolution again. I will never again
say to myself, "You, Max Urquhart, in order to keep up
that character for virtue, honor, and steadfastness, which
heaven only knows whether or no you deserve, ought to do
so and so; and, come what will, you must do it." Out upon
me and my doings! Was I singled out to be the scapegoat of the world?
It is my intention here regularly to set down, for certain
reasons which I may or may not afterward allude to, certain events which have happened without any act of mine,
almost without any volition, if a man can be so led on by
force of circumstances, that there seems only one course
of conduct open to him to pursue. Whither these circumstances may lead, I am at this moment as utterly ignorant
as on the day I was born, and almost as powerless. I make
no determinations, attempt no previsions, follow no set line
of conduct; doing only from day to day what is expected
of me, and leaving all the rest to-is it? it must be-to
God.
The sole thing in which I may be said to exercise any
absolute volition is in writing down what I mean to write
here; the only record that will exist. of the veritable me



A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             135
Max Urquhart-as he might have been known, not to people in general, but to —any one who looked into his deepest heart, and was his friend, his beloved, his very own.
The form of Imaginary Correspondent I henceforward
throw aside. I am perfectly aware to whom and for whom
I write, yet who, in all human probability, will never read
a single line.
Once, an officer in the Crimea, believing himself dying,
gave me a packet of letters to burn. He had written them,
year by year, under every change of fortune, to a friend he
had, to whom he occasionally wrote other letters not like
these; which were never sent, nor meant to be sent, during
his lifetime, though sometimes I fancy he dreamed of giving them, and of their being read, smiling, by two together.
He was mistaken. Circumstances which happen not rarely to dreamers like him, made it unnecessary, nay, impossible for them to be delivered at all. He bade me burn them
-at once-in case he died. In doing so there started out
of the embers, clear and plain, the name. But the fire and
I told no tales; I took the poker and buried it. Poor fellow! He did not die, and I meet him still, but we have
never referred to those burned letters.
These letters of mine I also may one day burn. In the
mean time, there shall be no name or superscription on
them, no beginning or ending, nor, if I can avoid it, any
thing which could particularize the person to whom they
are written. To all others they will take the form of a
mere statement, nothing more.
To begin. I was sitting about eleven at night over the
fire in my hut. I had been busy all day, and had had little
rest the night before.
It was not my intention to attend our camp concert, but
I was in a manner compelled to do so. Ill news from home
reached poor young Ansdell of ours, and his colonel sent
me to break it to him. I then had to wait about, in order
to see the good colonel as he came out of the concert-room.
It was, therefore, purely by accident that I met those
friends whom I afterward did not leave for several minutes.
The reason of this delay in their company may be told.
It was a sudden agony about the uncertainty of life-young
life,fresh and hopeful as pretty Laura Ansdell's, whom I
had chanced to see riding through the North Camp not
two weeks ago-and now she was dead. Accustomed as
I am to almost every form of mortality, I had never faced




136              A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
the grim fear exactly in this shape before. It put me out
of myself for a little time.
I did not go near Granton the following day, but received
from him a message and my plaid. She-the lady to whom
I had lent it-was " quite well."  No more; how could I
possibly expect any more?
I was, as I say, sitting over my hut fire, with the strangest
medley in my mind-rosy Laura Ansdell, now galloping
across the moor, now lying still and colorless in her coffin;
and another face about the same age, though I suppose it
would not be considered nearly as pretty, with the scarlet
hood drawn over it, pallid with cold, yet with such a soft
light in the eyes, such a trembling sweetness about the
mouth! She must be a very happy-minded creature. I
hardly ever saw her, or was with her any length of time,
that she did not look the picture of content and repose.
She always puts me in mind of Dallas's pet song when we
were boys-" Jessie, the Flower o' Dunblane."
" She's modest as ony, and blithe as she's bonnie,
And guileless simplicity marks her its ain,
And far be the villain, divested o' feelin',
Wha'd blight in its bud the sweet Flower o' Dunblane."
I say amen to that.
It was-to return for the third time to simple narrative
-somewhere about eleven o'clock when a man on iorseback stopped at my hut door. I thought it might be a
summons to the Ansdells, but it was not.  It was the
groom from Rockmount bringing me a letter.
Her letter-her little letter! I ought to burn it, but, as
yet, I can not, and where it is kept it will be quite safe.
For reasons I shall copy it here.
"DEAR SIR,-My father has met with a severe accident.
Doctor Black is from home, and there is no other doctor in
the neighborhood upon whom we can depend. Will you
pardon the liberty I am taking and come to us at once?
Yours truly,                 THEODORA JOHNSTON."
There it lies, brief and plain; a firm heart guided the
shaking hand. Few things show character in a woman
more than her handwriting; this, when steady, must be
remarkably neat, delicate, and clear. I did well to put it
by; I may never get another line.
In speaking to Jack, I learned that his master and one




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             137
of the young ladies had been out to dinner; that master
had insisted on driving home himself, probably from Jack's
incompetence, but he was sober enough now, poor lad!
that, coming through the fir wood, one of the wheels got
fixed in a deep rut, and the phaeton was overturned.
I asked, was any one hurt besides Mr. Johnston?
"Miss Johnston was, a little."
"Which Miss Johnston?"
"Miss Penelope, sir."
"No one else?"
"No, sir."
I had evidence enough of all this before, but just then,
at that instant, it went out of my mind in a sudden oppression of fear. The facts of the case gained, I called Jack in
to the fire, and went into my bedroom to settle with myself what was best to be done.
Indecision as to the matter of going or not going was,
of course, impossible; but it was a sudden and startling
position to be placed in. True, I could avoid it by pleading hospital business, and sending the assistant surgeon of
our regiment, who is an exceedingly clever young man, but
not a young man whom women would like in a sick-house,
in the midst of great distress or danger. And in that distress and danger she had called upon me, trusted me.
I determined to go. The cost, whatever it might be,
would be purely personal, and in that brief minute I counted it all. I state this, because I wish to make clear that no
secondary motive, dream, or desire prompted me to act as
I have done.
On questioning Jack more closely, I found that Mr. Johnston had fallen, they believed, on a stone; that he had been
picked up senseless, and had never spoken since. This indicated at once on what a thread of chance the case hung.
The case-simply that and no more; as to treat it at all I
must so consider it. I have saved lives, by God's blessing
-this, then, must be regarded merely as one other life to
be saved, if, through His mercy, it were granted me to do
it.
I unlocked my desk and put her letter in the secret drawer; wrote a line to our assistant-surgeon, with hospital orders, in case I should be absent part of the next day; took
out any instruments I might want; then, with a glance
round my room, and an involuntary wondering as to how
and when I might return to it, I mounted Jack's horse and




138             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
rode off to Rockmount. The whole had not occupied fifteen minutes, for I remember looking at my watch, which
stood at a quarter past eleven.
Hard riding makes thinking impossible; and, indeed, my
whole mind was bent upon not missing my road in the darkness. A detour of a mile or two, one lost half-hour, might,
humanly speaking, have cost the old man's life; for in similar cases it is generally a question of time.
It is said our profession is that which, of all others, most
inclines a man to materialism. I never found it so. The
first time I ever was brought close to death-but that train
of thought must be stopped. Since, death and I have walked so long together, that the mere vital principle, common
to all living creatures, "the life of a beast which goeth
downward," as the Bible has it, I never think of confounding with "the soul of a man which goeth upward." Quite
distinct from the life, dwelling in blood or breath, or at that
"vital point" which has been lately discovered, showing
that in a spot the size of a pin's head resides the principle
of mortality-quite distinct, I say, from this something,
which perishes or vanishes so mysteriously from the dead
friends we bury, the corpses we anatomize, seems to me the
spirit, the ghost; which, being able to conceive of and aspire to, must necessarily return to, the one Holy Ghost, the
one Eternal Spirit, Himself once manifest in flesh, this very
flesh of ours.
And it seemed, on that strange, wild night, just such another winter's night as I remember, years and years agoas if this distinction between the life and the soul grew
clearer to me than ever before; as if, pardoning all that
had happened to its mortal part, a ghost, which, were such
visitations allowed, though I do not believe they are, might
be supposed often to visit me, followed my ghost, harmlessly, nay, pitifully, I
"Being a thing immortal as itself,"
the whole way between the camp and Rockmount.
I dismounted under the ivy-bush which overhangs the
garden gate, which gate had been left open, so I was able
to go at once up to the hall door, where the fanlight flickered on the white stone floor; the old man's stick was in
the corner, and the young ladies' hats hung up on the
branching stag's horns.
For the moment I half believed myself dreaming, and
that I should wake, as I have often done, after half an hour's




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.            139
rest, with the salt morning breeze blowing on me, in the
outside gallery of Scutari Hospital, start up, take my lamp,
and go round my wards.
But minutes were precious. I rang the bell, and almost
immediately a figure slid down the staircase and opened the
door. I might not have thought it flesh and blood, but for
the touch of its little cold hand.
"Ah! it is you, at last; I was sure you would come."
"Certainly."
Perhaps she thought me cold, "professional," as if she
had looked for a friend, and found only the doctor. Perhaps-nay, it must be so-she never thought of me at all
except as the " doctor."
" Where is your father?"
"Up stairs; we carried him at once to his room. Will
you come?"
So I followed-I seemed to have nothing to do but to
follow that light figure, with the voice so low, the manner
so quiet-quieter than I ever expected to see hers, or any
woman's, under such an emergency. I? what did I ever
know of woman, except that a woman bore me? It is an
odd fancy, but I have never thought so much about my mother as within the last few months. And sometimes, turning
over the sole relics I have of hers, a ribbon or two and a
curl of hair, and calling to mind the few things Dallas remembered about her, I have imagined my mother, in her
youth, must have been something like this young girl.
She entered the bedroom first.
"You may come in now. You will not startle him; I
think he knows nobody."
I sat down beside my patient. He lay just as he had
been brought in from the road, with a blanket and counterpane thrown over him, breathing heavily, but quite unconscious.
"The light, please. Can you hold it for me? Is your
hand steady?" And I held it a moment to judge. That
weakness cost me too much; I took care not to risk it
again.
When I finished my examination and looked up, Miss
Theodora was still standing by me. Her eyes only asked
the question-which, thank God, I could answer as I did.
"Yes-it is a more hopeful case than I expected."
At this shadow of hope-for it was only a shadow-the
deadly quiet in which she had kept herself was stirred.




140             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
She began to tremble exceedingly. I took the candle from
her, and gave her a chair.
"Never mind me. It is only for a minute," she said.
One or two deep, hard sighs came, and then she recovered
herself. " Now, what is to be done?"
I told her I would do all that was necessary, if she would
bring me various things I mentioned.
"Can I help you? There is no one else. Penelope has
hurt her foot, and can not move, and the servants are mere
girls. Shall I stay? If there is any operation, I am not
afraid."
For I had unguardedly taken out of my pocket the case
of instruments, which, after all, would not be needed. I told
her so, adding that I had rather she left me alone with my
patient.
" Very well. You will take care of him? You will not
hurt him-poor papa!"
Not very likely. If he and I could have changed places
-he assuming my strength and life, I lying on that bed,
with death before me, under such a look as his child left
him with-I think I should at that moment have done it.
When I had laid the old man comfortable in his bed, I
sat with his wrist under my fingers, counting, beat by beat,
the slow pulse, which was one of my slender hopes for his
recovery. As the hand dropped over my knee, powerless,
almost, as a dead hand, it recalled, I know not how or why,
the helpless drop of that, the first dead hand I ever saw.
Happily the fancy lasted only a moment; in seasons like
this, when I am deeply occupied in the practice of my profession, all such phantasms are laid. And the present case
was urgent enough to concentrate all my thoughts and faculties.
I had just made up my mind concerning it when a gentle
knock came to the door, and on my answering, she walked
in; glided rather, for she had taken off her silk gown, and
put on something soft and dark, which did not rustle. In
her face, white as it was, there was a quiet preparedness,
more touching than any wildness of grief-a quality which
few women possess, but which heaven never seems to give
except to women, compelling us men, as it were, to our
knees, in recognition of something diviner than any thing
we have, or are, or were ever meant to be. I mention this,
lest it might be thought of me, as is often thought of doctors, that I did not feel.




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             141
She asked me no questions, but stood silently beside me,
with her eyes fixed on her father. His just opened, as they
had done several times before, wandered vacantly over the
bed-curtains, and closed again, with a moan.
She looked at me, frightened-the poor child.
I explained to her that this moaning was no additional
cause of alarm, rather the contrary; that her father might
lie in his present state for hours-days.
"And can you do nothing for him?"
If I could-at any cost which mortal man could pay!
Motioning her to the farthest corner of the room, I there,
as is my habit, when the friends of the patient seem capable of listening and comprehending, gave her my opinion
about the course of treatment I intended to adopt, and my
reasons for the same. In this case, of all others, I wished
not to leave the relatives in the dark, lest they might afterward blame me for doing nothing; when, in truth, to do
nothing was the only chance. I told her my belief that it
would be safest to maintain perfect silence and repose, and
leave benignant Nature to work in her own mysterious way
-Nature, whom the longer one lives, the more one trusts
in as the only true physician.
"Therefore," I said, "will you understand that, however
little I do, I am acting as I believe to be best? Will you
trust me?"
She looked up searchingly, and then said, " Yes." After
a few moments she asked me how long I could stay? if I
were obliged to return to the camp immediately?
I told her " No; that I did not intend to return till morning."
" Ah! that is well. Shall I order a room to be prepared
for you?"
"Thank you, but I prefer sitting up."
"You are very kind. You will be a great comfort."
I, "a great comfort!" I-" kind!"
My thoughts must needs return into their right channel.
I believe the next thing she said was something about my
going to see "Penelope:" at least I found myself with my
hand on the door, all but touching hers, as she was showing me how to open it.
"There: the second room to the left. Shall I go with
you? No! I will stay here, then, till you return."
So, after she had closed the door, I remained alone in the
dim passage for a few moments. It was well. No man
can be his own master at all times.




142             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
Miss Johnston was a good deal more hurt than she had
confessed. As she lay on the bed, still in her gay dress,
with artificial flowers in her hair-her face, pallid and drawn
with pain, looked almost like that of an old woman. She
seemed annoyed at my coming-she dislikes me, I know:
but anxiety about her father, and her own suffering, kept
her aversion within bounds. She listened to my medical
report from the next room, and submitted to my orders
concerning herself, until she learned that at least a week's
confinement, to rest her foot, would be necessary. Then
she rebelled.
" That is impossible. I must be up and about. There is
nobody to do any thing but me."
" Your sister?"
" Lisabel is married. Oh, you meant Dora? We never
expect any useful thing from Dora."
This speech did not surprise me. It merely confirmed a
good deal which I had already noticed in this family. Also,
it might in degree be true. I think, so far from being blind
to them, I see clearer than most people every fault she has.
Neither contradicting nor arguing, I repeated to Miss
Johnston the imperative necessity for her attending to my
orders: adding that I had known more than one case of a
person being made a cripple for life by neglecting such an
injury as hers.
" A cripple for life!" She started-her color came and
went-her eye wandered to the chair beside her, on which
was her little writing-case; I conclude that in the intervals
of her pain she had been trying to send these ill news, or
to apply for help to some one.
" You will be lame for life," I repeated, " unless you take
care."
"Shall I, now?"
"No; with reasonable caution, I trust you will do well."
"That is enough. Do not trouble yourself any more
about me. Pray go back to my father. "
She turned from me and closed her eyes. There was
nothing more to be done with Miss Penelope. Calling a
servant who stood by, I gave my last orders concerning
her, and departed. A strange person-this elder sister.
What differences of character exist in families!
There was no change in my other patient. As I stood
looking at him, his daughter glided round to my side. We
exchanged a glance only-she seemed quite to understand




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.            143
that talking was inadmissible. Then she stood by me,
silently gazing.
"You are sure there is no change?"
"None."
"Lisa-ought she not to know? I never sent a telegraph
message; will you tell me how to do it?"
Her quiet assumption of duty-her thoughtful, methodical arrangements; surely the sister was wrong-that is, as
I knew well, any great necessity would soon prove her to
be wrong-about Miss Theodora.
I said there was no need to telegraph until morning,
when, as I rode back to the camp, I would do it myself.
"Thank you."
No objection or apology; only that soft "thank you"taking all things calmly and naturally, as a man would like
to see a woman take the gift of his life, if necessary. No,
not life; that is owed-but any or all of its few pleasures
would be cheerfully laid down for such another "thank
you."
While I was considering what should be done for the
night, there came a rustling and chattering outside in the
passage. Miss Johnston had sent a servant to sit up with
her father. She came-knocking at the door-handle, rattling the candlestick, and tramping across the floor like a
regiment of soldiers-so that my patient moaned, and put
up his hand to his head.
I said-sharply enough, no doubt-that I must have quiet.
A loud voice, a door slammed to, even a heavy step across
the floor, and I would not answer for the consequences. If
Mr. Johnston were meant to recover, there must be no one
in his room but the doctor and the nurse.
" I understand-Susan, come away."
There was a brief conference outside; then Miss Theodora re-entered alone, bolted the door, and was again at
my side.
"Will that do?"
"Yes."
The clock struck two while we were standing there. 1
stole a glance at her white, composed face.
" Can you sit up, do you think?"
"Certainly."
Without more ado-for I was just then too much occupied with a passing change in my patient-the matter was
decided. When I next looked for her she had slipped




144             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
round the foot of the bed, and taken her place behind the
curtain on the other side. There we both sat, hour after
hour, in total silence.
I tell every thing, you see, just as minutely as I remember it-and shall remember it-long after every circumstance, trivial or great, has faded out of every memory,
except mine. If these letters are ever read by other than
myself, words and incidents long forgotten may revive:
that when I die, as in the course of nature I shall do, long
before younger persons, it may be seen that it is not youth
alone which can receive impressions vividly and retain them
strongly.
I could not see her-I could only see the face on the pillow, where a dim light fell; just enough to show me the.
slightest change, did any come. But, closely as I watched, none did come. Not even a twitch or quiver broke
that blank expression of repose which was neither life nor
death.
I thought several times that it would settle into death
before morning. And then?
Where was all my boasted skill, my belief in my own
powers of saving life? Why, sitting here, trusted and
looked up to, depended upon as the sole human stay-my
countenance examined, as I felt it was, even as if it were
the index and arbiter of fate —I, watching, as I never
watched before by any sick-bed, this breath which trembled in the balance, felt myself as ignorant and useless
as a child. Nay, I was " as a dead man before Thee," 0
Thou humbler of pride!
Crying to myself thus-Job's cry-I thought of another
Hebrew, who sought "not unto the Lord, but unto the
physicians;" and died. It came into my mind, May there
not be, even in these days, such a thing as " seeking the
Lord?"
I believe there is: I know there is.
The candle went out. I had sat with my eyes shut, and
had not noticed it till I heard her steal across the room
trying to get a light. Afraid to trust my own heavy step
-hers seemed as soft as snow-I contrived to pull the
window-blind aside, so that a pale white streak fell across
the hearth where she was kneeling-the cheerless hearth,
for I had not dared to risk the noise of keeping up a fire.
She looked up, and shivered.
"Is that light morning?"




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.            145
"Yes. Are you cold?"
"A little."
" It is always cold at daybreak. Go and get a shawl."
She took no notice, but put the candle in its place and
came over to me.
"How do you think he is?"
"No worse."
A sigh, patient, but hopeless. I took an opportunity of
examining her closely, to judge how long her self-control
was likely to last; or whether, after this great shock and
weary night-watch, her physical strength would fail. So
looking, I noticed a few blood-drops trickling over her forehead, oozing from under her hair:
" What is this?"
"Oh, nothing! I struck myself as we were lifting pap
from the carriage. I thought it had ceased bleeding.
"Let me look at it a moment. There-I shall not hurt
you."
" Oh, no! I am not afraid."
I cut the hair from round the place, and plastered it up.
It hardly took a minute; was the smallest of surgical operations; yet she trembled. I saw her strength was beginning to yield; and she might need it all.
" Now, you must go and lie down for an hour."
She shook her head.
" You must."
There might have been something harsh in the wordsI did not quite know what I was saying-for she looked
surprised.
"I mean you ought; which is enough argument with a
girl like you. If you do not rest, you will never be able to
keep up for another twelve hours, during which your father
may need you. He does not need you now."
"And you?"
"I had much rather be alone." Which was most true.
So she left me; but, ten minutes after, I heard again the
light step at the door.
"I have brought you this" (some biscuits and a glass of
milk). "I know you never take wine."
W e! Oh, Heaven! no! Would that, years ago, the
first drop had burnt my lips-been as gall to my tongueproved to me not drink, but poison-as the poor old man
now lying there once wished it might have happened to
any son of his. Well might my father, my young, happy
G




146              A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
father, who married my mother, and, loving and loved, spent
with her the brief years of their youth-well, indeed, might
my father have wished it for me!
So there I sat, after the food she brought me had been
swallowed down somehow-for it would have hurt her to
come back and find it untouched. Thus watching, hope
lessened by degrees, sank into mere conjectures as to the
manner in which the watch would end. Possibly, in this
state of half-consciousness, the breath would quietly pass
away, without struggle or pain; which would be easiest
for them all.
I laid my plans, in that case, either to be of any use to
the family if I could, by remaining until the Trehernes arrived, or to leave immediately all was over. Circumstances,
and their apparent wish, must be my only guide. Afterward there would be no difficulty; the less they saw of any
one who had been associated with such a painful time, the
better. Better for all of them.
The clock below struck-what hour I did not count, but
it felt like morning. It was-must be-I must make it
morning.
I went to the window to refresh my eyes with the soft
white dawn, which, as I opened the blind, stole into the
room, making the candle burn yellow and dim. The night
was over and gone. Across the moorland, and up on the
far hills, it was already morning.
A thought struck me, suggesting one more chance. Extinguishing the candle, I drew aside all the curtains, so as
to throw the daylight in a full stream across the foot of the
bed; and by the side of it-with.the patient's hand between mine, and my eyes fixed steadily on his face-I sat
down.
His eyes opened, not in the old blank way, but with an
expression in them that I never expected. to see again.
They turned instinctively to the light; then, with a slow,
wandering, but perfectly rational look, toward me. Feebly
the old man smiled.
That minute was worth dying for; or, rather, having
lived for all these twenty years.
The rest which I have to tell must be told another time.




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.            147
CHAPTER XV.
HIS STORY.
I HAVE not been able to continue this. Every day has
been full of business, and every night I have spent at Rock-,
mount for the last three weeks.
Such was, I solemnly aver-from no fixed intention: I
meant only to go as an ordinary doctor-in order, if possible to save the life that was valuable in itself, and most
precious to some few; afterward, whichever way the case
terminated, to take my leave, like any other medical attendant: receiving thanks or fee. Yes, if they offered it, I
determined to take a fee; in order to show, both to them
and myself, that I was only the doctor-the paid physician.
But this last wound has been spared me, and I only name
it now in proof that nothing has happened as I expected or
intended.
I remember Dallas, in reading to me the sermons he used
to write for practice-preparing for the sacred duties which,
to him, never came-had one upon the text, " Thy will be
done;" where, in words more beautiful than I dare try to
repeat in mine, he explained how good it was for us that
things so seldom fell out according to our short-sighted
plannings; how many a man had lived to bless God that
his own petty will had not been done; that nothing had
happened to him according as he expected or intended.
Do you know, you to whom I write, how much it means,
my thus naming to you Dallas-whose name, since he died,
has never but once passed my lips?
I think you would have liked my brother Dallas. He
was not at all like me-I took after my father, people said,
and he after our mother. He had soft, English features,
and smooth, fine, dark hair. He was smaller than I, though
so much the elder. The very last Christmas we had at St.
Andrew's, I mind lifting him up and carrying him several
yards in play, laughing at him for being as thin and light
as a lady. We were merry-hearted fellows, and had many
a joke, the two of us, when we were together. Strange to
think that I am a man nigh upon forty, and that he has been
dead twenty years.




148             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
It is you, little as you guess it, who have made me think
upon these my dead-my father, mother, and Dallas, whom
I have never dared to think of until now. Let me continue.
Mr. Johnston's has been a difficult case-more so in its
secondary stages than at first. I explained this to his
daughter-the second daughter-the only one whom I
found of much assistance; Miss Johnston being extremely
nervous and irritable, and Mrs. Treherne, who I trusted
would have taken her share in the nursing, proving more
of a hinderance than a help. She could not be made to
comprehend why, when her father was out of danger, she
should not rush in and out of the sick-room continually,
with her chattering voice, and her noisy silk dresses; and
she was offended because, when Mr. Charteris, having come
for a day from London, was admitted, quiet, scared, and
shocked, to spend a few minutes by the old man's bedside,
her Augustus, full of lively rattle and rude animal spirits,
was carefully kept out of the room.
"You plan it all between you," she said, one day, half
sulkily, to her sister and myself. " You play into one another's hands as if you had lived together all your lives.
Confess, Doctor-confess, Miss Nurse, you would keep me
too out of papa's room, if you could."
I certainly would. Though an excellent person, kindhearted and good-tempered to a degree, Mrs. Treherne contrived to try my temper more than I would like to say for
two intolerable days.
The third, I resolved on a little conversation with Miss
Theodora, who, having sat up till my watch began at two,
now came in to me, while I was taking breakfast, to receive
my orders for the day. These were simple enough: quiet,
silence, and, except old Mrs. Cartwright, whom I had sent
for, only one person to be allowed in my patient's room.
"Ah! yes, I am glad of that. Just hearken'!"
Doors slamming; footsteps on the stairs; Mrs. Treherne
calling out to her husband not to smoke in the hall. " That
is how it is all day, when you are away. What can I do?
Help me, please, help me!"
An entreaty almost childish in its earnestness. Now and
then, through all this time, she has seemed, in her behavior
toward me, less like a woman than a trusting, dependent
child.
I sent for Treherne and his wife, and told them that the




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             149
present was a matter of life and death, in which there could
be no standing upon ceremony; that in this house, where
no legitimate rule existed, and all were young and inexperienced, I, as the physician, must have authority, which authority must be obeyed. If they wished, I would resign
the case altogether; but I soon saw that was not desired.
They promised obedience; and I repeated the medical orders, adding that, during my absence, only one person, the
person I chose, should be left in charge of my patient.
" Very well, Doctor," said Mrs. Treherne: " and that is-"
"Miss Theodora."
"Theodora! oh, nonsense! She never nursed any body.
She never was fit for any thing."
" She is fit for all I require, and her father wishes for her
also; therefore, if you please, will you at once go up to
him, Miss Theodora?"
She had stood patient and impassive till I spoke, then the
color rushed into her face and the tears into her eyes. She
left the room immediately.
But, as I went, she was lying in wait for me at the door.
" Thank you-thank you so much! But do you really think
I shall make a good, careful nurse for dear papa?"
I told her " Certainly; better than any one else here;
better, indeed, than any one I knew."
It was good to see her look of happy surprise.
"Do you really think that? Nobody ever thought so
well of me before. I will try-ah! won't I try?-to deserve your good opinion."
Ignorant, simple heart.
Most people have some other person, real or imaginary,
who is more "comfortable" to them than any one else-to
whom, in trouble, the thoughts always fly first; who, in
sickness, would be chosen to smooth the weary pillow, and
holding whose hand they would like to die. Now it would
be quite easy, quite happy to die in a certain chamber I
know, shadowy and still, with a carpet of a green leafy pattern, and bunches of fuchsias papering the walls. And,
about the room, a little figure moving; slender, noiseless,
busy, and sweet; in a brown dress, soft to touch, and making no sound, with a white collar fastened by a little colored bow above it; the delicate throat and small head like a
deer's; and the eyes something like a deer's eyes also, which
turn round large and quiet, to look you right in the faceas they did then.




150             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
I wonder, if any accident or illness were to happen to me
here, while staying in the camp-something that would
make it certain I had only a few days or hours to liveand I happened to have sufficient consciousness and will to
say what I wished done, whom I desired to see, in those
few last hours, when the longing of a dying man could
injure nobody- Enough! this is the merest folly. To
live, not to die, is likely to be my portion. I accept it;
blame me not.
Day after day has gone on in the same round-my ride
to Rockmount after dusk, tea there, and my evening sleep
in "the doctor's room."  There, at midnight, Treherne
wakes me. I dress, and return to that quiet chamber,
where the little figure rises from beside the bed with a
smile and a whisper, " Not at all tired, thank you." A few
words more, and I give it my candle, bid it "good-night,"
and take its place, sitting down in the same arm-chair, and
leaning my head back against the same cushion, which still
keeps the indentation, soft and warm; and so I watch by
the old man till morning.
This is how it has regularly been.
Until lately, night was the patient's most trying time.
He used to lie moaning, or watching the shadows of the
firelight on the curtains. Sometimes, when I gave him food
or medicine, turning upon me with a wild stare, as if he
hardly knew me, or thought I was some one else. Or he
would question me vaguely as to where was Dora? and
would I take care that she had a good long sleep-poor
Dora!
Dora-Theodora-" the gift of God"-it is good to have
names with meanings to them, though people so seldom resemble their names. Her father seems beginning to feel
that she is not unlike hers.
" She is a good girl, Doctor," he said one evening, when,
after having safely borne moving from bed to his arm-chair,
I pronounced my patient convalescent, and his daughter
was sent to take tea and spend the evening down stairs,
"she is a very good girl. Perhaps I have never thought
of my daughters."
I answered vaguely, daughters were a great blessingoften more so than sons.
"You are right, sir," he said suddenly, after a few minutes' pause. "You were never married, I believe?"
" No."




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             151
"If you do marry, never long for a son. Never build your
hopes on him, trusting he will keep up your name, and be
the stay of your old age. I had one boy, sir; he was more
to me than all my daughters."
A desperate question was I prompted to ask-I could
not withhold it, though the old man's agitated countenance
showed that it must be one passing question only.
"Is your son living?"
"No. He died young."
This, then, must be the secret-simple and plain enough.
He was " a boy"-he died " young," perhaps about eighteen
or nineteen-the age when boys are most prone to run wild.
This lad must have done so; putting all the circumstances
together, the conclusion was obvious, that in some way or
other he had, before his death, or in his death, caused his
father great grief and shame.
I could well imagine it; fancy drew the whole picture,
filling it up pertinaciously, line by line. A man of Mr.
Johnston's character, marrying late in life-as he must have
done, to be seventy when his youngest child was not much
over twenty-would be a dangerous father for any impetuous, headstrong boy. A motherless boy too; MIrs. Johnston died early. It was easy to understand how strife would
rise between the son and father; a father no longer young,
with all his habits and peculiarities formed; sensitive, overexacting; rigidly good, yet of somewhat narrow-minded
virtue; scrupulously kind, yet not tender; alive to the
lightest fault, yet seldom warming into sympathy or praise.
The sort of man who compels respect, and whom, being
one's self blameless, one might even love; but, having committed any error, one's first impulse would be to fly from
him to the very end of the earth.
Such, no doubt, had been the case with that poor boy,
who "died young."  Out of England, no doubt, or surely
they would have brought him home, and buried him under
the shadow of his father's church, and his memory would
have left some trace in the family, the village, or the neighborhood. As it was, it seemed blotted out-as if he had
never existed. No one knew about him-no one spoke
about him, not even the sisters, his playmates. So shethe second sister-had said. It was a tacit hint for me
also to keep silence-otherwise I would have liked to ask
her more about him-this poor fallen boy. I know how
suddenly, how involuntarily, as it seems, a wretched boy
can fall-into some perdition never afterward retrieved.




152             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
Thinking thus-sitting by the bedroom fire, with Mr.
Johnston asleep opposite-poor old man, it must have been
his boy's case, and not his own, which has made him so
sensitive about only sons-I suddenly called to mind how,
in the absorbing anxiety of the last three weeks-that day
-the anniversary-had slipped by, and I had not even
recollected it. It could be forgotten then? was this a warning that I might let it pass, if it would, into oblivion-and
yield like any other man, to pleasant duties, and social ties,
the warmth of which stole into me, body and soul, like this
blessed household fire. It could not last-but while it did
last, why not share it; why persist in sitting outside in the
cold?
You will not understand this. There are some things I
can not explain, till the last letter, if ever I should come to
write it. Then you will know.
Tea over, Miss Theodora came to see after " our patient,"
as she called him, asking if he had behaved well, and done
nothing he ought. not to have done?. I told her, that was an amount of perfection scarcely to
be exacted from any mortal creature; at which she laughed,
and replied, she was sure I said this with an air of deprecation, as if afraid such perfection might be required of me.
Often her little hand carries an invisible sword. I try
to hide the wounds, but the last hour's meditation made
them sharper than ordinary. For once, she saw it. She
came and knelt by the fire, not far from me, thoughtfully.
Then, suddenly turning round, said,
"If ever I say a rude thing to you, forgive it. I wish I
were only half as good as you."
The tone, so earnest, yet so utterly simple-a child might
have said the same, looking into one's face with the same
frank eyes. God forgive me! God pity me!
I rose and went to the bedside to speak to her father,
who just then woke and called for "Dora."
If in nothing else, this illness has been a blessing; drawing closer together the father and daughter. She must
have been thinking so, when to-day she said to me:
"It is strange how many mouthfuls of absolute happiness
one sometimes tastes in the midst of trouble " adding-I
can see her attitude as she talked, standing with eyes cast
down, mouth sweet and smiling, and fingers playing with
her apron-tassels-a trick she has-" that she now felt as
if she should never be afraid of trouble any more."




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             153
That also is comprehensible. Any thing which calls out
the dormant energies of the character must do a woman
good. With some women, to be good and to be happy is
one and the same thing.
She is changed, too, I can see. Pale as she looks, there
is a softness in her manner and a sweet composure in her
face, different from the restlessness I once noticed therethe fitful irritability, or morbid pain, perceptible at times,
though she tried hard to disguise both. And succeeded
doubtless; in all eyes but mine.
She is more cheerful, too, than she ever used to be; not
restlessly lively, like her eldest sister, but seeming to carry
about in her heart a well-spring of content, which bubbles
out refreshingly upon every thing and every body about
her. It is especially welcome in the sick-room, where, she
knows, our chief aim is to keep the mind at ease, and the
feeble brain in absolute rest. I could smile, remembering
the hours we have spent-patient, doctor, and nurse-in
the most puerile amusements, and altogether delicious nonsense, since Mr. Johnston became convalescent.
All this is over now. I knew it was. I sat by the fire,
watching her play off her loving jests upon her father, and
prattle with him childish-like, about all that was going on
down stairs.
"You little quiz!" he cried at last. "Doctor, this girl is
growing-I can't say witty-but absolutely mischievous."
I said, talents long dormant sometimes appeared. We
might yet discover in Miss Theodora Johnston the most
brilliant wit of her day.
"Dr. Urquhart, it's a shame! How can you laugh at me
so? But I don't care. You are all the better for having
somebody to laugh at. You know you are."
I did know it-only too well, and my eyes might have
betrayed it, for hers sank. She colored a little, sat down
to her work, and sewed on silently, thoughtfully, for a good
while.
What was in her mind? Was it pity'? Did she fancy
she had hurt me-touched unwittingly one of my many
sores? She knows I have had a hard life, with few pleasures in it; she would gladly give me some; she is sorry
for me.
Most people's compassion is worse than their indifference;
but hers given out of the fullness of the pure, tender, unsuspicious heart-I can bear it. I can be grateful for it.
G2




154             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
On this first evening that broke the uniformity of the
sick-room, we thought it better, she and I, considering the
peculiarities of the rest of the family, which she seems to
take for granted I am aware of, and can make allowance
for-that none of them should be admitted this night. A
prohibition not likely to afflict them much.
"And pray, Miss Dora, how do you mean to entertain
the doctor and me?"
"I mean to give you a large dose of my brilliant conversation, and, lest it become too exciting, to season it with a
little reading, out of something that neither of you take
the smallest interest in, and will be able to go to sleep over
properly. Poetry-most likely."
"Some of yours?"
She colored deeply. "Hush, papa, I thought you had
forgotten-you said it was'nonsense,' you know."
"Very likely it was. But I mean to give it another
reading some day. Never mind-nobody heard."
So she writes poetry. I always knew she was very
clever, besides being well-educated. Talented womenmodern Corinnes-my impression of them was rather repulsive. But she-that soft, shy girl, with her gay simplicity, her meek, household waysI said, if Miss Theodora were going to read, perhaps she
might remember she had once promised to improve my
mind with a course of German literature. There was a
book about a gentleman of my own name-Max-Max
something or other"Piccolomini. You have not forgotten him! What a
memory you have for little things."
She thought so! I said, if she considered a poor doctor,
accustomed to deal more with bodies than souls, could
comprehend the sort of books she seemed so fond of, I
would like to hear about Max Piccolomini.
"Certainly. Only —"
"You think I could not understand it."
"I never thought any such thing," she cried out in her
old abrupt way, and went out of the room immediately.
The book she fetched was a little dainty one. Perhaps
it had been a gift. I asked to look at it.
"Can you read German?"
" Not a line." For my few words of conversational foreign tongues have been learned orally, the better to communicate with stray patients in hospitals. I toldher so.




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             155
"I am very ignorant, as you must have long since found
out, Miss Theodora."
She said nothing, but began to read. At first translating
line by line; then saying a written translation would be less
trouble, she fetched one. It was in her handwritingprobably her own doing.
No doubt every one, except such an unlearned ass as
myself, is familiar with the story —historical, I believe she
said-how a young soldier, Max Piccolomini, fell in love
with the daughter of his general, Wallenstein, who, heading an insurrection, wished the youth to join in, promising
him the girl's hand. There is one scene where the father
tempts, and brings the daughter to tempt him, by hope of
this bliss, to turn rebel; but the young man is firm-the
girl, too, when he appeals to her, bids him keep to his duty,
and renounce his love. It is a case such as may have happened-might happen in these days-were modern men
and women capable of such attachments. Something of
the sort of love upon which Dallas used to theorize when
we were boys, always winding up with his favorite verse
-how strange that it should come back to my mind now"I could not love thee, dear, so much,
Loved I not honor more."
Max-odd enough the name sounded, and she hesitateq
over it at first with a half laughing apology, then, forgetting all but her boot, it came out naturally and sweetlyoh, so sweetly sometimes-Max died. How, I do not
clearly remember, but I know he died, and never married
the girl he loved; that the time when he held her in his
arms, and kissed her before her father and them all, was
the last time they ever saw one another.
She read, sometimes hurriedly and almost inaudibly, and
then just like the people who were speaking, as if quite
forgetting herself in them. I do not think she even recognized that there was a listener in the room. Perhaps she
thought, because I sat so still, that I did rot hear or feel;
that I, Max Urquhart, have altogether forgotten what it is
to be young and to love.
When she ceased, Mr. Johnston was soundly asleep; we
both sat silent. I stretched out my hand for the written
pages, to go over some of the sentences again; she went
on reading the German volume to herself. Her face was
turned away, but I could see the curve of her cheek, and
the smooth, spiral twist of her hair behind-I suppose, if




156              A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
untwisted, it would reach down to her knees. This German girl, Thekla, might have had just such hair; this boy
-this Max-might have been allowed sometimes to touch
it-reverently to kiss it.
*      *      *      *      *      *      *
I was interrupted here. A case at the hospital; James
McDermot-fever-ward-cut his throat in a fit of delirium.
There must have been great neglect in the nurse or orderly,
perhaps in more than they. These night absences-this
preoccupation-though I have tried earnestly to fulfill all
my duties; yet, as I walked back, the ghastly figure of the
dead man was ever before me. Have I not a morbid conscience, which revels in self-accusation? Suppose there
was one who knew me as I knew myself-could show myself untb myself, and say, " Poor soul,'tis nothing. Forget
thyself. Think of another-thy other self-of me."
Why recount this, one of the countless painful incidents
that are always recurring to our profession? Because,
having begun, I must tell you all that happens to me, as a
man would, coming home after his day's labor to his-let
me write down the word steadily-his wife. His wife —
nearer to him than any mortal thing-bone of his bone and
flesh of his flesh; his rest, comfort, and delight-whom,
more than almost any man, a doctor requires, seeing that
on the dark side of human life his path must continually
lie.
Sometimes, though, bright bits come across us-such as
when the heavy heart is relieved, or the shadow of death
lifted from off a dwelling; moments when the doctor,
much to his own conscious humiliation, is apt to be regarded as an angel of deliverance; seasons when he is glad
to linger a little amid the glow of happiness he has been
instrumental in bringing before he turns out again into the
shadows of his appointed way.
And such will always be this, which I may consider the
last of my nights at Rockmount. They would not hear of
my leaving, though it was needless to sit up. And when
I had seen Mr. Johnston safe and snug for the night, they
insisted on my joining the merry supper-table, where, relieved now from all care, the family assembled. The family
included, of course, Mr. Charteris. I was the only stranger,
They did not treat me as a stranger-you know that,
Sometimes falling, as the little party naturally did, into
two, and two, and two, it seemed as if the whole world




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             157
were conspiring to wrap me in the maddest of delusionsas if I always had sat, and were meant to sit familiarly,
brotherly, at that family table; as if my old solitude were
quite over and gone, and that I should never be alone any
more. And, over all, was the atmosphere of that German
love-tale, which came up curiously to the surface, and
caused a conversation, which, in some parts of it, seems
the strangest thing of all that strange evening.
It was Mrs. Treherne who originated it. She asked her
sister what had we been doing that we were so exceedingly
quiet up stairs?
"Reading-papa wished it." And being farther questioned, Miss Theodora told what had been read.
Mrs. Treherne burst out laughing immoderately.
It would hardly be expected of such well-bred and amiable ladies, but I have often seen the eldest and youngest
sisters annoy her-the second one-in some feminine way
-men would never think of doing it, or guess how it is
done-sufficient to call the angry blood to her cheeks, and
cause her whole manner to change from gentleness into
defiance. It was so now.
"I do not see any thing so very ridiculous in my reading
to papa out of any book I choose."
I explained that I myself had begged for this one.
" Oh, and I'm sure she was delighted to oblige you."
"I was," she said, boldly; "and I consider that any
thing, small or great, which either I, or you, or Penelope
can do to oblige Doctor Urquhart, we ought to be happy
and thankful to do for the remainder of our lives."
Mrs. Treherne was silenced. And here Mr. Charterisbreaking the uncomfortable pause-good-naturedly began
a disquisition on the play in question. He bore, for some
time, the chief part in a literary and critical conversation,
of which I did not hear or follow much. Then the ladies
took up the story in its moral and personal phase, and
talked it over pretty well.
The youngest sister was voluble against it. She hated
doleful books; she liked a pleasant ending, where the people were all married cheerfully and comfortably.
It was suggested, from my side of the table, that this
play had not an uncomfortable ending, though the lovers
both died.'+ What an odd notion of comfort Dora has," said Mr.
Cbharteris.




158             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
"Yes, indeed," added Mrs. Treherne; " for if they hadn't
died, were they not supposed never to meet again? My
dear child, how do you intend to make your lover happy?
By bidding him an eternal farewell, allowing him to get
killed, and then dying on his tomb?"
Every body laughed. Treherne said he was thankful his
Lisa was not of her sister's mind.
"Ay, Gus, dear, well you may! Suppose I had come
and said to you, like Dora's heroine,'My dear boy, we are
very fond of one another, but we can't ever be married.
It's of no consequence. Never mind. Give me a kiss,
and good-by'-what would you have done, eh, Augustus?"
"Hanged myself," replied Augustus, forcibly.
"If you did not think better of it while searching for a
cord," dryly observed Mr. Charteris. (I have for various
reasons noticed this gentleman rather closely of late.)
"Dora's theories about love are pretty enough; but too
much on the gossamer style. Poor human nature requires
a little warmer clothing than these' sky robes of iris woof,'
which are not' warranted to wear.'"
As he spoke, I saw Miss Johnston's black eyes dart over
to his face in keen observation, but he did not see them.
Immediately afterward she said:
"Francis is quite right. Dora's heroics do her no good
-nor any body; because such characters do not exist, and
never did. Max and Thekla, for instance, are a pair of lovers utterly impossible in this world."
" True," said Mr. Charteris, "even as Romeo and Juliet
are impossible, Shakspeare himself owns,
"'These violent delights have violent ends.'
Had Juliet lived, she would probably not by force, but in
the most legal, genteel, and satisfactory way, have been' married to the County;' or, supposing she had got off safe
to Mantua, obtained parental forgiveness, and returned to
set up house-keeping as Mrs. R. Montague, depend upon it
she and Romeo would have wearied of one another in a
year, quarreled, parted, and she might, after all, have consoled herself with Paris, who seems a sweet-spoken, prettybehaved young gentleman throughout. Do you not think
so, Doctor Urquhart? that is, if you are a reader of Shakspeare."
Which he apparently thought I was not. I answered,
what has often struck me about this play, "that Shakspeare only meant it as a tale of boy and girl passion.




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             159
Whether it would have lasted, or grown out of passion
into love one need not speculate, any more than the poet
does. Enough, that, while it lasts, it is a true and beautiful picture of youthful love-that is, youth's ideal of love;
though the love of maturer life is often a far deeper, higher, and better thing."
Here Mrs. Treherne, bursting into. one of her hearty
laughs, accused her sister of having "turned Doctor Urquhart poetical."
It is painful to appear a fool, even when a lively young
woman is trying to make you do so. I sat, cruelly conscious how little I have to say-how like an awkward,
dull clod I often feel-in the society of young and clever
people, when I heard her speaking from the other end of
the table-I mean Miss Theodora.
" Lisabel, you are talking of what you do not understand.
You never did, and never will understand my Max and
Thekla, any more than Francis there, though he once
thought it so fine, when he was teaching Penelope German, a few years ago."
" Dora, your excitement is unlady-like."
"I do not care," she answered, turning upon her elder
sister with flashing eyes. " To sit by quietly and hear such
doctrines, is worse than unlady-like-unwoman-like! You
two girls may think what you please on the matter; but I
know what I have always thought-and think still."
" Pray will you indulge us with your creed?" cried Mr.
Charteris.
She hesitated-her cheeks burned like fire-but still she
spoke out bravely.
" I believe, spite of all you say, that there is, not only in
books, but in the world, such a thing as love; unselfish,
faithful, and true, like that of my Thekla and my Max. I
believe that such a love-a right love-teaches people to
think of the right first, and themselves afterward; and,
therefore, if necessary, they could bear to part for any
number of years-or even forever."
"Bless us all; I wouldn't give two farthings for a man
who would not do any thing-do wrong even-for my
sake."
"And I, Lisabel, should esteem a man a selfish coward,
whom I might pity, but I don't think I could ever love
him again, if in any way he did wrong for mine."
From my corner, whither I had gone and sat down a




160             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
little out of the circle, I saw this young face-flashing, full
of a new expression. Dallas, when he talked sometimes,
used to have just such a light in his eyes-just such a glory streaming from all his features; but then he was a boy,
and this was a woman. Ay, one felt her womanhood, the
passion and power of it, with all its capabilities for either
blessing or maddening, in the very core of one's being.
The others chatted a little more, and then I heard her
speaking again.
"Yes, Lisabel, you are quite right; I do not think it of
so very much importance, whether people who are very
deeply attached, ever live to be married or not. In one
sense they are married already, and nothing can come between them, so long as they love one another."
This seemed an excellent joke to the Trehernes, and
drew a remark or two from Mr. Charteris, to which she
refused to reply.
" No; you put me in a passion, and forced me to speak;
but I have done now. I shall not argue the point any
more."
Her voice trembled, and her little hands nervously
clutched and plaited the table-cloth; but she sat in her
place, never moving features or eyes. Gradually the burning in her cheeks faded, and she grew excessively pale;
but no one seemed to notice her. They were too full of
themselves.
I had time to learn the picture by heart, every line; this
little figure sitting by the table, bent head, drooping shoulders, and loose white sleeves shading the two hands, which
were crushed so tightly together, that when she stirred I
saw the finger-marks of one imprinted on the other. What
could she have been thinking of?
"Miss Dora, please."
It was only a servant, saying her father wished to speak
to her before he went to sleep.
"Say I am coming." She rose quickly, but turned before she reached the door. "I may not see you again before you go. Good-night, Doctor Urquhart."
We have said good-night, and shaken hands, every night
for three weeks. I know I have done my duty; no lingering, tender clasping what I had no right to clasp; a mere
good-night, and shake of the hand. But, to-night?
I did not say a word-I did not look at her. Yet the
touch of that little cold, passive hand has never left mine




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             161
since. If I lay my hand down here, on this table, it seems
to creep into it and nestle there; if I let it go, it comes
back again; if I crush my fingers down upon it, though
there is nothing, I feel it still-feel it through every nerve
and pulse, in heart, soul, body, and brain.
This is the merest hallucination, like some of the spectral
illusions I have been subject to at times; the same Which
made Coleridge once say "he had seen too many ghosts to
believe in them."
Let me gather up my faculties.
I am sitting in my hut. There is no fire-no one ever
thinks of lighting a fire for me, of course, unless I specially
order it. The room is chill, warning me that winter is nigh
at hand; disorderly-no one ever touches my goods and
chattels, and I have been too much from home lately to institute any arrangement myself. All solitary, too; even
my cat, who used to be the one living thing lingering about
me, marching daintily over my books, or stealing up, purring, to lay her head upon my knee, even my cat, weary of
my long absence, has disappeared to my next-door neighbor. I am quite alone.
Well, such is the natural position of a man without near
kindred, who has reached my years and has not married.
He has no right to expect aught else to the end of his days.
I rode home from Rockmount two hours ago, leaving a
still lively group sitting around the fire in the parlor-Miss
Johnston on her sofa, with Mr. Charteris beside her; Treherne sitting opposite, with his arm round his wife's
waist.
And up stairs, I know how things will look-the shadowy bed-chamber, the little white china lamp on the table,
and one curtain half-looped back, so that the old man may
just catch a glimpse of the bending figure, reading to him
the Evening Psalms; or else she will, by this time, have
said " Good-night, papa," and gone away to the upper part
of the house, of which I know nothing, and have never
seen. Therefore I can only fancy her, as I one night happened to see, going up stairs, candle in hand, softly, step by
step, as saintly souls slip away into paradise, and we below,
though we would cling to the hem of their garments, crush
our lips in the very print of their feet, can neither hold
them, nor dare beseech them to stay.
Oh, if I were only dead, that you might have this letter
-might know, feel, comprehend all these things.




162             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
I have been " doing wrong." I owe it to myself, to more
than myself; not to yield to weak lamentations or unmanly
bursts of phrensy against an inevitable fate.
Is it inevitable?
Before beginning to write to-night, for two hours I sat
arguing with myself this question; viewing the circumstances of both parties, for such a question necessarily includes both, with a calmness which I believe even I can attain, when the matter involves not myself alone. I have
come to the conclusion that it is inevitable.
When you reach these my years, when you have experienced all those changes which you now dream over and
theorize upon in your innocent, unconscious heart, you will
also see that my judgment was right.
To seek and sue a woman's yet unwon love implies the
telling her, when won, the whole previous history of her
lover; concealing nothing, fair or foul, which does not compromise any other than himself. This confidence she has
a right to, and the man who withholds it is either a coward in himself; or doubts the woman of his choice, as, should
he so doubt his wife, woe to him and to her! To carry
into the sanctuary of a true wife's breast some accursed
thing which must be forever hidden in his own, has always
seemed to me one of the blackest treasons against both
honor and love of which a man could be capable.
Could I tell my wife, or the woman whom I would fain
teach to love me, my whole history? And if I did, would
it not close the door of her heart eternally against me? or,
supposing it was too late for that, and she already loved
me, would it not make her, for my sake, miserable for life?
I believe it would.
On this account, even, things are inevitable.
There is another reason; whether it comes second or
first, in my arguments with myself, I do not know. When
a man has vowed a vow, dare he break it? There is a certain vow of mine, which, did I marry, must be broken.
No man in his senses, or possessing the commonest feelings of justice and tenderness, would give his name to a
beloved woman, with the possibility of children to inherit
it, and then bring upon each and all of them the end, which
I have all my life resolutely contemplated as a thing necessary to be done, either immediately before my death, or
after it.
Therefore, also, it is inevitable.




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             163
That word-inevitable-always calms me. It is the will
of God. If He had meant otherwise, He would have found
out a way-perhaps by sending me some good woman to
love me, as men are loved sometimes, but not such men as I.
There is no fear-or hope, which shall I say?-of any one
ever loving me.
Sleep, child! You are fast asleep by this hour, I am
sure; you once said you always fall asleep the instant your
head touches the pillow. Blessed pillow! precious, tender,
lovely head!
"Good-night." Sleep well, happy, ignorant child.
CHAPTER XVI.
HER STORY.
" FINISHED to-morrow." What a lifetime seems to have
elapsed since I wrote that line!
A month and four days ago, I sat here, waiting for papa
and Penelope to come home from their dinner party. Trying to be cheerful-wondering why I was not so; yet with
my heart as heavy as lead all the time.
I think it will never be quite so heavy any ihore. Never weighed down by imaginary wrongs and ideal woes.
It has known real anguish and been taught wisdom.
We have been very nearly losing our beloved father.
Humanly speaking, we should have lost him but for Doctor Urquhart, to whose great skill and unremitting care,
Doctor Black himself confessed yesterday, papa has, under
God, owed his life.
It is impossible for me to write down here the particulars of dear papa's accident and the illness which followed,
every day of which seems at once so vivid and so unreal.
I shall never forget it while I live, and yet, even now, am
afraid to recall it; though at the time I seemed afraid of
nothing-strong enough for every thing. I felt-or it now
appears as though I must have done so-as I did on one
sunshiny afternoon at a picnic about a dozen years ago,
when I, following Colin Granton, walked round the top of
a circular rock, on a ledge two feet wide, a sloping ledge
of short slippery grass; where, if we had slipped, it was
about ninety perpendicular feet to fall.
I shudder to think of that feat even now; and telling it




164             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
to Doctor Urquhart in illustration of what I am here men.
tioning, namely, the quiet unconsciousness with which one
sometimes passes through exceeding great danger, he too
shuddered, turned deadly white. I never saw a strong
man lose color so suddenly and completely as he does at
times.
Can he be really strong? Those nights of watching
must have told upon his health, which is so valuable; doubly
valuable to one in his profession. We must try to make
him take care of himself, and allow us-Rockmount generally-to take care of him. Though, since his night-watchings ceased, he has not given us much opportunity, having
only paid his due medical visit once a day, and scarcely
staid ten minutes afterward; until to-day, when, by papa's
express desire, Augustus drove over and fetched him to
dinner.
It is pleasant to be able to write down here how very much
better I like my brother-in-law. His thorough goodness of
nature, his kindly cheering ways, and his unaffected, if rather obstreperous love for his wife, which is reflected, as it
should be, upon every creature belonging to her make it
impossible not to like him. I am heartily glad he has sold
out, so that even if war breaks out again, there will be no
chance of his being ordered off on foreign service; though
in that case he declares he should feel himself in honor
bound to volunteer. But Lisabel only laughs; she knows
better.
Still, I trust there may be no occasion. War, viewed in
the abstract, is sufficiently terrible; but when it comes
home, when one's self and one's own are bound up in the
chances of it, the case is altogether changed. Some misfortunes contemplated as personal possibilities seem more
than human nature could bear. How the mothers, sisters,
wives, have borne them all through this war isMy head turned dizzy here, and I was obliged to leave
off writing and lie down. I have not felt very strong lately-that is, not bodily strong. In my heart I have-thoroughly calm, happy, and thankful-as God knows we have
all need to be, since he has spared our dear father, never
loved so dearly as now. But physically I am rather tired
and weak, as if I would fain rest my head somewhere and
be taken care of, if there were any body to do it, which
there is not. Since I can remember, nobody ever took
care of me.




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             165
While writing this last line old Mrs. Cartwright came up
to bring me some arrow-root with wine in it for my supper,
entreating me to go to bed "like a good child." She said
"the doctor" told her to look after me; but she shouldk
have done it herself, anyhow. She is a good old body;
I wish we could find out any thing about her poor lost
daughter.
What was I writing about? Oh, the history of to-day,
where I take up the thread of my journal, leaving the
whole interval between a blank. I could not write about
it if I would.
I did not go to church with them this morning, feeling
sure I could not walk so far, and some one ought to stay
with papa. So the girls went, and Doctor Urquhart also,
at which papa seemed just a little disappointed, he having
counted on a long morning's chat.
I never knew papa attach himself to any man before, or
take such exceeding delight in any one's company. He
said the other day, when Augustus annoyed him about
some trifle or other, that " he wished he might have chosen
his own son-in-law; Lisabel had far better have married
Doctor Urquhart."
Our Lisabel and Doctor Urquhart! I could not help
laughing. Day and night-fire and water would have best
described their union.
Penelope now, though she has abused him so much-but
that was Francis's fault-would have suited him a deal
better. They are more friendly than they used to be; indeed, he is on good terms with all Rockmount. We feel,
every one of us, I trust, that our obligations to him are of
a kind of which we never can acquit ourselves while we live.
This great grief has been in many ways, like most afflictions, "a blessing in disguise." It has drawn us all together, as nothing but trouble ever does, as I did not think
any thing ever would, So queer a family are we. But we
are improving. We do not now shut ourselves up in our
rooms, hiding each in her hole like a selfish bear until feeding time-we assemble in the parlor-we sit and talk round
papa's study-chair. There, this morning after church, we
held a convocation and confabulation before papa came
down.
And, strange to say-almost the first time such a thing
ever happened in ours, though a clergyman's family-we
talked about the church and the sermon.




166             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
It was preached by the young man whom papa has been
obliged to take as curate, and who, Penelope said, she
feared would never suit, if he took such eccentric texts
and preached such out-of-the-way sermons as the one this
morning. I asked what it was about, and was answered,
"the cities of refuge."
I fear I do not know my Bible-the historic portion of
it-so well as I might; for I scandalized Penelope exceed.
ingly by inquiring what were " the cities of refuge." She
declared any child in her school would have been better
acquainted with the Old Testament, and I had it at my
tongue's end to sAy that a good many of her children
seemed far too glibly and irreverently acquainted with the
Old Testament; for I once overheard a knot of them doing
the little drama of Elijah, the mocking children, and the
bears in the wood, to the confusion of our poor bald-headed
organist, and their own uproarious delight, especially the
two boys who enacted the bears. But'tis wicked to tease
our good Penelope; at least, I think it wicked now.
So I said nothing; but after the sermon had been well
talked over as " extraordinary," " unheard of in our church,"
" such a mixing of politics and religion, and bringing up
every-day subjects into the pulpit"-for it seems he had alluded to some question of capital punishment, which now
fills the newspapers-I took an opportunity of asking Doctor Urquhart what the sermon really had been about. I
can often speak to him of things which I never should
dream of discussing with my sisters, or even papa; for,
whatever the subject is, he will always listen, answer, explain-either laughing away my follies, or talking to me
seriously and kindly.
This time, though, he was not so patient; asked me,
abruptly, " Why I wanted to know?"
"About the sermon? From harmless curiosity; or,
rather"-for I would not wish him to think that in any
religious matter I was guided by no higher motive than
curiosity-" because I doubt Penelope's judgment of the
curate. She is rather harsh sometimes."
"Is she?"
"Will you find for me"-and I took out of my pocket
my little Bible, which I had been reading in the garden" about the cities of refuge?-that is, unless you dislike to
talk on the subject."
" Who-I-what maAe you suppose so?"




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             167
I replied candidly, his own manner, while they were
arguing it.
"You must not mind my manners-it is not kind-it is
not friendly." And then he begged my pardon, saying he
knew he often spoke more rudely to me than to any one else,
If he does it harms me not. He must have so many
causes of anxiety and irritation, which escape by expression. I wish he would express them a little more, indeed.
One could bear to be really scolded if it did him any good;
but, of course, I. should have let the theological question
slip by, had he not, some minutes after, referred to it himr
self. We were standing outside the window; there was
no one within hearing; indeed, he rarely talks very seri.
ously unless he and I happen to be alone.
"Did you think as they do-your sisters, I mean-that
the Mosaic law is still our law-an eye for an eye-a tooth
for a tooth-a life for a life-and so on?"
I said I did not quite understand him.
"It was the subject of the sermon. Whether he who
takes life forfeits his own. The law of Moses enacted this.
Even the chance murderer, the man guilty of manslaughter,
as we should term it now, was not safe out of the bounds
of the three cities of refuge. The avenger of blood' finding
him' might' slay him."'
I asked what he thought was meant by " the avenger of
blood?" Was it divine or human retribution?
"I can not tell. How should I know? Why do yoiu
question me?"
I might have said, Because I liked to talk to him, and
hear him talk; because, in many a perplexed subject over
which I had been wearying myself, his opinion had guide&
me and set me right. I did hint something of the kind,
but he seemed not to hear or heed it, and continued:
"Do you think, with the minister of this morning, that,
except in very rare cases, we-we, Christians, have no right.
to exact a life for a life? Or do you believe, on religious
as well as rational grounds, that every man-slayer ought
inevitably to be hanged?"
I have often puzzled over that question, which Doctor
Urquhart evidently felt as much as I did. Truly, many a
time have I turned sick at the hangings which I have had
to read to papa in the newspapers; have wakened at seven
in the morning, and counted, minute by minute, some
wretched convict's last hour, till the whole scene grew so




168             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
vivid that the execution seemed more of a murder than the
original crime of which it was the expiation. But still, to
say that there ought to be no capital punishments! I could
not tell. I only repeated, softly, words that came into my
mind at that instant.
"IFor we know that no murderer hath eternal life in
him."'Budt if he were not a willful murderer? if life were
taken-let us suppose such a case-in violent passion, or
under circumstances which made the man not himself; if
his crime were repented of and atoned for in every possible
way-the lost life repurchased by his own-not by dying,
but by the long torment of living?"
"Yes," I said, "I could well imagine a convict's existence, or that of one convicted in his own conscience-a
duelist, for instance-far more terrible than death upon the
scaffold."
"You are right; I have seen such cases."
No doubt he has, since, as an' officer once told me, the
army still holds dueling to be the necessary defense of a
gentleman's "honor." The recollections aroused were apparently very sore-so much so that I suggested our changing the subject, which seemed both painful and unprofitable.
" Not quite. Besides, would you quit a truth because it
happened to be painful? That is not like you."
" I hope not."
After a few minutes' silence, he continued: "This is a
question I have thought over deeply. I have my own
opinion concerning it, and I know that of most men; but I
should like to hear a woman's-a Christian woman's. Tell
me, do you believe the avenger of blood walks through the
Christian world as through the land of Israel, requiring
retribution; that for blood-shedding, as for all other crimes,
there is in this world, whatever there may be in another,
expiation, but no pardon? Think well, answer slowly, for
it is a momentous question."
" I know that-the one question of our times."
Doctor Urquhart bent his head without replying. He
hardly could speak; I never saw him so terribly in earnest.
His agitation roused me from the natural shyness I have in
lifting up my own voice and setting forth my own girlish
opinion on topics of which every one has a right to think,
but very few to speak.




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             169
"I believe that in the Almighty's gradual teaching of
His creatures, a Diviner than Moses brought to us a higher
law, in which the sole expiation required is penitence with
obedience:'Repent ye.''Go and sin no more.' It appears to me, so far as I can judge and read here"-my Bible was still in my hand-" that throughout the New, and in
many parts of the Old Testament, runs one clear doctrine,
namely, that any sin, however great, being repented of and
forsaken, is by God, and ought to be by man, altogether
pardoned, blotted out, and done away."
" God bless you!"
For the second time he said to me I' ose words-said
them twice over, and left me. Rather abruptly; but he is
sometimes abrupt when thinking deeply of any thing.
Thus ended our little talk; yet it left a pleasant impression. True, the subject was strange enough; my sisters
might have been shocked at it; and at my freedom in asking and giving opinions. But oh! the blessing it is to have
a friend to whom one can speak fearlessly on any subject;
with whom one's deepest as well as one's most foolish
thoughts come out simply and safely. Oh, the comfortthe inexpressible comfort of feeling safe with a personhaving neither to weigh thoughts nor measure words, but
pouring them all right out, just as they are, chaff and grain
together; certain that a faithful hand will take and sift
them, keep what is worth keeping, and then with the breath
of kindness blow the rest away.
Somebody must have done a good deal of the winnowing
business this afternoon; for in the course of it I gave him
as much nonsense as any reasonable man could stand-even
such an, ultra-reasonable man as Doctor Urquhart. Papa
said once, that she was " taking too great liberty of speech
with our good friend, the doctor-that foolish little Dora;"
but foolish little Dora knows well enough what she is
about-when to be silly and when to be wise. She believes in her heart that there are some people to whom it
does great good to be dragged down from their heights
of wisdom, and forced to talk and smile, until the cloud
wears off, and the smile becomes permanent-grows into a
sunshine that warms every one else all through. Oh, if he
had had a happy life-if Dallas had lived-this Dallas, whom
I often think about, and seem to know quite well-what a
cheerful, blithe nature his would have been!
Just before tea, when papa was taking his sleep, Doctor
H




170             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
TTrquhart proposed that we should all go for a walk. Penelope excused herself; besides, she thinks it wrong to walk
out on a Sunday; but Lisabel and Augustus were very glad
to go. So was I, having never been beyond the garden since
papa's illness.
If I try to remember all the trivial incidents of to-day, at
full length, it is because it has been such an exceedingly
happy day; to preserve which from the chances of this mortal life, " the sundry and manifold changes of this world,"
as the prayer says, I here write down the account of it.
How vague, how incompatible with the humdrum tenor
of our quiet days at Rockmount that collect used to sound!
"Th-at amid tile sundry and manifold changes of this
world'our hearts may surely there be fixed, where true joys
are to be found, through Jesus Christ our Lord, Amen."
Now, as if newly understanding it, I also repeat, "Amen."
We started, Lisabel, Augustus, Doctor Urquhart, and I.
We went through the village, down the moorland road, to
the ponds, which Augustus wanted to examine, with a view
to wild-duck shooting, next, or, rather, I might say, this
winter, for Christmas is coming close upon us, though the
weather is still so mild.
Lisa and her husband walked on first, and quickly left us
far behind; for, not having been out for so long, except the
daily stroll round the garden, which Doctor Urquhart had
insisted upon, the fresh air seemed to turn me dizzy. I
managed to stumble on through the village, keeping up
talk, too, for Doctor Urquhart hardly said any thing, until
we came out upon the open moor, bright, breezy, sunshiny.
Then I felt a choking-a longing to cry out or sob-my
head swam round and round.
" Are you wearied? you look as if you were." "Will
you like to take my arm?" "Sit down-sit down on this
stone-my child!"
I heard these sentences distinctly, one after the other,
but could not answer. I felt my bonnet-strings untied, and
the wind blowing on my face-then all grew light again,
and I looked round.
"Do not be frightened; you will be well in a minute or
two. I only wonder that you have kept up so bravely,
and are so strong."
This I heard too-in a cheerful, kind voice-and soon
after I became quite myself, but ready to cry with vexation,
or something, I don't know what.




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             171
"You will not tell any body?" I entreated.
"No, not any body," said he, smiling, "if turning faint
was such a crime. Now, you can walk? Only not alone,
just at present, if you please."
I do not marvel at the almost unlimited power which,
Augustus says, Doctor Urquhart has over his patients. A
true physician-not only of bodies, but souls.
We walked on, I holding his arm. For a moment, I was
half afraid of Lisabel's laugh, and the silly etiquette of our
neighborhood, which holds that if a lady and gentleman
walk arm-in-arm they must be going to be married. Then
I forgot both, and only thought what a comfort it was in
one's weakness to have an arm to lean on, and one that you
knew, you felt, was not unwilling to have you resting there.
I have never said, but I will say it here, that I know Doctor Urquhart likes me-better than any other of my family; better, perhaps, than any friend he has, for he has not
many. He is a man of great kindliness of nature, but few
personal attachments. I have heard him say, "that though
he liked a great many people, only one or two were absolutely necessary to him." Dallas might have been, had he
lived. He told me, one day, there was a certain look in me
which occasionally reminded him of Dallas. It is by these
little things that I guess he likes me-at least enough to
make me feel, when with him, that rest and content that I
never feel with those who do not care for me.
I made him laugh, and he made me laugh, several times,
about trifles that, now I call them to mind, were not funny
at all. Yet " it takes a wise man to make a fool, and none
but a fool is always wise."
With which sapient saying we consoled ourselves, standing at the edge of the larger pool, watching the other
couple strolling along, doubtless very busy over the wildduck affair.
"Your sister and Treherne seem to suit one another remarkably well. I doubted once if they would."
" So did I. It ought to be a warning to us against hasty
judgments. Especially here."
Mischief prompted the latter suggestion, for Doctor Urquhart must have recollected, as well as I did, the last and
only time he and I had walked across this moorland road,
when we had such a serious quarrel, and I was more passionate and rude to him than I ever was to any body-out
of my own family. I hope he has forgiven me. Yet he
was a little wrong too.




112             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
"Yes, especially here," he repeated, smiling-so I have
no doubt he did remember.
Just then, Lisabel's laugh, and her husband's with it,
rang distinctly across the pool.
"They seem very happy, those two."
I said, I felt sure they were, and that it was a blessed
thing to find, the older one grew, how much of happiness
there is in life.
"Do you think so?"
" Do you not think so?"
"I do; but not in your sense exactly. Remember, Miss
Theodora, people see life in a different aspect at twenty-five
and at-"
"Forty. I know that."
"That I am forty? Which I am not quite, by-the-by.
No doubt it seems to you a most awful age."
I said, it was perhaps for a woman, but for a man no more
than the prime of life, with many years before him in which
both to work and enjoy.
" Yes, for work is enjoyment, the only enjoyment that
ever satisfies."
He stood gazing across the moorland, my moorland,
which put on its best smile for us to-day. Ay, though
the heather was brown, and the furze-bushes had lost their
gold. But so long as there is free air, sunshine, and sky,
the beauty can never vanish from my beloved moor. I
wondered how any one could look at it and not enjoy it;
could stand here as we stood and not be satisfied.
Perhaps in some slight way I hinted this, at least, so far
as concerned myself, to whom every thing seemed so delicious, after this month of sorrow.
" Ah! yes, I understand," said Doctor Urquhart, "and
so it should be with me also. So it is, I trust. This is a
lovely day, lovely to its very close, you see."
For the sun was sinking westward, and the clouds robing themselves for one of those infinitely varied autumn
sunsets, of the glory of which no human eye can ever tire.
"You never saw a tropical sunset? I have, many. I
wonder if I shall ever see another."
After a little hesitation, I asked if he thought it likely?
Did he wish to go abroad again?
"For some reasons, yes!" Then speaking forcibly: "Do
not think me morbid; of all things, morbid, cowardly sentimcntality is my abhorrence —but I am not naturally a




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             173
cheerful-minded man. That is, I believe I was, but circum.
stances have been stronger than nature; and it now costs
me an effort to attain what I think every man ought to
have, if he is not absolutely a wicked man."
" You mean an even, happy temper, which tries to make
the best of all things, as I am sure you do."
" An idle life," he went on, unheeding, " is of all things
the very worst for me. Unless I have as much work as
ever I can do, I am never happy."
This was comprehensible in degree. Though one thing
surprised and pained me, that even Doctor Urquhart was
not " happy." Is any body happy?
" Do not misunderstand me." (I had not spoken, but he
often guesses my thoughts in a way that makes me thankful I have nothing to hide.) "There are as many degrees
of happiness as of goodness, and the perfection of either is
impossible. But I have my share. Yes, truly, I have my
share."
"Of both?"
"Don't- don't!"
Nor ought I to have jested when he was in such heavy
earnest.
And then for some time we were so still, that I remember hearing a large bee, deluded by the mild weather, come
swinging and singing over the moor, and stop at the last,
the very last, blue-bell-I dared not call it a hare-bell with
Doctor Urquhart by-of the year, for his honey-supper.
While he was eating it, I picked one of the flower-stalks,
and stroked it softly over his great brown back and wings.
"What a child you are still!"
(But for once Doctor Urquhart was mistaken.)
"How quiet every thing is here!" he added.
"Yes, that wavy purple line always reminded me of the
hills in the'Happy Valley' of Prince Rasselas. Beyond
them lies the world."
" If you knew what'the world' is, as you must one day.
But I hope you will only see the best half of it. I hope
you will have a happy life."
I was silent.
" This picture; the moorland, hills, and lake-your pond
is as wide and bright as a lake-will always put me in
mind of Rasselas.  But one can not live forever in our' Happy Valley,' nor in our lazy camp either. I often wish
I had more work to do."




174             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
" How-and where?"
As soon as I had put it I blushed at the intrusiveness of
this question. In all he tells me of his affairs I listen, but
never dare to inquire, aware that I have no right to ask of
him more than he chooses to reveal.
Right or not, he was not offended; he replied to me fully
and long; talking more as if I had been a man and his confidential friend, than only a simple girl, who has in this at
least some sense, that she feels she can understand him.
It appears, that in peace-time, the duties of a regimental
surgeon are almost nothing, except in circumstances where
they become as hopeless as they are heavy; such as the
cases of unhealthy barracks, and other avoidable causes of
mortality, which Doctor Urquhart and Augustus discussed,
and which he has since occasionally referred to, when talking to papa and me. He told me with what anxiety he had
tried to set on foot reforms in these matters; how all his
plans had been frustrated, by the tardiness of government;
and how he was hopeless of ever attaining his end. Indeed
he showed me an official letter, received that morning, finally dismissing the question.
"You see, Miss Theodora,
"'To mend the world's a vast design,'
too vast for my poor powers."
"Are you discouraged?"
"No. But I suspect I began at the wrong end; that I
attempted too much, and gave myself credit for more influence than I possessed. It does not do to depend upon other
people; much safer is that amount of work that a man can
do with his own two hands and head. -I should be far
freer, and therefore more useful, if I left the army altogether, and sdt up practice on my own account."
" That is, if you settled somewhere as a consulting physician, like Doctor Black?"
" No," he smiled-" not exactly like Doctor Black. Mine
would be a much humbler position. You know I have no
income except my pay."
I confessed that I had never given a thought to his income, and, again smiling, he answered-" No, he was sure
of that."
He then went on to explain that he believed moral and
physical evil to be so bound up together, that it was idle to
attack one without trying to cure the other. He thought,
better than all building of jails and reformatories, or even




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             175
of churches-since the Word can be spread abroad without
need of bricks or mortar-would be the establishing of sanitary improvements in our great towns, and trying to teach
the poor, not how to be taken care of in work-houses, prisons, and hospitals, but how to take care of themselves in
their own homes. And then, in answer to my questions,
he told me many things about the life, say rather existence,
of the working classes in most large towns, which made me
turn sick at heart; marveling how, with all things going
on around me, I could ever sit dreamily gazing over my
moorland, and playing childish tricks with bees!
Yes, something ought to be done. I was glad, I was
proud, that it had come into his mind to do it. Better far
to labor thus in his own country than to follow an idle
regiment into foreign parts, or even a fighting regiment
into the terrible campaign. I said so.
"Ah! you' hate soldiers' still."
I did not answer, but met his eyes; I know mine were
full-I know my lips were quivering. Horribly painful it
was to be jested with just then.
Doctor Urquhart said gravely, "I was not in earnest;
I beg your pardon."
We then returned to the discussion of his plans and intentions. I asked him how he meant to begin his labors?
" From a very simple starting-point.'The doctor' has,
of all persons, the greatest influence among the poor-if
only he cares to use it. As a commencement, and also because I must earn salt to my porridge, you know my best
course would be to obtain the situation of surgeon to some
dispensary, work-house, hospital, or even jail. Thence, I
could widen my field of work at pleasure, so far as time
and money were forthcoming."
"If some one could only give you a fortune now!"
"I do not believe in fortunes. A man's best wealth consists of his personal labors, personal life.' Silver and gold
have I none;' but wherever I am, I can give myself, my
labors, and my life."
I said something about that being a great gift-many
men would call it a great sacrifice.
"Less to me than to most men-since, as you know, I
have no relatives; nor is it likely I shall ever marry."
I believed so. Not constantly, but at intervals. Something in his manner and mode of thought fixed the conviction in my mind, from our earliest acquaintance.




176             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
Of course, I merely made some silent assent to this confidence. What was there to say? Perhaps he expected
something-for as we turned to walk home, the sun having
set, he remained a long time silent. But I could not speak.
In truth, nothing came into my head to say.
At that I lifted my eyes from the ground, and saw the
mist beginning to rise over my moorland-my gray, soft,
dreamy moorland. Ay, dreamy it was, and belonging only
to dreams. But the world beyond-the struggling, suffering,
sinning world of which he had told me-that was a reality.
I said to my friend who walked beside me, feeling keenly
that he was my'friend, and that I had a right to look up
into his good noble face, wherein all his life was written as
clearly as on a book-thinking too what a comfort and privilege it was to have, more than any one else had, the read.
ing of that book-I said to Doctor Urquhart-my old hes
itation having somehow altogether vanished-that I wished
to know all he could possibly tell me of his plans and projects: that I liked to listen to them, and would fain do
more than listen-help.
He thanked me. "Listening is helping. I hope you
will not refuse sometimes to help me in that way-it is a
great comfort to me. But the labor I hope for is exclusively a man's; if any woman could give aid you could, for
you are the bravest woman I ever knew."
" And do you think I never can help you?"
" No."
So our walk ended.
I say " ended," because, though there Was a great deal of
laughing with Augustus and Lisabel-who had pushed one
another ankle-deep into the pond, and behaved exactly like
a couple of school-children out on a holiday, and though,
they hurrying home, Doctor Urquhart and I afterward followed leisurely, walking slowly together along the moorland road -we did not renew our conversation.  We
scarcely exchanged more than a few words; though, walking arm-in-arm we did not feel-that is, I did not feeleither apart, or unfriendly, or sad.
There is more in life than mere happiness-even as there
are more things in the world than mere marrying and giving in marriage. If, from circumstances, he has taken that
resolution, he is perfectly justified in having done so; and
in keeping to it. I would do exactly the same. The
character of a man who marries himself to a cause, or a




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             177
duty, has always been a sort of ideal of mine-like my Max
-Max and Thekla. But they were lovers-betrothed lovers; free to say "I love you," with eyes and lips; just
once, for a day or two-a little hour or two. Would this
have made parting less bitter or more? I can not tell; I
do not know. I shall never know aught about these things.
So I will not think of them.
When we came home-Doctor Urquhart and myself-I
left him at the door, and went up into my own room.
In the parlor I found Colin Granton come to tea; he had
missed me at church, he said, and was afraid I had made
myself ill-so walked over to Rockmount to see. It was
very kind-though, while acknowledging it, he seemed half
ashamed of the kindness.
He and Augustus, now on the best of terms, kept us
alive all the evening with their talking and laughing. They
planned all sorts of excursions -hunting, shooting, and
what not-to take place during the grand Christmas gathering which is to be at Treherne Court. Doctor Urquhart
-one of the invited guests-listened to all with a look of
amused content.
Yes-he is content. More than once, as I caught his
eye following me about the room, we exchanged a smilefriendly, even affectionate. Ay, he does like me. If I
were a little younger-if I were a little girl in curls, I
should say he is " fond" of me. " Fond of"-what an idle
phrase! such as one would use toward a dog, or cat, or
bird. What a difference between that and the holy words,
"I love!" not as silly young folks say, I am "in love"but "I love;" with all my reason, will, and strength; with
all the tenderness of my heart; all the reverence of my soul.
Be quiet, heart; be silent, soul! I have, as I said before, naught to do with these things.
The evening passed pleasantly and calmly enough, all
parties seeming to enjoy themselves; even poor Colin
coming out his brilliantest and best, and making himself
quite at home. Though he got into a little disgrace before
going away, by saying something which irritated papa; and
which made me glad that the little conversation this morning between Doctor Urquhart and myself had not been in
family conclave, but private.
Colin was speaking of the sermon, and how " shocked"
his mother had been at its pleading against capital punishment.
H 2




178             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
"Against capital punishment, did you say?" cried papa.
"Did my curate bring this disgraceful subject into my
pulpit in order to speak against the law of the land-the
law of God? Girls, why did you not tell me? Dora, remind me I must see the young man to-morrow."
I was mortally afraid this would end in the poor young
man's summary dismissal; for papa never allows any
" new-fangled notions" in his curates-they must think and
preach as he does-or quit. I pleaded a little for this one,
who had a brother and sister dependent on him, lodging in
the village; and, as far as I dared and could, I pleaded for
his sermon. Colin tried to aid me-honest fellow; backing my words, every one, with the most eager asseverations; well meant, though they did not exactly assist the
argument.
"Dora," cried papa, in utmost astonishment, "what do
you mean?"
"Miss Dora's quite right: she always is," said Colin,
stoutly. "I don't think any body ever ought to be hanged.
Least of all a poor fellow who, like" —(he mentioned the
name, but I forget it-it was the case that has been so
much in the newspapers)-"killed another fellow out of
jealousy-or in a passion-or being drunk-which was it?
I say, Urquhart-Treherne-won't you bear me out?"
" In what?" asked Augustus, laughing.
" That many a man has felt inclined sometimes to commit murder: I have myself, before now-ha! ha! and many
a poor devil is kicked out of the world dancing upon nothing, who isn't a bit worse, may be better, than a great
many young scoundrels who die unhung. That's truth,
Mr. Johnston, though I say it."
"Sir," said papa, turning white with anger, "you are at
perfect liberty to say exactly what you please-provided it
is not in my presence. No one, before me, shall so insult
my cloth, and blaspheme my Maker, as to deny His law
set down here" (dropping his hand over our great family
Bible, which he allows no one but himself to touch; because, as we know, there is the fly-leaf, pasted down, not to
be read by any one, nor written on again during poor
papa's lifetime). " God's law is blood for blood.' Whoso
sheddeth man's blood, by man shall his blood be shed.'
That law, sir, my Church believes has never been-never
will be-annulled. And, though your maudlin, loose charity may sympathize with hanged murderers, uphold duel



A LIFE FOR A LIFE.            179
ists, and exalt into heroes cowardly man-slayers, I say that
I will no more have in my house the defenders of such,
than I would, under any pretext, grasp in mine the hand
of a man who had taken the life of another."
To see papa so excited alarmed us all. Colin, greatly
distressed, begged his pardon and retracted every thingbut the mischief was done. Though we anticipate no serious results-indeed he has now been for some hours
calmly asleep in his bed-still he was made much worse
by this unfortunate dispute.
Doctor Urquhart staid, at our earnest wish, till midnight, though he did not go into papa's room. When I
asked him what was to be done in case of papa's head suffering for this excitement-if we should send to the camp
for him-he said, " No, he would rather we sent for Doctor Black."
Yet he was anxious, I know; for after Colin left he sat
by himself in the study, saying he had a letter to write and
post, but would come up stairs to papa if we sent for him.
And when, satisfied that the danger was past, and papa
asleep, he prepared to leave, I never, in all the time of our
acquaintance, saw him looking so exceedingly pale and
weary.
I wanted him to take something-wine or food; or, at
least, to have one of our ponies saddled that he might ride
instead of walking home, but he would not.
We were standing at the hall-only he and I-the others having gone to bed. He took both my hands, and
looked long and steadily in my face as he said good-by.
"Keep up your heart. I do not think any harm will
come to your father."
"I hope not. Dear, dear papa-it would indeed be terrible."
"It would. Nothing must be allowed to grieve him in
any way as long as he lives."
" No."
Doctor Urquhart was not more explicit than this; but I
am sure he wished me to understand that in any of those
points discussed to-day, wherein he and I agreed, and both
differed from my father, it was our duty henceforth, as
much as possible, to preserve a respectful silence. And I
thanked him in my heart-and with my eyes too, I knowfor this, and for his forbearance in not having contradicted
papa, even when most violent and unjust,




180             A LIFE FOB A LIFE.
"When shall you be coming again, Doctor Urquhart?"
"Some day-some day."
"Do not let it be very long first. Good-by."
"Good-by."
And here befell a thing so strange, so unexpected, that,
if I think of it, it seems as if I must have been dreaming;
as if, while all the rest of the events of to-day, which I have
so quietly written down, were perfectly natural, real, and
probable-this alone was something unreal, impossible to
tell-hardly right to tell.
And yet, oh me! it is not wrong, though it makes my
cheek burn and my hand tremble —this poor little hand.
I thought he had gone, and was standing on the doorstep, preparing to lock up, when Doctor Urquhart came
back again along the walk. It was he, though in manner
and voice so unlike himself, that even now I can hardly believe the whole is not a delusion.
" For God's sake-for pity's sake-do not utterly forget
me, Theodora."
And then-thenHe said once that every man ought to hold every woman
sacred; that, if not of her own kindred, he had no right,
except as the merest salutation, even to press her hand, unless-unless he loved her.
Then whyNo, I ought not to write it, and I will not. It is-if it is
any thing-something sacred between him and me; something in which no one else has any part; which may not
be told to any one, except in my prayers,
My heart is so full. I will close this and say my prayers.
CHAPTER XVII.
HER STORY.
Treherne Court.
WHERE, after another month's pause, I resume my jour.
nal.
Papa and I have been here a week. At the last moment
Penelope declined going, saying that some one ought to
keep house at Rockmount. I wished to do so, but she
would not allow me.
This is a fine place, and papa enjoys it extremely. The




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             181
enforced change, the complete upsetting of his former solitary ways, first by Lisabel's marriage, and then by his own
illness, seem to have made him quite young again. Before
we left, Doctor Black pronounced him entirely recovered;
that he might reasonably look forward to a healthy, green
old age. God grant it! For, altered as he is in so many
ways, by some imperceptible influence; having wider interests-is it wrong to write affections?-than he has had
for the last twenty years, he will enjoy life far more than
ever before. Ah me! how can any body really enjoy life
without having others to make happy, and to draw happiness from.
Dr. Black wished, as a matter of professional etiquette,
that papa should once again consult Doctor Urquhart about
his taking this long northern journey; but, on sending to
the camp, we found he was "absent on leave," and had
been for some time. Papa was disappointed and a little
annoyed. It was strange, rather; but might have been
sudden and important business connected with the plans
of which he told me, and which I did not feel quite justified in communicating farther, till he informs papa himself.
I had a week of that restless laziness, which I suppose
most people unaccustomed to leave home experience for
the first few days of a visit;' not unpleasant laziness neither,
for there was the Christmas week to anticipate and plan
for, and every nook in this beautiful place to investigate,
as its own possessors scarcely care to do, but which I and
other visitors shall so intensely enjoy. Now I am trying
to feel settled. In this octagon room, which Lisabel-such
a thoughtful, kindly hostess as Lisa makes! has specially
appropriated mine, I take up my rest. It is the wee'est
room attainable in this great, wide, wandering mansion,
where I still at times feel as strange as a bird in a crystal
palace; such birds as, in the Aladdin Palace of 1851, we
used to see flying about the tops of these gigantic, motionless trees, caught under the glass, and cheated by those
green, windless, unstirred leaves into planning a natural wildwood nest. Poor little things! To have once dreamed of
a nest, and then never to be able to find or build it, must
be a sore thing.
This grand "show" house has no pretensions to the
character of "nest," or "home." To use the word in it
seems half ridiculous, or pathetic; though Lisa does not
find it so. Stately and easy, our girl moves through these




182              A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
magnificent rooms, and enjoys her position as if she were
born to it. She shows good taste and good feeling, tootreats meek, prosy, washed-out Lady Augustus Treherne,
and little, fussy, infirm Sir William, whose brown scratchwig and gold spectacles rarely appear out of his own room,
with unfailing respect and consideration. They are mightily proud of her, as they need to be. Truly, the best thing
this their patrician blood could do was to ally itself with
our plebeian line.
But thank goodness that Lisa, not I, was the victim of
the union! To me, this great house, so carefully swept
and garnished, sometimes feels like a beautiful body without a soul; I should dread a demon's entering and possessing it, compelling me to all sorts of wild and wicked deeds,
in order to break the suave harmony of things. For instance, the three drawing-rooms, en smite, where Lis and I
spend our mornings, amid a labyrinth of costly lumbersofas, tables, and chairs, with our choice of five fires to
warm at, glowing in steel and gilded grates, and glittering
with pointed china tiles; having eleven mirrors, large and
small, wherein to catch at all points views of our sweet
selves-in this splendid wilderness, I should, did trouble
seize me, roam, rage, or ramp about like any wild animal.
The oppression of it would be intolerable. Better, a thousand times, my little room at Rockmount, with its little
window, in at which the branches wave-I can see them
as I lie in bed, my own dear little bed, beside which I flung
myself down the night before I left it, and prayed that my
coming back might be as happy as my going.
This is the first time since then that I have suffered myself to cry. When people feel happy causelessly, it is said
to be a sign that the joy can not last, that there is sorrow
coming. So, on the other hand, it may be a good omen to
feel one's heart aching without cause. Yet a tear or two
seems to relieve it and do it good. Enough now.
I was about to describe Treherne Court. Had any of
us seen it before the wedding, ill-natured people might
have said that Miss Lisabel Johnston married the Court
and not the master-so magnificent is it. Estate extending goodness knows where; park with deer; avenue two
miles long; plantations sloping to the river-one of the
"principal rivers of England," as we used to learn in Pinnock's Geography-the broad, quiet, and yet fast-running
Dee. How lovely it must look in summer, with those great




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             183
trees dipping greenly into it, and those meadows dotted
with lazy cows.
There are gardens, too, and an iron bridge, and statues,
and a lawn with a sun-dial, though not half so pretty as that
one at the Cedars; and a quadrangular stable, almost as,
grand as the house, and which Augustus thinks of quite as
much importance. He has made Lisa a first-rate horsewoman, and they used to go careering half over the country, until lately. Certainly, those two have the most thorough enjoyment of life, fresh, young, animal life and spirits,
that it is possible to conceive. Their whole existence, present and future, seems to be one blaze of sunshine.
I broke off here to write to Penelope. I wish Penelope
were with us. She will find her Christmas very dull without us all; and, consequently, without Francis; though he
could not have come to Rockmount under any circumstances, he said. " Important business.'" This "business,"
alack, is often hard to brook. Well!
" Men must work, and women must weep."
No, they ought not to weep; they are cowards if they do.
They ought to cheer and encourage the men, never to bemoan and blame them. Yet I wish-I wish Penelope
could get a sight of Francis this Christmas time. It is
such a holy time, when hearts seem "knit together in
love"-when one would like to have all one's best-beloved
about one. And she loves Francis-has loved him for so
long.
Doctor Urquhart said to me once, the only time he ever
referred to the matter-for he is too delicate to gossip
about family love affairs; "that he wished sincerely my
sister and Mr. Charteris had been married-it would have
been the best thing which could have happened to himand to her, if she loved him." I smiled; little doubt about
that "if." In truth, though I once thought differently, it
is one of the chief foundations of the esteem and sympathy
which I take shame to myself for not having hitherto given
to my elder sister. I shall do better, please God, in time
to come; better in every way.
And to begin: In order to shake off a certain half-fretful
dreaminess that creeps over me, it may be partly in consequence of the breaking up of home habits, and the sudden
plunge into a life so totally new, I mean to write regularly
at my journal, to put down every thing that happens from




184             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
this time; so that it may be a complete history of this visit
at Treherne Court, if at a future time, I or any one should
ever read it. Will any one ever do so? Will any one ever
have the right? No; rights enforced are ugly things.
Will any one ever come and say to me,'" Dora," or " Theodora"-I think I like my full name best-" I should like
to read your journal?"
Let me see * to-night is Sunday; I seem always to choose
Sunday for these entries, because we usually retire early,
and it is such a peaceful family-day at Rockmount; which
indeed is the case here. We only went to church once,
and dined as usual at seven, so that I had a long afternoon's
wander about the grounds; first with papa, and then by
myself. I hope it was a truly Sunday walk; that I was
content and thankful, as I ought to be.
So endeth Sunday. Let us see what Monday will bring.
Monday. It brought an installment of visitors; the first
for our Christmas week.
At church-time a fly drove up to the door, and who should
leap out of it, with the brightest faces in the world, but
Colin Granton and his mother. I was so surprised-startled
indeed, for I happened to be standing at the hall door when
the fly appeared-that I hardly could find two words to
say to either. Only my eyes might have shown-I trust
they did-that, after the first minute, I was very glad to
see them.
I tucked the dear old lady under my arm, and marched
her through all the servants into the dining-room, leaving
Colin to take care of himself, a duty of which the young
man is quite capable. Then I had a grand hunt after papa
and Lisa; finally waylaying the shy Lady Augusta, and
begging to introduce to her my dear old friend. Every
friend's face is so welcome when one is away from home.
After lunch, the gentlemen adjourned to the stables;
while Mrs. Treherne escorted her guest in hospitable state
through the long corridors to her room, and I was glad to
see the very best bedroom of all was assigned to the old
lady. Lisa-bless the girl! looked just a little bit proud
of her beautiful house, and not unnatural either. A wife
has a right to be proud of all the good things her husband's
love endows her with; only they might be better things
than houses and lands, clothes and furniture. When Lisa
has said sometimes, "My dear, I am the happiest girl in
the world. Don't you envy me?" my heart has never
found the least difficulty in replying.




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             185
Yet she is happy. There is a look of contented matronhood growing in her face day by day, far sweeter than any
thing her girlhood could boast. She is very fond of her
husband too. It was charming to see the bright blush with
which she started up from Mrs. Granton's fireside, the instant Augustus was heard calling outside, " Lis! Lis! Mrs.
Treherne! Where's Mrs. Treherne!"
"Run away to your husband, my dear. I see he can't
do without you. How well she looks and how happy she
seems!" added the old lady, who has apparently forgotten
the slight to "my Colin."
By the way, I do not suppose Colin ever actually proposed to our Lisa; only it was a sort of received notion in
our family that he would. If he had, his mother never
would have brought him here to be a daily witness of Mrs.
Treherne's beauty and contentment; which he bears with
a stoicism most remarkable in a young man who has ever
been in love with her. Do men so easily forget? Some,
perhaps; not all. It is oftentimes honorable and generous
to conquer an unfortunate love; but there is something discreditable in totally ignoring and forgetting it. I doubt, I
should rather despise a man who despised his first love,
even for me.
Let me see: where did I leave myself? Oh, sitting by
Mrs. Granton's fire; or helping her to take off her things
-a sinecure office, for her "things"'-no other word befits
them-are popped off and on with the ease and untidiness
of fifteen, instead of the preciseness of sixty-five: order
and regularity being omitted by Providence in the manufacture of this dear old lady. Also listening-which is no
sinecure; for she always has plenty to say about every
thing and every body, except herself.
I may never have said it in so many words, but I love
Mrs. Granton. Every line in her nice old withered face is
pleasant to me; every creak of her quick footstep; every
angular fold in her everlasting black silk gown-a very
shabby gown often, for she does not care how she dresses.
She is by no means one of your picturesque, ancient gentlewomen, looking as if they had just stepped out of a giltframe-she is only a little, active, bright old lady. As a
girl, she might have been pretty-I am not sure, though
she still has a delicate expressive mouth, and soft gray
eyes; but I am very sure that she often looks beautiful
now.




186             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
And why? for, guessing what all the grand people at
dinner to-night will think of her and myself, I can not help
smiling at this application of the word. Because she has
one of the most beautiful natures that can adorn an old
woman-or a young one, either: all loving-kindness, energy, cheerfulness. Because age has failed to sour her; affliction to harden her heart. Of all people I know, she is
the quickest to praise, the slowest to judge, the gentlest to
condemn. A living homily on the text which, specifying
the trinity of Christian virtues, names-" these three-but
the greatest of these is charity."
Long familiarity made me unmindful of these qualities in
her, till, taught by the observations of others, and by my
own comparison of the people I meet out in the world,
which may be supposed to mean Treherne Court, with my
good old friend.
"Have you much company, then?" asked she, while I
was trying to persuade her to let me twist into a little more
form the shapeless "bob" of her dear old gray hair, and
put her cap not quite so much on one side. "And do you
enjoy it, my dear? Have you seen any body you liked
very much?"
" None that I liked better than myself, be sure. How
should I?"
A true saying, though she did not understand its undermeaning. I have set more value on myself of late, and
taken pains to be pleasant to every one. It would not do
to have people saying, "What a disagreeable girl is that
Theodora Johnston! I wonder how any body can like
her?" Has Mrs. Granton an idea that any body-nay, let
it come out! that any body does like me?
Her eyes were very sharp, and her questions keen, as I
entertained her with our doings at Treherne Court, and the
acquaintances we had made-a large number-from county
nobility to clerical dignitaries and gay young officers from
Whitchester, which seems made up entirely of barracks and
cathedral. But she gave me no news in return, except that
Colin found the Cedars so dull that he had never rested till
he had got his mother away here, which fact did not extremely interest me. He was always a restless youth, but I
trusted his late occupations had inclined him to home-quietness. Can his interest in them have ended? or is there no
friend at hand to keep him steadily to his work?
We sat so long gossiping that Lisabel, ready for dinner,




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.              187
with Treherne diamonds blazing on her white neck and
arms, called us to order, and sent me away to dress. As I
left I heard her say Augustus had sent her to ask if Mrs.
Granton had seen Doctor Urquhart lately?
" Oh yes; Colin saw him a few days since. He is quite
well and very busy."
"And where is he? Will he be here this week? Augustus wants to know."
"I have not the slightest idea. He did nbt say a word
about it."
Lisabel inquired no farther, but began showing her velvet
dress and her beautiful point-lace ruffles, Lady Treherne's
present-a far more interesting subject. Verily, gratitude
is not the most lasting of human emotions in young women
who have homes, and husbands, and every thing they can
desire.
Quite well and very busy, though not too busy to write
to Colin Granton. I am glad. I have sometimes thought
he might be ill.
The dinner-party was the largest since we have been
here. Two long rows of faces, in not one of whom I took
the slightest interest save Mrs. Granton's and Colin's. I
tried to sit next the former, and the latter to sit next to
me; but both designs failed, and we fell among strangers,
which is sometimes as bad as falling among thieves. I did
not enjoy my evening as much as I expected; but I hope I
behaved well; that, as Mrs. Treherne's sister, I tried to be
attentive and courteous to the people, that no one need
have been ashamed of poor Theodora.
And it was some comfort when, by the merest chance, I
overheard Mrs. Granton say to Lisabel "that she never
saw a girl so much improved as Miss Dora."
Improved! Yes, I ought to be. There was room for it.
Oh, that I may go on improving, growing better and better
every day! Too good I can not be.
"Quite well and very busy." Again runs in my head
that sweet, sad ditty:
"Men must work, and women must weep,
For there's little to earn and many to keep."
Oh! to think of any one's ever working for me I
Tuesday. Nothing at all happened. No letters, no
news. Colin drove out his mother and me toward the
Welsh hills, which I had expressed a wish to see; and,
after lunch, asked if I would go with him to the river-side




188             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
in search of a boat, for he thought we may still have a row,
though it is December, the weather being so mild. He remembered how I used to like his pulling Lisabel and me
up and down the ponds in the moorland-we won't say
how many years ago. I think Colin also is "improved."
He is so exceedingly attentive and kind.
Wednesday. A real event happened to-day-quite a
surprise. Let me make the most of it, for this journal
seems very uninteresting.
I was standing,' flattening my nose," as children say,
against the great iron gates of the avenue, peering through
them at the two lines of bare trees, planted three deep, and
the broad gravel-drive, straight as an arrow, narrowing in
perspective almost to a point; the lodge plainly visible at
the end of the two miles, which seems no distance at all;
but when you have to walk it, it's "awfu' lang," as says
the old Scotch gardener, who is my very particular friend,
and my informant on all subjects, animal, vegetable, and
historical, pertaining to Treherne Court. And, looking at
it from these gates, the road does seem " awfu' lang," like
life. I was thinking so when some one touched me, and
said, "Dora."
Francis startled me so; I am sure I must have blushed
as much as if I had been Penelope-that is, as Penelope
used to blush in former days. The next minute I thought
of her, and felt alarmed.
"Oh, Francis, nothing is the matter-nothing has happened to Penelope?"
" You silly girl, what should happen? I do not know
any thing about Rockmount; was not aware but that you
were all at home till I saw you here, and knew by the sentimental attitude it could be nobody but Dora. Tell me,
when did you come?"
" When did you come? I understood it was impossible
for you to leave London."
" I had business with my uncle, Sir William. Besides,
if Penelope is here-"
"You must know quite well, Francis, that Penelope is
not here."
I never scruple to speak my mind to Francis Charteris.
We do not much like one another, and are both aware of
it. His soft, silken politeness often strikes me as insincere,
and my " want of refinement," as he terms it, may be quite
as distasteful to him. We do not suit, and were we ever




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             189
so fond of one another, this incompatibility would be apparent. People may like and respect one another extremely, yet not suit, even as two good tunes are not always
capable of being harmonized. I once heard an ingenious
performer try to play at once " The Last Rose of Summer"
and "Garry Owen."   The result resembled many a conversation between Francis and me.
This promised to be one of them; so, as a preventive
measure, I suggested luncheon-time.
" Oh, thank you, I am not hungry; I lunched at Birmingham."
Still, it might have struck Francis that other people had
not.
We crossed the gardens toward the river, under the
great Portugal laurels, which he stood to admire.
" I have watched their growth ever since I was a boy.
You know, Dora, once this place was to have been mine."
"It would have given you a vast deal of trouble, and
you don't like trouble. You will enjoy it much more as a
visitor."
Francis made no reply, and when I asked the reason of
his sudden change of plans, and if Penelope were acquainted with it, he seemed vexed.
"Of course Penelope knows; I wrote to-day, and told
her my purpose in coming here was to see Sir William.
Can not a man pay his respects to his uncle without being
questioned and suspected?"
" I never suspected you, Francis-until now, when you
look as if you were afraid I should. What is the matter?
Do tell me."
For, truly, I felt alarmed. He was so extremely nervous
and irritable, and his sensitive features, which he can not
keep from telling tales, betrayed so much inward discomfiture, that I dreaded some ill, threatening him or Penelope.
If one, of course, both.
"Do tell me, Francis. Forgive my rudeness. We are
almost brother and sister."
"Which tie is supposed to excuse any rudeness. But
really I have nothing to tell-except that your ladyship is
growing blunter than ever, under the instruction, no doubt,
of your friend, Doctor Urquhart. Pray, is he here?"
" No."
"Is he expected?"
" You had better ask Captain Treherne."




190             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
"Pshaw! What do men care for one another? Ithought
a young lady was the likeliest person to take an interest in
the proceedings of a young-I beg his pardon-a middleaged gentleman."
If Francis thought either to irritate or confuse me, he
was disappointed. A month ago it might have been. Not
now. But probably-and I have since felt sure of it-he
was merely pursuing his own ends without heeding me.
" Now, Dora, seriously, I wanu1 to know something of
Doctor Urquhart's proceedings, and where a letter might
reach him. Do find out for me, there's a good girl."
And he put his arm round me, in the elder-brotherly caressing manner which he sometimes adopted with Lisa and
me, and which I never used to mind. Now, I felt as if I
could not endure it, and slipped away.' I don't see, Francis, why you should not ask such a
simple question yourself. It is no business of mine."
"Then you really know nothing of Doctor Urquhart's
whereabouts lately? He has not been to Rockmount?"
"No."
"Nor written?"
"I believe not. Why do you want to know? Have
you been quarreling with him?"
For, aware they two were not over fond of one another,
a sudden idea-so ridiculously romantic that I laughed at
it the next minute-made me, for one second, turn quite
sick and cold.
" Quarreling, my dear child-young lady, I mean-am I
ever so silly, so ungentlemanly, as to quarrel with any
body? I assure you not. There is the Dee! What a
beautiful view this is!"
He began to expatiate on its beauties, with that delicate
appreciative taste which he has in such perfection, and in
the expression of which he never fails. Under such circumstances, when he really seems pleased-not languidly,
but actively, and tries to please others, I grant all Francis's
claims as a charming companion-for an hour's walk. For
life-alh! that is a different matter! When with him, I
often think of Beatrice's answer when Don Pedro asks if
she will have him as a husband? " No, my lord, unless I
might have another for working-days.  Your Grace is too
costly to wear every day."
Love-fit for constant wear and tear, able to sink safely
down




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             191
" to the level of every day's
Most quiet need; by sun and candlelight."
must be a rare thing, and precious as rare.
" I think I never saw such a Christmas-eve. Look, Dora,
the sky is blue as June. How sharp and clear the reflection of those branches in the river. Heigho! this is a lovely place. What a difference it would have made to me if
Sir William had never married, and I had been heir to Treherne Court."
"No difference to you in yourself," said I, stoutly.
"Penelope would not have loved you one whit the more,
only you would have been married a little sooner, which
might have been the better for both parties."
" Heaven knows-yes," muttered he, in such anguish of
regret, that I felt sorry for him. Then, suddenly: "Do
you think your sister is tired of waiting? Would she
wish the-our engagement broken?"
" Not at all. Indeed, I meant not to vex you. Penelope
wishes no such thing.
"If she did," and he looked more vexed still, "it would
be quite natural."
" No," I cried, in some indignation, "it would not be
quite natural. Do you suppose we women are in such a
frightful hurry to be married, that love promised and sure,
such as Penelope has-or ought to have-is not sufficient
to make us happy for any number of years? If you doubt
it, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. You don't know
women; least of all such as my sister Penelope."
"Ay, she has been a good, faithful girl," said he, again
sighing. "Poor Penelope."
And then he recurred to the beautiful scenery, which I,
feeling that extreme want of topics of conversation which
always appals me in tete-a-tetes with Francis Charterisgladly accepted. It lasted till we re-entered the house,
and, not unwillingly, parted company.
After luncheon-being unable to find any body in this
great, wide house-I sat in my own room awhile; till, finding it was not good to be lazy and dreaming, I went to
Mrs. Granton's and listened to her pleasant gossip about
people with whom she had been mixed up during her long
life. Who have every one this remarkable characteristic,
that they are all the very best people that ever lived.
The burden of her talk is, of course "my Colin," whom
she makes out to be the m6st angelic babe, the sweetest




192             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
schoolboy, the noblest youth, and the most perfect' man
upon this poor earth. One can not smile at the fond old
mother. Besides, I am fond of Colin myself. Was he not
my first love?
Hush! let me not, even in jest, profane that holy word.
I sat with Mrs. Granton a long time-sometimes hearing,
sometimes not; probably saying " yes," and "no," and " certainly," to many things which now I have not the least
idea of. My thoughts wandered-lulled by the wind,
which began to rise into a regular Christmas blast.
Yes, to-night was Christmas-eve, and all the Christmas
guests were now gathering in country-houses. Ours, too;
there were rings at the resonant door-bell, and feet passing
up and down the corridor. I like to recall-just for a moment's delusion-the sensations of that hour, between the
lights, resting by Mrs. Granton's fire, lazy, warm, content.
The only drawback to my content was the thought of Penelope, poor girl, all alone at Rockmount, and expecting
nobody.
At the dressing-bell, I slipped through the long, halfdark staircases to my room. As it was to be a large party
at dinner, I thought I would put on my new dress-Augustus's present; black velvet; "horridly old-womanish"
Lisa had protested. Yet it looked well-I stood before
the glass and admired myself in it; just a little. I was so
glad to look well.
Foolish vanity-only lasting a minute. Yet that minute
was pleasant. Lisabel, who came into my room, with her
husband following her to the very. door, must have real
pleasure in her splendors. I told her so.
" Oh, nonsense, child! Why I am as vexed and cross as
possible. So many disappointments to-night. People with
colds, and rheumatism, and dead relatives."
"Oh, Lisa!"
"Well, but is it not annoying? Every body wanted
does not come; those not wanted, do. For instance: Doctor Urquhart, who always keeps both papa and Sir William
in the best of humors, is not here. And Francis, who fidgets them both to death, and who I was so thankful was not
coming-he is just come. You stupid girl, you seem not
the least bit sorry; you are thinking of something else the
whole time."
I said I was sorry, and was not thinking of any thing
else.




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             193
"Augustus wanted to see him particularly; but I forgot,
you don't know-however, you will soon, child. Still, isn't
it a downright shame of Doctor Urquhart neither to come
nor send?"
I suggested something might have happened.
"A railway accident. Dear me, I never thought of
that."
" Nor I." Heaven knows, no!
I had a tine-table, and searched through it for the last
train stopping at Whitchester, then counted how long it
would take to drive to Treherne Court, and looked at my
watch. No, he could not be here to-nigLt.
"And if there had been any accident, there was time for
us to have heard of it," said Lisa, and she took up her fan
and gloves to go down stairs. " So, child, we must make
the best we can of your friend's behavior. Are you ready
for dinner?"
" In two minutes."
I shut the door after my sister, and stood still before the
glass, fastening a brooch, or something.
AMine, my friend. He was that. Whenever they were
vexed with him, all the family usually called him so.
It was very strange his not coming-having promised
Augustus, for some reason which I did not know of. Also,
there was another reason-which they did not know ofhe had promised me. He once said to me, positively, that
this, the first Christmas he has kept in England for many
years, should be kept with us, with me.
Now, a promise is a promise. I myself would keep one
at all costs that involved no wrong to any one else. He is
of the same mind. Then something must have happened.
For a moment I had been angry, though scarcely with
him; wherever he was he would be doing his duty. Yet,
why should he be always doing his duty to every one except me? Had I no right? I, to whom even Lisa, who
knew nothing, called him my friend?
Yes, mine! Of a sudden I seemed to feel all that the
word meant, and to take all the burden of it. It quieted
me.
I went down stairs. There were the usual two lines of
dinner-table faces, the usual murmur of dinner-table talk,
but all was dim and uncertain, like a picture, or the sound
of people chattering very far off. Colin beside me kept
talking about how well I looked in my new gown-how he
I




194             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
would like to see me dressed as fine as a queen-and how
he hoped we should spend many a Christmas as merry as
this-till something seemed tempting me to start up and
scream.
At dessert, the butler brought in a large letter to Sir
William. It was a telegraph message-I recognized the
look of the thing; we had several during papa's illness.
Easy to sit still now. I seemed to know quite well what
was coming, but the only clear thought was still " minemine!"
Sir William read, folded up the message, and passed it
on to Augustus, then rose.
"Friends, fill your glasses. I have just had good news;
not unexpected, but still good news. Ladies and gentlemen, I have the honor to give you the health of my nephew, Francis Charteris, Esquire, Governor elect of -."
In the cheering, confusion, and congratulation that followed, Lisa passed the telegram to me, and I saw it was
from "Max Urquhart, London."
As soon as we got into a corner by ourselves, my sister
burst out with the whole mystery.
"Thank goodness it's over; I never kept a secret before, and Augustus was so frightened lest I should tell, and
then what would Doctor Urquhart have said? It's Doctor Urquhart's planning, and he was to have brought the
good news to-day; and I'm very sorry I abused him, for he
has been working like a horse for Francis's interest, anddid you ever see a young fellow take a piece of good fortune so coolly?-a lovely West Indian island, with government house, and salary large enough to make Penelope a
most magnificent governor's wife, yet he is no more thankful for it-I declare I am ashamed of Francis Charteris."
She went on a good deal more in this fashion, but I had
nothing to say-I felt so serange and confused-till at last
I leaned my head on her shoulder, and cried softly, which
brought me into great opprobrium, and subjected me to the
accusation of always weeping when there was the least
prospect of a marriage in the family.
Marriage! just at that moment there might not have
been such a thing as marriage in the world. I never
thought of it. I only thought of life-a life still kept safe,
laboring busily to make every body happy, true to itself
and to its promises, forgetting nothing and no one, kind to
the thankful and unthankful alike. Compared to it, my




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.            195
own insignificant life, with its small hopes and petty pains,
all crumbled down into nothingness.
"Well, are you glad, Dora?"
Ay, I was; very glad-very content.
Papa came in soon, and he and I walked up and down,
arm-in-arm, talking the matter over, till, seeing Francis sitting alone in a recess, we went up to him, and papa again
wished him all happiness. He merely said "Thank you,"
and muttered something about "wishing to explain byand-by."
" Which means, I suppose, that I am shortly to be left
with only one girl to take care of me-eh! Francis," said
papa, smiling.
"Sir-I did not mean-I," he actually stammered. "I
hope, Mr. Johnston, you understand that this appointment is
not yet accepted-indeed, I am uncertain if I shall accept it."
Papa looked exceedingly surprised; and, remembering
some of Francis's sayings to me this morning, I was rather
more than surprised-indignant. But no remark was
made, and just then Augustus called the whole party to go
down into the great kitchen and see the Christmas mummers or guizers, as they are called in that county.
We looked at them for a long half hour, and then every
body, great and small, got into the full whirl of Christmas
merriment. Colin, in particular, grew so lively that he
wanted to lead me under the mistletoe; but when I declined, first gayly, and then seriously, he desisted, saying he
would not offend me for the world. Nevertheless, he and
one or two more kissed Lisabel. How could she endure
it? when I-I now sometimes feel jealous over even a
strange touch of this my hand.
The revels ended early, and, as I sit writing, the house is
all still. I have just drawn up my blind and looked out.
The wind has sunk; snow is falling. I like snow on a
Christmas morning.
Already it is Christmas morning. Whom have I unto
whom to wish those good wishes which always lie nearest
to one's heart? My own family, of course; papa and Lisa,
and Penelope, far away. Poor, dear Penelope! May she
find herself a happy woman this time next year. Are these
all? They were, last Christmas. But I am richer nowricher, it often seems to me, than any body in the whole
world.
Good-night! a merry-no, for " often in mirth the heart
is sad"-a happy Christmas and a good new year I




196             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
CHAPTER XVIII.
HIS STORY.
Dec. 31st, 1856.
THE merry-making of my neighbors in the flat aboveprobably Scotch or Irish, both of which greatly abound in
this town-is a sad counteraction of work to-night. But
why grumble, when I am one of the few people who pretend to work at all on so merry a night, which used to be
such a treat to us boys? The sounds overhead put me in
mind of that old festival of Hogmanay, which, for a good
many things, would be "more honored in the breach than
the observance."
This Liverpool is an awful town for drinking. Other
towns may be as bad; statistics prove it; but I know no
place where intoxication is so open and shameless. Not
only in by-streets and foul courts, where one expects to see
it, but every where. I never take a short railway journey
in the afer part of the day but I am liable to meet at least
one drunken "gentleman" snoozing in his first-class carriage; or, in the second class, two or three drunken " men"
singing, swearing, or pushed stupidly about by pale-faced
wives. The sadness of the thing is, that the wives do not
seem to mind it-that every body takes it as a matter of
course. The " gentleman," often gray-haired, is but " merry," as he is accustomed to be every night of his life; the
poor man has only " had a drop or two," as all his comrades are in the habit of taking whenever they get the
chance; they see no disgrace in it, so they laugh at him a
bit, and humor him, and are quite ready to stand up for
him against all in-comers who may object to an intoxicated
fellow-passenger. They don't, nor do the women belonging to them, who are well used to tolerate drunken sweethearts, and lead about and pacify drunken husbands. It
makes me sick at heart sometimes to see a decent, pretty
girl sit tittering at a foul-mouthed beast opposite; or a
tidy young mother, with two or three bonny children, trying to coax home, without harm to himself or them, some
brutish husband, who does not know his'right hand from
his left, so utterly stupid is he with drink. To-night, but




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             197
for my chance-hand at a railway station, such a familyparty as this might have reached home fatherless-and no
great misfortune, one might suppose. Yet the wife had
not even looked sad-had only scolded and laughed at
him.
In this, as in most cases of reform, it is the woman who
must make the first step. There are two great sins of
men: drunkenness in the lower classes; a still worse form
of vice in the higher, which I believe women might help
to stop, if they tried. Would to God I could cry to every young working woman, " Never encourage a drunken
sweet-heart!" and to every young lady thinking of marriage, "Beware! better die than live to give children to a
loose-principled, unchaste father."
These are strong words-dare I leave them for eyes that
may, years hence, read this page? Ay, for by then, they
will-they must, in the natural course of things, have gained at least a tithe of my own bitter knowledge of the world.
God preserve them from all knowledge beyond what is actually necessary. When I think of any suffering coming to
them, any sight of sin or avoidable sorrow troubling those
dear eyes, it almost drives me mad. If, for instance, you
were to marry any man like some men I have known, and
who indeed form the majority of our sex, and he were unkind to you, or wronged you in the smallest degree, I think
I could murd
Hush, not that word!
You see how my mind keeps wandering purposelessly,
having nothing to communicate. I had indeed, for some
time, avoided writing here at all. And I have been, and
am, necessarily occupied, laying the ground-work of that
new plan of life which I explained to you.
Its whole bearing you did not see, nor did I intend you
should; though your own words originated it; lit it with
a ray of hope so exquisite that I could follow on cheerfully
for indefinite years.
It only lasted an hour or two; and then your father's
words-though, God be praised, they were not yoursplunged me into darkness again; a darkness out of which
I had never crept, had I been still the morbid coward I was
a year ago.
As it was, you little guessed all the thoughts you shut in
with me behind the study door, till your light foot came
back to it-that night. Nor that in the interval I had had




198             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
strength to weigh all circumstances, and formed a definite
deliberate plan, firm as I believe my heart to be-since I
knew you.
I have resolved, in consequence of some words of yours,
to change my whole scheme of life. That is, I will at some
future day, near or far, circumstances must decide-submit
to you every event of my history, and then ask you, dispassionately, as a friend, to decide if I shall still live on,
according to my purpose, in prospect of the end, or, shaking off the burden of it, shall trust in God's mercy, consider
all things past and gone, and myself at liberty, like any
other, to love, and woo, and marry.
Afterward, according to your decision, may or may not
follow that other question-the very hope and suspense of
which is like passing into a new life, through the gate of
death.
Your father said distinctly-but I will not repeat it. It
is enough to make me dread to win my'best blessing, lest
I might also win her father's curse. To evoke that curse,
knowingly to sow dissension between a man and his own
daughter, is an awful thing. I dare not do it. During his
lifetime I must wait.
So, for the present, farewell, innocent child! for no child
can be more innocent and happy than you.
But you will not always be a child. If you do not marry-and you seem of an opposite mind to your sisters in
that particular —you will, years hence, be a woman, no
longer young, perhaps little sought after, for you are not
beautiful to most eyes, nor from your peculiar temperament
do you please many people. By then, you may have known
care and sorrow-will be an orphan and alone. I should
despise myself for reckoning up these possibilities, did I
not know that in so far as any human hand can shield you
from trouble, you shall be shielded, that while poor life
lasts, you never shall be left desolate.
I have given up entirely my intention of quitting England. Even if I am not able to get sight of you from
year's end to year's end, if I have to stretch out and diminish to the slenderest link which will remain unbroken my
acquaintance with your family, I must keep within reach
of you. Nothing must happen to you or any one belonging to you, without my informing myself of it. And though
you may forget-I say not you will, but you may-I am
none the less resolved that you shall never lose me, while




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             199
a man can protect a woman, a friend sustain and comfort a
friend.
You will probably set down to mere friendship one insane outburst of mine. Wrong, I confess; but to see you
standing in the lamplight, looking after me into the dark,
with a face so tender, mild, and sweet, and to know I should
not look at that face again for so long, it nearly maddened
me. But you were calm-you would not understand.
It will never do for me to see you often, or to live in
your neighborhood, and therefore it was best to take immediate steps for the change I contemplate, and of which I
told you. Accordingly, the very next day, I applied for
leave of absence. The colonel was just riding over to call
at Rockmount, so I sent a message to your father. I shrank
from writing to him: to you it was of course impossible.
In this, as in many a future instance, I can only trust to
that good heart which knows me-not wholly-alas! will
it ever know me wholly? but better than any other human
being does, or ever will. I believe it will judge me charitably, patiently, faithfully; for is it not itself the truest,
simplest, faithfulest heart?
Let me here say one word. I believe there is no love in
it; nothing that need make a man hesitate lest his own
happiness should not be the only sacrifice. Sympathy,
affection, you have for me; but I do not think you ever
knew what love was. Any one worthy of you may yet
have free opportunity of winning you-of making you
happy. And if I saw you happy, thoroughly and righteously happy, I could endure it.
I will tell you my plans.
I am trying for the appointment of surgeon to a jail near
this town. I hope to obtain it: for it will open a wide
field of work-to me the salt of life: and it is only fifty
miles from Treherne Court, where you will visit, and where,
from time to time, I may be able to meet you.
You see-this my hope, dim as it is in the future, and
vague enough as to present comfort-does not make me
weaker but stronger for the ordinary concerns of life;
therefore I believe it to be a holy hope, and one that I dare
carry along with me in all my worldly doings and plannings. Believe one fact-for my nature has sufficient unity
of purpose never to do things by halves-that no single
plan, or act, or thought, is without reference to you.
Shall I tell you my ways and means, as calculated tonight, the last night of the year?




200             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
Selling out of the army will supply me with a good sum.
Which I mean to put by, letting the interest accumulate,
as a provision for accidental illness, or old age, if I live to
be old: or for-do you guess?
My salary will be about ~300 a year. Now, half of that
ought to suffice a man of my moderate habits. Many a
poor clerk, educated and obliged to appear as a, gentleman,
has no larger income, and contrives to marry upon it, too,
if love seizes hold of him while still in the venturesome
stage of existence.
We men are strange animals: at twenty, ready to rush
into matrimony on any prospects whatever, or none at all;
at thirty, having thought better of it, rejoice in our escape;
but after forty, when the shadows begin to fall, when the
outer world darkens, and the fireside feels comfortless and
lone, then we sit and ponder-I mean, most men. Mine is
an individual and special case, not germane to the subject.
With all deference to young Tom Turton, his friend Mr.
Charteris, and others of the set which I have lately been
among in London, the sum of one hundred and fifty pounds
a year seems to me sufficient to maintain in as much comfort as is good for him, and in all the necessary outward
decencies of middle-class life, a man without any expensive
habits or relations dependent on him, and who has neither
wife nor child.
Neither wife nor child! As I write them, the words
smite hard.
To have no wife, no child! Never to seek what the
idlest, most drunken loon of a mechanic may get for the
asking; never to experience the joy which I saw on a poor
fellow's face only yesterday; when, in the same room with
one dead lad, and another sickening, the wife brought into
the world a third, a living child, and the ragged, starved
father cried out, "Lord be thankit!" that it was a living
child.
O Lord, Thy ways are equal: it is ours only which are
unequal. Forbid it Thou that I should have given Thee
of that which cost me nothing.
Yet, on this night-this last night of a year so momentous-let me break silence, and-Cry, Thou alone wilt hear.
I want her-I crave her; my very heart and soul are
hungry for her! Not as a brief possession, like gathering
a flower and wearying of it, or throwing it away. I want
her for always-to have her morning, noon, and night; day




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             201
after day, and year after year; happy or sorrowful, good
or faulty, young or old-only mine, mine! I feel sometimes as if, found thus late, all eternity could not give me
enough of her. It is not the body she inhabits-though,
from head to foot, my love is all fair, fair as daylight and
pure as snow-it is herself I want, ever close at hand to be
the better self of this me, who have tried vainly all these
years to stand alone, to live and endure alone! Folly!proud folly! such is not a natural state of things; God
himself said, "It is not good for man to be'alone."
I think I never shall be so solitary as I have been. That
good heart, pure and unselfish as I never saw woman's before, will always incline kindly to as much of mine as I dare
show; those sweet, honest eyes will never be less trustful
than now-unless I gave them cause to doubt me. Her
friendship, like her character, is steadfast as a rock.
But oh! if she loved me! If I were one of those poor
clerks at a hundred a year; if we had only meat, raiment,
and a roof to cover us, and she loved me! If I were, as I
might have been, a young doctor, toiling day and night,
with barely time for food and sleep; but with a home to
come to, and her to love me! If we sat in this room, bare
and mean as it is, with this scanty supper between us, asking God's blessing upon it, while her hand in mine and her
lips on my forehead told me, " Max, I love you!"
God forgive me if I murmur! I am not young; my life
is slipping away-my life, which is owed.  Oh! that I
might live long enough to teach her to say, "Max, I love
you!"
Enough. The last minutes of this year-this blessed
year! shall not be wasted in moans.
Already the streets are growing quiet. People do not
seem to keep this festival here as we do, north of the Tweed;
they think more of Christmas. Most likely she will have
forgotten all about the day, and be peacefully sleeping the
old year out and the new year in-this little English girl.
Well, I am awake, and that will do for both.
My letter to Treherne-could you have seen it? I suppose you did. It made no excuses for not coming at
Christmas, because I intended to come and see you to-morrow. I mean to wish you a happy New Year on this, the
first since I knew you, since I was aware of there being
such a little creature existing in the world.
Also, I mean to come and see you every New Year, if
12




202              A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
possible; the word possible implying, so far as my own
will can control circumstances. I desire to see you; it is
life to me to see you, and see you I will. Not often, for I
dare not, but as often as I dare. And-for I have faith in
anniversaries-always on the anniversary of the day I first
saw you, and on New Year's Day.
One-two-three; I waited for the clock to cease striking, and now all the bells are ringing from every church
tower. Is this an English custom?  I must ask you tomorrow, that is, to-day, for it is morning-it is the New
Year.
My day-dawn, my gift of God, my little English girl, a
happy New Year.                   MAX URQUHART.
CHAPTER XIX.
HER STORY.
NEW YEAR'S MORNING. So this long-anticipated festival week is ended, and the old year gone. Poor old year!
"He gave me a friend and a true, true love,
And the New Year will take them away."
Ah! no, no, no.
Things are strange. The utmost I can say of them is
that they seem very strange. One would suppose, if one
liked a friend, and there existed no reasonable cause for not
showing it, why one would show it just a little? That,
with only forty miles between-a half hour's railway ride
-not to run over and shake hands; to write a letter and
not to mention one's name therein, was, at least, strange.
Such a small thing, even under any pressure of business —
just a line written, an hour spared. Talk of want of time!
Why, if I were a man I would make time, I wouldSimpleton! what would you do, indeed, when your plainest duty you do not do-just to wait and trust.
Yet I do trust. Once believing in people, I believe in
them always, against all evidence except their own-ay,
and should to the very last-" until death us do part."
Those words have set me right again, showing me that I
am not afraid, either for myself or any other, even of that
change. As I have read somewhere, all pure love of every
kind partakes in this of the nature of the love divine, "neither life nor death, nor things present nor things to come,




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             203
nor height nor depth, nor any other creature," are able to
separate or annihilate it. One feels that-or if one does
not feel it, it is not true love, is worth nothing, and had
better be let go.
I write idly, perhaps from having been somewhat tired
this week. Let me tell my troubles; it is only to this paper. Troubles, indeed, they scarcely deserve to be called,
had they not happened in this festive week, when every
one expected to be so uncommonly happy.
First, there was Francis's matter, which ought to have
been a great joy, and yet has seemed to weigh us down
like a great care; perhaps because the individual most
concerned took it as such, never once looking pleased, nor
giving a hearty "thank you" to a single congratulation.
Also, instead of coming to talk over his happy prospects
with papa and me, he has avoided us pertinaciously. Whenever we lighted upon him, it was sure to be by accident,
and he slipped away as soon as he could, to do the polite
to Treherne cousins, or to play interminably at billiards,
which he considered "the most fascinating game in the
world."
I hate it. What can be the charm of prowling for hours
round and round a green-baize table, trying to knock so
many red and white balls into so many holes, I never could
discover, and told him so. He laughed, and said it was
only my ignorance; but Colin, who stood by, blushed up
to the eyes, and almost immediately left off playing. Who
would have supposed the lad so sensitive?
I am beginning to understand the interest taken by a
friend of theirs and mine in these two young men, Augustus
Treherne and Colin Granton. Though neither particularly
clever, they. have both two qualities sufficiently rare in all
men to make one thankful to find them in any-uprightness of character and unselfishness of disposition. By-theby, I never knew but one thoroughly unselfish man in all
my life, and that wasWell, and it was not Francis Charteris, of whom I am
now speaking. The aforesaid little interchange of civility
passed between him and me on the Saturday after Christmas-day, when I had been searching for him with a letter
from Penelope. (There was in the post-bag another letter,
addressed to Sir William, which made me feel sure we
should have no more guests to-day, nor, consequently, till
Monday. Indeed, the letter, which, after some difficulty, I




204             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
obtained in the shape of cigar-lighters, made no mention
of any such possibility at all; but, then, it had been a
promise.)
Francis put my sister's note into his pocket, and went on
with the game so earnestly that when Augustus came behind and caught hold of him, he started as if he had been
collared by a policeman.
" My dear fellow, beg pardon, but the governor wants
to know if you have written that letter?"
Lisa had told me what it was-the letter of acceptance
of the appointment offered him, which ought to have been
sent immediately.
Francis looked annoyed. "Plenty of time. My compliments to Sir William, and I'll-think about it."
" Cool!" muttered Augustus. "'Tis your look out, Charteris, not mine-only, one way or other, your answer must
go to-day, for my father has heard from-"
Here he reined up, as he himself would say; but having
seen the handwriting in the post-bag, I guessed who was
meant.
" Heard from whom, did you say? Some of the officious
persons who are always so obliging as to keep my uncle
informed of my affairs?"
" Nonsense-that is one of your crotchets. You have
no warmer friend than my father, if only you wouldn't rub
him up the wrong way. Come along and have done with
it; otherwise-you know him of old-the old gentleman
will get uncommon savage."
"Though I have the honor of knowing Sir William Treherne of old, I really can not be accountable for his becoming' uncommon savage,"' said Francis, haughtily. "Mr.
Granton, will you be marker this game?"
" Upon my word, he is the coolest customer! By George,
Charteris, if you wanted Penelope as much as I did my
wife —"
"Excuse me," returned Francis. "I have never mentioned Miss Johnston's name."
Certainly Augustus goes awkwardly to work with his
cousin, who has good points if you know how to take hold
of them. To use my brother-in-law's own phrase, Francis
too gets "rubbed up the wrong way," especially when
something has annoyed him, I saw him afterward stand
by a window of the library, reading Penelope's letter, with
an expression of such perplexity and pain that I should have




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             205
been alarmed, had not hers to me been so cheerful. They
can not have been quarreling, for then she is never cheerful. No wonder. Silences, or slight clouds of doubt between friends are hard enough to bear: a real quarrel, and
between lovers, must be heart-breaking. With all Francis's
peculiarities, I trust it will never come to that.
Yet something imust have been amiss, for there he stood,
looking out vacantly on the Italian garden, with the dreary
statues half clad in snow-on Antinous, almost seeming to
shiver under any thing but an Egyptian sky; and a whitelimbed Egeria pouring out of her urn a stream of icicles.
Of my presence he was scarcely conscious, I do believe, until I ventured to speak.
" Francis, do you see how near it is to post-time?"
Again a start, which with difficulty he concealed. "Et
tu Brute? You also among my tormentors?-I quit the
field."
-And the room: whence he was just escaping, had not
his uncle's wheeled-chair filled up the door-way.
" Just in search of you"-cried the querulous voice, which
Francis declares goes through his nervous system like a galvanic shock. " Have you written that letter?"
" My dear Sir William-"
" Have you written that letter?"
"No, sir, but-"
"Can't waqit for' buts'-I know your ways. There's pen
and ink-and-I mean to wait here till the letter is done."
I thought Francis would have been indignant. And with
reason: Sir William, spite of his good blood, is certainly a
degree short of a gentleman; but old habit may have force
with his nephew, who, without more remonstrance, quietly
sat down to write.
A long half hour, only broken by the rustle of Sir William's Times, and Lady Augusta's short cough-she was
more nervous than usual, and whispered me that she hoped
Mr. Charteris would not offend his uncle, for the gout was
threatening. An involuntary feeling of suspense oppressed
even me; until, slipping across the room, I saw that a few
stray scribblings was the only writing on Francis's sheet
of paper.
That intolerable procrastination of his! he would let every thing slip-his credit, his happiness-and not his alone.
And, the more people irritated him, the worse he was. I
thought, in despair, I would try my hand at this incorrigi



206             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
ble young man, who makes me often feel as if, clever and
pleasing as he is, he were not half good enough for our Penelope.
"Francis!" I held out my watch with a warning whisper. He caught at it with great relief, and closed the letter-case.
"Too late for to-day; I'll do it to-morrow."
" To-morrow will indeed be too late; Augustus said so
distinctly. The appointment will be given to some one
else-and then-"
" And then, you acute, logical, business-like young lady?"
There was no time for ultra-delicacy. "And then you
may not be able to marry Penelope for ten more years."
"Penelope will be exceedingly obliged to you for suggesting the possibility, and taking me to task for it in this
way-such a child as you?"
Am I a child? but it mattered not to him how old I
seem to have grown. Nor did his satirical tone vex me
as it once might have done.
"Forgive me," I said; "I did not mean to take you to
task. But it is not your own happiness alone which is at
stake, and Penelope is my sister."
Strange to say, he was not offended. Perhaps, if Penelope had spoken her mind to him, instead of everlastingly
adoring him, he might have been the better for it.
Francis sighed, and made another scribble on his paper
-"Do you think, you who seem to be well acquainted
with your sister's mind, that Penelope would be exceedingly unhappy if-if I were to decline this appointment?"
"Decline-oh!-you're jesting."
" Not at all. The governorship looks far finer than it is.
A hot climate-and I detest warm weather; no societyand I should lose all my London enjoyments-give up all
my friends and acquaintance."
"So would Penelope."
"So would Penelope, as you say. But-"
"But women count that as nothing-they are used to it.
Easy for them to renounce home and country, kindred and
friends, and follow a man to the ends of the earth. Quite
natural, and they ought to be exceedingly obliged to him
for taking them."
He looked at me; then begged me not to fly into a passion, as somebody might hear.
I said he might trust me for that; I would rather not,




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             207
for his sake-for all our sakes, that any body did hearand then the thought of Penelope's gay letter suddenly
choked me.
"Don't cry, Dora-I never could bear to see a girl cry.
I am very sorry. Heaven help me! was there ever such
an unfortunate fellow born? but it is all circumstances; I
have been the sport of circumstances during my whole life.
No, you need not contradict. What the devil do you torment me for?"
I have thought since, how great must have been the
dormant irritation and excitement which could have forced
that ugly word out of the elegant lips of Francis Charteris.
And, the smile being off it, I saw a face haggard and sallow
with anxiety.
I told him, as gently as I could, that the only thing wanted of him was to make up his mind, either way. If he saw
good reasons for declining-why, decline-Penelope would
be content.
"Do as you think best-only do it-and let my sister
know. There are two things which you men, the best of
you, count for naught; but which are the two things which
almost break a woman's heart-one is, when you keep secrets from her; the other when you hesitate and hesitate,
and never know your own minds. Pray, Francis-don't
do so with Penelope. She is very fond of you."
" I know that. Poor Penelope!" He dropped his head
with something very like a groan.
Much shocked, to see that what ought to have been his
comfort seemed to be his worst pain, I forgot all about the
letter in my anxiety lest any thing should be seriously
amiss between them; and my great concern roused him.
"Nonsense, child. Nothing is amiss. Very likely I
shall be Governor of-  after all, and your sister governor's lady, if she chooses. Hush! not a word; Sir William
is calling. Yes, sir, nearly ready. There, Dora, you can
swear the letter is begun." And he hastily wrote the date
-Treherne Court.
Even then, though, I doubt if he would have finished it,
save for the merest accident, which shows what trifles apparently cause important results, especially with characters
so impressible and variable as Francis.
Sir William opening some letters, called me to look at
one with a name written on the corner.
"Is that meant for my nephew? His correspondent




208             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
writes an atrocious hand, and can not spell, either.'Mr.
F. Chatters'-the commonest tradesman might have had
the decency to put' Francis Charteris, Esquire.' Perhaps
it is not for him, but for one of the servants."
It was not; for Francis, looking rather confused, claimed
it as from his tailor; and then, under his uncle's keen eyes,
turned scarlet. These two must have had some sharp encounters in former days, since, even now, their power of
provoking one another is grievous to see. Heartily vexed
for Francis, I took up the ugly lettdr to give to him, but
Sir William interfered.
" No, thank you, young lady. Tradesmen's bills can always wait. Mr. Francis shall have his letter when he has
written his own."
Rude as his behavior was, Francis bore with it. I was
called out of the library, but half and hour afterward I
learned that the letter was written-a letter of acceptance.
So I conclude his hesitation was all talk-or else his better self sees that a good and loving wife, in any nook of the
world, outweighs a host of grand London acquaintance,
miscalled "friends."
Dear old Mrs. Granton beamed with delight at the idea
of another marriage at Rockmount.
" Only," said she, " what will become of your poor papa,
when he has lost all his daughters?"
I reminded her that Francis did not intend marrying
more than one of us, and the other was likely to be a fixture for many years.
" Not so sure of that, my dear; but it is very pretty of
you to say so. We'll see; something will be thought of
for your good papa when the time comes."
What could she mean! But I was afterward convinced
that only my imagination suspected her of meaning any
thing beyond her usual old-ladyish eagerness in getting
young people " settled."
Sunday was another long day-they seem so long and
still, spite of all the gayety with which these country cous.
ins fill Treherne Court, which is often so oppressive to me,
and affects me with such a strange sensation of nervous ir.
ritation, that when Colin and his mother, who take a special
charge of me, have hunted me out of stray corners, their
affectionate kindness has made me feel like to cry.
Now, I did not mean to write about myself-I have been
trying desperately to fill my mind with other people's af



A LIFE FOR A LIFE.            209
fairs-but it will out. I am not myself-I know. All
Sunday, a formal and dreary day at Treherne Court, I do
think a dozen gentle words would have made me cry like a
baby. I did cry once, but it was when nobody saw me, in
the firelight, by Mrs. Granton's arm-chair.
" What is ailing with you, my dear?" she had been saying. " You are not near so lively as you were a week ago.
Has any body been vexing my Dora?"
Which, of course, Dora at once denied, and tried to be
as blithe as a lark all the evening.
No, not vexed, that would be impossible-but just a little hurt. IfI could only talk about some things that puzzle
me-talk in a cursory way, or mention names carelessly, like
other names, or ask a question or two that might throw a
light on circumstances not clear, then they would be easier
to bear. But I dare not trust my tongue, or my cheeks, so
all goes inward-I keep pondering and wondering till my
brain is bewildered, and my whole heart sore. People
should not-can not-that is, good people can not-say
things they do not mean; it would not be kind or generous; it.would not be right in short; and as good people
usually act rightly, or what they believe to be right, that
doubt falls to the ground.
Has there risen up somebody better than I? with fewer
faults and nobler virtues? God knows I have small need
to be proud. Yet I am myself this Theodora Johnstonas I was from the first, no better and no worse-honest
and true if nothing else, and he knew it. Nobody ever
knew me so thoroughly-faults and all.
We women must be constituted differently from men.
A word said, a line written, and we are happy; omitted,
our hearts ache-ache as if for a great misfortune. Man
can not feel it, or guess at it-if they did, the most careless of them would be slow to wound us so.
There's Penelope, now, waiting alone at Rockmount.
Augustus wanted to go post haste and fetch her here, but
Francis objected. He had to return to London immediately, he said; and yet here he is still. How can men make
themselves so content abroad, while the women are wearing their hearts out at home?
I am bitter-naughty-I know I am. I was even cross
to Colin to-day, when he wanted me to take a walk with
him, and then persisted in staying beside me indoors.
Colin likes me-Colin is kind to me-Colin would walk




210             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
twenty miles for an hour of his old playmate's company —
he told me so. And yet I was cross with him.
Oh, I am wicked, wicked! But my heart is so sore.
One look into eyes I knew-one clasp of a steadfast, kindly
hand, and I would be all right again. Merry, happy, brave,
afraid of nothing and nobody, not even of myself; it can
not be so bad a self if it is worth being cared for. I can't
see to write. There now, there now —as one would say to
a child in a passion-cry your heart out; it will do you
good, Theodora.
After that, I should have courage to tell the last thing
which this evening put a climax to my ill-humors, and in
some sense cleared them off, thunder-storm fashion. An
incident so unexpected, a story so ridiculous, so cowardly,
that, had Francis been less to me than my expected brotherin-law, I declare I would have cut his acquaintance forever
and ever, and never spoken to him again.
I was sitting in a corner of the billiard-room, which,
when the players are busy, is as quiet, unobserved a nook
as any in the house. I had a book, but read little, being
stopped by the eternal click-clack of the billiard-balls. There
werle only three in the room-Francis, Augustus, and Colin
Granton, who came up and asked my leave to play just one
game. My leave? How amusing! I told him he might
play on till midsummer, for all I cared.
They were soon absorbed in their game, and their talk
between whiles went in and out of my head as vaguely as
the book itself had done, till something caught my attention.
" I say, Charteris, you know Tom Turton? He was the
cleverest fellow at a cannon. It was refreshing only to
watch him hold the cue so long as his hand was steady,
and even after he got a little' screwed.' He was a wild
one, rather. What has become of him?"
" I can not say. Doctor Urquhart might, in whose company I last met him."
Augustus stared.
" Well, that is a good joke. Doctor Urquhart with Tom
Turton! I was nothing to boast of myself before I married; but Tom Turton!"
" They seemed intimate enough; dined, and went to the
theatre together, and finished the evening-I really forget
where. Your friend the doctor made himself uncommonly
agreeable."




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             211
"Urquhart and Tom Turton," Augustus kept repeating,
quite unable to get over his surprise at such a juxtaposition, from which I conclude that Mr. Turton, whose name
I never heard before, was one of the not too creditable associates of my brother-in-law in his bachelor days. When,
some one calling, he went out, Colin took up the theme, being also familiar with this notorious person, it appeared.
"Very odd, Doctor Urquhart's hunting in couples with
Tom Turton. However, I hope he may db him goodthere was room for it."
"In Tom, of course, your doctor being one of those
China patterns of humanity, in which it is vain to find a
flaw, and whose mission it is to go about as patent cementers of all cracked and unworthy vessels."
" Eh?" said Colin, opening his good, stupid eyes.
" Query-whether your humdrum Scotch doctor is one
whit better than his neighbors? (Score that as twenty,
Granton.) I once heard he had a wife and six children
living in the shade, near some cathedral town, Canterbury
or Salisbury."
"' What!" and Colin's eyes almost started out of his head
with astonishment.
I laugh now-I could have laughed then, the minute
after, to recollect what a "stound" it gave us both, Colin
and me, this utterly improbable and ridiculous tale, which
Francis so coolly promulgated.
"I don't believe it," said Colin, doggedly-bless his
honest heart! "Beg your pardon, Charteris, but there
must be some mistake. I don't believe it."
"As you will-it is a matter of very little consequence.
Your game now."
" I won't believe it," persisted Colin, who, once getting
a thing into his head, keeps it there. "Doctor Urquhart
isn't the sort of man to do it. If he had married ever so
low a woman, he would have made the best of her. He'd
never take a wife and keep her in the back-ground. Six
young ones too-and he so fond of children."
Francis laughed.
And all this while I sat quiet in my chair.
" Children are sometimes inconvenient-even t'o a gentleman of your friend's parental propensities. Perhaps-we
know such things do occur, and can't be helped sometimes
-perhaps the tale is all true, except that he omitted the
marriage ceremony."




212 A' LIFE FOR A LIFE.
" Charteris, that girl's sitting there."
It was this hurried whisper of Colin's, and a certain tone
of Francis's, which made me guess at the meaning which,
when I clearly caught it-for I am not a child exactly, and
Lydia Cartwright's story has lately made me sorrowfully
wise-sent me burning hot all over, and then so cold.
"That girl."  Yes, she was but a girl. Perhaps she
ought to have crept blushing away, or pretended not to
have heard a syllable of these men's talk. But, girl as she
was, she scorned to be such a hypocrite-such a coward.
What! sit still to hear a friend sneered at and his character
impeached? While one-the only one at hand to do itdulst not so much as say, "The tale is false-prove it."
And why? Because she happened to be a woman! Out
upon it! I should despise the womanhood that skulked
behind such rags of miscalled modesty as these.
"Mr. Granton," I said, as steadily and coolly as I could,
" your caution comes too late. If you gentlemen wished
to talk about any thing I should not hear, you ought to
have gone into another room. I have heard every word
you uttered."
"I'm sorry for it," said Colin, bluntly.
Francis proposed carelessly "to drop the subject."
What! take away a man's good name behind his back,
and then merely " drop the subject?" Suppose the listener
had been other than I, and had believed; or Colin had
been a less honest fellow than he is, and he had believed,
and we had both gone and promulgated the story, with a
few elegant improvements of our own, where would it have
ended? These are the things that destroy character-foul
tales, that grow up in darkness, and, before a man can seize
hold of them, root them up, and drag them to light, homes
are poisoned, reputation gone.
Such thoughts came in a crowd upon me. I hardly
knew till then how much I cared for him-I mean his
honor, his stainless name, all that helps to make his life
valuable and noble. And he absent, too, unable to defend
himself. I was right to do as I did; I take shame to myself even for this long preamble, lest it might look like an
apology.
"Francis," I said, holding fast by the billiard-table, and
trying to smother down the heat of my face, and the beat
at my heart, which nearly choked me, "if you please, you
have no right to say such things, and then drop the sub



A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             213
ject. You are quite mistaken; Doctor Urquhart was never married; he told papa so. Who told you that he had a
wife and six children living at Salisbury?"
" My dear girl, I do not vouch for any such fact; I merely'tell the tale, as it was told to me.' "
" By whom? Remember the name, if you can. Any
one who repeated it, ought to be able to give full confirmation."
" Faith, I almost forget what the story was."
"You said, he had a wife and six children, living near
Salisbury. Or," and I looked Francis direct in the face,
"a woman who was not his wife, but who ought to have
been."
He must have been ashamed of himself, I think; for he
turned away and began striking irritably at the balls.' I must say, Dora, these are extraordinary questions to
put. Young ladies ought to know nothing about such
things; what possible concern is this of yours?"
I did not shrink; or I am sure he could not have seen
me do so. "It is my concern, as much as it is Colin's
there; or that of any honest stander-by. Francis, I think
that to take away a man's character behind his back, as
you have been doing, is as bad as murdering him."
"She's right," cried Colin; "upon my soul, she is! Dora
Miss Dora, if Charteris will only give me the scoundrel's
name that told him this, I'll hunt him down and unearth
him, wherever he is. Come, my dear fellow, try and remember. Who was he?"
"I think," observed Francis, after a pause, " his name
was Augustus Treherne."
Colin started-but I only said, "Very well, I shall go
and ask him."
And just then it chanced that papa and Augustus were
seen passing the window. I was well-nigh doing great
mischief by forgetting, for the moment, how that the name
of the place was Salisbury. It would never have done to
hurt papa even by the mention of Salisbury, so I let him
go by. I then called in my brother-in-law, and at once,
without an instant's delay, put the question.
He utterly and instantly denied having said any such
thing. But afterward, just in time to prevent a serious
fracas between him and Francis, he suddenly burst out
laughing violently.
"I have it, and if it isn't one of the best jokes going!




214             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
Once, when I was chaffing Urquhart about marrying, I told
him he'looked as savage as if he had a wife and six children hidden somewhere on Salisbury Plain.' And I dare
say, afterward, I told some fellow at the camp, who told
somebody else, and so it got round."
"And that was all?"
" Upon my word of honor, Dora, that was all."
Mr. Charteris said- he was exceedingly happy to hear it.
They all seemed to consider it a,capital joke, and in the
midst of their mirth I slipped out.
But the thing ended, my courage gave way; Oh the
wickedness of this world and of the men in it! Oh! if there
were any hiuman being to speak to, to trust, to lean upon!
I laid my head in my hands and cried; oh, if he could know
how bitterly I have cried.
*     *      *     *      *     *      *
New Year's night.
Feeling wakeful, I will just put, down the remaining occurrences of this New Year's Day.
When I was writing the last lie, Lisa knocked at the
door.
"Dora, Doctor Urquhart is in the library; make haste,
if you care to see him; he says he can only stop half an
hour."
So, after a minute, I shut and locked my desk. Only
half an hour!
I have the credit of "flying into a passion," as Francis
says, about things that vex and annoy me. Things that
wound, that stab to the heart, affect me quite differently.
Then I merely say " yes," or " no," or "of course," and go
about quietly, as if nothing were amiss.  Probably, did
there come any mortal blow, I should be like one of those
poor soldiers one hears of, who, being shot, will stand up
as if unhurt, or even fight on for a minute or so, then suddenly drop down-dead.
I fastened my neck-ribbon, smoothed my hair, and descended. I know I should have entered the library all
proper, and put out my hand. Ah! he should not-he
ought not, that night-this very same right hand.
I mean to say, I should have met Doctor Urquhart exactly
as usual, had I not, just in the corridor, entering from the
garden, come upon him and Colin Granton in close talk.
"How do you do?" and "It is a very cold morning."
Then they passed on. I have since thought that their haste




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             215
was Colin's doing. He looked confused, as if it were a confidential conversation I had interrupted, which very probably it was. I hope, not the incident of the morning, for
that would vex Doctor Urquhart so: and blunt as Colin is,
his kind heart teaches him tact, oftentimes.
Doctor Urquhart staid out his half hour punctually, and
over the luncheon-table there was plenty of general conversation. He also took an opportunity to put to me, in my
character of nurse, various questions aboVt papa's health,
and desired me, still in the same general half-medical tone,
to be careful of my own, as Treherne Court was a much
colder place than Rockmount, and we were likely to have
a severe winter. I said it would not much signify, as we
did not purpose remaining more than a week longer; to
which he merely answered, " Oh, indeed!"
We had no more conversation, except that, on takifig
leave, having resisted all the Trehernes' entreaties to remain, he wished me " a happy New Year."
" I may not see you again for some time to come; if not,
good-by; good-by!"
Twice over, good-by; and that was all.
A happy New Year. So now the Christmas time is over
and gone, and to-morrow, January 2d, 1857, will be like all
other days in all other years. If I ever thought or expected otherwise, I was mistaken.
One thing made me feel deeply and solemnly glad of Doctor Urquhart's visit to-day. It was, that if ever Francis,
or any one else, was inclined to give a moment's credence
to that atrocious lie, his whole appearance and demeanor
were its instantaneous contradiction. Whether Colin had
told any thing I could not discover; he looked grave, and
somewhat anxious, but his manner was composed and at
ease-the air of a man whose life, if not above sorrow, was
wholly above suspicion; whose heart was steadfast, and
whose conscience free.
"A thoroughly good man, if ever there was one," said
papa, emphatically, when he had gone away.
" Yes," Augustus answered, looking at Francis and then
at me. " As honest and upright a man as God ever made."
Therefore, no matter-even though I was mistaken.




216             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
CHAPTER XX.
HIS STORY.
I CONTINtE these letters, having hitherto been made
aware of no reason why they should cease. If that reason
comes, they shall cease at once and forever; and these now
existing be burnt immediately, by my own hand, as I did
those of my sick friend in the Crimea. Be satisfied of
that.
You will learn to-morrow morning what, had an opportunity offered, I meant to have told you on New Yeans
Day-my appointment as surgeon to the jail, where I shall
shortly enter upon my duties. The other portion of them,
my private practice in the neighborhood, I mean to conmmence as soon as ever I can afterward.
Thus, you see, my " Ishmaelitish wanderings" as you once
called them, are ended. I have a fixed position in one
place. I begin to look on this broad river with an eye of
interest, and am teaching myself to grow familiar with its
miles of docks, forests of shipping, and its two busy, evergrowing towns along either shore, even as one becomes accustomed to the natural features of the place, wherever it
be, that we call "home."
If not home, this is at least my probable sphere of labor
fdr many years to come; I shall try to take root here, and
make the best of every thing.
The information that will reach you to-morrow comes
necessarily through Treherne. He will get it at the breakfast-table, pass it on to his wife, who will make her lively
comments on it, and then it will be almost sure to go on to
you. You will, in degree, understand, what they will not,
why I should give up my position as regimental surgeon to
establish myself here. For all else, it is of little moment
what my friends think, as I am settled in my own mindstrengthened by certain good words of yours; that soft,
still, autumn day, with the haze over the moorlald, and the
sun setting in the ripples of the pool.
You will have discovered by this time a fact of which,
so far as I could judge, you were a week since entirely ignorant-that you have a suitor for your hand. He himself




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.            217
informed me of his intentions with regard to you-asking
my advice and good wishes. What could I do?
I will tell you, being unwilling that in the smallest degree a nature so candid and true as yours could suppose
me guilty of double-dealing. I said "that I believed you
would make the best of wives to any man you loved, and
that I hoped when you did marry it would be under those
circumstances. Whether he himself were that man, it rested with your suitor alone to discover and decide.'' He
confessed honestly that on this point he was as ignorant as
myself, but declared that he should "do his best." Which
implies that while I have been occupied il this jail business
he has had daily, hourly access to your sweet company,
with every opportunity in his favor-money, youth, consent
of friends-he said you have been his mother's choice for
years-with, best of all, an honest heart, which vows that,
except a passing "smite" or two, it has been yours since
you were children together. That such an honest heart
should not have its fair chance with you, God forbid.
Though I will tell you the truth; I did not believe he
had any chance. Nothing in you has ever given me the
slightest indication of it. Your sudden blush when you
met him surprised me; also your exclamation-I was not
aware you were in the habit of calling him by his Christian
name. But that you love this young man, I do not believe.'Some women can be persuaded into love, but you are
not of that sort, so far as I can judge. Time will show.
You are entirely and absolutely free.
Pardon me-but, after the first surprise of this conmunication, I rejoiced that you were thus free. Even were I
other than I am-young, handsome, with a large income
and every thing favorable, you should still, at this crisis, be
left exactly as you are, free to elect your own fate, as every
woman ought to do. I may be proud, but, were I seeking
a wife, the only love that ever would satisfy me, would be
that which was given spontaneously' nd unsought; dependent on nothing I gave, but on what I was. If you
choose this suitor, my faith in you will convince me that
your feeling was such for him, and I shall be able tosay,
"Be happy, and God bless you."
Thus far, I trust, I have written with the steadiness of
one who, in either case, has no right to be even surprisedwho has nothing whatever to claim, and who accordingly
claims nothing.
K




218             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
Treherne will of course answer-and I shall find his letter at the camp when I return, which will be the day after
to-morrow. It may bring me-as, indeed, I have expected
day by day, being so much the friend of both parties-definite tidings.
Let me stop writing here. My ghosts of old have been
haunting me every day this week; is it because my good
angel is vanishing-vanishing-far away? Let me recall
your words, which nothing ever can obliterate from my
memory-and which, in any case, I shall bless you for as
long as I live.
"I believe that every sin, however great, being repented
of, andforsaken, is by God, and ought to be by men, altogether forgiven, blotted out and done away."
A truth which I hope never to forget, but to set forth
continually-I shall have plenty of opportunity, as a jail-surgeon. Ay, I shall probably live and die as a poor jail-surgeon.
And you?
" The children of Alice call Bartrum father."
This line of Elia's has been running in my head all day
-a very quiet, patient, pathetically sentimental line. But
Charles Lamb was only a gentle dreamer-or he wrote it
when he was old.
Understand, I do not believe you love this young man.
If you do-marry him! But if, not loving him, you marry
him-I had rather you died. Oh, child, child, with your
eyes so like my mother and Dallas-I had rather, ten thousand times, that you died.
CHAPTER XXI.
HER STORY.
PENELOPE has brought me my desk to pass away the
long day during her absence in London-whither she has
gone up with Mrs. Granton to buy the first installment of
her wedding-clothes. She looked very sorry that I could
not accompany her. She is exceedingly kind-more so than
ever in her life before, though I have given her a deal of
trouble, and seem to be giving more every day.
I have had " fever-and-agur," as the poor folk hereabouts
call it-caught, probably, in those long walks over the moor



A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             219
lands, which I indulged in after our return from the north
-supposing they would do me good. But the illness has
done me more; so it comes to the same thing in the end.
I could be quite happy now, I believe, were those about
me happy too; and, above all, were Penelope less anxious
on my account, so as to have no cloud on her own prospects. She is to be married in April, and they will sail
in May; I must contrive to get well long before then, if
possible. Francis has been very little down here; being
fully occupied in official arrangements; but Penelope only
laughs, and says he is better out of the way during this
busy time. She is so happy, she can afford to jest. Mrs.
Granton takes my place in assisting her, which is good for
the dear old lady too.
Poor Mrs. Granton! it cut me to the heart at first to see
how puzzled she was at the strange freak which took Colin
off to the Mediterranean-only puzzled, never cross-how
could she be cross at any thing " my Colin" does? he is always right, of course. He was really right this time, though
it made her unhappy for a while; but she would have been
more so, had she known all. Now, she only. wonders a little; looks at me with a sort of half-pitying curiosity; is
specially kind to me; brings me every letter of her son's
to read-thank heaven, they are already very cheerful letters-and treats me altogether as if she thought I were
breaking my heart for her Colin, and that Colin had not yet
discovered what was good for himself concerning me, but
would in time. It is of little consequence-so as she is content and discovers nothing.
Poor Colin! I can only reward him by loving his old
mother for his sake.
After a long pause, writing being somewhat fatiguing, I
have thought it best to take this opportunity of setting
down a circumstance which befell me since I last wrote in
my journal. It was at first not my intention to mention it
here at all, but on second thoughts I do so, lest, should any
thing happen to prevent my destroying this journal during
my lifetime, there might be no opportunity, through the
omission of it, for any misconstructions as to Colin's conduct
or mine. I am weak enough to feel that, not even after I
was dead, would I. like it to be supposed I had given any
encouragement to Colin Granton, or cared for him in any
other way than as I shall always care for him, and as he
well deserves.




o.0             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
It is a most painful thing to confess, and one for which
I still take some blame to myself, for not having seen and
prevented it, but the day before we left Treherne Court
Colin Granton made me an offer of marriage.
When I state that this was unforeseen, I do not mean up
to the actual moment of its befalling me. They say women instinctively find out when a man is in love with them,
so long as they themselves are indifferent to him; but I
did not, probably because my mind was so full of other
things. Until the last week of our visit, such a possibility
never entered my mind. I mention this to explain my not
having prevented-what every girl ought to prevent if she
can-the final declaration, which it must be such a cruel
mortification to any man to make, and be denied.
This was how it happened. After the new year came
in, our gayeties and late hours, following the cares of papa's
illness, were too much for me, or else this fever was coming on. I felt-not ill exactly-but not myself, and Mrs.
Granton saw it. She petted me like a mother, and was always telling me to regard her as such, which I innocently
promised; when she would look at me earnestly, and say,
often with tears in her eyes, that " she was sure I would
never be unkind to the old lady," and that " she should get
the best of daughters."
Yet still I had not the least suspicion. No, nor when
Colin was continually about me, watching me, waiting upon
me, sometimes almost irritating me, and then again touching me inexpressibly with his unfailing kindness, did I suspect any thing for long. At last, I did.
There is no need to relate what trifles first opened my
eyes, nor the wretchedness of the two intermediate days
between my dreading and being sure of it.
I suppose it must always be a very terrible thing to any
woman, the discovery that some one whom she likes heartily, and only likes, loves her. Of course, in every possible
way that it could be done, without wounding him or betraying him to other people, I avoided Colin; but it was
dreadful notwithstanding. The sight of his honest, happy
face was sadder to me than the saddest face in the world;
yet, when it clouded over, my heart ached. And then his
mother, with her caresses and praises, made me feel the
most conscience-stricken wretch that ever breathed.
Thus things went on. I shall set down no incidents,
though bitterly I remember them all. At last it came to




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             221
an end. I shall relate this, that there may be no doubt left
as to what passed between us-Colin and me.
We were standing in the corridor, his mother having
just quitted us to settle with papa about to-morrow's journey, desiring us to wait for her till she returned. Colin
suggested waiting in the library, but I preferred the corridor, where continually there were persons coming and going. I thought, if I never gave him any opportunity of
saying any thing, he might understand wlhat I so earnestly
wished to save him from being plainly told. So we stood
looking out of the hall windows. I can see the view this
minute, the large, level circle of snow, with the sun-dial in
the centre, and beyond, the great avenue gates, with the
avenue itself, two black lines, and a white one between,
lessening and fading away in the mist of a January afternoon.
"How soon the day is closing in-our last day here!"
I said this without thinking. The next minute I would
have given any thing to recall it; for Colin answered something-I hardly remember what-but the manner, the tone,
there was no mistaking. I suppose the saying is true; no
woman with a heart in her bosom can mistake for long together when a man really loves her. I felt it was coming;
perhaps better let it come, and then it would be over, and
there would be an end of it.
So I just stood still, with my eyes on the snow and my
hands locked tight together, for Colin had tried to take
one of them. He was trembling much, and so I am sure
was I. He said only half a dozen words, when I begged
him to stop, " unless he wished to break my heart." And,
seeing him turn pale as death and lean against the wall, I
did indeed feel as if my heart were breaking.
For a moment the thought came-let me confess it-how
cruel things were, as they were; how happy had they been
otherwise, and I could have made him happy-this good,
honest soul that loved me, his dear old mother, and every
one belonging to us; also, whether anyhow I ought not
to try. No; that was not possible. I can understand
women's renouncing love, or dying of it, or learning to live
without it; but marrying without it, either for "spite," or
for money, necessity, pity, or persuasion, is to me utterly
incomprehensible. Nay, the self-devoted heroines of the
Emilia Wyndham school seem creatures so weak that, if
not compassionating, one would simply despise them. Out




222             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
of duty or gratitude it might be possible to work, live, or
even die for a person, but never to marry him.
So, when Colin, recovering, tried to take my hand again,
I shrunk into myself, and became my right self at once;
for which, lest tried overmuch, and liking him as I do, some
chance emotion might have led him momentarily astray, I
most earnestly thank God.
And then I had to look him in the eyes and tell him the
plain truth.
"Colin, I do not love you; I never shall be able to love
you, and so it would be wicked even to think of this. You
must give it all up, and let us go back to our old ways."
"Dora?"
"Yes, indeed, it is true. You must believe it."
For a long time the only words he said were:' I knew it-knew I was not half good enough for you."
It being nearly dark, no one came by until we heard
his mother's step, and her cheerful " Where's my Colin?"
-loud enough, as if she meant-poor dear!-in fond precaution, to give us notice of her coming. Instinctively we
hid from her in the library. She looked in at the door, but
did not, or would not see us, and went trotting away down
the corridor. Oh, what a wretch I felt!
When she had departed, I was stealing away, but Colin
caught my dress.
" One word-just one. Did you never care for menever the least bit in all the world?"
"Yes," I answered, feeling no more ashamed of telling
this, or any thing, than one would be in a dying confession.
"Yes, Colin, I was once very fond of you, when I was
about eleven years old."
"And never afterward?"
"No-as my saying this proves. Never afterward, and
never should by any possible chance-in the sort of way
you wish."
"' That is enough-I understand," he said, with a sort of
sorrowful dignity quite new in Colin Granton. " I was
only good enough for you when you were a child, and we
are not children now. We never shall be children any
more."
" No-no." And the thought of that old time came upon
me like a flood-the winter games at the Cedars-the
blackberrying and bilberrying upon the sunshiny summer
moors-the grief when he went to school, and the joy when




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.            223
he came home again-the love that was so innocent, so
painless. And he had loved me ever since-me, not Lisabel; though, for a time he tried flirting with her, he owned,
just to find out whether or not I cared for him. I hid my
face and sobbed.
And then I had need to recover self-control; it is such
an awful thing to see a man weep.
I stood by Colin till we were both calmer; trusting all
was safe over, and had passed without the one question I
most dreaded. But it came.
" Dora, why do you not care for me? Is there-tell me
or not, as you like-is there any one else?"
Conscience! let me be as just to myself as I would be to
another in my place.
Once, I wrote that I had been "mistaken," as I have
been in some things, but not in all. Could I have honestly
said so, taking all blame on myself and freeing all others
from every thing save mere kindness to a poor girl who
was foolish enough, but very honest and true, and wholly
ignorant of where things were tending, till too late-if I
could have done this, I believe I should then and there
have confessed the whole truth to Colin Granton. But, as
things are, it was impossible.
Therefore I said, and started to notice how literally my
words imitated other words, the secondary meaning of
which had struck me differently from their first, "that it
was not likely I should ever be married."
Colin asked no more.
The dressing-bell rang, and I again tried to get away;
but he whispered, "Stop one minute-my mother-what
am I to tell my mother?"
"How much does she know?"
"Nothing. But she guesses, poor dear-and I was always going to tell her outright; but somehow I couldn't.
But now, as you will tell your father and sisters, and-"
"No, Colin; I shall not tell any human being."
And I was thankful that if I could not return his love, I
could at least save his pride, and his mother's tender heart.
" Tell her nothing; go home and be brave for her sake.
Let her see that her boy is not unhappy. Let her feel that
not a girl in the land is more precious to him than his old
mother."
"That's true!" he said with a hard breath. "I won't
break her dear old heart. I'll hold my tongue and bear it.
I will, Dora."




224             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
"I know you will," and I held out my hand. Surely,
that clasp wronged no one; for it was hardly like a lover's
-only my old playmate —Colin, my dear.
We then agreed that, if his mother asked any questions,
he should simply tell her that he had changed his mind
concerning me; and that otherwise the matter should be
buried with him and me, now and always-" except"-and
he seemed about to tell me something, but stopped, saying
it was of no matter-it was all as,one now. I asked no
farther, only desiring to get away.
Then, with another long, sorrowful, silent clasp of the
hand, Colin and I parted.
A long parting it has proved; for he kept aloof from me
at dinner, and instead of traveling home with us, went
round another way. A week or two afterward he called
at Rockmount, to tell us he had bought a yacht, and was
going a cruise to the Mediterranean. I, being out on the
moor, did not see him; he left next day, telling his mother
to " wish good-by for him to his playmate Dora."
Poor Colin! God bless him and keep him safe, so that
I may feel I only wounded his heart, but did his soul no
harm. I meant it not! And when he comes back to his
old mother, perhaps bringing her home a fair daughter-inlaw, as no doubt he will one day, I shall be happy enough
to smile at all the misery of that time at Treherne Court
and afterward, and at all the tender compassion which has
been wasted upon me by good Mrs. Granton, because "my
Colin" changed his mind, and went away without marrying
his playmate Dora. Only ")Dora." I am glad he never
called me by my full name. There is but one person who
ever called me "Theodora."
I read in a book the other day this extract:
" People do not sufficiently remember that in every relation of life as in the closest one of all, they ought to take
one another'for better, for worse.' That, granting the tie
of friendship, gratitude, or esteem be strong enough to
have existed at all, it ought, either actively or passively, to
exist forever. And seeing we can, at best, know our
neighbor, companion or friend, as little as, alas! we often
find he knoweth of us, it behooveth us to treat him with
the most patient fidelity, the tenderest forbearance; granting to all his words and actions that we do not understand,
the utmost limit of faith which common sense and Christian justice will allow. Nay, these failing, is there not still




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             225
left Christian charity? which, being past'believing' and'hoping,' still'endureth all things.'"
I hear the carriage wheels.
*      *      *      *      *      *      *
They will not let me go down stairs at all to-day.
I have been lying looking at the fire, alone, for Francis
returned with Mrs. Granton and Penelope yesterday. They
have gone a long walk across the moors. I watched them
strolling arm-in-arm-Darby and Joan fashio —till their
two small black figures vanished over the hilly road, which
always used to remind me of the Sleeping Beauty and her
Prince:
"And on her lover's arm she leant,
And round her waist she felt it fold,
And far across the hills they went,
To that new world which is the old."
They must be very happy-Francis and Penelope.
I wonder how soon I shall be well. This fever and ague
lasts sometimes for months; I remember Doctor Urquhart's
once saying so.
Here, following my plan of keeping this journal accurate
and complete, I ought to put down something which occurred yesterday, and which concerns Doctor Urquhart.
Driving through the camp, my sister Penelope saw him,
and papa stopped the carriage and Waited for him. He
could not pass them by, as Francis declared he seemed intending to do, with a mere salutation, but staid and spoke.
The conversation was not told me, for, on mentioning it, a
few sharp words took place between papa and Penelope.
She protested against his taking so much trouble in cultivating the society of a man, who, she said, was evidently,
out of his own profession, " a perfect boor."
Papa replied more warmly than I had at all expected.
"You will oblige me, Penelope, by allowing your father
to have a will of his own in this as in most other matters,
%ven if you do suppose him capable oT choosing for his associate and friend' a perfect boor.' And were that accusation as true as it is false, I trust he would never forget that
a debt of gratitude, such as he owes to Doctor Urquhart,
once incurred, is seldom to be repaid, and never to be obliterated."
So the discourse ended. Penelope left my room, and
papa took a chair by me. I tried to talk to him, but we
soon both fell into silence. Once or twice, when I thought
K 2




226             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
he was reading the newspaper, I found him looking at me,
but he made no remark.
Papa and I have had much less of each other's company
lately, though we have never lost the pleasant footing on
which we learned to be during his illness. I wonder if,
now that he is quite well, he has any recollection of the
long, long hours, nights and days, with only daylight or
candlelight to mark the difference between them, when he
lay motionless in his bed, watched ajid nursed by us two.
I was thinking thus, when he asked a question, the abrupt coincidence of which with my silent thoughts startled
me out of any answer than a simple " No, papa."
" My dear, have you ever had any letter from Doctor
Urquhart?"
How could he possibly imagine such a thing? Could
Mrs. Granton, or Penelope, who is quick-sighted in some
things, have led papa to think-to suppose-something, the
bare idea of which turned me sick with fear. Me, they
might blame as they liked; it would not harm me; but a
word, a suggestion of blame to any other person, would
drive me wild, furious. So I called up all my strength.
" You know, papa, Doctor Urquhart could have nothing
to write to me about. Any message for me he would have
put in a letter to you."
" Certainly. I merely inquired, considering him so much
a friend of the family, and aware that you had seen more
of him, and liked him better than your sisters did. But
if he had written to you, you would, of course, have told
me?"
" Of course, papa."
I did not say another word than this.
Papa went on, smoothing his newspaper, and looking direct at the fire:
"I have not been altogether satisfied with Doctor Urquhart of late, much as I esteem him. He does not appear
sufficiently to value what-I may say it without conceitfrom an old man to a younger one, is always of some worth.
Yesterday, when I invited him here, he declined again, and
a little too-too decidedly."
Seeing an answer waited for, I said, "Yes, papa."
" I am sorry, having such great respect for him, and such
pleasure in his society." Papa paused. "When a man
desires to win or retain his footing in a family, he usually
takes some pains to secure it. If he does not, the natural




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             227
conclusion is that he does not desire it." Another pause.
"Whenever Doctor Urquhart chooses to come here, he
will always be welcome-most welcome; but I can not
again invite him to Rockmount."
"No, papa."
This was all. He then took up his Times, and read it
through. I lay quiet, quiet all the evening-quiet until I
went to bed. To-day I find in the same old book before
quoted:
"The true theory of friendship is thls-Once a friend,
always a friend. But, answerest thou, doth not every
day's practice give the lie to that doctrine? Many, if not
most friendships, be like a glove, that, however well fitting
at first, doth by constant use wax loose and ungainly, if it
doth not quite wear out. And others, not put off and on,
but close to a man as his own skin and flesh, are yet liable
to become diseased; he may have to lose them, and live on
without them, as after the lopping off of a limb, or the
blinding of an eye.  And likewise, there be friendships
which a man groweth out of, naturally and blamelessly,
even as out of his child-clothes; the which, though no
longer suitable for his needs, he keepeth religiously, unforgotten and undestroyed, and often visiteth with a kindly
tenderness, though he knoweth they can cover and warm
him no more. All these instances do clearly prove that a
friend is not always a friend."
"' Yea,' quoth Fidelis,' he is. Not in himself, may be,
but unto thee. The future and the present are thine and
his; the past is beyond ye both-an unalienable possession,
a bond never disannulled. Ye may let it slip, of natural
disuse; throw it aside as worn-out and foul; cut it off,
cover it up, and bury it; but it hath been, and, therefore,
in one sense forever must be. Transmutation is the law of
all mortal things; but, so far as we know, there is not, and
will not be-until the great day of the second death-in the
whole universe any such thing as annihilation.'
"And so take heed. Deceive not thyself, saying that
because a thing is not, it never was. Respect thyself —
thine old self as well as thy new. Be faithful to thyself,
and to all that ever was thine. Thy friend is always thy
friend. Not to have or to hold, to love or rejoice in, but
to remember.
" And if it befall thee, as befalleth most, that in course
of time nothing will remain for thee, except to remember,




228             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
be not afraid! Hold fast that which was thine-it is thine
forever. Deny it not-despise it not; respect its secrets
-be silent over its wrongs. And, so kept, it shall never
lie like a dead thing in thy heart, corrupting and breeding
corruption there, as dead things do. Bury it, and go thy
way. It may chance that, one day, long hence, thou shalt
come suddenly upon the grave of it-and behold! it is
dewy-green!"
CHAPTER XXII.
HIS STORY.
THAT face-that poor little white, patient face! How
she is changed!
I wish to write down how it was I chanced to see you,
though chance is hardly the right word. I would have
seen you, even if I had waited all day'and all night, like a
thief, outside your garden-wall. If I could have seen you
without your seeing me (as actually occurred) all the better; but in any case I would have seen you. So far as relates to you, the will of Heaven only is strong enough to
alter this resolute " I will," of mine.
You had no idea I was so near you. You did not seem
to be thinking of any body or any thing in particular, but
came to your bedroom window, and stood there a minute,
looking wistfully across the moorlands, the still, absorbed,
hopeless look of a person who has had some heavy loss, or
resigned something very dear to the heart-Dallas's look,
al'most, as I remember it when he quietly told me that instead of preaching his first sermon he must go away at
once abroad, or give up hope of ever living to preach at all.
Child, if you should slip away and leave me as Dallas did!
You must have had a severe illness, and yet, if so, surely
I should have heard of it, or your father and sister should
have mentioned it when I met them. But no mere bodily
illness could account for that expression-it is of the mind.
You have been suffering mentally also. Can it be out of
pity for that young man, who, I hear, has left England?
Wherefore, is not difficult to guess, nor did I ever expect
otherwise, knowing him and you. Poor fellow! But he
was honest, and rich, and your friends would approve him,
Have they been urging you on his behalf? Have you had




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.            229
family feuds to withstand? Is it that which has made you
waste away, and turn so still and pale? You would just
do that; you would never yield, but only break your heart
quietly, and say nothing about it. I know you. Nobody
knows you half so well. Coward that I was, not to have
taken care of you! I might have done it easily, as the
friend of the family-the doctor-a grim fellow of forty.
There was no fear for any body save myself. Yes, I have
been a coward. My child-my gentle. tender, childlike
child-they have been breaking your heart, and I have
stood aloof and let them do it.
You had a cough in autumn, and your eyes are apt to
get that bright, limpid look, dilated pupils, with a dark
shade uinder the lower eyelid, which is supposed to indicate
the consumptive tendency. Myself, I differ; believing it
in you, as in many others, merely to indicate that which for
want of a clearer term we call the nervous temperament;
exquisitely sensitive, and liable to slight derangements, yet
healthy and strong at the core. I see no trace of disease
in you, no reason why, even fragile as you are, you should
not live to be an old woman. That is, if treated as you
ought to be, judiciously, tenderly; watched over, cared for,
given a peaceful, cheerful life with plenty of love in it.
Plenty of anxieties also, may be; no one could shield you
from these-but the love would counterbalance all, and you
would feel that-you should feel it-I could make you feel it.
I must find out whether you have been ill, and, if so,
who has been attending you. Doctor Black, probably.
You disliked him, had almost a terror of him, I know. Yet
they would of course have placed you in his hands, my little tender thing, my dove, my flower, It makes me mad.
Forgive! Forgive also that word "my," though in one
sense you are even now mine. No one understands you
as I do, or loves you. Not selfishly either. Most solemnly do I here protest, that could I now find myself your father or your brother, through the natural tie of blood, which
forever prevents any other, I would rejoice in it, rather than
part with you, rather than that you should slip away like
Dallas, and bless my eyes no more.
You see now what you are to me, that a mere apparition
of your little face at a window could move me thus.
I must go to work now. To-morrow I shall have found
out all about you.
*      *     *      *      *      *     *




230             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
I wish you to know how the discovery was made; since,
be assured, I have ever guarded against the remotest possibility of friends or strangers finding out my secret, or gossiping neighbors coupling my name with yours.
Therefore, instead of going to Mrs. Granton, I paid a
visit to Widow Cartwright, to whom I had news to give
concerning her daughter. And here, lest at any time evil
or careless tongues should bring you a garbled statement,
let me just name all I have had to do with this matter of
Lydia Cartwright, of which your sister once spoke as my
" impertinent interference."
Widow Cartwright, in her trouble, begged me to try and
learn something about her child, who had disappeared from
the family where, by Miss Johnston's recommendation, she
went as parlor-maid, and-in spite of various inquiries set on
foot by Mr. Charteris and others, had, to your sister's great
regret, never more been heard of. She was believed not
to be dead, for she once or twice sent money to her mother; and lately she was seen in a private box at the theatre
by a person named Turton, who recognized her, having often dined at the house where she was servant. This information was what I had to give to her mother.
I would not have mentioned such a story to you, but
that long ere you read these letters, if ever you do read
them, you will have learned that such sad and terrible facts
do exist, and that even the purest woman dare not ignore
them. Also, who knows but in the infinite chances of
life you may have opportunities of doing in other cases
what I would fain have done, and one day entreated your
sister to do-to use every effort for the redemption of this
girl, who, from all I hear, must have been unusually pretty,
affectionate, and simple-minded.
Her poor old mother being a little comforted, I learned
tidings of you. Three weeks of fever and ague, or something like it, nobody quite knew what; they, your family,
had no notion till lately that there was any thing ailing
you.
No, they never would. They would let you go on in
your silent, patient way, sick or well, happy or sorry, till
you suddenly sunk, and then they would turn round astonished: " Really, why did she not say she was ill? Who
would have guessed there was any thing the matter with
her?"
And I-I, who knew every change in your little face



A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             231
every mood in that strange, quaint, variable spirit-I have
let you slip, and been afraid to take care of you. Coward!
I proceeded at once to Rockmount, but learned from the
gardener that your father and sister were out, and "Miss
Dora was ill in her room."  So I waited, hung about the
road for an hour or more, till at last it struck me to seek
for information at the Cedars.
Mrs. Granton was glad to see me. She told me all about
her son's departure-gentle heart! you l4ave kept his secret-and, asking if I had seen you lately, poured out in a
stream all her anxieties concerning you.
So something must be done for you-something sudden
and determined. They may all think what they like-act
as they choose, and so shall I.,.
I advised Mrs. Granton to fetch you at once to the Cedars, by persuasion if she could; if not, by compulsionbringing you there as if for a drive, and keeping you. She
has a will, that good old lady, when she sees fit to use it,
and she has considerable influence with your father. She
said she thought she could persuade him to let her have
you, and nurse you.
" And if the poor child herself is obstinate-she has been
rather variable of temper lately-I may say that you ordered me to bring her here? She has a great respect for your
opinion. I may tell her I acted by your desire?"
I considered a moment, and then said she might.
We arranged every thing as seemed best for your removal-a serious undertaking for an invalid. You an invalid, my bright-eyed, light-footed, moorland girl!
I do not think Mrs. Granton had a shadow of suspicion.
She thanked me continually in her warm-hearted fashion
for my "great kindness." Kindness! She also begged
me to call immediately, as her friend, lest I might haye any
professional scruples of etiquette about interfering with
Doctor Black.
Scruples-I cast them all to the winds. Come what will,
I must see you-must assure myself that there is no danger-that all is done for you which gives you a fair chance
of recovery.
If not-if with the clear vision that I know I can use on
occasion, I see you fading from me, I shall snatch at you.
I will have you; be it only for a day or an hour, I will
have you, I say-on my heart, in my arms. My love, my
darling, my wife that ought to have been-you could not




232              A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
die out of my arms. I will make you live-I will make
you love me. I will have you for my wife yet. I willGod's will be done!
CHAPTER XXIII.
HER STORY.
I AM at home again. I sit by my bedroom fire in a new
easy-chair. Oh, such care am I taken of now! I cast my
eyes over the white waves of moorland:
"Moor and pleasance looking equal in one snow."
Let me see, how does that verse begin?
"God be with thee, my beloved, God be with thee,
As alone thou goest forth
With thy face unto the north,
Moor and pleasance looking equal in one snow;
While I follow, vainly follow,
With the farewell and the hollow,
But can not reach thee so."
Ah! but I can-I can. Can reach any where-to the
north or the south-over the land or across the sea, to the
world's end. Yea, beyond there if need be-even into the
other unknown world.
Since I last wrote here, in this room, things have befallen
me sudden and strange. And yet so natural do they seem
that I almost forget I was ever otherwise than I am now.
I, Theodora Johnston, the same, yet not the same. I, just
as I was, to be thought worthy of being-what I am, and
what I hope some one day to be-God willing. My heart
is full; how shall I write about these things, which never
could be spoken about? which only to think of makes me
feel as if I could but lay my head down in a wonder-stricken silence, that all should thus have happened unto me, this
unworthy me.
It is not likely I shall keep this journal much longer, but,
until closing it finally, it shall go on as usual. Perhaps it
may be pleasant to read over some day when I am oldwhen we are old.
One morning, I forget how long after the last date here,
Mrs. Granton surprised me and every body by insisting
that the only thing for me was change of air, and that 1
should go back at once with her to be nursed at the Cedars.
There was an invalid-carriage at the gate, with cushions,




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             233
mats, and furs; there was papa waiting to help me down
stairs, and Penelope with my trunk packed; in short, I
was taken by storm, and had only to submit. They all said
it was the surest way of recovering, and must be tried.
Now I wished to get well, and fast too; it was necessary I should for several reasons.
First, there was Penelope's marriage, with the after responsibility of my being the only daughter now left to
keep the house and take care of papa.
Secondly, Lisabel wrote that before autumn she should
want me for a new duty and new tie, which, though we
never spoke of it to one another, we all thought of with
softened hearts-even papa, whom, Penelope told me, she
had seen brushing the dust off our old rocking-horse in an
absent sort of way, and stop in his walk to watch Thomas,
the gardener, tossing his grandson. Poor, dear papa!
I had a third reason. Sometimes I feared, by words
Penelope dropped, that she and my father had laid their
heads together concerning me and my weak health, and
imagined things which were not true. No; I repeat, they
were not true. I was ill of fever and ague, that was all; I
should have recovered in time. If I were not quite happy,
I should have recovered from that also in time. I should
not have broken my heart. No one ought who has still
another good heart to believe in; no one need who has
neither done wrong nor been wronged. So it seemed
necessary-or I fancied it so, thinking over all things during the long, wakeful nights-that, not for my own sake
alone, I should rouse myself, and try to get well as soon as
possible.
Therefore I made no objections to what, on some accounts, was to me an excessively painful thing-a visit to
the Cedars.
Pain or no pain, it was to be, and it was done. I lay in
a dream of exhaustion, which felt like peace, in the little
sitting-room, which looked on the familiar view-the lawn,
the sun-dial, the boundary of evergreen bushes, and, farther
off, the long, narrow valley, belted by fir-topped hills standing out sharp against the western sky.
Mrs. Granton bustled in and out, and did every thing for
me as tenderly as if she had been my mother.
When we are sick and weak, to find comfort; when we
are sore at heart, to be surrounded by love; when, at fiveand-twenty, the world looks blank and dreary, to see it




234             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
looking bright and sunshiny at sixty-this does one good.
If I said I loved Mrs. Granton, it but weakly expressed
what I owed and now owe her-more than she is ever
likely to know.
I had been a day and a night at the Cedars without seeing any one except the dear old lady, who watched me
incessantly, and administered perpetual doses of " kitchen
physic," promising me faithfully that, if I continued improving, the odious face of Doctor Black should never
cross the threshold of the Cedars.
" But for all that, it would be more satisfactory to me if
you would consent to see a medical friend of mine, my
dear."
Sickness sharpens our senses, making nothing seem sudden or unnatural. I knew as well as if she had told me
who it was she wanted me to see-who it was even now
at the parlor door.
Doctor Urquhart came in, and sat down beside my sofa.
I do not remember any thing that was said or done by any
of us, except that I felt him sitting there, and heard him in
his familiar voice talking to Mrs. Granton about the pleasant view from this low window, and the sunshiny morning,
and the blackbird that was solemnly hopping about under
the sun-dial.
I will not deny it-why should I? the mere tone of his
voice, the mere smile of his eyes filled my whole soul with
peace. I neither knew how he had come nor why. I did
not want to know; I only knew he was there, and in his
presence I was like a child who has been very forlorn and
is now taken care of-very hungry and is satisfied.
Some one calling Mrs. Granton out of the room, he
suddenly turned and asked me, "how long I had been ill."
I answered briefly, then said, in reply to farther questions, that I believed it was fever and ague, caught in the
moorland cottages, but that I was fast recovering; indeed,
I was almost well again now.
" Are you? Give me your hand." He felt my pulse,
counting it by his watch. It did not beat much like a
convalescent's then, I know. "I see Mrs. Granton in the
garden; I must have a little talk with her about you."
He went out of the room abruptly, and soon after I saw
them walking together up and down the terrace. Dr. Urquhart only came to me again to bid me good-by.
But after that we saw him every day for a week.




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             235
He used to appear at uncertain hours, sometimes forenoon, sometimes evening, but faithfully, if ever so late, he
came. I had not been aware he was thus intimate at the
Cedars, and one day, when Mrs. Granton was speaking
about him, I happened to say so.
She smiled.
"Yes, certainly, his coning here daily is a new thing,
though I was always glad to see him, he was so kind to
my Colin. But, in truth, my dear, if I must let out the
secret, he now comes to see you."
" Me!" I was glad of the dim light we sat in, and horribly ashamed of myself when the old lady continued, matter-of-fact and grave.
" Yes, you, by my special desire, though he consented
willingly to attend you, for he takes a most kindly interest
in you. He was afraid of your being left to Doctor Black,
whom in his heart I believe he considers an old humbug;
so he planned your being brought here to be petted and
taken care of. And I am sure he himself has taken care
of you in every possible way that could be done without
your finding it out. You are not offended, my dear?"
" No."
" I can't think how we shall manage about his fees; still
it would have been wrong to have refused his kindnessso well-meant and so delicately given. I am sure he has
the gentlest ways and the tenderest heart of any man I ever
knew. Don't you think so?"
" Yes."
But, for all that, after the first week, I did not progress
so fast as they two expected-also papa and Penelope, who
came over to see me, and seemed equally satisfied with
Doctor Urquhart's " kindness."  Perhaps this very " kindness," as I, like the rest, now believed it, made things a
little more trying for me. Or else the disease-the fever
and ague-had taken a firmer hold on me than any body
knew. Some days I felt as if health were a long way off,
in fact, not visible at all in this mortal life; and the possi-.bility seemed sometimes easy to bear, sometimes hard. I
had many changes of mood and temper, very sore to struggle against; for all of which now I humbly crave forgiveness of my dear and kind friends, who were so patient with
me, and of Him, the most merciful of all.
Doctor Urquhart came daily, as I have said. We had
often very long talks together, sometimes with Mrs. Gran



236             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
ton, sometimes alone. He told me of all his doings and
plans, and gradually brought me out of the narrow sickroom world into which I was falling, toward the current
of outward life-his own active life, with its large aims,
duties, and cares. The interest of it roused me; the power
and beauty of it strengthened me. All the dreams of my
youth, together with one I had dreamed that evening by
the moorland pool, came back again. I sometimes longed
for life, that I might live as he did; in any manner, any
where, at any sacrifice, so that it was a life in some way
resembling and not unworthy of his own. This sort of life
-equally solitary, equally painful, devoted more to duty
than to joy-was, heaven knows, all I then thought possible. And I still think with it, and with my thorough
reverence and trust in him, and his sole, special, unfailing
affection for me, I could have been content all my days.
My spirit was brave enough, but sometimes my heart
was weak. When we have been accustomed to rest on
any other-to find each day the tie become more familiar,
more necessary, belonging to daily life, and daily want-to
feel the house empty, as it were, till there comes the ring
at the door or the step in the hall-and to be aware that
all this can not last, that it must come to an end, and one
must go back to the old, old life, shut up in one's self, with
no arm to lean on, no smile to brighten and guide one, no
voice to say, "You are right, do it," or "There I think
you are wrong"-then one grows frightened.
When I thought of his going to Liverpool, my courage
broke down. I would hide my head in my pillow of nights,
and say to myself, " Theodora, you are a coward; will not
the good God make you strong enough by yourself, even
for any sort of life He requires of you? Leave all in His
hands."  So I tried to do; believing that, from any feeling
that was holy and innocent, He would not allow me to suffer more than I could bear, or more than is good for all of
us to suffer at times.
(I did not mean to write thus; I meant only to tell my
outward story; but such as is written, let it be-I am not
ashamed of it.)
Thus things went on, and I did not get stronger.
One Saturday afternoon Mrs. Granton went a long drive,
to see some family in whom Doctor Urquhart had made
her take an interest; if, indeed, there was need to do more
than mention any one's being in trouble, in the dear wom



A LIFE FOR A LIFE.            237
an's hearing, in order to unseal a whole torrent of benevolence. The people's name was Ansdell; they were strangers, belonging to the camp; there was a daughter dying
of consumption.
It was one of my dark days, and I lay thinking how much
useless sentiment is wasted upon the young who die; how
much vain regret at their being so early removed from the
enjoyments they share, and the good they are doing, when
they often do no good, and have little joy to lose. Take,
for instance, Mrs. Granton and me: if Death hesitated between us, I know which he had better choose: the one who
had least pleasure in living, and who would be easiest
spared-who, from either error or fate, or some inherent
faults which become almost equal to a fate, had lived twenty-five years without being of the smallest use to any body;
and to whom the best that could happen would apparently
be to be caught up in the arms of the Great Reaper, and
sown afresh in a new world, to begin again.
Let me confess all this-because it explains the mood
which I afterward betrayed; and because it caused me to
find out that I was not the only person into whose mind
such wild and wicked thoughts have come, to be reasoned
down, battled down, prayed down.
I was in the large drawing-room, supposed to be lying
peacefully on the sofa, but in reality cowering down all in
a heap, within the small circle of the firelight. Beyond, it
was very dark-so dark that the shadows would have frightened me, were there not too many spectres close at hand;
sad or evil spirits, such as come about us all in our dark
days. Still, the silence was so ghostly that when the door
opened I slightly screamed.
" Do not be afraid. It is only I."
I was shaken hands with; and I apologized for having
been so startled. Doctor Urquhart said it was he who
ought to apologize, but he had knocked, and I did not answer, and he had walked in, being "anxious." Then he
spoke about other things, and I soon became myself, and
sat listening, with my eyes closed, till, suddenly seeing him,
I saw him looking at me.
" You have been worse to-day."
"It was my bad day."
"I wish I could see you really better."
"Thank you."
My eyes closed again-all things seemed dim and far off,




238             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
as if my life were floating away, and I had no care to seize
hold of it-easier to,let it go.
"My patient does not do me much credit. When do
you intend to honor me by recovering, Miss Theodora?"
"I don't know; it does not much matter." It wearied
me to answer even him.
He rose, walked up and down the room several times,
and returned to his place.
"l Miss Theodora, I wish to say a 1jw words to you seriously, about your health. I should like to see you better
-very much better than now-before I go away."
"Possibly you may."
"In any case, you will have to take great care-to be
taken great care of-for months to come. Your health is
very delicate. Are you aware of that?"
" I suppose so."
"You must listen-"
The tone roused me.
" If you please, you must listen to what I am saying.
It is useless telling any one else, but I tell you, that if you
do not take care of yourself you will die."
I looked up. No one but he would have said such a
thing to me-if he said it, it must be true.
"Do you know that it is wrong to die-to let yourself
carelessly slip out of God's world, in which he put you to
do good work there?"
" I have no work to do."
" None of us can say that. You ought not-you shall
not. I will not allow it."
His words struck me. There was truth in them-the
truth, the faith of my first youth, though both had faded in
after years-till I knew him. And this was why I clung
to this friend of mine, because amid all the shams and falsenesses around me, and even in myself-in him I ever found,
clearly acknowledged, and bravely outspoken-the truth.
Why should he not help me now?
Humbly I asked him " if he were angry with me."
" Not angry, but grieved; you little know how deeply."
Was it for my dying, or my wickedly wishing to die?
I knew not; but that he was strongly affected, more even
than he liked me to see, I did see, and it lifted the stone
from my heart.
"I know I have been very wicked. If any one would
thoroughly scold me-if I could only tell any body-"




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             239
"Why can not you tell me?"
So I told him, as far as I could, all the dark thoughts that
had been troubling me this day; I laid upon him all my
burdens; I confessed to him all my sins; and when I ended, not without agitation, for I had never spoken so plainly
of myself to any creature before, Doctor Urquhart talked
to me long and gently upon the things wherein he considered me wrong in myself and in my home; and of other
things where he thought I was only "foolish," or "mistaken." Then he spoke of the manifold duties I had in
life; of the glory and beauty of living; of the peace attainable, even in this world, by a life which, if ever so sad and
difficult, has done the best it could with the materials granted to it-has walked, so far as it could see, in its appointed
course, and left the rewarding and the brightening of it
solely in the hands of Him who gave it; who never gives
any thing in vain.
This was his " sermon"-as, smiling, I afterward called
it, though all was said very simply, and as tenderly as if he
had been talking with a child. At the end of it, I looked
at him by a sudden blaze of the fire; and it seemed as if,
mortal man as he was, with faults enough doubtless-and
some of them I already knew, though there is no necessity
to publish them here-I " saw his face as it had been the
face of an angel." And I thanked God, who sent him to
me-who sent us each to one another.
For what should Doctor Urquhart reply when I asked
him how he came to learn all these good things, but-also
smiling:
" Some of them I learned from you."
" Me?" I said, in amazement.
" Yes; perhaps I may tell you how it was some day, but
not now." He spoke hurriedly, and immediately began
talking to me about, and informing me-as he had now got
a habit of doing-exactly how his affairs stood. Now, they
were nearly wound up; and it became needful he should
leave the camp, and begin his new duties by a certain day.
After a little more talk, he fixed-or rather, we fixed, for
he asked me to decide-that day; briefly, as if it had been
like any other day in the year; and quietly as if it had not
involved the total ending for the present, with an indefinite future, of all this —what shall I call it? between him and
me, which, to one, at least, had become as natural and necessary as daily bread.




240             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
Thinking now of that two or three minutes of silence
which followed-I could be very sorry for myself-far
more sd than then; for then I hardly felt it at all.
Doctor Urquhart rose, and said he must go-he could
not wait longer for Mrs. Granton.
"Thursday week is the day, then," he added, "after
which I shall not see you again for many months."
" I suppose not."
"I can not write to you. I wish I could; but such a
correspondence would not be possible, would not be right."
I think I said mechanically, " No."
I was standing by the mantle-piece, steadying myself
with one hand, the other dropping down. Doctor Urquhart touched it for a second.
"It is the very thinnest hand I ever saw! You will remember," he then said, "in case this should be our last
chance of talking together-you will remember all we have
been saying? You will do all you can to recover perfect
health, so as to be happy and useful? You will never think
despondingly of your life; there is many a life much harder than yours; you will have patience,'and faith, and hope,
as a girl ought to have, who is so precious to-many! Will
you promise?"
"I will."
"Good-by, then."
" Good-by."
Whether he took my hands, or I gave them, I do not
know; but I felt them held tight against his breast, and
him looking at me as if he could not part with me, or as if,
before we parted, he was compelled to tell me something.
But when I looked up at him we seemed of a sudden to
understand every thing without need of telling. He only
said four words-" Is this my wife?" And I said "Yes."
Then-he kissed me.
Once I used to like reading and hearing all about love
and lovers, what they said and how they looked, and how
happy they were in one another. Now, it seems as if these
things ought never to be read or told by any mortal tongue
or pen.
When Max went away I sat where I was, almost without
stirring, for a whole hour, until Mrs. Granton came in and
gave me the history of her drive, and all about Lucy Ansdell, who had died that afternoon. Poor girl-poor girl!




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             241
CHAPTER XXIV.
HER STORY.
HELR, between the locked leaves of my journal, I keep
the first letter I ever had from Max.
It came early in the morning, the morning after that
evening which will always seem to us two, I think, something like what we read of, that " the eveln ilg and the morning were the first day." It was, indeed, like the first day
of a new world.
When the letter came I was still fast asleep, for I lhad
not gone and lain awake all night, which, under the circumstances (as I told Max), it was a young lady's duty to have
done; I only laid my head down with a feeling of ineffable
rest-rest in heaven's kindness, which had brought all
things to this end-and rest in his love, fiom which nothing
now could ever thrust me, and in the thought of which I
went to sleep, as safe as a tired child; knowing I should
be safe for all my life long with him-my Max-my husband.' Lover" was a word that did not seem to suit him, grave
as he was, and so much older than I. I never expected
from him any thing like the behavior of a lover; indeed,
should hardly like to see him in that character; it would
not look natural. But from the hour he said, " Is this my
wife?" I have ever and only thought of him as "my husband."
My dear Max! Here is his letter-which lay before my
eyes in the dim dawn; it did not come by post-he must
have left it himself; and the maid brought it in, no doubt
thinking it a professional epistle. And I take great credit
to myself for the composed matter-of-fact way in which I
said " it was all right, and there was no answer," put down
my letter, and made believe to go to sleep again.
Let me laugh-it is not wrong; and I laugh still as much
as ever I can; it is good for me and good for MIax. He
says scarcely any thing in the world does him so much good
as to see me merry.
It felt very strange at first to open his letter and see my
name written in his hand.
L




242             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
Saturday night.
MY DEAR THEODORA,-I do not say "dearest," because
there is no one to put in comparison with you; you are to
me the one woman in the world.
My dear Theodora-let me write it over again to assure
myself that it may be written at all, which, perhaps, it ought
not to be till you have read this letter.
Last night I left you so soon, or it seemed soon, and we
said so little, that I never told you some things which you
ought to have been made aware of at once; even before
you were allowed to answer that question of mine. Forgive me. In my own defense let me say, that when I visited you yesterday I meant only to have the sight of youthe comfort of your society-all I hoped or intended to win
for years to come. But I was shaken out of all self-control
-first, by the terror of losing you, and then by a look in
your sweet eyes. You know! It was to be, and it was.
Theodora-gift of God!-may He bless you for showing,
just for that one moment, what there was in your heart toward me.
My feelings toward you you can guess-a little; the rest
you must believe in. I can not write about them.
The object of this letter is to tell you something which
you ought to be told before I see you again.
You may remember my once saying it was not likely I
should ever marry. Such, indeed, was long my determination, and the reason was this. When I was a mere boyjust before Dallas died-there happened to me an event
so awful, both in itself and its results, that it changed my
whole character, darkened my life, turned me from a lively,
careless, high-spirited lad, into a morbid and miserable man,
whose very existence was a burden to him for years. And
though gradually, thank God! I recovered from this state,
go as not to have an altogether useless life, still I never was
myself again, never knew happiness-till I knew you. You
came to me as unforeseen a blessing as if you had fallen
from the clouds: first you interested, then you cheered me,
then, in various ways, you brought light into my darkness,
hope to my despair. And then I loved you.
The same cause, which I can not now fully explain, because I must first take a journey, but you shall know every
thing within a week or ten days-the same cause which
has oppressed my whole life prevented me from daring to
win you. I always believed that a man circumstanced as I




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.            243
was had no right ever to think of marriage. Some words
of yours led me of late to change this opinion. I resolved,
at some future time, to lay my whole history before youas to a mere friend-to ask you the question whether or
not, under the circumstances, I was justified in seeking any
woman for my wife; and, on your answer, to decide either
to try and make you love me, or only to love you, as I
should have loved, and shall forever.
What I then meant to tell you is still to be told. I do
not dread the revelation as I once did: all things seem different to me.
I am hardly the same man that I was twelve hours ago.
Twelve hours ago I had never told you what you are to
me-never had you in my arms-never read the love in
your dear eyes-oh, child, do not ever be afraid or ashamed
of letting me see you love me, unworthy as I am. If you
had not loved me, I should have drifted away into perdition
-I mean, I might have lost myself altogether so far as regards this world.
That is not likely now. You will save me, and I shall
be so happy that I shall be able to make you happy. We
will never be two again-only one. Already you feel like
a part of me, and it seems as natural to write to you thus
as if you had been mine for years. Mine! Some day you
will find out all that is sealed up in the heart of a man
of my age and of my disposition-when the seal is once
broken.
Since, until I have taken my journey, I can not speak to
your father, it seems right that my next visit to you should
be only that of a friend. Whether, after having read this
letter, which at once confesses so much and so little, you
think me worthy even of that title, your first look will decide. I shall find out, without need of your saying one
word.
I shall probably come on Monday, and then not again;
to meet you only as a friend, used to be sufficiently hard;
to meet you with this uncertainty overhanging me would
be all but impossible. Besides, honor to your father compels this absence and silence until my explanations are
made.
Will you forgive me? Will you trust me? I think you
will.
I hope you have minded my "orders," rested all evening and retired early? I hope on Monday I may see a




244             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
rose on your cheeks-a tiny, delicate, winter-rose. That
poor, little, thin cheek, it grieves my heart. You must get
strong.
If by your manner you show that this letter has changed
your opinion of me, that you desire yesterday to be altogether forgotten, I shall understand it and obey.
Remember, whatever happens, whether you are ever my
own or not, that you are the only woman I ever wished for
my wife-the only one I shall ever marry. Yours,
MAX URQUHART.
I read his letter many times over.
Then I rose and dressed myself carefully, as if it had been
my marriage morning. He loved me; I was the only woman
he had ever wished for his wife. It was, in truth, my marriage morning.
Coming down stairs, Mrs. Granton met me, all delight at
my having risen so soon.
"Such an advance! We must be sure and tell Doctor
Urquhart. By-the-by, did he not leave a note or message
early this morning?"
"Yes; he will probably call on Monday."
She looked surprised that I did not produce the note,
but made no remark. And I, two days before, should have
been scarlet and tongue-tied, but now things were quite
altered. I was his chosen, his wife; there was neither hypocrisy nor deceit in keeping a secret between him and
me. We belonged to one another, and the rest of the
world had nothing to do with us.
Nevertheless, my heart felt running over with tenderness
toward the dear old lady, as it did toward my father and
my sisters, and every thing belonging to me in this wide
world. When Mrs. Granton went to church, I sat for a
long time in the west parlor, reading the Bible all aloneat least, as much alone as I ever can be in this world again,
after knowing that Max loves me.
It being such an exceedingly mild and warm day-wonderful for the first day of February-an idea came into my
head, which was, indeed, strictly according to "orders,"
only I never yet had had the courage to obey. Now I
thought I would. It would please him so, and Mrs. Granton too.
So I put on my out-door gear, and actually walked, all
by myself, to the hill-top, a hundred yards or more. There




A, LIFE FOR A LIFE,           245
I sat down on the familiar bench, and looked round on the
well-known view. Ah me! for how many years, and under how many various circumstances, have I come and sat
on that bench, and looked at that view!
It was very beautiful to-day, though almost deathlike in
its supernatural sunshiny calm, such as one only sees in
these accidental fine days which come in early winter, or
sometimes as a kind of spectral antitype of spring. Such
utter stillness every where. The sole thing that seemed
alive or moving in the whole landscape was a wreath of
gray smoke springing from some invisible cottage behind
the fir wood, and curling away upward till it lost itself in
the opal air. Hill, moorland, wood, and sky lay still as a
picture, and fair as the Land of Beulah, the Celestial Country. It would hardly have been strange to see spirits
walking there, or to have turned and found sitting on the
bench beside me my mother and my half brother, Harry,
who died so long ago, and whose faces in that Country I
shall first recognize.
My mother. Never till now did I feel the want of her.
It seems only her-only a mother-to whom I could tell,
"Max loves me-I am going to be Max's wife."
And Harry-poor Harry, whom also I scarcely knewwhose life was so wretched, and whose death so awful; he
might have been a better man if he had only known my
Max. I am forgetting, though, how old he would have
been now; and how Max must have been a mere boy
when my brother died.
I do not often think of Harry. It would be hardly natural that I should; all happened so long ago that his memory has never been more than a passing shadow across the
family lives. But to-day, when every one of my own flesh
and blood seemed to grow nearer to me, I thought of him
more than once; tried to recall the circumstances of his
dreadful end; and then to think of him only as a glorified,
purified spirit, walking upon the hills of Beulah. Perhaps
now looking down upon me, " baby" that was, whom he
was once reported, in one of his desperate visits home, to
have snatched out of the cradle and kissed; knowing all
that had lately happened to me, and wishing me a happy
life with my dear Max.
I took out Max's letter, and read it over again in the
sunshine and open air.
Oh, the happiness of knowing that one can make an



246             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
other happy-entirely happy! Oh, how good I ought to
grow!
For the events which have caused him so much pain, and
which he has yet to tell papa and me-they did not weigh
much on my mind. Probably there is no family in which
there is not some such painful revelation to be made; we
also have to tell him about poor Harry. But these things
are purely accidental and external. His fear that I should
" change my opinion of him" made me smile. "Max," I
said, out loud, addressing myself to the neighboring heather-bush, which might be considered a delicate compliment
to the land where he was born, " Oh, Max, what nonsense
you do talk! While you are you, and I am myself, you
and I are one."
Descending the hill-top, I pressed all these my happy
thoughts deep down into my heart, covered them up, and
went back in tlqe world again.
Mrs. Granton and I spent a quiet day; the quieter, that
I afterward paid for my feats on the hill-top by hours of
extreme exhaustion. It was my own folly, I told her, and
tried to laugh at it, saying I should be better to-morrow.
But many a time the thought came, what if I should not
be better to-morrow, nor any to-morrow? What if, after
all, I should have to go away and leave him with no one to
make him happy? And then I learned how precious life
had grown, and tasted, in degree, what is meant by "the
bitterness of death."
But it did not last. And by this I know that our love
is holy: that I can now think of either his departure or my
own without either terror or despair. I know that even
death itself can never part Max and me.
Monday came. I was really better, and went about the
house with Mrs. Granton all the forenoon. She asked me
what time Doctor Urquhart had said he should be here;
with various other questions about him. All of which I
answered without confusion or hesitation; it seemed as if
I had now belonged to him for a long time. But when, at
last, his ring came to the hall door, all the blood rushed to
my heart, and back again into my face-and Mrs. Granton
saw it.
What was I to do? to try and " throw dust" into those
keen, kind eyes, to tell or act a falsehood, as if I were
ashamed of myself or him? I could not. So I simply sat
silent, and let her think what she chose.




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.            247
Whatever she thought, the good old lady said nothing.
She sighed-ah! it went to my conscience, that sigh-and
yet I have done no wrong either to her or Colin; then,
making some excuse, she slipped out of the room, and the
four walls only beheld Max and me when we met.
After we had shaken hands, we sat down in silence.
Then I asked him what he had been doing with himself all
yesterday, and he told me he had spent it with the poor
Ansdells.
"They wished it, and I thought it was best to go."
"Yes, I am very glad you went."
Doctor Urquhart (of course I shall go on calling him
"Doctor Urquhart," to people in general; nobody but me
has any business with his Christian name), Doctor Urquhart
looked at me and smiled; then he began telling me about
these friends of his; and how broken-hearted the old mother was, having lost both daughters in a few months-did I
remember the night of the camp concert, and young Ansdell who sung there?
I remembered some young man being called for, as Doctor Urquhart wanted him.
" Yes-I had to summon him home; his eldest sister had
suddenly died. Only a cold and fever-such as you yourself might have caught that night-you thoughtless girl.
You little knew how angry you made me."
"Did I? Something was amiss with you-I did not
know what-but I saw it in your looks."
" Could you read my looks even then, little lady?"
It was idle to deny it-and why should I, when it made
him happy? Radiantly happy his face was now-the sharp
lines softened, the wrinkles smoothed out. He looked ten
years younger; ah! I am glad I am only a girl still; in
time I shall actually make him young.
Here, the hall bell sounded-and though visitors are
never admitted to this special little parlor, still Max turned
restless, and said he must go.
"Why?"
He hesitated-then said hastily,
"I will tell you the truth; I am happier out of your
sight than in it, just at present."
I made no answer.
"To-night, I mean to start-on that journey I told you
of." Which was to him a very painful one, I perceived.
"Go, then, and get it over. You will come back to me
soon."




248             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
"(God grant it." He was very much agitated.
The only woman he had ever wished for his wife. This,
I was. And I felt like a wife. Talk of Penelope's long
courtship-Lisabel's marriage-it was I that was, in heart
and soul, the real wife; ay, though Max and I were never
more to one another than now; though I lived as Theodora Johnston to the end of my days.
So I took courage-and since it was not allowed me to
comfort him in any other way, I just stole my hand inside
his, which clasped instantly and tightly round it. That
was all, and that was enough. Thus we sat side by side,
when the door opened-and in walked papa.
How strangely the comic and the serious are mixed up
together, in life, and even in one's own nature. While
writing this, I have gone off into a hearty fit of laughter at
the recollection of papa's face when he saw us sitting there.
Though at thetime it was no laughing matter. For a
moment he was dumb with astonishment, then he said severely,
"Doctor Urquhart, I suppose I must conclude-indeed,
I can only conclude one thing.  But you might have
spoken to me before addressing yourself to my daughter."
Max did not answer immediately-when he did his voice
absolutely made me start.
"Sir, I have been very wrong-but I will make amends
-you shall know all. Only first-as my excuse," here he
spoke out passionately, and told papa all that I was to him,
all that we were to one another.
Poor papa, it must have reminded him of his own young
days-I have heard he was very fond of his first wife,
Harry's mother-for when I hung about his neck, mine
were not the only tears. He held out his hand to Max.
" Doctor, I forgive you; and there is not a man alive on
whom I would so gladly bestow this little girl as you."
And here Max tried me-as I suppose people not yet
quite familiar will be sure to try one another at first.
Without saying a word, or even accepting papa's hand, he
walked straight out of the room.
It was not right-even if he were ever so much unnerved; why should he be too proud to show it? and it
might have seriously offended papa. I softened matters as
well as I could, by explaining that he had not wished to
ask me of papa till a week hence, when he should be able
fully to enter into his circumstances.




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             249
"My dear," papa interrupted, "go and tell him he may
communicate them at whatever time he chooses. When
such a man as Doctor Urquhart honestly comes and asks
me for my daughter, you may be sure the very last thing
I should ask him would be about his circumstances."
With my heart brimful at papa's kindness, I went to explain this to Max. I found him alone in the library, standing motionless at the window. I touched him, with some
silly coquettish speech about how he could think of letting
me run after him in this fashion. He turned round.
" Oh, Max, what is the matter? Oh, Max!" I could no
more.
" My child!" He soothed me by calling me by that and
several other fond names, but all these things are between
him and me alone. "Now, good-by. I must bid you
good-by at once."
I tried to make him understand there was no necessity
-that papa desired to hear nothing, only wished him to
stay with us till evening. That indeed, looking as wretched as he did, I could not and would not let him go. But
in vain.
"I can not stay. I can not be a hypocrite. Do not ask
it. Let me go-oh! my child, let me go."
And he might have gone-being very obstinate, and not
in the least able to see what is good for him or for me
either-had it not fortunately happened that, overpowered
with the excitement of the last ten minutes, my small
strength gave way. I felt myself falling-tried to save
myself by catching hold of Max's arm, and fell. When I
awoke, I was lying on the sofa, with papa and Mrs. Granton beside me.
Also Max-though I did not at first see him. He had
taken his rights, or they had been tacitly yielded to him;
I do not know how it was, but my head was on my betrothed husband's breast.
So he staid. Nobody asked any questions and he himself explained nothing. He only sat by me, all afternoon,
taking care of me, watching me with his eyes of love-the
love that is to last me my whole life. I know it will.
Therefore, in the evening, it was I who was the first to
say, "Now, Max, you must go."
"You are quite better?"
"Yes, and it is almost dark-it will be very dark across
the mooit. You must go."
L 2




250             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
He rose, and shook hands mechanically with papa and
Mrs. Granton. He was going to do the same by me, but
I loosed my hands and clasped them round his neck. I did
not care for what any body might say or think; he was
mine and I was his-they were all welcome to know it.
And I wished him to know and feel that, through every
thing, and in spite of every thing, I-his own-loved him
and would love him to the last.
So he went away.
That is more than a week ago, and I have had no letter;
but he did not say he would write. He would rather
come, I think. Thus, any moment I may hear his ring at
the door.
They-papa and Penelope-think I take things quietly.
Penelope, indeed, hardly believes I care for him at all.
But they do not know; oh, Max, they do not know! You
know, or you will know, some day.
CHAPTER XXV.
HIS STORY.
MY dear Theodora, I trust you may never read this letter, which, as a preventive measure, I am about to write;
I trust we may burn it together, and that I may tell you
its contents at accidental times, after the one principal fact
has been communicated.
I mean to communicate it face to face, by word of mouth.
It will not seem so awful then; and I shall see the expression of your countenance on first hearing it. That will
guide me as to my own conduct, and as to the manner in
which it had best be broken to your father. I have hope
at times, that, even after such a communication, his regard
for me will not altogether fail; and it may be that his present opinions will not be invincible. He may suggest some
atonement, some probation, however long or painful I care
not, so that it ends in his giving me you.
But first I ought to furnish him with full information
about things into which I have never yet dared to inquire.
I shall do so to-morrow. Much, therefore, depends upon
to-morrow. Such a crisis almost unnerves me; add to that
the very sight of this place; and I went by chance to the
same inn, the White Hart, Salisbury. When you have
read this letter through, you will not wonder that this is




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             251
a terrible night for me. I never would have revisited this
town, but in the hope of learning every particular, so as to
tell you and your father the truth and the whole truth.
He will assuredly pity me. The thought of his own
boy, your brother, whom you once mentioned, and who
Mr. Johnston informed me " died young" after some great
dereliction-this thought may make him deal gently with
me. Whether he will ever forgive me, or receive me into
his family, remains doubtful. It is with the fear of this, or
any other possibility which I can not now foresee, that I
write this letter, in order that, whatever happens, my Theodora may be acquainted with my whole history.
My Theodora! Some day, when she comes to read a
few pages which I seal up tp-night, marking them with
her name, and "To be delivered to her after my death,"
she will understand how I have loved her. Otherwise, it
never could have been found out, even by her-for I am
not a demonstrative man.' Only my wife would have
known it.
In case this letter, and those other letters, do reach you,
they will then be your last mementos of me. Read them
and burn them; they are solely meant for you.
Should all go well, so that they become needless, we will,
as I said, burn them together, read or unread, as you choose.
You shall do it with your own hand, sitting by me, at our
own fireside.  Our fireside. The thought of it-the terror of losing it, makes me almost powerless to write on.
Will you ever find out how I love you, my love-my love!
I begin by reminding you that I have been long aware
your name is not properly Johnston. You told me yourself that the t had been inserted of late years. That you
are not an aristocratic, but a plebeian family. My thankfulness at learning this, you will understand afterward.
That cathedral clock-how it has startled me! Striking
twelve with the same tongue as it did twenty years ago.
Were I superstitious, I might fancy I heard in the coffeeroom below the clink of glasses, the tune of "Glorious
Apollo," and the "Bravo" of that uproarious voice,
The town is hardly the least altered. Except that I
came in by railway instead of by coach, it might be the
very same Salisbury on that very same winter's night —the
quaint, quiet English town that I stood looking at from
this same window-its streets shining with rain, and its
lights glimmering here and there through the general




05 2            A LIFE FOB A LIFE.
gloom. How I stared, boy-like, till he came behind and
slapped me on the shoulder. But I have a few things to
tell you before I tell you the history of that night. Let me
delay it as long as I can.
You know about my father and mother, and how they
both died when Dallas and I were children. We had no
near kindred; we had to take care of ourselves-or, rather, he took care of me; he was almost as good as a father
to me, from the time he was twelve years old.
Let me say a word or two more about my brother Dallas. If ever there was a perfect character on this earth,
he was one. Every creature who knew him thought the
same. I doubt not the memory of him still lingers in those
old cloisters of St. Mary and St. Salvador, where he spent
eight years studying for the ministry. I feel sure there
is not a lad who was at college with him-gray-headed lads
they would be now, grave professors, or sober ministers of
the Kirk, with country manses, wives, and families-not one
of them but would say as I say, if you spoke to him of Dallas Urquhart.
Being five years my elder, he had almost ended his curriculum when I began mine; besides, we were at different
colleges; but we went through some sessions together; a
time on which I look back with peculiar tenderness, as I
think all boys do who have studied at St. Andrew's. You
English do not altogether know us Scotch. I have seen
hard-headed, possibly hard-hearted men, grim divines, stern
military officers, and selfish Anglo-Indian valetudinarians,
melt to the softness of a boy, as they talked of their boyish
days at St. Andrew's.
You never saw the place, my little lady? You would
like it, I know. To me, who have not seen it these twenty
years, it still seems like a city in a dream, I could lead
you, hand-in-hand, through every one of its quiet old streets,
where you so seldom hear the noise of either carriage or
cart; could point out the notable historical corners, and tell
you which professor lived in this house and which in that;
could take you along the Links, to the scene of our celebrated golfing-match, calling over the names of the principal players, including his who won it-a fine fellow he was
too! What became of him, I wonder?
Also, I could show you the exact spot where you get
the finest view of the Abbey and St. Regulus' Tower, and
then away back to our lodgings-Dallas's and mine-along




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             253
the Scores, where, of moonlight nights, the elder and more
sentimental of the college lads would be caught strolling
with their sweethearts-bonnie lassies too they were at St.
Andrew's-or we beheld them in all the glamour of our
teens, and fine havers we talked to them along those
Scores, to the sound of the sea below. I can hear it now.
What a roar it used to come in with, on stormy nights,
against those rocks beyond the Castle, where a lad and his
tutor were once both drowned!
I am forgetting myself, and all I had to tell you. It is a
long time since I have spoken of those old days.
Theodora, I should like you some time to go and see St.
Andrew's. Go there, in any case, and take a look at the
old place. You will likely find, in St. Mary's Cloisters, on
the third arch to the right hand as you enter, my initials
and Dallas's; and if you ask, some old janitor or librarian
may still remember " the two Urquharts"-that is, if you
like to name us. But, go if you can. Faithful heart! 1
know you will always care for any thing that concerned
me.
All the happy days of my life were spent at St. Andrew's.
They lasted until Dallas fell ill, and had to go abroad at
once. I was to follow, and stay with him the winter,
missing thereby one session, for he did not like to part
with me. Perhaps he foresaw his end, which I, boy-like,
never thought of, for I was accustomed to his being always
delicate; perhaps he knew what a lad of nineteen might
turn out, left to himself.
I was "left to myself," in our Scotch interpretation of
the phrase; which, no doubt, originated in the stern Presbyterian belief of what human nature is, abandoned by
God. "Left to himself." Many a poor wretch's more
wretched parents know what that means.
How it came about I do not call to mind, but I found
myself in London, my own master, spending money like
dross; and spending what was worse, my time, my conscience, my innocence. How low I fell God knows, for I
hardly know myself! Things which happened afterward
made me oblivious even of this time. While it lasted, I
never once wrote to Dallas.
A letter from him, giving no special reason for my joining him, but urging me to come, and quibkly, made me
recoil conscience-stricken from the Gehenna into which I
was falling. You will find the lbtter-the last I had from




254             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
him, in this packet: read it, and burn it with mine. Of
course, no one has ever seen it, or will ever see it, except
yourself.
I started from London immediately, in great restlessness
and anguish of mind; for though I had been no worse
than my neighbors, or so bad as many of them-I knew
what Dallas was-and how his pure life, sanctified, though
I guessed it not, by the shadow of coming death, would
look beside this evil life of mine. I was very miserable;
and a lad not used to misery is then in the quicksands of
temptation. He is grateful to any one who will save him
from himself-give him a narcotic and let his torment
sleep.
I mention this only as a fact, not an extenuation. Though,
in some degree, Max Urquhart the man has long since
learned to pity Max Urquhart the boy.
-Here I paused, to read this over, and see if I have said
all I wished therein. The narrative seems clear. You will
perceive I try as much as I can to make it a mere history
as if of another person, and thus far I think I have done so.
The rest I now proceed to tell you, as circumstantially and
calmly as I can.
But first, before you learn any more about me, let me
bid you remember how I loved you, how you permitted
me to love you-how you have been mine, heart and eyes
and tender lips, you know you were mine. You can not
alter that. If I were the veriest wretch alive, you once
saw in me something worth loving, and you did love me.
Not after the fashion of those lads and lassies who went
courting along the Scores at St. Andrew's-but solemnly
-deeply-as those love who expect one day to be husband
and wife. Remember we were to have been married,
Theodora.
I found my quickest route to Pau was by Southampton
to Havre. But in the dusk of the morning I mistook the
coach; my luggage went direct, and I found myself, having
traveled some hours, on the road-not to Southampton,
but to Salisbury. This was told me after some jocularity,
at what he thought a vastly amusing piece of " greenness"
on my part, by the coachman. That is, the gentleman who
drove the coach.
He soon took care to let me know he was a gentlemanand that, like many young men of rank and fashion at that
time, he was acting Jehu only "for a spree." He talked




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.            255
so large, I should have taken him for a nobleman, or a baronet at least-had he not accidentally told me his name;
though he explained that it was not as humble as it seemed,
and expatiated much upon the antiquity, wealth, and aristocratic connections of his "family."
His conversation, though loud and coarse, was amusing,
and he patronized me extremely.
I would rather not say a word more than is necessary
concerning this person; he is dead. As before stated, I
never knew any thing of him excepting his name, which
you shall have by-and-by, but I guessed that his life had
not been a creditable one. He looked about thirty, or a
little older.
When the coach stopped-at the very inn where I am
now writing, the White Hart, Salisbury-he insisted on
my stopping too, as it was a bitter cold night, and the
moon would not rise till two in the morning. He said
that, I mind well.
Finally he let the coach go on without us, and I heard
him laying a bet to drive across Salisbury Plain in a gig or
dog-cart, and meet it again on the road to Devizes by daybreak next morning. The landlord laughed, and advised
him to give up such a mad "neck-or-nothing" freak; but
he swore, and said he always went at every thing " neckor-nothing."
I can remember to this day nearly every word he uttered, and his manner of saying it. Under any circumstances this might have been the case, for he attracted me,
bad as I felt him to be, with his bold, devil-may-care jollity,
mixed with a certain English frankness not unpleasant.
He was a small, dark man, hollow-eyed and dissipated
looking. His face-no, better not call up his face.
I was persuaded to stay and drink with this man and
one or two others, regular topers, as I soon found he was.
He appeared poor too; the drinking was to be at my expense. I was very proud td have the honor of entertaining such a clever and agreeable gentleman.
Once, watching him and listening to his conversation,
sudden doubts seized me of what Dallas would think of
my new acquaintance, and what he would say, or look-he
seldom reproved aloud-were he to walk in and find me in
the present company. And supper being done, I tried to
get away, but this man held me by the shoulders, mocking
me, and setting the rest on to mock me as a "milksop."




256             A LIFE FOB  A LIFE.
The good angel fled. From that moment, I believe, the
devil entered both into him and me.
I got drunk. It was for the first time in my life, though
more than once lately I had been " merry," but stopped at
that stage. This time I stopped at nothing. My blood
was at boiling heat, with just enough of conscience left to
make me snatch at any means to deaden it.
Of the details of that orgie, or of those who joined in it,
except this one person, I have, as was likely, no distinct
recollection. They were habitual drinkers; none of them
had any pity for me, and I-I was utterly "left to myself,"
as I have said. A raw, shy, Scotch lad, I soon became the
butt of the company.
The last thing I remember is their trying to force me to
tell my name, which hitherto I had not done, first from natural reserve among strangers, and then from an instinctive
feeling that I was not in the most creditable of society,
and therefore the less I said about myself the better. All
I had told was, that I was on my way to France to join my
brother, who was ill. They could not get any more out
of me than that. A few taunts, which some English people are rather too ready to use against us Scotch, made me
savage as well as sullen. I might have deserved it, or not
— I can not tell-but the end was, they turned me outthe obstinate, drunken, infuriated lad-into the street.
I staggered through the dark, silent town into a lane,
and fell asleep on the road-side.
The next thing I call to mind is being awakened by the
cut of a whip across my shoulders, and seeing a man standing over me. I flew at his throat like a wild creature, for
it was he-the "gentleman" who had made me drunk and
mocked me, and whom I seemed then and there to hate
with a fury of hatred that would last to my dying day.
Through it all came the thought of Dallas, sick and solitary, half way toward whom I ought to have traveled by
now.
How he-the man-soothed me I do not know, but
think it was by offering to take me toward Dallas. He
had a horse and gig standing by, and said if I Would
mount he would drive me to the coast, Whence I could take
boat to France. At least, that is the vague impression my
mind retains of what passed between us. He helped me
up beside him and I dozed off to sleep again.
My next Wakening was in the middle of a desolate plain.




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             257
I rubbed my eyes, but saw nothing except stars ard sky,
and this black, black plain, which seemed to have no end.
He pulled up, and told me to "tumble out," which I did
mechanically. On the other side of the gig was something
tall and dark, which I took at first for a half-way inn, but
perceived it was only a huge stone-a circle of stones.
"Halloo! what's this?"
"Stonehenge-comfortable lodging for man and beastso you're all right. Good-by, young fellow; you're such
dull company that I mean to leave you here till morning."
This was what he said to me, laughing uproariously. At
first I thought he was in jest, and laughed too; then, being
sleepy and maudlin, I remonstrated; lastly, I got halffrightened, for when I tried to mount he pushed me down.
I was so helpless and he so strong; fiom this solitary place,
miles and miles from any human dwelling, how should I
get on to Dallas?-Dallas, who, stupefied as I was, still remained my prominent thought.
I begged, as if I had been begging for my life, that he
would keep his promise, and take me on my way toward
my brother.
"To the devil with your brother!" and he whipped his
horse on.
The devil was in me, as I said. I sprang at him, my
strength doubled and trebled with rage, and catching him
unawares, dragged him from the gig, and threw him violently on the ground. His head struck against one of the
great stones-and-andNow, you see how it was. I murdered him. He must
have died easily-instantaneously; he never moaned nor
stirred once, but, for all that, it was murder.
Not with intent, God knows. So little idea had I he
was dead, that I shook him as he lay, told him to "get up
and fight it out;" oh, my God! my God!
Thus I have told it, the secret, which until now has never been written or spoken to any human being. I was
then nineteen —I am now nine-and-thirty; twenty years.
Theodora, have pity; only think of cariying such a secret
-the blood of a man, on one's conscience for twenty years!
If, instead of my telling you all this, as I may do in a few
days, you should have to read it here, it will by then have
become an old tale. Still, pity me.
To continue, for it is getting far on into the night.




298             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
The first few minutes after I discovered what I had done,
you will not expect me to speak of.
I was perfectly sober now. I had tried every means in
my power to revive him; and then to ascertain for certain
that he was dead; I forgot to tell you I had already begun
my classes in medicine, so I knew a good deal. I sat with
his head on my knee, fully aware that I had killed him;
that I had taken the life of a man, and that his blood would
be upon me forever and ever.
Nothing short of the great condemnation of the last
judgment-day could parallel that horror of despair; under
it my reason seemed to give way. I was seized with the
delusion that, bad and cruel man as he was, he was only
shamming to terrify me. I held him up in my arms, so
that the light of the gig-lamps fell full on his face.
It was a dead face-not frightful to look at, beautiful
rather, as the muscles slowly settled-but dead, quite dead.
I laid him down again, still resting his head against my
knee, till he gradually stiffened and grew cold.
This was just at moonrise; he had said the moon would
rise at two o'clock, and so she did, and struck her first arrowy ray across the plain upon his face-that still face with
its half-open mouth and eyes.
I had not been afraid of him hitherto; now I was. It
was no longer a man, but a corpse, and I was the murderer.
The sight of the moon rising, is my last recollection of
this night. Probably, the fit of insanity, which lasted for
many months after, at that instant came on, and under its
influence I must have fled, leaving him where he lay, with
the gig standing by, and the horse quietly feeding beside
the great stones; but I do not recollect any thing. Doubtless, I had all the cunning of madness, for I contrived to
gain the coast and get over to France; but how, or when,
I have not the slightest remembrance to this day.
As I have told you, I never saw Dallas again. When I
reached Pau, he was dead and buried. The particulars of
his death were explained to me months afterward by the
good cure, who, Catholic as he was, had learned to love
Dallas like a son, and who watched over me for his sake,
during the long melancholy mania which, as he thought,
resulted from the shock of my brother's death.
Some day I should like you, if possible, to see the spot
where Dallas is buried-the church-yard of Bilheres near
Pau; but his grave is not within the church-yard, as, he




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             259
being a Protestant, the authorities would not allow it.
You will find it just outside the hedge-the head-stone
placed in the hedge-though the little mound is by this
time level with the meadow outside. You know, we Presbyterians have not your English feeling about " consecrated" ground; we believe that "the whole earth is the
Lord's," and no human consecration can make it holier than
it is, both for the worship of the living, and the interment
of the dead. Therefore, it does not shock me that the cattle feed, and the grass grows tall, over Dallas's body. But
I should like the head-stone preserved-as it is; for yearly,
in different quarters of the globe, I have received letters
from the old cure and his successor, concerning it. You
are much younger than I, Theodora; after my death I leave
this charge to you. You will fulfill it for my sake, I know.
Must I tell you any more? Yes, for now comes what
some might say was a crime as heavy as the first one. I
do not attempt to extenuate it. I can only say that it has
been expiated-such as it was -by twenty miserable years,
and that the last expiation is even yet not come. Your father once said, and his words dashed from me the first hope
which ever entered my mind concerning you, that he never
would clasp the hand of a man who had taken the life of
another. What would he say to a man who had taken a
life, and concealed the fact for twenty years. I am that
man.
How it came about, I will tell you.
For a twelvemonth after that night, I was, you will remember, not myself; in truth, a maniac, though a quiet and
harmless one. My insanity was of the sullen and taciturn
kind, so that I betrayed nothing, if indeed I had any remembrance of what had happened, which I believe I had
not. The first dawn of recollection came through reading
in an English newspaper, which the old cure brought to
amuse me, an account of a man who was hanged for murder. I read it line by line-the trial-the verdict-the latter days of the criminal-who was a young lad like meand the last day of all, when he was hanged.
By degrees, first misty as a dream, then ghastly clear,
impressed on my mind with a tenacity and minuteness all
but miraculous, considering the long blank which followed
-came out the events of that night. I became conscious
that I too had killed a man, that if any eye had seen the
act I should have been taken, tried, and hanged for murder.




260             A LIFE FPOR A LIFE.
Young as I was, and ignorant of English criminal law, I
had sufficient common sense to arrive at the conclusion,
that, as things stood, there was not a fragment of evidence
against me individually, nor, indeed, any clear evidence to
show that the man was murdered at all. It was now a
year ago-he must have long since been found and buried
-probably with little inquiry; they would conclude he had
been killed accidentally, through his own careless, drunken
driving. But if I once confessed and delivered myself up
to justice, I myself alone knew, and no evidence could ever
prove, that it was not a case of willful murder. I should
be hanged-hanged by the neck till I was dead-and my
name, our name, Dallas's and mine-blasted forevermore.
The weeks that elapsed after my first recovery of reason
were such that, when I hear preachers thunder about the
literal" worm that dieth not, and fire that is never quenched," I could almost smile. Sufficient are the torments of
a spiritual hell.
Sometimes, out of its depths, I felt as if Satan himself had
entered my soul, to rouse me into atheistic rebellion. I, a
boy not twenty yet, with all my future before me, to lose
it through a moment's fury against a man who must have
been depraved to the core, a man against whom I had no
personal grudge, of whom I knew nothing but his name.
Yet I must surrender my life for his-be tried, condemned,
publicly disgraced-finally die the death of a dog. I had
never been a coward-yet night after night I woke, bathed
in a cold sweat of terror, feeling the rope round my neck,
and seeing the forty thousand upturned faces-as in the
newspaper account of the poor wretch who was hanged.
Remember, I plead nothing. I know there are those
who would say that the most dishonorable wretch alive
was this same man of honor-this Max Urquhart, who catries such a fair reputation; that the only thing I should
have done was to go back to England, surrender myself
to justice, and take all the consequences of this one act of
drunkenness and ungovernable passion. However, I did it
not. But my sin-as every sin must-be sure has found
me out.
Theodora, it is hardly eight hours since your innocent
arms were round my neck, and your kisses on my mouth
-and now! Well, it will be over soon. However I have
lived, I shall not die a hypocrite.
I do not attempt to retrace the course of reasoning by




A LIFE FOR A LIFE..261
which I persuaded myself to act as I did. I was only a
boy; this long sleep of the mind had re-established my bodily health-life and youth were strong within me; alsg the
hope of honor, the dread of shame. Yet sometimes conscience struggled so fiercely with all these, that I was half
tempted to a medium course, the coward's last escape —
suicide.
You must remember, religion was wanting in me-and
Dallas was dead. Nay, I had for the time already forgotten him.
One day, when, driven distracted with my doubts, I had
almost made up my mind to end them in the one sharp,
easy way I have spoken of, while putting my brother's papers in order, I found his Bible. Underneath his name he
had written-and the date was that of the last day of his
life-my name. I looked at it, as we look at a handwriting
long familiar, till of a sudden we remember that the hand
is cold, that no earthly power can ever reproduce of this
known writing a single line. Child, did you ever knowno, you never could have known-that total desolation,
that helpless craving for the dead who return no more?
After I grew calmer, I did the, only thing which seemed
to bring me a little nearer to Dallas-I read in his Bible.
The chapter I opened at was so remarkable, that at first I
recoiled as if it had been my brother-he who, being now
a spirit, might, for all I could tell, have a spirit's knowledge
of all things-speaking to me out of the invisible world.
The chapter was Ezekiel xvii., and among other verses
were these:
"When the wicked man turneth away from his wickedness that he
hath committed, and doeth that which is lawful and right, he shall save
his soul alive.
"Because he considereth and turneth away from all his transgressions
that he hath committed, he shall surely live; he shall not die.
"For I have no pleasure in the death of him that dieth, saith the
Lord God: wherefore turn yourselves and live ye."
I turned and lived. I resolved to give a lifer-my ownfor the life which I had taken; to devote it wholly to the
saving of other lives; and at its close, when I had built. up
a good name, and shown openly that after any crime a man
might recover himself, repent, and atone, I meant to pay
the full price of the sin of my youth, and openly to acknowledge before the world. How far I was right or
wrong in this decision I can not tell-perhaps no human




262             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
judgment ever can tell. I simply state what I then resolved,
and have never swerved from-till I saw you.
Of necessity, with this ultimate confession ever before
me, all the pleasures of life, and all its closest ties-friendship, love, marriage-were not to be thought of. I set
them aside as impossible. To me, life could never be enjoyment, but simply atonement.
My subsequent history you are acquainted with-how,
after the needful term of medical study in Britain (I chose
Dublin as being the place where I was utterly a stranger,
and remained there till my four years ended), I went as an
army surgeon half over the world. The first time I ever
set foot in England again was not many weeks before I
saw, in the ball-room of the Cedars, that little sweet face
of yours. The same face in which, two days ago, I read
the look of love which stirs a man's heart to the very core.
In a moment it obliterated the resolutions, conflicts, sufferings, of twenty years and restored me to a man's right and
privilege of loving, wooing, marrying. Shall we ever be
married?
By the time you read this, if ever you do read it, that
question will have been answered. It can do you no harm
if for one little minute I think of you as my wife; no longer
friend, child, mistress, but my wife.
Think of all that would have been implied by that name.
Think of coming home, and of all that home would have
been-however humble-to me who never had a home in
my whole life. Think of all I would have tried to make it
to you. Think of sitting by my fireside, knowing that you
were the only one required to make it happy and bright;
that, good, and pleasant, and dear as many others might
be-the only absolute necessity to each of us was one another.
Then the years that would have followed, in which we
never had to say good-by-in which our two hearts would
daily lie open, clear and plain, never to have a doubt or a
secret any more.
Then-if we should not always be only two!-think of
you as my wife-the mother of my children*      *      *      *     *      *      *
I was unable to conclude this last night. Now I only
add a line before going into the town to gain information
about-about this person; by whom his body was found,
and where buried; with that intent I have already been




A LIFE FOR A'LIFE.           263
searching the cathedral burying-ground, but there are no
signs of graves there-all is smooth green turf, with the
dew upon it, glittering like a sheet of diamonds in the
bright spring morning.
It reminded me of you, this being your hour for rising,
you early bird-you little methodical girl. You may at
this moment be out on the terrace, looking up to the hilltop, or down toward your favorite cedar-trees, with that
sunshiny spring morning face of yours.
Pray for me, my love, my wife,'my Theodora.
*      *      *     *      *      *      *
I have found his grave at last.
"Inr memory of Henry Johnston, only son of the Reverend
William Henry Johnston, of Rockmount, Surrey, who met
his death by an accident near this town, and was buried here.
Born May 19, 1806. Died November 19, 1836."
Farewell, Theodora.
CHAPTER XXVI.
HER STORY.
MANY, many weeks-months, indeed, have gone by since
I opened this my journal. Can I bear the sight of it even
now? Yes, I think I can.
I have been sitting ever so long at the open window, in
my old attitude, elbow on the sill, only with a difference
that seems to come natural now when no one is by. It is
such a comfort to sit with my lips on my ring. I asked
him to give me a ring, and he did so. Oh, Max! Max!
Max!
Great and miserable changes have befallen us, and now
Max and I are not going to be married. Penelope's mar,
riage also has been temporarily postponed for the same
reason, though I implored her not to tell it to Francis, unless he should make very particular inquiries, or be exceedingly angry at the delay. He was not. Nor did we judge
it well to inform Lisabel. Therefore, papa, Penelope, and I
keep our own secret.
Now that it is over, the agony of it smothered up, and
all at Rockmount goes on as heretofore, I sometimes wonder do strangers or inmates-Mrs. Granton, for instancesuspect any thing? Or is ours, awful as it seems, no spe



264             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
cial and peculiar lot? Many another family may have its
own lamentable secret, the burden of which each member
has to bear, and carry in society a cheerful countenance,
even as this of mine.
Mrs. Granton said yesterday mine was " a cheerful countenance." If so, I am glad. Two things only could really
have broken my heart-his ceasing to love me, and his
changing so in himself, not in his circumstances, that I
could no longer worthily love;him. By "him" I mean, of
course, Max-Max Urquhart, my betrothed husband, whom
henceforward I can never regard in any other light.
How blue the hills are-how bright the moors! So they
ought to be, for it is near midsummer. By this day fortnight-Penelope's marriage-day-we shall have plenty of
roses. All the better; I would not like it to be a dull
wedding, though so quiet; only the Trehernes and IMrs.
Granton as guests, and me fbr the solitary bridesmaid.
"Your last appearance, I hope, Dora, in that capacity,"
laughed the dear old lady. "'Thrice a bridesmaid, ne'er
a bride,' which couldn't be thought of, you know. No
need to speak-I guess why your wedding isn't talked
about-the old story, man's pride and woman's patience.
Never mind. Nobody knows any thing but me, and I
shall keep a quiet tongue in the matter. Least said is
soonest mended. All will come right soon, when the doctor is a little better off in the world."
I let her suppose so. It is of little moment what she or
any body thinks, so that it is nothing ill of him.
"Thrice a bridesmaid, never a bride." Even so. Yet,
would I change lots with our bride Penelope or any other
bride? No.
Now that my mind has settled to its usual level-has
had time to view things calmly-to satisfy itself that nothing could have been done different from what has been
done, I may at last be able to detail these events. For
both Max's sake and my own, it seems best to do it, unless
I could make up my mind to destroy my whole journal.
An unfinished record is worse than none. During our lifetimes we shall both preserve our secret; but many a
chance brings dark things to light, and I have my Max's
honor to guard as well as my own.
This afternoon, papa being out driving, and Penelope gone
to town to seek for a maid, whom the governor's lady will
require to take out with her-they sail a month hence-I




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.            265
shall seize the opportunity to write down what has befallen
Max and me.
My own poor Max! But my lips are on his ring; this
hand is as safely kept for him as when he first held it in
his breast.
Let me turn back a page and see where it was I left off
writing my journal.
*      *      *     *      *      *      *
I did so, and it was more than I could bear at the time.
I have had to take another day for this relation, and even
now it is bitter enough to recall the feelings with which I
put my pen by, so long ago, waiting fir Max to come in," at any minute."
I waited ten days; not unhappily, though the last two
were somewhat anxious, but it was simply lest any thing
might have gone wrong with him or his affairs. As for
his neglecting or " treating me ill," as Penelope suggested,
such a thought never entered my head. How could he
treat me ill?-he loved me.
The tenth day, which was the end of the term he had
named for his journey, I, of course, fully expected him. I
knew if by any human power it could be managed, I should
see him; he never would break his word. I rested on his
love as surely as in waking from that long sick swoon I
had rested on his breast. I knew he would be tender over
me, and not let me suffer one more hour's suspense or pain
than he could possibly avoid.
It may here seem strange that I had never asked Max
where he was going, nor any thing of the business he was
going upon. Well, that was his secret, the last secret that
was ever to be between us; so I chose not to interfere with
it, but to wait his time. Also, I did not fret much about
it, whatever it was. He loved me. People who have been
hungry for love, and never had it all their lives, can understand the utterly satisfied contentment of this one feelingMax loved me.
At dusk, after staying in all day, I went out, partly because Penelope wished it, and partly for health's sake. I
never lost a chance.of getting strong now. My sister and
I walked along silently, each thinking of her own affairs,
when, at a turn in the road which led, not from th4 camp,
but from the moorlands, she cried out, " I do believe there
is Doctor Urquhart."
If he had not heard his name, I think he would have
M




266             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
passed us without knowing us. And the face that met
mine, when he looked up-I never shall forget it to my dying day.
It made me shrink back for a minute, and then I said:
"Oh, Max! have you been ill?"
"I do not know. Yes-possibly."
"When did you come back?"
"I forget-oh! four days ago."
"Were you coming to Rockmount?"
"Rockmount?-oh, no!" He shuddered, and dropped
my hand.
"Doctor Urquhart seems in a very uncertain frame of
mind," said Penelope, severely, from the other side of the
road.   We had better leave him. Come, Dora."
She carried me off almost forcibly. She was exceedingly displeased. Four days, and never to have come or
written! She said it was slighting me and insulting the
family.
"A man, too, of whose antecedents and connections we
knew nothing. He may be a mere adventurer-a penniless Scotch adventurer. Francis always said he was."
"Francis is-"  But I could not stay to speak of him,
or to reply to Penelope's bitter words. All I thought was
how to get back to Max, and entreat him to tell me what
had happened. He would tell me. He loved me. So,
without any feeling of "proper pride," as Penelope called
it, I writhed myself out of her grasp, ran back to Doctor
Urquhart, and took possession of his arm-my arm-which
I had a right to.
"Is that you, Theodora?"
"Yes, it is I." And then I said I wanted him to go
home with me and tell me what had happened.
"Better not; better go home with your sister."
"I had rather stay here. I mean to stay here."
He stopped, took both my hands, and forced a smile:
" You are the determined little lady you always were; but
you do not know what you are saying. You had better
go and leave me."
I was sure then some great misery was approaching us.
I tried to read it in his face. " Do you-" did he still love
me, I was about to ask, but there was no need. So my
answer, too, was brief and plain.
"I never will leave you as long as I live."
Then I ran back to Penelope, and told her I should walk




A LIFE FOR A LTFE.             267
home. with Doctor Urquhart; he had something to'ay to
me. She tried anger and authority. Both failed. If we
had been summer lovers it might have been different, but
now in his trouble I seemed to feel Max's right to me and
my love, as I had never done before. Penelope might have
lectured for everlasting, and I should only have listened,
and then gone back to Max's side, as I did.
His arm pressed mine close; he did not say a second
time, " Leave me."'s Now, Max, I want to hear."
No answer.
"You know there is something, and we shall never be
quite happy till it is told. Say it outright; whatever it is,
I shall not mind."
No answer.
" Is it something very terrible?"
" Yes."
" Something that might come between and part us?"
"Yes."
I trembled, though not much, having so strong a belief
in the impossibility of parting. Yet there must have been
an expression I hardly intended in the cry, "Oh, Max, tell
me," for he again stopped suddenly, and seemed to forget
himself in looking at and thinking of me.
"Stay, Theodora-you have something to tell me first.
Are you better? Have you been growing stronger daily?
You are sure?"
"Quite sure. Now-tell me."
He tried to speak once or twice, vainly. At last he said,
"I-I wrote you a letter."
"I never got it."
"No; I did not mean you should until my death. But
my mind has changed. You shall have it now. I have
carried it about with me, on the chance of meeting you,
these four days. I wanted to give it to you-and-to look
at you. Oh, my child, my child."
After a little while, he gave me the letter, begging me
not to open it till I was alone at night.
"And if it should shock you-break your heart?"
"Nothing will break my heart."
"You are right, it is too pure and good. God will not
suffer it to be broken. Now, good-by."
For we had reached the gate of Rockmount. It had
never struck me before that I had to bid him adieu here,




208             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
that he did not mean to go in with me to dinner; and
when he refused, I felt it very much. His only answer
was, for the second time, " that I did not know what I was
saying."
It was now nearly dark, and so misty that I could hardly breathe. Doctor Urquhart insisted on my going in immediately, tied my veil close under my chin, and then
hastily untied it.
"Love, do you love me?"
He has told me afterward, he forgot then, for the time
being, every circumstance that was likely to part us; every
thing in the whole world but me. And I trust I was not
the only one who felt that it is those alone who, loving as
we did, are every thing to one another who have most
strength to part.
When I came indoors the first person I met was papa,
looking quite bright and pleased; and his first question was,
" Where is Doctor Urquhart? Penelope said Doctor
Trquhart was coming here."
I hardly know what was done during that evening, or
whether they blamed Max or not. All my care was how
best to keep his secret, and literally to obey him concerning it.
Of course, I never named his letter, nor made any attempt to read it till I had bidden good-night to them all,
and smiled at Penelope's grumbling over my long candles
and my large fire, " as if I meant to sit up all night." Yes,
I had taken all these precautions in a quiet, solemn kind
of way, for I did not know what was before me, and I
must not fall ill if I could help. I was Max's own personal property.
How cross she was that night, poor Penelope! It was
the last time she ever scolded me.
For some things, Penelope has felt this more than any
one could, except papa, for she is the only one of us who
has a clear recollection of Harry.
Now his name is written and I can tell it-the awful secret I learned from Max's letter, which no one except me
must ever read.
My Max killed Harry. Not intentionally-when he was
out of himself and hardly accountable for what he did; in
a passion of boyish fury, roused by great cruelty and
wrong; but-he killed him. My brother's death, which
we believed to be accidental, was by Max's hand.




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             269
I write this down calmly now, but it was awful at the
time. I think I must have read on mechanically, expecting
something sad, and about Harry likewise; I soon guessed
that bad man at Salisbury must have been poor Harry,
but I never guessed any thing near the truth till I came to
the words " I murdered him."
To suppose one feels a great blow acutely at the instant
is a mistake-it stuns rather than wounds; especially when
it comes in a letter, read in quiet and alone, as I read Max's
letter that night. And-as I remember afterward seeing
in some book, and thinking how true it was-it is strange
how soon a great misery grows familiar. Waking up
from the first few minutes of total bewilderment, I seemed
to have been aware all these twenty years that my Max
killed Harry.
O Harry, my brother, whom I never knew-no more
than any stranger in the street, and the faint memory of
whom was mixed with an indefinite something of wickedness, anguish, and disgrace to us all, if I felt not as I ought,
then or afterward, forgive me. If, though your sister, I
thought less of you dead than of my living Max-my poor,
poor Max, who had borne this awful burden for twenty
years-Harry, forgive me!
Well, I knew it-as an absolute fact and certaintythough as one often feels with great personal misfortunes,
at first I could not realize it. Gradually I became fully
conscious what an overwhelming horror it was, and what a
fearful retributive justice had fallen upon papa and us all.
For there were some things I had not myself known till
this spring, when Penelope, in the fullness of her heart at
leaving us, talked to me a good deal of old childish days,
and especially about Harry.
He was a spoiled child. His father never said him nay
in any thing-never, from the time when he sat at table in
his own ornamental chair, and drank Champagne out of
his own particular glass, lisping toasts that were the great
amusement of every body. He never knew what contradiction was, till, at nineteen, he fell in love, and wanted to get
married, and would have succeeded, for they eloped (as I
believe papa and Harry's mother had done), but papa had
prevented them in time. The girl, some village lass, but
she might have had a heart nevertheless, broke it, and died.
Then Harry went all wrong.
Penelope remembers how, at times, a shabby, dissipated




270             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
man used to meet us children out walking, and kiss us and
the nursery-maids all round, saying he was our brother
Harry. Also, how he used to lie in wait for papa coming
out of church, follow him into his library, where, after fearful scenes of quarreling, Harry would go away jauntily,
laughing to us, and bowing to mamma, who always showed him out and shut the door upon him with a face as
white as a sheet.
My sister also remembers papa's being suddenly called
away fiom home for a day or two, and, on his return, our
being all put into mourning, and told that it was for brother Harry, whom we must never speak of any more. And
once, when she was saying her geography lesson, and wanted to go and ask papa some questions about Stonehenge and
Salisbury, mamma stopped her, saying she must take care
never to mention these places to papa, for that poor Harry
-she called him so now-had died miserably by an accident, and been buried at Salisbury.
She died the same year, and soon afterward we came to
Rockmount, living handsomely upon grandfather's money,
and proud that we had already begun to call ourselves
Johnston. Oh me, what wicked falsehoods poor Harry
told about his "family." Him we never again named;
not one of our neighbors here ever knew that we had a
brother.
The first shock over, hour after hour of that long night
I sat trying by any means to recall him to mind, my father's son, my own flesh and blood-at least by the halfblood-to pity him, to feel as I ought concerning his death,
and the one who caused it. But do as I would, my thoughts
went back to Max-as they might have done, even had he
not been my own Max, out of deep compassion for one who,
not being a premeditated and hardened criminal, had suffered for twenty years the penalty of this single crime.
It was such, I knew. I did not attempt to palliate it, or
justify him. Though poor Harry was worthless, and Max
is-what he is-that did not alter the question. I believe,
even then, I did not disguise from myself the truth-that
my Max had committed, not a fault, but an actual crime.
But I called him my Max still. It was the only word that
saved me, or I might, as he feared, have "broken my heart."
The whole history of that dreadful night, there is no need
I should tell to any human being; even Max himself will
never know it. God knows it, and that is enough. By




A LIFE' FOR A LIFE.           271
my own strength, I never should have kept my life or reason till the morning.
But it was necessary, and it was better far that I should
have gone through this anguish alone, guided by no outer
influence, and sustained only by that Strength which always
comes in seasons like these.
I seem, while stretching on the rack of those long night
hours, to have been led by some supernatural instinct into
the utmost depths of human and divine justice, human and
divine love in search of the right. At last I saw it, clung
to it, and have found it my rock of hope ever since.
When the house below began to stir, I put out my candle, and stood watching the dawn creep over the gray
moorlands, just as on the morning when we sat up all night
with my father-Max and I. How fond my father was of
him-my poor, poor father!
The horrible conflict and confusion of mind came back.
I felt as if right and wrong were inextricably mixed together, laying me under a sort of moral paralysis, out of
which the only escape was madness. Then out of the deeps
I cried unto Thee, 0 Thou whose infinite justice includes
also infinite forgiveness; and Thou heardst me.
"When the wicked man turneth away from his wickedness that he hath committed, and doeth that which is lawful and right, he shall save his soul alive."
I remembered these words: and unto Thee I trusted my
Max's soul.
It was daylight now, and the little birds began waking
up, one by one, until they broke into a perfect chorus of
chirping and singing. I thought, was ever grief like this
of mine? Yes-one grief would have been worse-if, this
sunny summer morning, I knew he had ceased to love me,
and I to believe in him-if I had lost him-never, either in
this world or the next, to find him more.
After a little, I thought if I could only go to sleep, though
but for half an hour, it would be well. So I undressed and
laid myself down, with Max's letter tight hidden in my
hands.
Sleep came; but it ended in dreadful dreams, out of
which I awoke, screaming, to see Penelope standing by my
bedside, with my breakfast.
Now, I had already laid my plans-to tell my father all.
For he must be told. No other alternative presented itself to me as possible-nor, 1 knew, would it to Max.




272             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
When two people are thoroughly one, each guesses instinctively the other's mind; in most things, always in all
great things, for one faith and love includes also one sense
of right. I was as sure as I was of my existence that Max
meant my father to be told. Not even to make me happy
would he have deceived me-and not even that we might
be married, would he consent that we should deceive my
father.
Thus, that my father must be told, and that I must tell
him, was a matter settled and clear-but I never considered
about how far must be explained to any one else, till I saw
Penelope stand there with her familiar household face, half
cross, half alarmed.
" Why, child, what on earth is the matter? Here are
you, staring as if you were out of your senses-and there
is Doctor Urquhart, who has been haunting the place like
a ghost ever since daylight. I declare, I'll send for him
and give him a piece of my mind."
" Don't, don't," I gasped, and all the horror returnedvivid as daylight makes any new anguish. Penelope
soothed me-with the motherliness that had come over
her since I was ill, and the gentleness that had grown up
in her since she had been happy, and Francis loving. My
miserable heart yearned to her, a woman like myself-a
good woman, too, though I did not appreciate her once,
when I was young and foolish, and had never known care,
as she had. How it came out I can not tell-I have never
regretted it-nor did Max, for I think it saved my heart
from breaking-but I then and there told my sister Penelope our dreadful story.
I see her still, sitting on the bed, listening with blanched
face, gazing, not at me, but at the opposite wall. She
made no outcry of grief or horror against Max. She took
all in a subdued, quiet way, which I had not expected
would have been Penelope's way of bearing a great grief.
She hardly said any thing, till I cried with a bitter cry:
"Now I want Max. Let me rise and go down, for I
must see Max."
Then we two women looked at one another pitifully, and
my sister-my happy sister, who was to be married in a
fortnight-took me in her arms, sobbing,
" Oh, Dora-my poor, poor child."
All this seems years upon years ago, and I can relate it
calmly enough till I call to mind that sob of Penelope's.




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.            273
Well, what happened next? I remember Penelope came
in when I was dressing, and told me, in her ordinary manner, that papa wished her to drive with him to the Cedars
this morning.
"Shall I go, Dora?"
"Yes."
"Perhaps you will see him in our absence."
"I intend so."
She turned, then came back and kissed me. I suppose
she thought this meeting between Max and me would be
an eternal farewell.
The carriage had scarcely driven off, when I received a
message that Doctor Urquhart was in the parlor.
Harry —Harry, twenty years dead-my own brother
killed by my husband!  Let me acknowledge. Had I
known this before he was my betrothed husband, chosen
open-eyed, with all my judgment, my conscience, and my
soul, loved, not merely because he loved me, but because I
loved him, honored him, and trusted him, so that even
marriage could scarcely make us more entirely one than
we were already-had I been aware of this before, I might
not, indeed I think I never should have loved him. Nature
would have instinctively prevented me. But now it was
too late. I loved him, and I could not unlove him; nature
herself forbade the sacrifice. It would have been like tearing my heart out of my bosom; he was half myself, and,
maimed of him, I should never have been my right self
afterward. Nor would he. Two living lives to be blasted
for one that was taken unwittingly twenty years ago!
Could it-ought it to be so?
The rest of the world are free to be their own judges in
the matter, but God and my conscience are mine.
I went down stairs steadfastly, with my mind all clear.
Even to the last minute, with my hand on the parlor door,
my heart-where all throbs of happy love seemed to have
been long, long forgotten-my still heart prayed.
Max was standing by the fire; he turned round. He
and the whole sunshiny room swam before my eyes for an
instant-then I called up my strength and touched him.
He was trembling all over.
" Max, sit down." He sat down.
I knelt by him. I clasped his hands close, but still he
sat as if he had been a stone. At last he muttered,
"I wanted to see you just once more, to know how you
M2




274             A LIFE FOR A LIWE.
bore it-to be sure I had not killed you also-oh, it is horrible! horrible!"
I said it was horrible, but that we would be able to bear
it.
"We?"
" Yes-we."
"You can not mean that Y"
"I do. I have thought it all over, and I do."
Holding me at arm's length, his eyes questioned my inmost soul.
"Tell me the truth. It is not pity-not merely pity,
Theodora?"
"Ah! no, no."
Witlhout another word the first crisis was passed-every
thing which made our misery a divided misery. He opened
his arms and took me once more into my own place, where
alone I.ever really rested, or wish to rest until I die.
Max had been very ill, he told me, for days, and now
seemed both in body and mind as feeble as a child. For
me, my childishness or girlishness, with its ignorance and
weakness, was gone forevermore.
I have thought since that in all women's deepest loves,
be they ever so full of reverence, there enters sometimes
much of the motherly element, even as on this day I felt
as if I were somehow or other in charge of Max, and a
great deal older than he. I fetched a glass of water and
made him drink it-bathed his poor temples and wiped
them with my handkerchief-persuaded him to lean back
quietly and not speak another word for ever so long. But
more than once, and while his head lay on my shoulder, I
thought of his mother-my mother who might have beenand how, though she had left him so many years, she must,
if she knew of all he had suffered, be glad to know there
was at last one woman who would, did heaven permit,
watch over him through life with the double love of both
wife and mother, and who, in any case, would be faithful
to him till death.
Faithful till death. Yes, I here renewed that vow, and
had Harry himself come and stood before me I should
have done the same. Look you, any one who, after my
death, may read this, there are two kinds of love: one,
eager only to get its desire, careless of all risks and costs,
in defiance almost of heaven and earth; the other, which
in its most desperate longing has strength to say, "If it be




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             275
right and for our good-if it be according to the will of
God." This only, I think, is the true and consecrated love,
which therefore is able to be faithful till death.
Max and I never once spoke about whether or not we
should be married; we left all that in Higher hands. We
only felt we should always be true to one another, and
that, being what we were, and loving as we did, God himself could not will that any human will or human justice
should put us asunder.
This being clear, we set ourselves to meet what was before us. I told him poor Harry's history, so far as I knew
it myself; afterward we began to consider how best the
truth could be broken to my father.
And here let me confess something which Max has long
forgiven, but which I can yet hardly forgive myself. Max
said, "And when your father is told, he shall decide what
next is to be."
"How do'you mean?" I cried.
"If he requires atonement he must have it, even at the
hands of the law."
Then, for the first time, it struck me that, though Max
was safe so long as he made no confession, for the peculiar
circumstances of Harry's death left "no other evidence
against him, still, this confession once public'(and it was,
for had I not told Penelope?), his reputation, liberty, life
itself'were in the hands of my sister and my father. A
horror as of death fell upon me. I clung to him who was
my all in this world, dearer to me than father, mother,
brother, or sister; and I urged that we should both, then
and there, fly-escape together any where, to the very ends
of the'earth, out of reach of justice and my father.
I must have been almost beside myself before I thought
of such a thing. I hardly knew all it implied, until Max
gravely put me from him.
"It can not be you who says this. Not Theodora."
And suddenly, as unconnected and even incongruous
things will flash across one in times like these, I called to
mind the scene in my favorite play, when, the alternative
being life or honor, the woman says to her lover, " Vo, die!"
Little' I dreamted' of ever having to say to my Max almost
the same words.
I said them, kneeling by him, and imploring his pardon
for having wished him to do such a thing even for his safety and my happiness.




276             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
" We could not have been happy, child," he said, smoothing my hair, with a sad, fond smile. "You do not know
what it is to have a secret weighing like lead upon your
soul. Mine feels lighter now than it has done for years.
Let us decide; what hour to-night shall I come here and
tell your father?"
Saying this, Max turned white to the very lips, but still
he comforted me.
" Do not be afraid, my child. I am not afraid. Nothing
can be worse than what has been-to me. I was a coward
once, but then I was only a boy, hardly able to distinguish
right from wrong. Now I see that it would have been
better to have told the whole truth at once, and taken all
the punishment. It might not have been death, or if it
were, I could but have died."
"Max, Max!"
" Hush!" and he closed my lips so that they could not
moan. "The truth is better than life, better even than a
good name. When your father knows the truth, all else
will be clear. I shall abide by his decision, whatever it be;
he has a right to it. Theodora," his voice faltered, " make
him understand some day that if I had married you he never should have wanted a son-your poor father."
These were almost the last words Max said on this, the
last hour that we were together by ourselves. For minutes and minutes he held me in his arms silently; and I
shut my eyes, and felt, as if in a dream, the sunshine and
the flower-scents, and the loud singing of the two canaries
in Penelope's green-house. Then, with one kiss, he put me
down softly from my place and left me alone.
I have been alone ever since; God only knows how
alone.
The rest I can not tell to-day.
CHAPTER XXVII.
HIS STORY.
THIs is the last, probably, of those "letters never sent,"
which may reach you one day; $ when or how we know not.
All that is is best.
You say you think it advisable that there should be an
accurate written record of all that passed between your




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             277
family and myself on the final day of parting, in order that
no farther conduct of mine may be misconstrued or misjudged. Be it so. My good name is worth preserving;
for it must never be any disgrace to you that Max Urquhart loved you.
Since this record is to be minute and literal, perhaps it
will be better I should give it impersonally, as a statement
rather than a letter.
On February 9th, 1857, I went to Rockmount to see
Theodora Johnston, for the first time after she was aware
that I had, long ago, taken the life of her half-brother, Henry Johnston, not intentionally, but in a fit of drunken rage.
I came, simply to look at her dear face once more, and to
ask her in what way her father would best bear the shock
of this confession of mine, before I took the second step of
surrendering myself to justice, or of making atonement in
any other way that Mr. Johnston might choose. To him
and his family my life was owed, and I left them to dispose
of it or of me in any manner they thought best.
With these intentions I went to Theodora. I knew her
well. I felt sure she would pity me, that she would not
refuse me her forgiveness before our eternal separation;
that though the blood upon my hands was half her own,
she would not judge me the less justly, or mercifully, or
Christianly. As to a Christian woman, I came to her-as
I had come once before, in a question of conscience; also,
as to the woman who had been my friend, with all the
rights and honors of that name, before she became to me
any thing more and dearer. And I was thankful that the
lesser tie had been included in the greater, so that both
need not be entirely swept away and disannulled.
I found not only my friend, upon whom, above all others,
I could depend, but my own, my love, the woman above
all women who was mine; who, loving me before this blow
fell, clung to me still, and, believing that God Himself had
joined us together, suffered nothing to put us asunder.
How she made me comprehend this I shall not relate, as
it concerns ourselves alone. When, at last, I knelt by her
and kissed her blessed hands-my saint! and yet all woman, and all my own-I felt that my sin was covered, that
the All-merciful had had mercy upon me. That while all
these years I had followed miserably my own method of
atonement, denying myself all life's joys, and cloaking myself with every possible ray of righteousness I could find,




2'78             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
He had suddenly led me by another way, sending me this
child's love, first to comfort and then to smite me, that, being utterly bruised, broken, and humbled, I might be made
whole.
Now, for the first time, I felt like a man to whom there
is a possibility of being made whole. Her father might
hunt me to death, the law might lay hold on me, the fair
reputation under which I had shielded myself might be torn
and scattered to the winds; but for all that I was safe, I
was myself, the true Max Urquhart, a grievous sinner; yet
no longer unforgiven or hopeless.
" Icame not to call the righteous, but SINNERS to repentance."
That line struck home. Oh! that I could strike it home
to every miserable heart as it, went to mine. Oh! that I
could carry into the uttermost corners of the earth the message, the gospel which Dallas believed in, the only one
which has power enough for the redemption of this sorrowful world-the gospel of the forgiveness and remission
of sins.
While she talked to me-this my saint, Theodora-Dallas himself might have spoken, apostle-like, through her
lips. She said, when I listened in wonder to the clearness
of some of her arguments, that she hardly knew how they
had come into her mind, they seemed to come of themselves; but they were there, and she was sure they were
true. She was sure, she added, reverently, that, if the
Christ of Nazareth were to pass by Rockmount door this
day, the only word he would say unto me, after all I had
done, would be, "Thy sins are forgiven thee-rise up and
walk."
And I did so. I went out of the house an altered man.
My burden of years had been lifted off me forever and ever.
I understood something of what is meant by being "born
again." I could dimly guess at what they must have felt
who sat at the Divine feet, clothed and in their right mind,
or who, across the sunny plains of Galilee, leaped, and walked, and ran, praising God.
I crossed the moorland, walking erect, with eyes fixed
on the blue sky, my heart tender and young as a child's. I
even stopped, childlike, to pluck a stray primrose under a
tree in a lane, which had peeped out, as if it wished to investigate how soon spring would come. It seemed to me
so pretty-I might never have seen a primrose since I was
a boy.




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             279
Let me relate the entire truth-she wishes it. Strange
as it may appear, though hour by hour brought nearer the
time when I had fixed to be at Rockmount, to confess unto
a father that I had been the slayer of his only son-still
that day was not an unhappy day. I spent it chiefly out
of doors on the moorlands, near a wayside public-house,
where I had lodged some nights, drinking in large draughts
of the beauty of this external world, and feeling even outer
life sweet, though nothing to that renewed life which I now
should never lose again. Never-even if I had to go next
day to prison and trial, and stand before the world a convicted homicide. Nay, I believe I could have mounted the
scaffold amid those gaping thousands that were once my
terror, and die peacefully in spite of them, feeling no longer
either guilty or afraid.
So much for myself, which will explain a good deal that
followed in the interview which I have now to relate.
Theodora had wished to save me by herself explaining
all to her father; but I would not allow this, and at length
she yielded. However, things fell out differently from both
our intentions: he learned it first from his daughter Penelope. The moment I entered his study I was certain Mr.
Johnston knew.
Let no sinner, however healed, deceive himself that his
wound will never smart again. He is not instantly made a
new man of, whole and sound; he must grow gradually,
even through many a returning pang, into health and cure.
If any one thinks I could stand in the presence of that old
man without an anguish sharp as death, which made me for
the moment wish I had never been born, he is mistaken.
But alleviations came. The first was to see the old man
sitting there alive and well, though evidently fully aware
of the truth, and having been so for some time, for his countenance was composed, his tea was placed beside him on
the table, and there was an open Bible before him, in which
he had been reading. His voice, too, had nothing unnatural or alarming in it, as, without looking at me, he bade
the maid-servant " give Doctor Urquhart a chair, and say,
if any one interrupted, that we were particularly engaged."
So the door was shut upon us, leaving us face to face.
But it was not long before he raised his eyes to him. It
is enough, once in a lifetime, to have borne such a look.
"Mr. Johnston"-but he shut his ears.
"'Do not speak," he said; "what you have come to tell




280             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
me I know already. My daughter told me this morning.
And I have been trying ever since to find out what my
Church says to the shedder of blood; what she would teach
a father to say to the murderer of his child. My Harry,
my only son! And you murdered him!"
Let the words which followed be sacred. If in some degree they were unjust, and overstepped the truth, let me
not dare to murmur. I believe the curses he heaped upon
me in his own words and those of the Holy Book, will not
come, for its other and diviner words, which his daughter
taught me, stand as a shield between me and him. I repeated them to myself in my silence, and so I was able to
endure.
When he paused and commanded me to speak, I answered only a few words, namely, that I was here to offer my
life for his son's life; that he might do with me what he
would.
" Which means that I should give you up to justice, have
you tried, condemned, executed. You, Doctor Urquhart,
whom the world thinks so well of. I might live to see you
hanged."
His eyes glared, his whole frame was convulsed. I entreated him to calm himself, for his own health's sake, and
the sake of his children.
" Yes, I will. Old as I am, this shall not kill me. I will
live to exact retribution. My boy, my poor, murdered Harry —murdered-murdered."
He kept repeating and dwelling on the word, till at length
I said:
" If you know the whole truth, you must be aware that
I had no intention to murder him."
"What, you extenuate? You wish to escape? But you
shall not. I till have you arrested now, in this very house."
" Be it so, then."
And I sat down.
So, the end had come. Life, and all its hopes, all its
work, were over for me. I saw, as in a second of time, every thing that was coming-the trial, the conviction, the
newspaper clatter over my name, my ill deeds exaggerated,
my good deeds pointed at with the finger of scorn, which
perhaps was the keenest agony of all-save one.
"Theodora!"
Whether I uttered her name, or only thought it,I can
not tell. However, it brought her. I felt she was in the




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             281
room, though she stood by her sister's side, and did not approach me.
Again, I repeat, let no man say that sin does not bring
its wages, which must be paid. Whosoever doubts it, I
would he could sit as I sat, watching the faces of father
and daughters, and thinking of the dead face which lay
against my knee, that midnight, on Salisbury plain.
"Children," I heard Mr. Johnston saying, " I have sent
for you to be my witnesses in what I am about to do.
Not out of personal revenge-which were unbecoming a
clergyman-but because God and man exact retribution for
blood. There is the man who murdered Harry. Though
he were the best friend I ever had, though I esteemed him
ever so much-which I did-still, discovering this, I must
have retribution.
"How, father?"  Not her voice, but her sister's.
Let me do full justice to Penelope Johnston. Though
it was she who told my secret to her father, she did it out
of no malice. As I afterward learned, chance led their conversation into such a channel that she could only escape
betraying the truth by a direct lie. And with all her harshnesses, the prominent feature of her character is its truthfulness, or rather its abhorrence of falsehood. Nay, her
fierce scorn of any kind of duplicity is such, that she confounds the crime with the criminal, and, once deceived, never can forgive-as in the matter of Lydia Cartwright, my
acquaintance with which gave me this insight into Miss
Johnston's peculiarity.
Thus, though it fell to her lot to betray my confession, I
doubt not she did so with most literal accuracy; acting
toward me neither as a friend nor foe, but simply as a relater of facts. Nor was there any personal enmity toward
me in her question to her father.
It startled him a little.
" How, did you say? By the law, I conclude. There is
no other way."
" And if so, what will be the result? I mean what will
be done to him?"
"I can not tell-how should I?"
" Perhaps I can, for I have-thought over and studied the
question all day," answered Miss Johnston, still in the same
cold, clear, impartial voice. " Ie will be tried, of course.
I find from your'Taylor on Evidence,' father, that a man
can be tried and convicted, solely on his own confession.




282             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
But in this case, there being no corroborating proof, and
all having happened so long ago, it will scarcely prove a
capital crime. I believe no jury would give a stronger verdict than manslaughter. He will be imprisoned, or transported beyond seas; where, with his good character, he
will soon work his liberty, and start afresh in another country, in spite of us. This, I think, is the common-sense view
of the matter."
Astonished as Mr. Johnston looked, he made no reply.
His daughter continued:
" And for this you and we shall have the credit of having had arrested in our own house a man who threw himself
on our mercy; who, though he concealed, never denied his
guilt; who never deceived us in any way. The moment
he discovered the whole truth, dreadful as it was, he never
shirked it, nor hid it from us, but told us outright, risking
all the consequences. A man, too, against whom, in his
whole life, we can prove but this one crime."
" What, do you take his part?"
"No," she said; " I wish he had died before he set foot
in this house-for I remember Harry. But I see also that,
after all this lapse of years, Harry is not the only person
whom we ought to remember."
" I remember nothing but the words of this Book," cried
the old man, letting his hand drop heavily upon it. "' VWhoso sheddeth man's blood, by man shall his blood be shed.'
What have you to say for yourself, murderer?"
All this time, faithful to her promise to me, she had not
interfered-she, my love, who loved me; but when she
heard him call me that, she shivered all over, and looked toward me. A pitiful, entreating look, but, thank God, there
was no doubt in it-not the shadow of change. It nerved
me to reply what I will here record, by her desire and for
her sake.
"Mr. Johnston, I have this to say. It is written,'Whoso hateth his brother is a murderer,' and in that sense I am
one-for I did hate him at the time-but I never meant to
kill him; and the moment afterward I would have given
my life for his. If now my death could restore him to you,
alive again, how willingly I would die."
"Die, and face your Maker? an unpardoned man-slayer,
a lost soul?"
"Whether I live or die," said I, humbly, "I trust my
soul is not lost. I have been very guilty; but I believe in




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             283
One who brought to every sinner on earth the gospel of
repentance and remission of sins."
At this, burst out the anathema-not merely of the father, but the clergyman-who mingled the Jewish doctrine
of retributive vengeance during this life with the Christian
belief of rewards and punishments after death, and confounded the Mosaic gehenna with the Calvinistic hell. I
will not record all this-it was very terrible: but he only
spoke as he believed, and as many earnest Christians do
believe. I think, in all humility, that the Master Himself
preached a different gospel.
I saw it shining out of her eyes-my angel of peace and
pardon. 0 Thou from whom all love comes, was it impious
if the love of this Thy creature toward one so wretched
should come to me like an assurance of Thine?
At length her father ceased speaking, took up a pen, and
began hastily writing.  Miss Johnston went and looked
over his shoulder.
"Papa, if that is a warrant you are making out, better
think twice about it, for, as a magistrate, you can not retract. Should you send Doctor Urquhart to trial, you
must be prepared for the whole truth to come out. He
must tell it, or if he calls Dora and me as witnesses-she
having already his written confession in full-we must."
"You must tell-what?"
"The provocation Doctor Urquhart received; how Harry enticed him-a lad of nineteen-to drink, made him mad,
and taunted him. Every thing will be made public; how
Harry was so degraded that from the hour of his death we
were thankful to forget that he had ever existed; how he
died as he had lived, a boaster, a coward, sponging upon
any one from whom he could get money, using his talents
only to his shame, devoid of one spark of honesty, honor,
and generosity. It is shocking to have to say this of one's
own brother; but, father, you know it is the truth, and as
such it must be told."
Amazed I listened to her-this eldest sister, who I knew
disliked me.
Her father seemed equally surprised, until at length her
arguments apparently struck him with uneasiness.
"Have you any motive in arguing thus?" said he, hurriedly and not without agitation: "why do you do it, Penelope?"
"A little on my own account, though the great scandal




284             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
and publicity will not much affect Francis and me; we shall
soon be out of England; but for the family's sake-for
Harry's sake-when all his wickednesses and our miseries
have been safely covered up these twenty years-consider,
father!"
She stung him deeper than she knew. I had guessed it
before, when I was almost a stranger to him, but now the
whole history of that old man's life was betrayed in one
groan which burst from the very depth of the father's soul.
" Eli, the priest of the Lord-his sons made themselves
vile, and he restrained them not; therefore they died in one
day, both of them. It was the will of the Lord."
The respectful silence which ensued no one dared to
break.
He broke it himself at last, pointing to the door: "Go,
murderer, or man-slayer, or whatever you are! you must
go free. Moreover, I must have your promise-no, your
oath-that the secret you have kept so long you will now
keep forever."
"Sir," I said, but he stopped me fiercely.
" No hesitations-no explanations-I will have none, and
give none. As you said, your life is mine, to do with it as
I choose. Better you should go unpunished than that I
and mine should be disgraced. Obey me. Promise."
I did.
Thus, in another and still stranger way, my resolutions
were broken, my fate was decided for me, and I have to
keep this secret unconfessed to the end.
"Now go. Put half the earth'between us, if you canonly go."
Again I turned to obey. Blind obedience seemed the
only duty left me. I might even have quitted the house
with a feeling of total irresponsibility and indifference to
all things, had it not been for a Jow cry which I heard as
in a dream.
So did her father. "Dora-I had forgotten-there was
some sort of fancy between you and Dora. Daughter, bid
him farewell, and let him go."
Then she said-my love said, in her own soft, distinct
voice —" No, papa, I never mean to bid him farewell-that
is, finally-never as long as I live."
Her father and sister were both so astounded that at
first they did not interrupt her, but let her speak on.
" I belonged to Max before all this happened. If it had




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             285
happened a year hence, when I was his wife, it would not
have broken our marriage.  It ought not now. When
any two people are to one another what we are, they are
as good as married; and they have no right to part, no
more than man and wife have, unless either grows wicked,
or both change. I never mean to part from Max Urquhart."
She spoke meekly, standing with hands folded and head
drooping, but as still and steadfast as a rock. My darling
-my darling!
Steadfast! She had need to be. What she bore during the next few minutes she would not wish me to repeat,
I feel sure. She knows it, and so do I. She knows also
that every stab with which I then saw her wounded for
my sake is counted in my heart as a debt, to be paid one
day, if between those who love there can be any debts at
all. She says not. Yet, if ever she is my wife- People
talk of dying for a woman's sake-but to live-live for her
with the whole of one's being-to work for her, to sustain
and cheer her, to fill her daily existence with tenderness
and care-if ever she is my wife, she will find out what I
mean.
After saying all he could well say, Mr. Johnston asked
her how she dared think of me-me, laden with her brother's blood and her father's curse.
She turned deadly pale, but never faltered. "The curse
causeless shall not come," she said, "for the blood upon
his hand-whether it were Harry's or a stranger's makes
no difference-it is washed out. He has repented long ago.
If God has forgiven him and helped him to be what he is,
and lead the life he has led all these years, why should I
not forgive him? And if I forgive, why not love him?
And if I love him, why break my promise, and refuse to
marry him?"
" Do you mean, then, to marry him?" said her sister.
"Some day-if he wishes it-yes!"
From this time, I myself hardly remember what passed;
I can only see her standing there, her sweet face white as
death, making no moan, and answering nothing to any accusations that were heaped upon her, except when she was
commanded to give me up, entirely and forever and ever.
c I can not, father. I have no right to do it. I belong
to him; he is my husband."
At last, Miss Johnston said to me-rather gently than




286             A IrFE FOR A LIFE.
not, for her: "I think, Doctor Urquhart, you had better
go."
My love looked toward me, and afterward at her poor
father; she too said, "Yes, Max, go."
And then they wanted her to promise she would never
see me, nor write to me; but she refused.
" Father, I will not marry him for ever so long, if you
choose-but I can not forsake him. I must write to him.
I am his very own, and he has only me. Oh, papa, think
of yourself and my mother." And she sobbed at his knees.
He must have thought of Harry's mother, not hers, for
this exclamation only hardened him.
Then Theodora rose, and gave me her little hand. "It
can hold firm, you will find. You have my promise. But
whether or no, it would have been all the same. No love
is worth having that could not, with or without a promise,
keep true till death. You may trust me. Now, good-by.
Good-by, my Max."
With that one clasp of the hand, that one look into her
fond faithful eyes, we parted. I have never seen her since.
*        *        *        *       *
This statement, which is as accurate as I can make it,
except in the case of those voluntary omissions which I believe you yourself would have desired, I here seal up, to be
delivered to you with those other letters in case I should
die while you are still Theodora Johnston.
I have also made my will, leaving you all my effects, and
appointing you my sole executrix; putting you, in short,
in exactly the same position as if you had been my wife.
This is best, in order that by no chance should the secret
ooze out through any guesses of any person not connected
with your family; also because I think it is what you
would wish yourself. You said truly, I have only you.
Another word, which I do not name in my ordinary letters, lest I might grieve you by what may prove to be only
a fancy of mine.
Sometimes, in the hard work of this my life here, I begin
to feel that I am no longer a young man, and that the reaction after the great strain, mental and bodily, of the last
few months, has left me not so strong as I used to be. Not
that I think I am about to die, far from it. I have a good
constitution, which has worn well yet, and may wear on for
some time, though not forever, and I am nearly fifteen
years older than you.




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             287
It is very possible that before any change can come, I
may leave you, never a wife, and yet a widow. Possible,
among the numerous fatalities of life, that we may never
be married-never even see one another again.
Sometimes, when I see two young people married and
happy, taking it all as a matter of course, scarcely even
recognizing it as happiness -just like Mr. and Mrs. Treherne, who hunted me out lately, and insisted on my visiting them-I think of you and me, and it seems very bitter,
and I look on the future with less faith than fear. It might
not be so if I could see you now and then-but oftentimes
this absence feels like death.
Theodora, if I should die before we are married, without any chance of writing down my last words, take them
here.
No, they will not come. I can but crush my lips upon
this paper-only thy name, not thee, and call thee " my
love, my love!" Remember, I loved thee-all my soul was
full of the love of thee. It made life happy, earth beautiful, and Heaven nearer. It was with me day and night, in
work or rest-as much a part of me as the hand I write
with, or the breath I draw. I never thought of myself,
but of "his."  I never prayed but I prayed for two. Love,
my love, so many miles away-O my God, why not grant
me a little happiness before I die!
Yet, as once I wrote before, and as she says always in
all things, Thy will be done.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
HER STORY.
Friday night.
MY DEARI MAX,-You have had your Dominical letter,
as you call it, so regularly, that you must know all our doings at Rockmount almost as well as ourselves. If I write
foolishly, and tell you all sorts of trivial things, perhaps
some of them twice over, it is just because there is nothing
else to tell. But, trivial or not, I have a feeling that you
like to hear it-you care for every thing that concerns me.
So, first, in obedience to orders, I am quite well, even
though my handwriting is " not so pretty as it used to be."
Do not fancy the hand shakes, or is nervous or uncertain.




288             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
Not a bit of it. I am never nervous, nor weak eithernow. Sometimes, perhaps, being only a woman after all, I
feel things a little more keenly than I ought to feel; and
then, not being good at concealment, at least not with you,
this fhct peeps out in my letters. For the home-life has its
cares, and I feel very weary sometimes-and then, I have
not you to rest upon-visibly, that is-though in my heart
I do always. But I am quite well, Max, and quite content.
Do not doubt it. He who has led us through this furnace
of affliction, will lead us safely to the end.
You will be glad to hear that papa is every day less and
less cold to me-poor papa! Last Sunday he even walked
home from church with me, talking about general subjects,
like his old self, almost. Penelope has been always good
and kind.
You ask if they ever name you? No.
Life at Rockmount moves slowly, even in the midst of
marriage preparations. Penelope is getting a large store
of wedding presents. Mrs. Granton brought a beautiful
one last night from her son Colin.
I was glad you had that long friendly letter from Colin
Granton-glad also that, his mother having let out the
secret about you and me, he was generous enough to tell
you himself that other secret, which I never told. Well,
your guess was right; it was so. But I could not help it;
I did not know it. For me-how could any girl, feeling as
I then did toward you, feel any thing toward any other
man but the merest kindliness? That is all: we will never say another word about it; except that I wish you always to be specially kind to Colin, anid to do him good
whenever you can-he was very good to me.
Life at Rockmount, as I said, is dull. I rise sometimes,
go through the day, and go to bed at night, wondering
what I have been doing during all these hours. And I do
not always sleep soundly though so tired. Perhaps it is
partly the idea of Penelope's going away so soon; far
away, across the sea, with no one to love her and take care
of her, save Francis.
Understand, this is not with any pitying of my sister for
what is a natural and even a happy lot, which no woman
need complain of; but simply because Francis is Francisaccustomed to think only of himself, and for himself. It
may be different when he is married.
He was staying with us here a week; during which I




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             289
noticed him more closely than in his former fly-away visits.
When one lives in the house with a person-a dull house,
too, like ours, how wonderfully odds and ends of character
" crop out," as the geologists say. Do you remember the
weeks when you were almost continually in our house?
Francis had what we used then to call "the doctor's
room." He was pleasant and agreeable enough, when it
pleased him to be so; but, for all that, I used to say to
myself, twenty times a day, " My dear Max!"
This merely implies that by a happy dispensation of
Providence, I, Theodora Johnston, have not the least desire to appropriate my sister's husband, or, indeed, either
of my sisters' husbands.
By-the-by-in a letter from Augustus to papa, which
reached me through Penelope, he names his visit to you.
I am glad-glad he should show you such honor and affection, and that they all should see it. Do not give up the
Trehernes; go there sometimes-for my sake. There is
no reason why you should not. Papa knows it; he also
knows I write to you-but he never says a word one way
or other. We must wait-wait and hope-or rather trust.
As you say, the difference between young and older people
is, the one hopes, the other trusts.
I seem, from your description, to have a clear idea of the
jail, and the long, barren, breezy flat amid which it lies,
with the sea in the distance. I often sit and think of the
view outside, and of the dreary inside, where you spend so
many hours; the corridors, the exercise yards, and the
cells; also your own two rooms, which you say are almost
as silent and solitary, except when you come in and find
my letter waiting you. I wish it was me!-pardon grammar-but I wish it was me-this living me. Would you
be glad to see me? Ah! I know.
Look! I am not going to write about ourselves-it is
not good for us. We know it all; we know our hearts
are nigh breaking sometimes-mine is. But it shall not.
We will live and wait.
What was I telling you about? oh, Francis. Well,
Francis spent a whole week at Rockmount, by papa's
special desire, that they might discuss business arrangements, and that he might see a little more of his intended
son-in-law than he has done of late years. Business was
soon dispatched-papa gives none of us any money during
his lifetime; what will come to us afterward we have never
N




2.90            A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
thought of inquiring. Francis did, though-which somewhat hurt Penelope-but he accounted for it by his being
so " poor." A relative phrase; why, I should think ~500 a
year, certain, a mine of riches-and all to be spent upon
himself. But, as he says, a single man has so many inevitable expenses, especially when he lives in society, and is
the nephew of Sir William Treherne, of Treherne Court.
All "circumstances!"  Poor Francis; whatever goes
wrong he is sure to put between himself and blame the
shield of " circumstances."  Now, if I were a man, I would
fight the world bare-fronted, anyhow. One would but be
killed at last.
Is it wrong of me to write to you so freely about Francis? I hope not. All mine are yours, and yours mine;
*you know their faults and virtues as well as I do, and will
judge them equally, as we ought to judge those who, whatever they are, are permanently our own. I have tried
hard, this time, to make a real brother of Francis Charteris;
and he is, for many things, exceedingly likable-nay, lovable. I see, sometimes, clearly enough, the strange charm
which has made Penelope so fond of him all these years.
Whether, besides loving him, she can trust him-can look
on his face and feel that he would not deceive her for the
world-can believe every line he writes, and every word
he utters, and know that whatever he does, he will do
simply from his sense of right, no meaner motive interfering-oh, Max, I would give much to be certain Penelope
had this sort of love for her future husband!
Well, they have chosen their lot, and must make the
best of one another. Every body must, you know.
Heigho! what a homily I am giving you, instead of this
week's history, as usual-from Saturday to Saturday.
The first few days there really was nothing to tell.
Francis and Penelope took walks together, paid visits, or
sat in the parlor talking-not banishing me, however, as
they used to do when they were young. On Wednesday,
Francis went up to London for the day, and brought back
that important article, the wedding-ring. He tried it on at
supper-time, with a diamond keeper, which he said would
be just the thing for "the governor's lady."
" Say wife at once," grumbled I, and complained of the
modern fashion of slurring over that word, the dearest and
sacredest in the language.
"Wife, then," whispered Francis, holding the ring on
my sister's finger, and kissing it.




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             291
Tears started to Penelope's eyes; in her agitation she
looked almost like a girl again, I thought; so infinitely
happy. But Francis, never happy, muttered bitterly so ne
regret for the past, some wish that they had been married
years ago. Why were they not? It was partly his fault,
I am sure.
The day after this he left, not to return till he comes
to take her away finally. In the mean while he will
have enough to do, paying his adieux to his grand
friends, and his bills to his tradespeople, prior to closing
his bachelor establishment forever and aye-how glad he
must be!
He seemed glad, as if with a sense of relief that all was
settled, and no room left for hesitation. It costs Francis
such a world of trouble to make up his own mind-which
trouble Penelope will save him for the future. He took
leave of her with great tenderness, calling her " his good,
faithful girl," and vowing —which one would think was
quite unnecessary under the circumstances-to be faithful
to her all the days of his life.
That night, when she came into my room, Penelope sat a
long time on my bed talking; chiefly of old days, when she
and Francis were boy and girl together-how handsome he
was, and how clever-till she seemed almost to forget the
long interval between. Well, they are both of an agetime runs equally with each; she is at least no more altered
than he.
Here, I ought to tell you something, referring to that
which, as we agreed, we are best not speaking of, even between ourselves. It is all over and done-cover it over,
and let it heal.
My dear Max, Penelope confesses a thing for which I am
very sorry, but it can not be helped now.
I told you they never name you here. Not usually, but
she did that night. Just as she was leaving me, she exclaimed, suddenly:
"Dora, I have broken my promise-Francis knows about
Doctor Urquhart."
"What!" I cried.
"Don't be terrified-not the whole. Merely that he
wanted to marry you, but that papa found out he had done
something wrong in his youth, and so forbade you to think
of him."
I asked her, was she sure no more had escaped her?




2n23            A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
Not that I feared much: Penelope is literally accurate, and
scrupulously straightforward in all her words and ways.
But still, Francis being a little less so than she, might have
questioned her.
"So he did, and I refused point-blank to tell him, saying
it would be a breach of trust. He was very angry; jealous, I think," and she smiled, "till I informed him that it
was not my own secret-all my own secrets I had invariably told him, as he me. At which, he said,' Yes, of course,'
and the matter ended. Are you annoyed? Do you doubt
Francis's honor?"
"No. For all that, I have felt anxious, and I can not
choose but tell Max; partly because he has a right to all
my anxieties, and, also, that he may guard against any possibility of harm. None is likely to come though; we will
not be afraid."
Augustus, in his letter, says how highly he hears you
spoken of in Liverpool already; how your duties at the
jail are the least of your work, and that whatever you do,
or wherever you go, you leave a good influence behind you.
These were his very words. I was proud, though I knew
it all before.
He says you are looking thin, as if you were overworked.
Max, my Max, take care. Give all due energy to the work
you have to do, but remember me likewise; remember
what is mine. I think, perhaps you take too long walks
between the town and the jail, and that may be the prisoners themselves get far better and more regular meals
than the doctor does. See to this, if you please, Doctor
Urquhart.
Tell me more about those poor prisoners, in whom you
take so strong an interest-your spiritual as well as medical
hospital. And give me a clearer notion of your doings in
the town, your practice and schemes, your gratis patients,
dispensaries and so on. Also, Augustus said you were employed in drawing up reports and statistics about reformatories, and on the general question now so much discussed:
What is to be done with our criminal classes? How busy
you must be! Can not I help you? Send me your MSS.
to copy. Give me some work to do.
Max, do you remember our talk by the pond-side, when
the sun was setting, and the hills looked so still, and soft,
and blue? I was there the other day, and thought it all
over. Yes, I could have been happy, even in the solitary




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.            293
life we both then looked forward to, but it is better to belong to you as I do now.
God bless you and keep you safe! Yours,
THEODORA.
P.S.-I leave a blank page to fill up after Penelope and I
come home. We are going into town together early tomorrow, to inquire about the character of the lady's maid
that is to be taken abroad, but we shall be back long before post-time.' However, I have written all this overnight to make sure.
Sunday.
P.S.-You will have missed your Sunday letter to-day,
which vexes me sore. But it is the first time you have
ever looked for a letter and "wanted" it, and I trust it will
be the last. Ah! now I understand a little of what Penelope must have felt, looking day after day for Francis's letters, which never came; how every morning before posttime she would go about the house as blithe as a lark, and
afterward turn cross and disagreeable, and her face would
settle into the sharp, hard-set expression, which made her
look so old even then. Poor Penelope! if she could have
trusted him the while, it might have been otherwise-men's
ways and lives are so different from women's-but it is this
love without perfect trust which has been the sting of Penelope's existence.
I try to remember this when she makes me feel angry
with her, as she did on Saturday. It was through her fault
you missed your Sunday letter.
You know I always post them myself in the town; our
village post-office would soon set all the neighbors chattering about you and me; and, besides, it is pleasant to walk
through the quiet lanes we both know well with Max's letter in my hand, and think that it will be in his hand tomorrow. For this I generally choose the time when papa
rests before dinner, with one or other of us reading to him;
and Penelope has hitherto,.without saying any thing, always
taken my place and set me free on a Saturday-a kindness
I felt more than I expressed many a time. But to-day she
was unkind-shut herself up in her room the instant we
returned from town; then papa called me and detained me
till after post-time.
So you lost your letter; a small thing, you will say, and
this was a foolish girl to vex herself so much about it, es



294             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
pecially as she can make it longer and more interesting by
details of our adventures in town yesterday.
It was not altogether a pleasant day, for something happened about the servant which I am sure annoyed Penelope; nay, she being overtired and overexerted already, this
new vexation, whatever it was, made her quite ill for the
time, though she would not allow it, and, when I ventured
to question, bade me, sharply, "let her alone." You know
Penelope's ways, and may have seen them reflected in me
sometimes. I am afraid, Max, that, however good we may
be (of course!), we are not exactly what would be termed
"an amiable family."
We were amiable when we started, however: my sister
and I went up to town quite merrily. I am merry sometimes, in spite of all things. You see, to have every one
that belongs to one happy and prosperous is a great element
in one's personal content. Other people's troubles weigh
heavily, because we never know exactly how they will bear
them, and because, at best, we can only sit by and watch
them suffer, so little help being possible after all. But our
own troubles we can always bear.
You will understand all I mean by "our own." I am
often very sad for you, Max; but never afraid for you,
never in doubt about you, not for an instant. There is no
sting, even in my saddest thought, concerning you. I trust
you; I feel certain that whatever you do you will do right
-that all you have to endure will be borne nobly and
bravely. Thus I may grieve over your griefs, but never
over you. My love of you, like my faith in you, is above
all grieving. Forgive this long digression; to-day is Sunday, the best day in all the week, and my day for thinking
most of you.
To return. Penelope and I were both merry as we
started by the very earliest train in the soft May morning,
we had so much business to get through.  You can't understand it, of course, so I omit it, only confiding to you
our last crowning achievement-the dress. It is white
moire antique; Doctor Urquhart has not the slightest idea
what that is, but no matter; and it has lace flounces half a
yard deep, and it is altogether a most splendid affair. But
the governor's lady-I beg my own pardon-the governor's
wife must be magnificent, you know.
It was the mantua-maker, a great West-end personage
employed by the grand family to whom, by Francis's ad4




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.            295
vice, Lydia Cartwright was sent some years ago (by-the-by,
I met Mrs. Cartwright to-day, who asked after you, and
sent her duty, and wished you would know that she had
heard from Lydia)-this mantua-maker it was who recommended the lady's maid, Sarah Enfield, who had once been
a workwoman of her own. We saw the person, who seemed a decent young woman, but delicate-looking; said her
health was injured by the long hours of millinery-work, and
that she should have died, she thought, if a friend of hels,
a kind young woman, had not taken her in and helped her.
She was lodging with this friend now.
On the whole, Sarah Enfield sufficiently pleased us to
make my sister decide on engaging her, if only Francis
could see her first. We sent a message to his lodgings,
and were considerably surprised to have the answer that
he was not at home, and had not been for three weeks;
indeed, he hardly ever was at home. After some annoyance, Penelope resolved to make her decision without him.
Hardly ever at home! What a lively life Francis must
lead! I wonder he does not grow weary of it. Once he
half owned he was, but added, " that he must float with the
stream-it was too late now-he could not stop himself."
Penelope will, though.
As we drove through the Park to the address Sarah Enfield had given us-somewhere about Kensington-Penelope wishing to see the girl once again and engage hermy sister observed, in answer to my remark, that Francis
must have many invitations,
"Of course he has. It shows how much he is liked and
respected. It will be the same abroad. We shall gather
round us the very best society in the island. Still he will
find it a great change from London."
I wonder is she at all afraid of it, or suspects that he once
was? that he shrank from being thrown altogether upon
his wife's society, like the Frenchman who declined marrying a lady he had long visited because "where should he
spend his evenings?" Oh, me! what a heart-breaking
thing to feel that one's husband needed somewhere to spend
his evenings.
We drove past Holland Park; what a bonnie place it is
(as you would say); how full the trees were of green leaves
and birds. I don't know where we went next-I hardly
know any thing of London, thank goodness!-but it was a
pretty, quiet neighborhood, where we had the greatest dif



296              A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
ficulty in finding the house we wanted, and, at last, had recourse to the post-office.
The post-mistress, who was rather grim-"knew the
place, that is, the name of the party as lived there, which
was all she cared to know. She called herself Mrs. Chayto', or Chater, or something like it," which we decided
must be Sarah Enfield's charitable friend, and accordingly
drove thither.
It was a small house, a mere cottage, set in a pleasant
little garden, through the palings of which I saw walking
about a young woman with a child in her arms. She had
on a straw hat with a deep lace fall that hid her face, but
her figure was very graceful, and she was extremely well
dressed. Nevertheless, she looked not exactly "the lady."
Also, hearing the gate bell, she called out, " Arriet," in no
lady's voice.
Penelope glanced at her and then sharply at me.
"I wonder-" she began, but stopped-told me to remain in the carriage while she went in, and she would fetch
me if she wanted me.
But she did not. Indeed, she hardly staid two minutes.
I saw the young woman run hastily in-doors, leaving her
child-such a pretty boy! screaming after his " mammy"
-and Penelope came back, her face the color of scarlet.
" What? Is it a mistake?" I asked.
No —yes," and she gave the order to drive on.
Again I inquired if any thing were the matter, and was
answered, "Nothing-nothing that I could understand."
After which she sat with her veil down, cogitating, till all
of a sudden she sprang up as if some one had given her a
stab at her heart. I was quite terrified, but she again told
me it was nothing, and bade me "let her alone;" which, as
you know, is the only thing one can do with my sister Penelope.
But at the railway station we met some people we knew,
and she was forced to talk; so that by the time we reached
kockmount she seemed to have got over her annoyance,
whatever it was, concerning Sarah Enfield, and was herself
again. That is, herself in one of those moods when, whether her ailment be mental or physical, the sole chance of its
passing away is, as she says, "to leave her alone."
I do not say this is not trying-doubly so now, when,
just as she is leaving, I seem to understand my sister better and love her more than ever I did in my life. But I




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             297
have learned at last not to break my heart over the peculiarities of those I care for, but try to bear with them as
they must with mine, of which I have no lack, goodness
knows!
I saw a letter to Francis in the post-bag this morning,
so I hope she has relieved her mind by giving him the explanation which she refused to me. It must have been
some deception practiced on her by this Sarah Enfield, and
Penelope never forgives the smallest deceit.
She was either too much tired or too much annoyed to
appear again yesterday, so papa and I spent the afternoon
and evening alone. But she went to church with us as
usual to-day, looking pale and tired, the ill mood-" the
little black dog on her shoulder," as we used to call itnot having quite vanished.
Also, I noticed an absent expression in her eyes, and her
voice in the responses was less regular than usual. Perhaps
she was thinking this would almost be her last Sunday of
sitting in the old pew, and looking up to papa's white hair,
and her heart being fuller, her lips were more silent than
usual.
You will not mind my writing so much about my sister
Penelope? You like me to talk to you of what is about
me and uppermost in my thoughts, which is herself at present. She has been very good to me, and Max loves every
one whom I love, and every one who loves me.
I shall have your letter to-morrow morning. Good-night!
THEODORA.
CHAPTER XXIX.
HIS STORY.
MY DEAR THEODORA,-This is a line extra, written on
receipt of yours, which was most welcome. I feared something had gone wrong with my little methodical girl.
Do not keep strictly to your Dominical letter just now;
write any day that you can. Tell me every thing that is
happening to you-you must, and ought. Nothing must
occur to you or yours that I do not know. You are mine.
Your last letter I do not answer in detail till the next
shall come; not exactly from press of business-I would
make time if I had it not-but from various other reasons,
which you shall have by-and-by.
N 2




298             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
Give me, if you remember it, the address of the person
with whom Sarah Enfield is lodging. I suspect she is a
woman of whom, by the desire of her nearest relative, I
have been in search for some time. But, should you
have forgotten, do not trouble your sister about this. I
will find all I wish to learn in some other way. Never
apologize or hesitate at writing to me about your familyall that is yours is mine. Keep your heart up about your
sister Penelope; she is a good woman, and all that befalls
her will be fbr her good. Love her, and be patient with
her continually. All your love for her and the rest takes
nothing from what is mine, but adds thereto.
Let me hear soon what is passing at Rockmount. I can
not come to you and help you-would I could! My love!
my love!                         MAX URQUHART.
There is little or nothing to say of myself this week, and
what there was you heard yesterday.
CHAPTER XXX.
HER STORY.
MY DEAR MAX,-I write this in the middle of the night;
there has been no chance for me during the day, nor, indeed, at all-until now. To-night, for the first time, Penelope has fallen asleep. I have taken the opportunity of
stealing into the next room, to comfort-and you.
My dear Max! Oh, if you knew! oh, if I could but
come to you for one minute's rest, one minute's love.
There, I will not cry any more. It is much to be able to
write to you, and blessed, infinitely blessed to know you
are-what you are.
Max, I have been weak, wicked of late; afraid of absence, which tries me so, because I am not strong, and can
not stand up by myself as I used to do; afraid of death,
which might tear you from me, or me from you, leaving
the other to go mourning upon earth forever. Now I feel
that absence is nothing, death itself nothing, compared to
one loss-that which has befallen my sister Penelope.
You may have heard of it, even in these few days-ill
news spreads fast. Tell me what you hear; for we wish
to save my sister as much as we can. To our fiiends generally, I have merely written that, "from unforeseen differences," the marriage is broken off. Mr. Charteris may




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             299
give what reasons he likes at Treherne Court. We will
not try to injure him with his uncle.
I have just crept in to look at Penelope; she is asleep
still, and has never stirred. She looks so old-like a woman of fifty, almost. No wonder. Think-ten years-all
her youth to be crushed out at once. I wonder, will it kill
her? It would me.
I wanted to ask you-do you think, medically, there is
any present danger in her state? She lies quiet enough;
taking little notice of me or any body-with her eyes shut
during the daytime, and open, wide-staring, all night long.
What ought I to do with her? There is only me, you
know. If you fear any thing, send me a telegram at once.
Do not wait to write.
But, that you may the better judge her state, I ought
just to give you full particulars, beginning where my last
letter ended.
That " little black dog on her shoulder," which I spoke
of so lightly! God forgive me! also for leaving her the
whole of that Sunday afternoon with her door locked, and
the room as still as death;. yet never once knocking to ask,
" Penelope, how are you?"
On Sunday night, the curate came to supper, and papa
sent me to summon her; she came down stairs, took her
place at table, and conversed. I did not notice her much,
except that she moved about in a stupid, stunned-like fashion, which caused papa to remark more than once, "Penelope, I think you are half asleep." She never answered.
Another night, and the half of another day, she must
have spent in the same manner. And I let her do it without inquiry! Shall I ever forgive myself?
In the afternoon of Monday, I was sitting at work, busy
finishing her embroidered marriage handkerchief, alone in
the sunshiny parlor, thinking of my letter, which you would
have received at last; also thinking it was rather wicked
of my happy sister to sulk for two whole days, because of a
small disappointment about a servant-if such it were. I
had almost determined to shake her out of her ridiculous
reserve, by asking boldly what was the matter, and giving
her a thorough scolding if I dared; when the door opened,
and in walked Francis Charteris.
Heartily glad to see him, in the hope his coming might
set Penelope right again, I jumped up and shook hands
cordially. Nor till afterward did I remember how much
this seemed to surprise and relieve him.




300             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.' Oh, then, all is right!" said he. "I feared from Penelope's letter, that she was a little annoyed with me. Nothing new that, you know."
" Something did annoy her, I suspect," and I was about
to blurt out as much as I knew or guessed of the foolish
mystery about Sarah Enfield, but some instinct stopped
me. "You and Penelope had better settle your own affairs," said I, laughing. "I'll go and fetch her."
" Thank you." He threw himself down on the velvet
arm-chair-his favorite lounge in our house for the last ten
years. His handsome profile turned up against the light,
his fingers lazily tapping the arm of the chair, a trick he
had from his boyhood —this is my last impression of Francis-as our Francis Charteris.
I had to call outside Penelope's door three times, "Francis is here."  "Francis is waiting."  "Francis wants to
speak to you," before she answered or appeared; and then,
without taking the slightest notice of me, she walked slowly down stairs, holding by the wall as she went.
So, I thought, it is Francis who has vexed her after all,
and determined to leave them to fight it out and make it
up again —this, which would be the last of their many lovers' quarrels. Ah! it was.
Half an hour afterward, papa sent for me to the study,
and there I saw Francis Charteris standing exactly where
you once stood-you see, I am not afraid of remembering
it myself, or of reminding you. No, my Max! Our griefs
are nothing, nothing!
Penelope was also present, standing by my father, who
said, looking round at us with a troubled, bewildered air:
"'Dora, what is all this? Your sister comes here and
tells me she will not marry Francis. Francis rushes in after her, and says, I hardly can make out what. Children,
why do you vex me so? Why can not you leave an old
man in peace?"
Penelope answered, "Father, you shall be left in peace,
if you will only confirm what I have said to that-that gentleman, and send him out of my sight."
Francis laughed-" To be called back again presently.
You know you will do it, as soon as you have come to your
right senses, Penelope. You will never disgrace us in the
eyes of the world-set every body gossiping about our affairs, for such a trifle."
My sister made him no answer. There was less even




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             301
of anger than contempt-utter, measureless contempt-in
the way she just lifted up her eyes and looked at himlooked him over from head to heel, and turned again to
her father.
"Papa, make him understand-I can not-that I wish
all this ended; I wish never to see his face again."
"Why?" said papa, in great perplexity.
"He knows why."
Papa and I both turned to Francis, whose careless manner changed a little; he grew red and uncomfortable. " She
may tell if she chooses; I lay no embargo of silence upon
her. I have made all the explanations possible, and if she
will not receive them, I can not help it. The thing is done,
and can not be undone. I have begged her pardon-and
made all sorts of promises for the future-no man can do
more."
He said this sullenly, and yet as if he wished to make
friends with her, but Penelope seemed scarcely even to
hear.
"Papa," she repeated, still in the same stony voice, "I
wish you would end this scene; it is killing me. Tell him,
will you, that I have burned all his letters, every one. Insist on his returning mine. His presents are all tied up in
a parcel in my room, except this; will you give it back to
him?"
She took off her ring, a small common turquoise which
Francis had given her when he was young and poor, and
laid it on the table. Francis snatched it up, handled it a
minute, and then threw it violently into the fire.
" Bear witness, Mr. Johnston, and you too, Dora, that it
is Penelope, not I, who breaks our engagement. I would
have fulfilled it honorably-I would have married her."
"Would you?" cried Penelope with flashing eyes, "no
-not that last degradation-no!"
"I would have marrid h her," Francis continued, "and
made her a good husband too. Her reason for refusing me
is puerile-perfectly puerile. No woman of sense, who
knows any thing of the world, would urge it for a moment.
Nor man either, unless he was your favorite-who I believe is at the bottom of this, who, for all you know, may
be doing exactly as I have done-Doctor Urquhart."
Papa started and said hastily, " Confine yourself to the
subject on hand, Francis. Of what is this that my daughter accuses you? Tell me, and let me judge."




802             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
Francis hesitated, and then said, " Send away these girls,
and you shall hear."
Suddenly it flashed upon me what it was. How the intuition came, how little things, before unnoticed, seemed to
rise and put themselves together, including Saturday's story
-and the shudder that ran through Penelope from head
to foot, when on Sunday morning old Mrs. Cartwright
courtesied to her at the church-door-all this I can not accoun t for, but I seemed to know as well as if I had been
told every thing. I need not explain, for evidently you
know it also, and it is so dreadful, so unspeakably dreadful.
Oh, Max, for the first minute or so, I felt as if the whole
world were crumbling from under my feet-as I could
trust nobody-believe in nobody-until I remembered you.
My dear Max, my own dear Max! Ah! wretched Penelope.
I took her hand as she stood, but she twisted it out of
mine again. I listened mechanically to Francis, as he
again began rapidly and eagerly to exculpate himself to
my father.
"She may tell you all, if she likes. I have done no
worse than hundreds do in my position, and under my unfortunate circumstances, and the world forgives them, and
women to. How could I help it? I was too poor to
marry. And before I married I meant to do every one
justice-I meant-"
Penelope covered her ears. Her face was so ghastly,
that papa himself said, " I think, Francis, explanations are
idle. You had better defer them and go."
"I will take you at your word," he replied haughtily.
"If you or she think better of it, or of me, I shall be at
any time ready to fulfill my engagement-honorably, as a
gentleman should. Good-by; will you not shake hands
with me, Penelope?"
He walked up to her, trying apparently to carry things
off with a high air, but he was not strong enough, or hardened enough. At sight of my sister sitting there, for she
had sunk down at last, with a face like a corpse, only it
had not the peace of the dead, Francis trembled.
"Forgive me, if I have done you any harm. It was all
the result of circumstances. Perhaps, if you had been a
little less rigid-had scolded me less and studied me moreBut you could not help your nature, nor I mine. Good-by,
Penelope."




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             303
She sat, impassive; even when, with a sort of involuntary
tenderness, he seized and kissed her hand; but the instant
he was gone-fairly gone-with the door shut upon him
and his horse clattering down the road-I heard it plainly
-Penelope started up with a cry of " Francis-Francis!"
Oh, the anguish of it! I can hear it now.
But it was not this Francis she called after-I was sure
of that-I saw it in her eyes. It was the Francis of ten
years ago-the Francis she had loved-now as utterly
dead and buried as if she had seen the stone laid over him,
and his body left to sleep in the grave.
Dead and buried-dead and buried. Do you know, I
sometimes wish it were so; that she had been left, peacefully widowed-knowing his soul was safe with God. I
thought, when papa and I-papa, who that night kissed
me, for the first time since one night you know-sat by
Penelope's bed, watching her-" If Francis had only died!"
After she was quiet, and I had persuaded papa to go to
rest, he sent for me and desired me to read a psalm, as I
used to do when he was ill-you remember? When it
was ended, he asked me, had I any idea what Francis had
done that Penelope could not pardon?
I told him, difficult and painful as it was to do it, all I
suspected-indeed, felt sure of. For was it not the truth?
the only answer I could give. For the same reason I write
of these terrible things to you without any false delicacythey are the truth, and they must be told.
Papa lay for some time, thinking deeply. At last he
said,
" My dear, you are no longer a child, and I may speak
to you plainly. I am an old man, and your mother is dead.
I wish she were with us now-she might help us; for she
was a good woman, Dora. Do you think-take time to
consider the questibn-that your sister is acting right?"
I said, " Quite right."
"Yet, I thought you held that doctrine,'the greater the
sinner the greater the saint;' and believed every crime a
man can commit may be repented, atoned, and pardoned?"
"Yes, father; but Francis has never either repented or
atoned."
No; and therefore I feel certain my sister is right. Ay,
even putting aside the other fact, that the discovery of his
long years of deception must have so withered up her love
— scorched it at the root, as with a stroke of lightning —




804             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
that even if she pitied him, she must also despise. Fancy
despising one's husband!
Besides, she is not the only one wronged. Sometimes,
even sitting by my sister's bedside, I see the vision of that
pretty young creature-she was so pretty and innocent
when she first came to live at Rockmount-with her boy
in her arms; and my heart feels like to burst with indignation and shame, and a kind of shuddering horror at the
wickedness of the world-yet with a strange feeling of
unutterable pity lying at the depth of all.
Max, tell me what you think-you who are so much the
wiser of us two; but I think that, even if she wished it
still, my sister ought not to marry Francis Charteris.
Ah me! papa said truly I was no longer a child. I feel
hardly even a girl, but quite an old woman-familiar with
all sorts of sad and wicked things, as if the freshness and
innocence had gone out of life; and were nowhere to be
found. Except when I turn to you, and lean my poor sick
heart against you, as I do now. Max, comfort me!
You will, I know, write immediately you receive this.
If you could have come-but that is impossible.
Augustus you will probably see, if you have not done so
already-for he already looks upon you as the friend of the
family, though in no other light as yet; which is best.
Papa wrote to Sir William, I believe; he said he considered some explanation a duty, on his daughter's account;
farther than this, he wishes the matter kept quiet. Not to
disgrace Francis, I thought; but papa told me one half the
world would hardly consider it any disgrace at all. Can
this be so? Is it indeed such a wicked, wicked world?
-Here my letter was stopped by hearing a sort of cry
in Penelope's room. I ran in, and found her sitting up in
her bed, her eyes starting, and every limb convulsed. Seeing me, she cried out,
"Bring a light; I was dreaming. But it's not true.
Where is Francis?"
I made no reply, and she slowly sank down in her bed
again. Recollection had come.
"I should not have gone to sleep. Why did you let
me? Or why can not you put me to sleep forever, and
ever, and ever, and ever?" repeating the word many times.
"Dora," and my sister fixed her piteous eyes on my face,
"I should be so glad to die. Why won't you kill me?"
I burst into tears.




A LIFE FOB A LIFE.             305
Max, you will understand the total helplessness one feels
in the presence of an irremediable grief like this; how consolation seems cruel, and reasoning vain. " Miserable comforters are ye all," said Job to his three friends; and a miserable comforter I felt to this my sister, whom it had pleased
the Almighty to smite so sore, until I remembered that He
who smites can heal.
I lay down outside the bed, put my arm over her, and
remained thus for a long time, not saying a single wordthat is, not with my lips. And since our weakness is often
our best strength, and when we wholly relinquish a thing,
it is given back to us many a time in double measure, so,
possibly, those helpless tears of mine did Penelope more
good than the wisest of words.
She lay watching me-saying more than once,
" I did not know you cared so much for me, Dora."
It then came into my mind, that as wrecked people cling
to the smallest spar, if, instead of her conviction that in losing Francis she had lost her all, I could by any means make
Penelope feel that there were others to cling to, others who
loved her dearly, and whom she ought to try and live for
still-it might save her. So, acting on the impulse, I told
my sister how good I thought her, and how wicked I myself had been for not long since discovering her goodness.
How, when at last I learned to appreciate her, and to understand what a sorely-tried life hers had been, there came
not only respect, but love. Thorough sisterly love, such as
people do not necessarily feel even for their own flesh and
blood, but never, I doubt, except to them. (Save that, in
some inexplicable way, fondly reflected, I have something
of the same sort of love for your brother Dallas.)
Afterward, she lying still and listening, I tried to make
my sister understand what I had myself felt when she came
to my bedside and comforted me that morning, months ago,
when I was so wretched; how no wretchedness of loss can
be altogether unendurable, so long as it does not strike at
the household peace, but leaves the sufferer a little love to
rest upon at home.
And at length I persuaded her to promise that, since it
made both papa and me so very miserable to see her thus
-and papa was an old man, too; we might not have him
with us many years-she would, for our sakes, try to rouse
herself, and see if life were not tolerable for a little longer.
"Y Yes," she answered, closing her heavy eyes, and fold



306             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
ing her hands in a pitiful kind of patience, very strange in
our quick, irritable Penelope. "Yes-just a little longer.
Still, I think I shall soon die. I believe it will kill me."
I did not contradict her, but I called to mind your words,
that, Penelope being a good woman, all would happen to
her for good. Also, it is usually not the good people who
are killed by grief; while others take it as God's vengeance,
or as the work of blind chance, they receive it humbly as
God's chastisement, live on, and endure. I do not think my
sister will die-whatever she may think or desire just now.
Besides we have only to deal with the present, for how can
we look forward a single day? How little we expected all
this only a week ago!
It seems strange that Francis could have deceived us for
so long: years, it must have been; but we have lived so
retired, and were such a simple family for many things.
How far Penelope thinks we know-papa and I-I can not
guess; she is totally silent on the subject of Francis. Except in that one outcry, when she was still only half awake,
she has never mentioned his name.
There was one thing more I wanted to tell you, Max;.you know I tell you every thing.
Just as I was leaving my sister, she, noticing I was not
undressed, asked me if I had been sitting up all night, and
reproached me for doing so.
I said "I was not weary-that I had been quietly occupying myself in the next room."
"Reading?"
"No."
"What were you doing?" with sharp suspicion.
I answered, without disguise,
"I was writing to Max."
"Max who? Oh, I had forgotten his name."
She turned from me, and lay with her face to the wallthen said,
"Do you believe in him?"
"Yes, I do."
"You had better not. You will live to repent it. Child,
mark my words. There may be good women-one or two,
perhaps-but there is not a single good man in the whole
world."
My heart rose to my lips, but deeds speak louder than
words. I did not attempt to defend you. Besides, no wonder she should think thus.




A LIFE  OR A LIFE.            307
Again she said," Dora, tell Doctor Urquhart he was innocent comparatively, and that I say so. He only killed
Harry's body, but those who deceive us are the death
of one's soul. Nay," and by her expression I felt sure it
was not herself and her own wrongs my sister was thinking of-" there are those who destroy both body and soul."
I made no answer; I only covered her up, kissed her,
and left her, knowing that in one sense I did not leave her
either forsaken or alone.
And now I must leave you, too, Max, being very weary
in body, though my mind is comforted and refresheday, ever since I began this letter. So many of your good
words have come back to me while I wrote-words which
you have let fall at odd times, long ago, even when we were
mere acquaintances. You did not think I should remember them? I do, every one.
This is a great blow, no doubt. The hand of Providence
has been heavy upon us and our house lately. But I think
we shall be able to bear it. One always has courage to
bear a sorrow which shows its naked face, fiee from suspense or concealment; stands visibly in the midst of the
home, and has to be met and lived down patiently by every
member therein.
You once said that we often live to see the reason of affliction; how all the events of life hang so wonderfully together, that afterward we can frequently trace the chain
of events, and see in humble faith and awe that out of each
one has been evolved the other, and that every thing, bad
and good, must necessarily have happened exactly as it did.
Thus I begin to see-you will not be hurt, Max?-how
well it was, on some accounts, that we were not marriedthat I should still be living at home with my sister; and
that, after all she knows, and she only, of what has happened to me this year, she can not reject any comfort I
may be able to offer her on the ground that I myself know
nothing of sorrow.
As for me personally, do not fear; I have you. You
once feared that a great anguish would break my heart,
but it did not. Nothing in this world will ever do that
while I have you.
Max, kiss me-in thought, I mean-as friends kiss friends
who are starting on a long and painful journey, of which
they see no end, yet are not afraid. Nor am I. Good-by,
my Max. Yours, only and always,
THEODORA JOHNSTON.




308             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
CHAPTER XXXI.
HIS STORY.
MY DEAR THEODORA,-YOU will have received my letters regularly, nor am I much surprised that they have not
been answered. I have heard, from time to time, in other
ways, all particulars of your sister's illness and of you.
Mrs. Granton says you keep up well, but I know that, could
I see it now, it would be the same little pale face which
used to come stealing to me from your father's bedside
last year.
If I ask you to write, my love, believe it is from no doubt
of you, or jealousy of any of your home-duties, but because
I am wearying for a sight of your handwriting, and an assurance from yourself that you are not failing in health, the
only'thing in which I have any fear of your failing.
To answer a passage in your last, which I have hitherto
let be, there was so much besides to write to you aboutthe passage concerning friends parting from friends. At
first I interpreted it that in your sadness of spirit and hopelessness of the future you wished me to sink back into my
old place, and be only your friend. It was then no time to
argue the point, nor would it have made any difference in
my letters either way; but now let me say two words concerning it.
My child, when a man loves a woman, before he tries to
win her he will have, if he loves unselfishly and generously,
many a doubt concerning both her and himself. In fact, as
I once read somewhere, " When a man truly loves a woman,
he would not marry her upon any account unless he was
quite certain he was the best person she could possibly
marry." But as soon as she loves him, and he knows it, and
is certain that, however unworthy he may be, or however
many faults she may possess-I never told you you were
an angel, did I, little lady?-they have cast their lot together, chosen one another, as your church-says, "For
better for worse" —then the face of things is entirely
changed. He has his rights, close and strong as no other
human being can have with regard to her-she has herself given them to him; and if he has any manliness in




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             309
-him he never will let them go, but hold her fast forever
and ever.
My dear Theodora, I have not the slightest intention of
again subsiding into your friend. I am your lover and
your betrothed husband. I will wait for you any number
of years, till you have fulfilled all your duties, and no earthly rights have power to separate us longer. But, in the
mean time, I hold fast to my rights. Every thing that
lover or future husband can be to you, I must be. And
when I see you, for I am determined to see you at intervals, do not suppose that it will be a friend's kiss-if there
be such a thing-that-  But I have said enough-it is not
easy for me to express myself on this wise.
My love, this letter is partly to consult you on a matter
which is somewhat on my mind. With any but you I
might hesitate; but I know your mind almost as I know
my own, and can speak to you as I hope I always shallfrankly and freely as a husband would to his wife.
About your sister Penelope and her great sorrow I have
already written fully. Of her ultimate recovery, mentally
as well as bodily, I have little doubt: she has in her the
foundations of all endurance-a true, upright nature and a
religious mind. The first blow over, a certain little girl
whom I know will be to her a saving angel; as she has
been to others I could name. Fear not, therefore-" Fear
God, and have no other fear:" you will bring your sister
safe to land.
But, you are aware, Penelope is not the only person who
has been shipwrecked.
I should not intrude this side of the subject at present,
did I not feel it to be in some degree a duty, and one that,
from certain information that has reached me, will not bear
deferring. The more so because my occupation here ties
my own hands so much. You and I do not live for ourselves, you know-nor indeed wholly for one another. I
want you to help me, Theodora.
In my last I informed you how the story of Lydia Cartwright came to my knowledge, and how, beside her father's
coffin, I was entreated by her old mother to find her out,
and bring her home if possible. I had then no idea who
the "gentleman" was; but afterward was led to suspect it
might be a friend of Mr. Charteris. To assure myself, I
one day put some questions to him-point-blank, I believe,
for I abhor diplomacy, nor had I any suspicion of him per



310             A LIFE FOR A' LIFE.
sonally. In the answer, he gave me a point-blank and insulting denial of any knowledge on the subject.
When the whole truth came out, I was in aoubt what to
do consistent with my promise to the poor girl's mother.
Finally, I made inquiries; but heard that the Kensington
cottage had been sold up, and the inmates removed. I
then got the address of Sarah Enfield-that is, I commissioned my old friend, Mrs. Ansdell, to get it, and sent it to
Mrs. Cartwright, without either advice or explanation, except that it was that of a person who knew Lydia. Are
you aware that Lydia has more than once written to her
mother, sometimes inclosing money, saying she was well
and happy, but nothing more?
I this morning heard that the old woman, immediately
on receiving my letter, shut up her cottage, leaving the key
with a neighbor, and disappeared. But she may come
back, and not alone; I hope most earnestly, it will not be
alone. And therefore I write, partly to prepare you for
this chance, that you may contrive to keep your sister from
any unnecessary pain, and also from another reason.
You may not know it-and it is a hard thing to have to
enlighten my innocent love, but your father is quite right;
Lydia's story is by no means rare, nor is it regarded in the
world as we view it. There are very few-especially
among the set to which Mr. Charteris belonged-who
either profess or practice the Christian doctrine that our
bodies also are the temples of the Holy Spirit-that a
man's life should be as pure as a woman's, otherwise no
woman, however she may pity, can, or ought to respect
him, or to marry him. This, it appears to me, is the
Christian principle of love and marriage-the only one by
which the one can be made sacred and the other "honorable to a^." I have tried, invariably, in every way to set
this forth; nor do I hesitate to write of it to my wife that
will be-whom'it is my blessing to have united with me in
every work which my conscience once compelled as atonement and my heart now offers in humblest thanksgiving.
But enough of myself.
While this principle of total purity being essential for
both man and woman can not be too sternly upheld, there
is another side to the subject, analagous to one of which
you and I have often spoken. You will find it in the
seventh chapter of Luke and eighth of John: written, I
conclude, to be not only read, but acted up to by all




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             311
Christians who desire to have in them "the mind of
Christ."
Now, my child, you see what I mean-how the saving
command, " Go and sin no more," applies to this sin also.
You know much more of what Lydia Cartwright used
to be than I do; but it takes long for any one error to
corrupt the entire character; and her remembrance of her
mother, as well as her charity to Sarah Enfield, imply that
there must be much good left in the girl still. She is
young. Nor have I heard of her ever falling lower than
this once. But she may fall; since, from what I know of
Mr. Charteris's present circumstances, she must now, with
her child, be left completely destitute. It is not the first
similar case, by many, that I have had to do with; but my
love never can have met with the like before. Is she
afraid? does she hesitate to hold out her pure right hand
to apoor creature who never can be an innocent girl again;
who also, from the over severity of Rockmount, may have
been let slip a little too readily, and so gone wrong?
If you do hesitate, say so; it will not be unnatural nor
surprising. If you do not, this is what I want; being myself so placed that, though I feel the thing ought to be
done, there seems no way of doing it, except through you.
Should the Cartwrights reappear in the village, persuade
your father not altogether to set his face against them, or
have them expelled the neighborhood. They must leave
-it is essential for your sister that they should; but the
old'woman is very poor. Do not have them driven away
in such a manner as will place no alternative between sin
and starvation. Besides, there is the child-how a man
can ever desert his own child!-but I will not enter into
that part of the subject. This is a strange "love" letter;
but I write it without hesitation-my love will understand.
You will like to hear something of me; but there is
little to tell. The life of a jail surgeon is not unlike that
of a horse in a mill; and, for some things, nearly as hopeless; best fitted, perhaps, for the old and the blind. I have
to shut my eyes to so much that I can not remedy, and
take patiently so much, to fight against which would be
like knocking down the Pyramids of Egypt with one's
head as a battering-ram, that sometimes my courage fails.
This great prison is, you know, a model of its kind, on
the solitary, sanitary, and moral improvement system; excellent, no doubt, compared with that which preceded it.




312             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
The prisoners are numerous, and as soon as any of them
get out they take the greatest pains to get in again; such
are the comforts of jail life contrasted with that outside.
Yet they seem to me often like a herd of brute beasts,
fed and stalled by rule in a manner best to preserve their
health, and keep them from injuring their neighbors; their
bodies well looked after, but their souls-they might
scarcely have any! They are simply Nos. 1, 2, 3, and so
on, with nothing of human individuality or responsibility
about them. Even their faces grow to the same pattern,
dull, fat, clean, and stolid. During the exercising hour I
sometimes stand and watch them, each pacing his small
bricked circle, and rarely catch one countenance which has
a ray of expression or intelligence.
Good as many of its results are, I have my doubts as to
this solitary system; but they are expressed on paper in
the MS. you asked for, my kind little lady I so I will not
repeat them here.
Yet it will be a change of thought from your sister's
sick-room for you to think of me in mine-not a sick-room
though, thank God! This is a most healthy region: the
sea-wind sweeps round the prison walls, and shakes the
roses in the governor's garden till one can hardly believe
it is so dreary a place inside. Dreary enough sometimes
to make one believe in that reformer who offered to convert some depraved region into a perfect Utopia, provided
the males above the age of fourteen were all summarily
hanged.
Do you smile, my love, at this compliment to your sex at
the expense of mine? Yet I see wretches here who I can
not hardly believe share the same common womanhood as
my Theodora. Think over carefully what I asked you
about Lydia Cartwright; it is seldom suddenly, but step
by step, that this degradation comes. And at every step
there is hope; at least, such is my experience.
Do not suppose, from this description, that I am disheartened at my work here; besides rules and regulations,
there is still much room for personal influence, especially in
hospital. When a man is sick or dying, unconsciously his
heart is humanized-he thinks of God. From this simple
cause, my calling has a great advantage over all others;
and it is much to have physical agencies on one's side, as I
do not get them in the streets and towns. To-day, looking
up from a clean, tidy, airy cell, where the occupant had at




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             313
least a chance of learning to read if he chose, and seeing
through the window the patch of bright blue sky, fresh
and pure as ever sky was, I thought of two lines you once
repeated to me out of your dear head, so full of poetry:
"God's in His Heaven;
All's right with the world."
Yesterday I had a holiday. I took the railway to Treherne Court, wishing to learn something of Rockmount.
You said it was your desire I should visit your brother-inlaw and sister sometimes.
They seemed very happy-so much as to be quite inde.
pendent of visitors, but they received me warmly, and I
gained tidings of you. They escorted me back as far as
the park gates, where I left them standing, talking and
laughing together, a very picture of youth and fortune and
handsome looks; a picture suited to the place, with its
grand ancestral trees branched down to the ground; its
green slopes, and its herds of deer racing about-while the
turrets of the magnificent house which they call "home"
shone whitely in the distance.
You see I am taking a leaf out of your book, growing
poetical and descriptive; but this brief contrast to my daily
life made the impression particularly strong.
You need have no anxiety for your youngest sister; she
looked in excellent health and spirits. The late sad events
do not seem to have affected her. She merely observed,
"She was glad it was over, she never liked Francis much.
Penelope must come to Treherne Court for change, and no
doubt she would soon make a far better marriage." Her
husband said, "He and his father had been both grieved
and annoyed-indeed, Sir William had quite disowned his
nephew-such ungentlemanly conduct was a disgrace to
the family." And then Treherne spoke about his own
happiness-how his father and Lady Augusta perfectly
adored his wife, and how the hope and pride of the family
were centred in her, with more to the same purport. Truly this young couple have their cup brimming over with
life and its joys.
My love, good-by; which means only "God be with
thee!" nor in any way implies "farewell."  Write soon.
Your words are, as the Good Book expresses it, " sweeter
than honey and the honey-comb" to me unworthy.
MAX URQUHABT.
0




314             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
I should add, though you would almost take it for grant.
ed, that, in all you do concerning Mrs. Cartwright or her
daughter, I wish you to do nothing without your father's
knowledge and consent.
CHAPTER XXXII.
HER STORY.
ANOTHER bright, dazzlingly bright, summer morning, on
which I begin writing to my dear Max. This seems the
longest-lasting, loveliest summer I ever knew outside the
house. Within all goes on much in the same way, which
you know.
My moors are all growing purple, Max; I never remember the heather so rich and abundant; I wish you could
see it. Sometimes I want you so! If you had given me
up, or were to do so now from hopelessness, pride, or any
other reason, what would become of me? Max, hold me
fast. Do not let me go.
You never do. I can see how you carry me in your
heart continually, and how you are forever considering how
you can help me and mine, and if it were not become so
natural to feel this, so sweet to depend upon you and accept every thing from you without even saying "thank
you," I might begin to express " gratitude;" but the word
would make you smile.
I amused you once, I remember, by an indignant disclaimer of obligations between such as ourselves; how
every thing given and received ought to be free as air,
and how you ought to take me as readily if I were heiress
to ten thousand a year, as I would you if you were the
Duke of Northumberland. No, Max; those are not these
sort of things that give me toward you the feeling of
"gratitude;" it is the goodness, the thoughtfulness, the
tender love and care. I don't mean to insult your sex by
saying no man ever loved like you, but few men love in
that special way which alone could have satisfied a restless,
irritable girl like me, who finds in you perfect trust and
perfect rest.
If not allowed to be grateful on my own account, I may
be in behalf of my sister Penelope.
After thus long following out your orders, medical and




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             315
mental, I begin to notice a slight change in Penelope. She
no longer lies in bed late, on the plea that it shortens the
day, nor is she so difficult to persuade in going out. Farther than the garden she will not stir, but there I get her
to creep up and down for a little while daily. Lately she
has begun to notice her flowers, especially a white mossrose which she took great pride in, and which never flowered until this summer. Yesterday its first bud opened;
she stopped and examined it.
"Somebody has been mindful of this; who was it?"
I said, the gardener and myself together.
"Thank you." She called John, showed him what a good
bloom it was, and consulted how they should manage to
get the plant to flower again next year. She can then look
forward to " next year."
You say that, as " while there is life there is hope," with
the body, so, while one ray of hope is discernible, the soul
is alive. To save souls alive-that is your special calling.
It seems as if you yourself had been led through deep
waters of despair in order that you might personally understand how those feel who are drowning, and therefore
know best how to help them. And lately you have in this
way done more than you know of. Shall I tell you? You
will not be displeased.
Max, hitherto nobody but me has seen a line of your letters. I could not bear it. I am as jealous over them as
any old miser; it has vexed me even to see a stray hand
fingering them before they reach mine; yet this week I'
actually read out loud two pages of one of them to Penelope. This was how it came about.
I was sitting by her sofa, supposing her asleep. I had
been very miserable that morning-tried much in several
ways, and I took out your letter to comfort me. It told
me of so many miseries, to which my own are nothing, and
among which you live continually, yet are always so patient
and tender over mine. I said to myself, "how good he is!"
and two large tears came with a great splash upon the paper before I was aware. Very: foolish, you know, but I
could not help it. And, wiping my eyes, I saw Penelope's
wide open, watching me.
" Has Doctor Urquhart been writing any thing to wound
you?" said she, slowly and bitterly.
I eagerly disclaimed this.
-"Is he ill?"




316             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
" Oh no, thank God!"
"Why then were you crying?"
Why, indeed? But what could I say, except the truth,
that they were not tears of pain, but because you were so
good and I was so proud of you? I forgot what arrows
these words must have been into my sister's heart. No
wonder she spoke as she did-spoke out fiercely, and yet
with a certain solemnity.
"Dora Johnston, you will reap what you sow, and I
shall not pity you. Make to yourself an idol, and God will
strike it down.'Thou shalt have none other gods but me.'
Remember Who says that, and tremble."
I should have trembled, Max, had I not remembered. I
said to my sister, as gently as I could, "that I made no
idols; that I knew all your faults, and you mine, and we
loved one another in spite of them, but we did not worship
one another-only God.   That, if it were His will we
should part, I believed we could part. And-" here I
could not say any more for tears.
Penelope looked sorry.
"I remember you preaching that doctrine once, child,
but-" she started up violently-" Can't you give me something to amuse me? Read me a bit of that-that nonsense.
Of all amusing things in this world, there is nothing like a
love-letter. But don't believe them, Dora," she grasped
my hand hard-" they are every one of them lies."
I said that I could not judge, never having received a
"love-letter" in all my life, and hoped earnestly I never
might.
"No love-letters? What does he write to you about,
then?"
I told her in a general way. I would not see her halfsatirical, half-incredulous smile. It did not last very long.
Soon, though she turned away and shut her eyes, I felt sure
she was both listening and thinking.
" Doctor Urquhart can not have an easy or pleasant life,"
she observed, "but he does not deserve it. No man does."
"Or woman either," said I, as gently as I could.
Penelope bade me hold my tongue; preaching was my
father's business, not mine, that is if reasoning were of any
avail.
I asked, did she think it was not?
"I think nothing about nothing. I want to smother
thought. Child, can't you talk a little? Or stay, read me




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             317
some of Doctor Urquhart's letters; they are not love-letters, so you can have no objection."
It went hard, Max, indeed it did! till I consideredperhaps, to hear of people more miserable than herself,
more wicked than Francis, might not do harm but good to
my poor Penelope.
So I was brave enough to take out my letter and read
from it (with reservations now and then, of course), about
your daily work and the people concerned therein; all that
interests me so much, and makes me feel happier and prouder than any mere "love-letter" written to or about myself.
Perelope was interested too, both in the jail and the hospital matters. They touched that practical, benevolent,
energetic half of her, which till lately has made her papa's
right hand in the parish. I saw her large black eyes brightening up, till an unfortunate name, upon which I fell unawares, changed all.
Max, I am sure she had heard of Tom Turton. Francis
knew him. When I stopped with some excuse, she bade
me go on, so I was obliged to finish the miserable history.
She then asked:
"Is Turton dead?"
I said "No," and referred to the postscript where you
say that both yourself and his poor old ruined father hope
Tom Turton may yet live to amend his ways.
Penelope muttered:
"He never will. Better he died."
I said Dr. Urquhart did not think so.
She shook her head impatiently, exclaiming she was tired,
and wished to hear no more, and so fell into one of her
long, sullen silences, which sometimes last for hours.
I wonder whether, among the many cruel things she
must lie thinking about, she ever thinks, as I do often, what
has become of Francis?
Sometimes, puzzling over how best to deal with her, I
have tried to imagine myself in her place, and consider what
would have been my own feelings toward Francis now.
The sharpest and most prominent would be the ever-abiding
sense of his degradation-he who was so dear-united to
the constant terror of his sinking lower and lower to any
depth of crime or shame. To think of him as a bad man,
a sinner against heaven, would be tenfold worse than any
sin or cruelty against me.
Therefore, whether or not her love for him has died out,




318             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
I can not help thinking there must be times when Penelope
would give any thing for tidings of Francis Charteris. I
wish you would find out whether he has left England, and
then perhaps in some way or other I may let Penelope understand that he is safe away-possibly to begin a new and
better life, in a new world.
A new and better life. This phrase-Penelope might
call it our " cant," yet what we solemnly believe in is surely not cant-brings me to something I have to tell you this
week. For some reasons I am glad it did not occur until
this week, that I might have time for consideration.
Max, if you remember, when you made to me that request about Lydia Cartwright, I merely answered "that I
would endeavor to do as you wished," as, indeed, I always
would, feeling that my duty to you, even in the matter of
"obedience," has already begun. I mean to obey, you see,
but would rather do it with my heart, as well as my conscience. So, hardly knowing what to say to you, I just
said this, and no more.
My life has been so still, so safely shut up from the outside world, that there are many subjects I have never even
thought about, and this was one. After the first great
shock concerning Francis, I put it aside, hoping to forget
it. When you revived it, I was at first startled; then I
tried to ponder it over carefully, so as to come to a right
judgment and be enabled to act in every way as became
not only myself, Theodora Johnston, but-let me not be
ashamed to say it-Theodora, Max Urquhart's wife.
By-and-by all became clear to me. My dear Max, I do
not hesitate; I am not afraid. I have been only waiting
opportunity, which at length came.
Last Sunday I overheard my class-Penelope's that was,
you know-whispering something among themselves, and
trying to hide it from me. When I put the question direct, the answer was:
"Please, Miss, Mrs. Cartwright and Lydia have come
home."
I felt myself grow hot as fire-I do now in telling you.
Only it must be borne-it must be told..
Also, another thing, which one of the bigger girls let out,
with many titters, and never a blush, they had brought a
child with them.
Oh, Max, the horror of shame and repulsion, and then
the perfect anguish of pity that came over me! These




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.            319
girls of our parish-Lydia was one of them; if they had
been taught better; if I had tried to teach them, instead
of all these years studying or dreaming, thinking wholly
of myself and caring not a straw about my fellow-creatures.
Oh, Max, would that my life had been more like yours!
It shall be henceforth. Going home through the village,
with the sun shining on the cottages, of whose inmates I
know no more than of the New Zealand savages-on the
group of ragged girls who were growing up at our very
door, no one knows how, and ho one cares —I made a vow
to myself. I that have been so blessed-I that am so happy-yes, Max, happy! I will work with all my strength
while it is day. You will help me. And you will never
love me the less for any thing I feel-or do.
I was going that very afternoon to walk direct to Mrs.
Cartwright's, when I remembered your charge, that nothing should be attempted without my father's knowledge
and consent.
I took the opportunity when he and I were sitting alone
together-Penelope gone to bed. He was saying she looked better. He thought she might begin visiting in the
district soon, if she were properly persuaded. At least,
she might take a stroll round the village. He should ask
her to-morrow.
" Don't papa. Oh, pray don't!" and then I was obliged
to tell him the reason why. I had to put it very plainly
before he understood; he forgets things now sometimes.
"Starving, did you say? Mrs. Cartwright, Lydia, and
the child? What child?"
"Francis's."
Then he comprehended, and, oh, Max, had I been the girl
I was a few months ago, I should have sunk to the earth
with the shame he said I ought to feel at even alluding to
such things. But I would not stop to consider this, or to
defend myself; the matter concerned not me, but Lydia.
I asked papa if he did not remember Lydia?
She came to us, Max, when she was only fourteen, though,
being well-grown and handsome, she looked older; a pleasant, willing, affectionate creature, only she had "no head,"
or it was half-turned by the admiration her beauty gained,
not merely among her own class, but all our visitors. I
remember Francis saying once-oh, how angry Penelope
was about it-that Lydia was so naturally elegant she could
be made a lady in no time, if a man liked to take her, edu



320             A LIFFE FOR A LIFE.
cate, and marry her. Would he had done it! spite of all
broken vows to Penelope. I think my sister herself might
have forgiven him, if he had only honestly fallen in love with
poor Lydia and married her.
These things I tried to recall to papa's mind, but he angrily bade me be silent.
"I can not," I said, "because, if we had taken better
care of the girl, this might never have happened. When I
think of her-her pleasant ways about the house-how she
used to go singing over her work of mornings, poor innocent young thing, oh, papa! papa'!"
" Dora," he said, eying me closely, " what change has
come over you of late?"
I said I did not know, unless it was that which must
come over people who have been very unhappy-the wish
to save other people as much unhappiness as they can.
" Explain yourself. I do not understand."
When he didthe said abruptly;
" Stop. It was well you waited to consult with me. If
your own delicacy does not teach you better, I must. My
daughter-the daughter of the clergyman of the parishcan not possibly be allowed to interfere with these profligates."
My heart sunk like lead.
"But you, papa?  They are here; you, as the rector,
must do something. What shall you do?"
He thought a little.
" I shall forbid them the church and the sacrament, omit
them from my charities, and take every lawful means to get
them out of the neighborhood. This, for my family's sake
and the parish's, that they may carry their corruption elsewhere."
"But they may not be wholly corrupt. And the child
-that innocent, unfortunate child!"
"Silence, Dora.  It is written'The seed of evil-doers
shall never be renowned. The sinless must suffer with the
guilty; there is no hope for either."
" Oh, papa," I cried, in an agony, "Christ did not say so.
He said,'Go, and sin no more.'"
Was I wrong? If I was, I suffered for it. What followed was very hard to bear.
Max, if ever I am yours, altogether in your power, I wonder will you ever give me those sort of bitter, cruel words?
Words which people, living under the same roof, think noth



A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             321
ing of using, mean nothing by them, yet they cut sharp like
swords. The flesh closes up after them, but oh, they bleed
-they bleed! Dear Max, reprove me as you will, however much, but let it be in love, not in anger or sarcasm.
Sometimes people drop carelessly, by quiet firesides, and
with a good-night kiss following, as papa gave to me, words
which leave a scar for years.
Next day I was just about to write and ask you to find
some other plan for helping,he Cartwrights, since we neither of us would choose to persist in one duty at the expense of another, when papa called me to take a walk with
him.
Is it not strange the way in which good angels seem to
take up the thread of our dropped hopes and endeavors
and wind them up for us, we see not how, till it is all done?
Never was I more surprised than when papa, stopping to
lean on my arm, and catch the warm, pleasant wind that
came over the moors, said suddenly:
"Dora, what could possess you to talk to me as you did
last night? And why, if you had any definite scheme in
your head, did you relinquish it so easily?"
"Papa, you forbade it."
" So, even when differing from your father, you consider
it right to obey him?"
" Yes-except-"
"Say it out, child."
"Except in the case of any duty which I felt to be not
less sacred than the one I owe to my father."
He made no reply.
Walking on, we passed Mrs. Cartwright's cottage. It
was quiet and silent, the door open, but the window-shutter half closed, and there was no smoke from the chimney.
I saw papa turn round and look. At last he said, " What
did you mean by telling me they were' starving?'"
I answered the direct, entire truth. I was bold, for it
was your mind as well as my own I was speaking out, and
I knew it was right. I pleaded chiefly for the child-it
was easiest to think of it, the little creature I had seen
laughing and crowing in the garden at Kensington. It
seemed such a dreadful thing for that helpless baby to die
of want, or live to turn out a reprobate.
" Think, papa," I cried, " if that poor little soul had been
our own flesh and blood-if you were Francis's father, and
this had been your grandchild!"
02




322             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
To my sorrow, I had forgotten for the time a part of
poor Harry's story-the beginning of it; you shall know
it some day-it is all passed now. But papa remembered
it. He faltered as he walked-at last he sat down on a
tree by the road-side and said, "he must go home."
Yet still, either by accident or design, he took the way
by the lane where is Mrs. Cartwright's cottage. At the
gate of it a little ragged urchin was poking a rosy face
through the bars; and, seeing papa, this small fellow gave
a shout of delight, tottered out, and caught hold of his coat,
calling him "Daddy."  He started-I thought he would
have fallen, he trembled so: my poor old father.
When I lifted the little thing out of his way, I too started. It is strange always to see a face you know revived
in a child's face; in this instance it was shocking-pitiful.
My first thought was, we never must let Penelope come
past this way. I.was carrying the boy off-I well knew
where, when papa called me.
" Stop. Not alone-not without your father."
It was but a few steps, and we stood on the door-sill of
Mrs. Cartwright's cottage. The old woman snatched up
the child, and I heard her whisper something about "Run
-Lyddy-run away."
But Lydia, if that white, thin creature, huddled up in
the corner, were she, never attempted to move.
Papa walked up to her.
"Young woman, are you Lydia Cartwright, and is this
your child?"
"Have you been meddling with him?    You'd better
not! I say, Franky, what have they been doing to mother's Franky?"
She caught at him, and hugged him close, as mothers do.
And when the boy, evidently both attracted and puzzled by
papa's height and gentlemanly clothes, tried to get back to
him, and again called him " Daddy," she said angrily, " No,
no,'tis not your daddy. They're no friends o' yours. I
wish they were out of the place, Franky, boy."
"You wish us away. No wonder. Are you not ashamed
to look us in the face-my daughter and me?"
But papa might have said ever so much more, without
her heeding. The child having settled himself on her lap,
playing with the ragged counterpane that wrapped her instead of a shawl, Lydia seemed to care for nothing. She
lay back with her eyes shut, still, and white. We may be
sure of one thing-she has preferred to starve.




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.            823
"Dunnot be too hard upon her, sir," begged the old
woman. "Dunnot, please, Miss Dora. She bean't a lady
like you, and he were such a fine coaxing young gentleman.
It's he that's most to blame."
My father said sternly, " Has she left him, or been deserted by him-I mean Mr. Francis Charteris?"
" Mother," screamed Lydia, " what's that? What have
they come for? Do they know any thing about him?"
She did not, then.
" Be quiet, my lass," said the mother, soothingly, but it
was of no use.
"Miss Dora," cried the girl, creeping to me, and speaking in the same sort of childish, pitiful tone in which she
used to come and beg Lisabel and me to intercede for her
when she had annoyed Penelope, " do, Miss Dora, tell me.
I don't want to see him, I only want tt hear. I've heard
nothing since he sent me a letter from prison, saying I was
to take my things and the baby's and go. I don't know
what's become of him, no more than the dead. And, miss,
he's that boy's father-miss-please-"
She tried to go down to her knees, but fell prone on the
floor.
Max, who would have thought, the day before, that this
day I should have. been sitting with Lydia Cartwright's
head on my lap, trying to bring her back to this miserable
life of hers; that papa would have stood by and seen me
do it without a word of blame!
"It's the hunger," cried the mother. "You see, she
isn't used to it now; he always kept her like a lady."
Papa turned and walked out of the cottage. I afterward
found out that he had bought the loaf at the baker's shop
down: the village, and got the bottle of wine from his private cupboard in the vestry. He returned with both-one
in each pocket-then, sitting down on the chair, cut the
bread and poured out the wine, and fed these three himself,
with his own hands. My dear father!
Nor did he draw back when, as she recovered, the first
word that came to the wretched girl's lips was "Francis."
"Mother, beg them to tell me about him. I'll do him
no harm, indeed I won't, neither him nor them. Is he married? Or," with a sudden gasp, "is he dead? I've thought
sometimes he must be, or he never would have left the child
and me. He was always fond of us, wasn't he, Franky?"
I told her, to the best of my-knowledge, Mr.-Charteris




324             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
was still living, but what had become of him we could none
of us guess. We never saw him now.
Here, looking wistfully at me, Lydia seemed suddenly to
remember old times; to become conscious of what she used
to be, and what she was now. Also, in a vague sort of
way, of how guilty she had been toward her mistress and
our family. How long, or how deep the feeling was, I can
not judge, but she certainly did feel. She hung her head,
and tried to draw herself away from my arm.
"I'd rather not trouble you, Miss Dora, thank you."
I said it was no trouble, she had better lie still till she
felt stronger.
" You don't mean that. Not such as me."
I told her she must know she had done very wrong, but
if she was sorry for it, I was sorry for her, and we would
help her if we could to an honest livelihood.
" What, and the child too?"
I looked toward papa; he answered distinctly, but sternly: " Principally for the sake of the child."
Lydia began to sob. She attempted no exculpationexpressed no penitence-just lay and sobbed, like a child.
She is hardly more, even yet-only nineteen, I believe. So
we sat-papa as silent as we, resting on his stick, with his
eyes fixed on the cottage floor, till Lydia turned to me
with a sort of fright.
" What would Miss Johnston say if she knew?"
I wondered, indeed, what my sister would say.
And here, Max-you will hardly credit it, nobody would,
if it were an incident in a book-something occurred which,
even now, seems hardly possible-as if I must have dreamed it all.
Through the open cottage door a lady walked right in,
looked at us all, including the child, who stopped in its
munching of bread to stare at her with wide-open blue eyes
-Francis's eyes; and that lady was my sister Penelope.
She walked in and walked out again, before we had our
wits about us sufficiently to speak to her, and when I rose
and ran after her, she had slipped away somehow, so that
I could not find her. How she came to take this notion
into her head, after being for weeks shut up indoors; whether she had discovered that the Cartwrights had returned
and came here in anger, or else, prompted by some restless
instinct, to have another look at Francis's child-none of
us can guess; nor have we ever dared to inquire.




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             325
When we got home, she was lying in her usual place on
the sofa, as if she wanted us not to notice that she had
been out at all. Still, by papa's desire, I spoke to her
frankly-told her the circumstances of our visit to the two
women-the destitution in which we found them; and
how they should be got away from the village as soon as
possible.
She made no answer whatever, but lay absorbed, as it
were-hardly moving, except an occasional nervous twitch,
all afternoon and evening, until I called her in to prayers,
which were shorter than usual-papa being very tired.
He only read the collect, and repeated the Lord's Prayer,
in which, among the voices that followed his, I distinguished,
with surprise, Penelope's. It had a steadiness and sweetness such as I never heard before. And when-the servants being gone —she went up to papa, and kissed him,
the change in her manner was something almost startling.
" Father, when shall you want me in the district again?"
said she.
"My dear girl!"
"Because I am quite ready to go. I have been ill, and
it has made me unmindful of many things; but I am better
now. Papa, I will try to be a good daughter to you. I
have nobody but you."
She spoke quietly and softly, bending her head upon his
gray hairs. He kissed and blessed her. She kissed me,
too, as she passed, and then went away to bed, without any
more explanation.
But from that time-and it is now three days ago-Penelope has resumed her usual place in the household-taken
up all her old duties, and even her old pleasures; for I saw
her in her green-house this morning. When she called me,
in something of the former quick, imperative voice, to look
at an air-plant that was just coming into flower, I could not
see it for tears.
Nevertheless, there is in her a difference. Not her serious, almost elderly-looking face, nor her manner, which has
lost its sharpness, and is so gentle sometimes that when she
gives her orders the servants actually stare-but the marvelous composure which is evident in her whole demeanor;
the bearing of a person who, having gone through that
sharp agony which either kills or cures, is henceforth settled in mind and circumstances, to feel no more any strong
emotion, but go through life placidly and patiently, with



326             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
out much farther change, to the end. The sort of women
that nuns are made of-or Sceurs de la Charite; or Protestant lay-sisters, of whom every village has some; and almost every family owns at least one. She will, to all appearance, be our one-our elder sister, to be regarded with
reverence unspeakable, and be made as happy as we possibly can. Max, I am learning to think with hope and
without pain of the future of my sister Penelope.
One word more, and this long letter ends.
Yesterday, papa and I walking on the moor met Mrs.
Cartwright, and learned full particulars of Lydia. From
your direction, her mother found her out, in a sort of fever,
brought on by want. Of course, every thing had been
taken from the Kensington cottage, for Francis's debts.
She was turned out with only the clothes she wore. But
you know all this already, through Mrs. Ansdell.
Mrs. Cartwright is sure it was you who sent Mrs. Ansdell to them, and that the money they received week by
week in their worst distress came from you. She said so
to papa while we stood talking.
"For it was just like our doctor, sir-as is kind to poor
and rich-I'm sure he used to look at you, sir, as if he'd
do any thing in the world for you-as many's the time I've
seed him a-sitting by your bedside when you was ill. If
there ever was a man living as did good to every poor soul
as came in his way, it be Doctor Urquhart."
Papa said nothing.
After the old woman had gone, he asked if I had any
plans about Lydia Cartwright.
I had one, which we must consult about when she is better-whether she might not, with her good education, be
made one of the schoolmistresses that you say go fiom cell
to cell instructing the female prisoners in these model jails.
But I hesitated to start this project to papa, so told him I
must think the matter over.
" You are growing quite a thinking woman, Dora; who
taught you-who put it into your mind to act as you do?
you, who were such a thoughtless girl. Speak out, I want
to know."
I told him, naming the name of my dear Max, the first
time it has ever passed my lips in my father's hearing since
that day. It was received in silence.
Some time after, stopping suddenly, papa said to me,
"Dora, some day, I know you will go and marry:Doetor
Urquhart."




A LIFE FOR A IPE,             327
What could I say? Deny it-deny Max-my love and
my husband? or tell my father what was not true? Either was impossible.
So we walked on, avoiding conversation until we came
to our own church-yard, where we went in and sat in the
porch, sheltering from the noon heat, which papa feels more
than he used to do. When he took my arm to walk home,
his anger had vanished; he spoke even with a sort of melancholy.
" I don't know how it is, my dear, but the world is altering fast. People preach strange doctrines, and act in
strange ways, such as were never thought of when I was
young. It may be for good or for evil-I shall find out byand-by. I was dreaming of your mother last night; you
are growing very like her, child." Then suddenly, "Only
wait till I am dead, and you will be free, Theodora."
My heart felt bursting; oh, Max, you do not mind me
telling you these things? What should I do if I could not
thus open my heart to you?
Yet it is not altogether with grief or without hope that
I have thought over what then passed between papa and
me. lie knows you-knows, too, that neither you nor I
have ever deceived him in any thing. He was fond of you
once; I think sometimes he misses you still, in little things
wherein you used to pay him attention, less like a friend
than a son.
Now, Max, do not think I am grieving-do not imagine
I have cause to grieve. They are as kind to me as ever
they can be. My home is as happy as any home could be
made, except one, which, whether we shall ever find or not,
God knows. In quiet evenings such as this, when, after a
rainy day, it has just cleared up in time for the sun. to go
down, and he is going down peacefully in amber glory,
with the trees standing up so purple and still, and the moorlands lying bright, and the hills distinct, even to their very
last faint rim-in such evenings as this, Max, when I want
you and can not find you, but have to learn to sit still by
myself, as now, I learn to think also of the meeting which
has no farewell, of the rest that comes to all in time, of
the eternal home. We shall reach that some day.
Your faithful                       TE)ODORA.




328             A IFB FOR A LIFE.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
HIS STORY.
Treherne Court, Sunday night.
MY DEAR THEODORA,-The answer to my telegram has
just arrived, and I find it is your sister whom we are to
expect, not you. I shall meet her myself by the night train,
Treherne being quite incapable; indeed, he will hardly stir
from the corridor that leads to his wife's room.
You will have heard already that the heir so ardently
looked for has only lived a few hours. Lady Augusta's
letters, which she gave me to address, and I took care to
post myself, would have assured you of your sister's safety,
though it was long doubtful. It will comfort you to know
that she is in excellent care, both her medical attendants
being known to me professionally, and Lady Augusta being a real mother to her in tenderness and anxiety.
You will wonder how I came here. It was by accident
-taking a Saturday holiday, which is advisable now and
then; and Treherne's mother detained me as being the
only person who had any control over her son. Poor fellow! he was almost out of his mind. He never had any
trouble before, and he knows not how to bear it. He trembled in terror-thus coming face to face with that messenger of God who puts an end to all merely mortal joys —
was paralyzed at the fear of losing his blessings, which, numerous as they are, are all of this world. My love, whom
I thought to have seen to-night, but shall not see-for how
long?-things are more equally balanced than we suppose.
You will be sorry about the little one. Treherne seems
indifferent, his whole thought being naturally his wife; but
Sir William is grievously disappointed. A son, too-and
he had planned bonfires, and bell-ringings, and rejoicings
all over the estate. When he stood looking at the little
white lump of clay, which is the only occupant of the grand
nursery prepared for the heir of Treherne Court, I heard
the old man sigh as if for a great misfortune.
You will think it none, since your sister lives. Be quite
content about her-which is easy for me to say, when I know
how long and anxious the days will seem at Rockmount.




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.            829
It might have been better for some things if you, rather
than Miss Johnston, had come to take charge of your sister during her recovery, but maybe all is well as it is.
To-morrow I shall leave this great house, with its many
happinesses, which have run so near a chance of being overthrown, and go back to my own solitary life, in which nothing of personal interest ever visits me but Theodora's letters.
There were two things I intended to tell you in my Sunday letter; shall I say them still? for the more things you
have to think about the better, and one of them was my
reason for suggesting your presence here rather than your
eldest sister's. (Do not imagine, though, your coming was
urged by me wholly for other people's sakes. The sight
of,you just for a few hours-one hour-  People talk of
water in the desert-the thought of a green field to those
who have been months at sea-well, that is what a glimpse
of your little face would be to me. But I can not get it,
and I must not moan.)
What was I writing about? Oh! to bid you tell Mrs.
Cartwright from me that her daughter is well in health,
and doing well. After her two months' probation here,
the governor, to whom alone I communicated her history
(names omitted), pronounces her quite fitted for the situation, and she will be appointed thereto. This is a great
satisfaction to me, as she was selected solely on my recommendation, backed by Mrs. Ansdell's letter. Say also to
the old woman that I trust she receives regularly the
money her daughter sends her through me, which indeed
is the only time I ever see Lydia alone. But I meet her
often in the wards, as she goes from cell to cell teaching
the female prisoners; and it is good to see her sweet, grave
looks, her decent dress and mien, and her inexpressible humility and gentleness toward every body. She puts me in
mind of words you know, which in another sense other
hearts than poor Lydia's might often feel-that those love
most to whom most has been forgiven. Hinting this,
though not in reference to her, in a conversation with the
governor, he observed, rather coldly, " He had heard it said
Doctor Urquhart held peculiar opinions upon crime and
punishment-that, in fact, he was a little too charitable."
I sighed, thinking that, of all men, Doctor Urquhart was
the one who had the most reason to be charitable, and the
governor fixed his eyes upon me somewhat unpleasantly.




830             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
Any one running counter, as I do, to several popular prejudices, is sure not to be without enemies. I should be sorry, though, to have displeased so honest a man, and one
who, widely as we differ in some things, is always safe to
deal with, from his possessing that rare quality, justice.
You see, I go on writing to you of my matters just as I
should talk to you if you sat by my side now, with your
hand in mine and your head here. (So you found two
gray hairs in those long locks of yours last week. Never
mind, love. To me you will be always young.)
I write as I hope to talk to you one day. I never was
among those who believe that a man should keep all his
cares secret from his wife. If she is a true wife, she will
soon read them on his face, or the effect of them; he had
better tell them out, and have them over. I have learned
many things since I found my Theodora; among the rest
is, that when a man marries, or loves with the hope of marrying, let him have been ever so reserved, his whole nature
opens out-he becomes another creature, in degree toward
every body, but most of all to her he has chosen. How
altered I am you would smile to see, were my little lady to
compare these long letters with the brief, business-like productions which have heretofore borne the signature "Max
Urquhart."
I prize my name a little. It has been honorable for a
number of years. My father was proud of it, and Dallas.
Do you like it? Will you like it when-if-  No, let me
trust in Heaven, and say when you bear it?
Those papers of mine which you saw mentioned in the
Times-I am glad Mr. Johnston read them; or, at least,
you suppose he did. I believe they are doing good, and
that my name is becoming pretty well known in connection
with them, especially in this town. A provincial reputation has its advantages; it is more undoubted-more complete. In London a man may shirk and hide; his nearest
acquaintance can scarcely know him thoroughly: but in the
provinces it is different. There, if he has a flaw in him,
either as to his antecedents, his character, or conduct, be
sure scandal will find it out, for she has every opportunity.
Also public opinion is at once stricter and more narrowminded in a place like this than in a great metropolis. I
am glad to be earning a good name here, in this honest,
hardworking, commercial district, where my fortunes are
apparently cast, and where, having been a "rolling stone"




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             331
all my life, I mean to settle and "gather moss" if I canmoss to make a little nest soft and warm for-my love
knows who.
Writing this about the impossibility of keeping any thing
secret in a town like this reminds me of something which I
was in doubt about telling you or not; finally I have decided that I will tell you. Your sister being absent will
make things easier for you. You will not have need to
use any of those concealments which must be so painful in
a home. Nevertheless, I do think Miss Johnston ought to
be kept ignorant of the fact that I believe-nay, am almost
certain-Mr. Francis Charteris is at this present time living
in Liverpool.
No wonder that all my inquiries about him in London
failed. He has just been discharged from this very jail.
It is more than likely he was arrested for liabilities long
owing, or contracted after his last fruitless visit to his uncle, Sir William. I could easily find out, but hardly consider it delicate to make inquiries, as I did not, you know,
after the debtor-whom a turnkey here reported to have
said he knew me. Debtors are not criminals by law-their
ward is justly held private. I never visit any of them unless they come into hospital.
Therefore my meeting with Mr. Charteris was purely accidental. Nor do I believe he recognized me-I had stepped aside into the warder's room. The two other discharged debtors passed through the entrance-gate, and
quitted the jail immediately; but he lingered, desiring a
car to be sent for, and inquiring where one could get handsome and comfortable lodgings in this horrid Liverpool.
He hated a commercial town.
You will ask, woman-like, how he looked? Ill and worn,
with something of the shabby, "poor gentleman" aspect,
with which we here are only too familiar. I overheard the
turnkey joking with the carman about taking him to " handsome rooms." Also, there was about him an ominous air
of what we in Scotland call the " down-draught;" a term
the full meaning of which you probably do not understand
-I trust you never may.
*      *      *      *      *      *     *
You will see by its date how many days ago the first
part of this letter was written. I kept it back till the cruel
suspense of your sister's sudden relapse was ended-thinking it a pity your mind should be burdened with any addi



332             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
tional care. You have had, in the mean time, the daily
bulletin from Treherne Court-the daily line from me.
How are you, my child? for you have forgotten to say.
Any roses out on your poor cheeks? Look in the glass
and tell me. I must know, or I must come and see. Remember, your life is a part of mine now.
Mrs. Treherne is convalescent-as you know. I saw her
on Monday for the first time. She is changed, certainly;
it will be long before she is any thing like the Lisabel
Johnston of my recollection, full of health and physical enjoyment. But do not grieve. Sometimes, to have gone
near the gates of death, and returned, hallows the whole
future life. I thought, as I left her, lying contentedly on
her sofa, with her hand in her husband's, who sits watching as if truly she were given back to him from the grave,
that it may be good for those two to have been so nearly
parted. It may teach them, according to a line you once
repeated to me (you see, though I am not poetical, I remember all your bits of poetry), to
" hold every mortal joy
With a loose hand,"
since nothing finite is safe, unless overshadowed by the belief in and the glory of the Infinite.
My dearest-my best of every earthly thing-whom to
be parted from temporarily, as now, often makes me feel
as if half myself were wanting-whom to lose out of this
world would be a loss irremediable, and to leave behind in
it would be the sharpest sting of death-better, I have
sometimes thought, of late-better be you and I than Treherne and Lisabel.
In all these letters I have scarcely mentioned Penelope
-you see I am learning to name your sisters as if mine.
She, however, has treated me almost like a stranger in the
few times we happened to meet-until last Monday.
I had left the happy group in the library-Treherne,
tearing himself from his wife's sofa-honest fellow! to follow me to the door-where he wrung my hand, and said,
with a sob like a schoolboy, that he had never been so
happy in his life before, and he hoped he was thankful for
it. Your eldest sister, who sat in the window sewingher figure put me somewhat in mind of you, little ladybade me good-by-she was going back to Rockmount in a
few days.
I quitted them, and walked alone across the park, where




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             333
the chestnut-trees-you remember them-are beginning
not only to change, but to fall; thinking how fast the years
go, and how little there is in them of positive joy. Wrong,
this! and I know it; but, my love, I sil sorely at times.
I nearly forgot a small patient I have at the lodge gates,
who is slipping so gradually, but surely, poor wee man!
into the world where he will be a child forever. After sitting with him half an hour, I came out'better.
A lady was waiting outside the lodge gates. When I
saw who it was, I meant to bow and pass on, but Miss
Johnston called me. From her face, I dreaded it was some
ill news about you.
Your sister is a good woman and a kind.
She said to me, when her explanations had set my mind
at ease,
" Doctor Urquhart, I believe you are a man to be trusted.
Dora trusts you. Dora once said you would be just, even
to your enemies."
I answered, I hoped it was something more than justice
that we owed, even to our enemies.
" That is not the question," she said, sharply; " I spoke
only of justice. I would not do an injustice to the meanest
thing-the vilest wretch that crawls."
" No."
She went on:
"I have not liked you, Doctor Urquhart; nor do I know
if my feelings are altered now-but I respect you. Therefore, you are the only person of whom I can ask a favor.
It is a secret. Will you keep it so?"
" Except from Theodora."
"You are right. Have no secrets from Theodora. For
her sake and your own-for your whole life's peace-never,
even in the lightest thing, deceive that poor child!"
Her voice sharpened, her black eyes glittered a moment,
and then she shrank back into her usual self. I see exactly
the sort of woman, which, as you say, she will grow intosister Penelope-aunt Penelope. Every one belonging to
her must try, henceforth, to spare her every possible pang.
After a few moments, I begged her to say what I could
do for her.
" Read this letter, and tell me if you think it is true."
It was addressed to Sir William Treherne; the last humble appeal of a broken-down man; the signature, "Francis
Charteris."




834             A LTE. FOB: A'LIF.
I tried my best to disguise the emotion which Miss Johnston herself did, not show, and returned the letter, merely
inquiring if Sir William had answered it.
"No; he will not. He disbelieves the facts."
"Do you, also?"
"I can not say. The-the writer was not always accurate in his statements."
Women are, in some things, stronger and harder than
men. I doubt if any man could have spoken as steadily as
your sister did at this minute. While I explained to her,
as I thought it right to do, though with the manner of one
talking of a stranger to a stranger, the present position of
Mr. Charteris, she replied not a syllable. Only passing a
felled tree she suddenly sank down upon it, and sat motionless.
" What is he to do?" she said, at last.
I replied that the Insolvent Court could free him from
his debts and grant him protection from farther imprisonment; that though, thus sunk in circumstances, a government situation was hardly to be hoped for, still there were
in Liverpool clerkships and mercantile opportunities in
which any person so well educated as he might begin the
world again, health permitting.
"His health was never good-has it failed him?"
" I fear so."
Your sister turned away. She sat-we both sat-for
some time so still that a bright-eyed squirrel came and
peeped at us, stole a nut a few yards off, and scuttled away
with it to Mrs. Squirrel and the little ones up in a tall sycamore hard by.
I begged Miss Johnston to let me see the address once
more, and I would pay a visit, friendly or medical, as the
case might allow, to Mr. Charteris on my way home tonight.
"Thank you, Doctor Urquhart."
I then rose and took leave, time being short.
"Stay, one word if you please. In that visit you will,
of course, say, if inquired, that you learned the address
from Treherne Court. You will name no other names?"
Certainly not."
"But afterward you will write to me?"
"I will."
We shook hands, and I left her sitting there on the dead
tree. I went on, wondering if any thing would result from




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             335
this curious combination of accidents; also, whether a
woman's love, if cut off at the root, even like this tree,
could be actually killed, so that nothing could revive it
again. What think you, Theodora?
But this trick of moralizing caught from you shall not
be indulged. There is only time for the relation of bare
facts.
The train brought me to the opposite shore of our river,
not half a mile's walk from Mr. Charteris's lodgings. They
seemed " handsome lodgings," as he said; a tall, new house,
one of the many which, only half built, or half inhabited,
make this Birkenhead such a dreary place. But it is improving year by year. I sometimes think it may be quite
a busy and cheerful spot by the time I take a house here,
as I intend. You will like a hill-top and a view of the sea.
I asked for Mr. Charteris, and stumbled up the half.
lighted stairs into the wholly dark drawing-room.
"' Who the devil's there?"
He was in hiding, you must remember, as, indeed, I
ought to have done, and so taken the precaution first to
send up my name, but I was afraid of non-admittance.
When the gas was lit, his pale, unshaven, sallow countenance, his state of apparent illness and weakness made me
cease to regret having gained entrance under any circumstances. Recognizing me, he muttered some apology.
" I was asleep; I usually do sleep after dinner." Then,
recovering his confused faculties, he asked with some
hauteur, "To what may I attribute the pleasure of seeing
Doctor Urquhart? Are you, like myself, a mere bird of
passage, or a resident in Liverpool?"
"I am a surgeon of -    jail."
" Indeed, I was not aware. A good appointment, I hope.
And what jail did you say?"
I named it again and left the subject. If he chose to
wrap himself in that thin cloak of deception, it was no
business of mine to tear it off. Besides, one pities a ruined
man's most petty pride.
But it was an awkward position. You know how
haughty Mr. Charteris can be; you know also that Vnlucky
peculiarity in me, call it Scotch shyness, cautiousness, or
what you please, my little English girl must cure if she
can. Whether or not it was my fault, I soon felt that this
visit was turning out a complete failure. We conversed
in the civilest manner, though somewhat disjointedly, on




336              A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
politics, the climate and trade of Liverpool, etc.; but of
Mr. Charteris and his real condition I learned no more
than if I were meeting him at a London dinner-party, or a
supper with poor Tom Turton, who is dead, as you know.
Mr. Charteris did not, it seems, and his startled exclamation at hearing the fact was the only natural expression
during my whole visit; which, after a few rather broad
hints, I took the opportunity of a letter's being brought in
to terminate.
Not, however, with any intention on my side of its being
a final one. The figure of this wretched-looking invalid,
though he would not own to illness-men seldom willlying in the solitary, fireless lodging-house parlor, where
there was no indication of food, and a strong smell of opium, followed me all the way to the jetty, suggesting plan
after plan concerning him.
You can not think how pretty even our dull river looks
of a night, with its two long lines of lighted shores, and other
lights scattered between in all directions, every vessel's rigging bearing one. And to-night, above all things, was a
large, bright moon, sailing up over innumerable white
clouds, into the clear, dark zenith, converting the town of
Liverpool into a fairy city, and the muddy Mcrsey into a
pleasant river, crossed by a pathway of silver, such as one
always looks at with a kind of hope that it would lead to
" some bright isle of rest." There was a song to that effect popular when Dallas and I were boys.
As the boat moved off, I settled myself to enjoy the
brief seven minutes of crossing-thinking, if I had but the
little face by me looking up into the moonlight she is so
fond of, the little hand to keep warm in mine!
And now, Theodora, I come to something which you
must use your own judgment about telling your sister Penelope.
Half way across, I was attracted by the peculiar manner
of a passenger, who had leaped on the boat just as we were
shoved off, and now stood still as a carved figure, staring
down into the foamy track of the paddle-wheels. He was
so absorbed that he did not notice me, but I recognized him
at once, and an ugly suspicion entered my mind.
In my time I have had opportunities of witnessing, stage
by stage, that disease-call it dyspepsia, hypochondriasis,
or what you will-it has all names and all forms-which is
peculiar to our present state of high civilization, where the




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             337
mind and the body seem cultivated into perpetual warfare
one with the other. This state-some people put poetical
names upon it-but we doctors know that it is at least as
much physical as mental, and that many a poor misanthrope,
who loathes himself and the world, is merely an unfortunate victim of stomach and nerves, whom rest, natural living, and an easy mind would soon make a man again. But
that does not remove the pitifulness and danger of the case.
While the man is what he is, he is little better than a monomaniac.
If I had not seen him before, the expression of his countenance, as he stood looking down into the river, would
have been enough to convince me how necessary it was to
keep a strict watch over Mr. Charteris.
When the rush of passengers to the gangway made our
side of the boat nearly deserted, he sprang up to the steps
of the paddle-box, and there stood.
I once saw a man commit suicide. It was one of ours,
returning from the Crimea. He had been drinking hard,
and was put under restraint, for fear of delirium tremens;
but when he was thought recovered, one day, at broad
noon, in sightof all hands, he suddenly jumped overboard.
I caught sight of his face as he did so-it was exactly the
expression of Francis Charteris.
Perhaps, in any case, you had better never repeat the
whole of this to your sister.
Not till after a considerable struggle did I pull him down
to the safe deck once more. There he stood breathless.
"You were not surely going to drown yourself, Mr.
Charteris?"
I was. And I will."
"Try, and I shall call the police to prevent your making
such an ass of yourself."
It was no time to choose words, and in this sort of disease the best preventive one can use, next to a firm, imperative will, is ridicule. He answered nothing-but gazed at
me in simple astonishment, while I took his arm and led
him out of the boat and across the landing-stage.
"I beg your pardon for using such strong language, but a
man must be an ass indeed who contemplates such a thing;
here, too, of all places. To be fished up out of this dirty
river, like a dead rat, for the entertainment of the crowd;
to make a capital case at the magistrate's court to-morrow,
and a first-rate paragraph in the Liverpool Mercury-' AtP




338             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
tempted Suicide of a Gentleman.' Or, if you really succeeded, which I doubt, to be'Found Drowned'-a mere
body, drifted ashore with cocoa-nut husks and cabbages at
Waterloo, or brought in as I once saw at these very stairs,
one of the many poor fools who do this here yearly. They
had picked him up eight miles higher up the river, and so
brought him down lashed behind a rowing boat, floating
face upward-"
"Ah!"
I felt Charteris shudder.
You will, too, my love, so I will repeat no more of what
I said to him. But these ghastly pictures were the strongest arguments available with such a man. What was the
use of talking to him of God, and life, and immortality? he
had told me he believed in none of these things. But he
believed in death-the Epicurean's view of it-"to lie in
cold obstruction and to rot." I thought, and still think,
that it was best to use any lawful means to keep him from
repeating the attempt. Best to save the man first, and
preach to him afterward.
He and I walked up and down the streets of Liverpool
almost in silence, except when he darted into the first chemist's shop he saw to procure opium.
"Don't hinder me," he said, imploringly, "it is the only
thing that keeps me alive."
Then I walked him about once more, till his pace flagged,
his limbs tottered, he became thoroughly passive and exhausted. I called a car, and expressed my determination
to see him safe home.
" Home! No, no, I must not go there."  And the poor
fellow summoned all his faculties, in order to speak rationally. "You see, a gentleman in my unpleasant circumstances-in short, could you recommend any place-a quiet,
out-of-the-way place, where-where I could hide?"
I had suspected things were thus. And now, if I lost
sight of him even for twenty-four hours, he might be lost
permanently. He was in that critical state when the next
step, if it were not to a prison, might be into a lunatic
asylum.
It was not difficult to persuade him that the last place
where creditors would search for a debtor would be inside
a jail, nor to convey him, half stupefied as he was, into my
own rooms, and leave him fast asleep on my bed.
Yet, even now, I can not account for the influence I so soon




A LIFE 1OR A LIFE.             339
gained, and kept; except that any person in his seven
senses always has power over another nearly out of them,
and to a sick man there is no autocrat like the doctor.
Now for his present condition. The day fbllowing, I removed him to a country lodging, where an old woman I
know will look after him. The place is humble enough,
but they are honest people. He may lie safe there till some
portion of health returns; his rent, etc. —ny prudent little
lady will be sure to be asking after my "circumstances" —
well, love, his rent for the next month, at least, I can easily
afford to pay. The present is provided for-as to his future, heaven only knows.
I wrote, according to promise, to your sister Penelope,
explaining where Mr. Charteris was, his state of health, and
the position of his affairs; also, my advice, which he neither
assents to nor declines, that, as soon as his health will permit, he should surrender himself in London, go through
the Insolvent Court, and start anew in life. A hard life, at
best, since, whatever situation he may obtain, it will take
years to free him from all his liabilities.
Miss Johnston's answer I received this morning. It was
merely an envelope containing a bank note of ~20, Sir William's gift, possibly; I told her he had better be made
aware of his nephew's abject state-or do you suppose it
is from herself? I thought beyond your quarterly allowance, you had none of you much ready money? If there
is any thing I ought to know before applying this sum to
the use of Mr. Charteris, you will, of course, tell me?
I have been to see him this afternoon. It is a poor room
he lies in, but clean and quiet. He will not stir out of it; it
was with difficulty I persuaded him to have the window
opened, so that we might enjoy the still autumn sunshine,
the church bells, and the little robin's song. Turning back
to the sickly drawn face, buried in the sofa-pillows, my
heart smote me with a heavy doubt as to what was to be
the end of Francis Charteris.
Yet I do not think he will die; but he will be months,
years in recovering, even if he is ever his old self again —
bodily, I mean; whether his inner self is undergoing any
change, I have small means of judging. The best thing for
him, both mentally and physically, would be a fond, good
woman's constant care; but that he can not have.
I need scarcely say I have taken every precaution that
he should never see nor hear any thing of Lydia, nor she




340             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
of him. He has never named her, nor any one; past and
future seem alike swept out of his mind; he only lives in
the miserable present, a helpless, hopeless, exacting invalid.
Not on any account would I have Lydia Cartwright see him
now. If I judge her countenance rightly, she is just the
girl to do exactly what you women are so prone to-forgive every thing, sacrifice every thing, and go back to the
old love. Ah! Theodora, what am I that I should dare to
speak thus lightly of women's love, women's forgiveness!
I am glad Mr. Johnston allows you occasionally to see
Mrs. Cartwright and the child, and that the little fellow is
so well cared for by his grandmother. If, with his father's
face, he inherits his father's temperament, the nervously
sensitive organization of a modern "gentleman," as opposed to the healthy animalism of a working man, life will
be an uphill road to that poor boy.
His mother's heart aches after him sorely at times, as I
can plainly perceive. Yesterday, I saw her stand watching
the line of female convicts-those with infants-as one after the other they filed out, each with her baby in her arms,
and passed into the exercising ground. Afterward, I watched her slip into one of the empty cells, fold up a child's cap
that had been left lying about, and look at it wistfully, as
if she almost envied the forlorn occupant of that dreary
nook, where, at least, the mother had her child with her
continually. Poor Lydia! she may have been a girl of
weak will, easily led astray, but I am convinced that the
only thing which led her astray must have been, and will
always be, her affections.
Perhaps, as the grandmother can not write, it would be
a comfort to Lydia if your next letter enabled me to give
to her a fuller account of the welfare of little Frank. I
wonder, does his father ever think of him, or of the poor
mother? He was " always kind to them," you tell me she
declared; possibly fond of them, so far as a selfish man can
be. But how can such a one as he understand what it
must be to be afather!
My love, I must cease writing now. It is midnight, and
I have to take as much sleep as I can; my work is very
hard just at present; but happy work, because, through it,
I look forward to a future.
Your father's brief message of thanks for my telegram
about Mr. Treherne was kind. Will you acknowledge it
in the way you consider would be most pleasing-that is,
least unpleasing, to him, from me?




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             341
And now farewell-farewell, my only darling.
MAX URQUHART.
P.S.-After the fashion of a lady's letter, though not, I
trust, with the most important fact therein. Though I reopen my letter to inform you of it, lest you might learn it
in some other way, I consider it of very slight moment, and
only name it because these sort of small unpleasantnesses
have a habit of growing like snow-balls every yard they roll.
Our chaplain has just shown me in this morning's paper
a paragraph about myself, not complimentary, and decidedly ill-natured. It hardly took me by surprise; I have of
late occasionally caught stray comments, not very flattering, on myself and my proceedings, but they troubled me
little. I know that a man in my position, with aims far
beyond his present circumstances, with opinions too obstinate and manners too blunt to get these aims carried out,
as many do, by the aid of other and more influential people, such a man must have enemies.
Be not afraid, love-mine are few; and be sure I have
given them no cause for animosity. True, I have contradicted some, and not many men can stand contradictionbut I have wronged no man to my knowledge. My conscience is clear. So they may spread what absurd reports
or innuendoes they will-I shall live it all down.
My spirit seems to have had a douche-bath this morning,
cold, but salutary. This tangible annoyance will brace me
out of a little feeble-heartedness that has been growing
over me of late; so be content, my Theodora.
I send you the newspaper paragraph. Read it, and
burn it.
Is Penelope come home? I need scarcely observe, that
only herself and you are acquainted, or will be, with any
of the circumstances I have related with respect to Mr.
Charteris.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
HER STORY.
A FOURTH Monday, and my letter has not come. Oh,
Max, Max! You are not ill, I know; for Augustus saw
you on Saturday. Why were you in such haste to slip
away from him? He himself even noticed it.




342             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
For me, had I not then heard of your well-being, I should
have disquieted myself sorely. Three weeks-twenty-one
days-it is a long time to go about as if there were a stone
lying in the corner of one's heart, or a thorn piercing it.
One may not acknowledge this: one's reason, or better,
one's love, may often quite argue it down; yet, it is there.
This morning, when the little postman went whistling past
Rockmount gate, I turned almost sick with fear.
Understand me-not with one sort of fear. Faithlessness or forgetfulness are-well, with you they are-simply
impossible! But you are my Max; any thing happening
to you happens to me; nothing can hurt you without hurting me. Do you feel this as I do? if so, surely, under any.circumstances, you would write.
Forgive! I meant not to blame you; we never ought to
blame what we can not understand. Besides, all this suspense may end to-morrow. Max does not intend to wound
me; Max loves me.
Just now, sitting quiet, I seemed to hear you saying,
" My little lady," as distinctly as if you were close at hand,
and had called, me. Yet it is a year since I have heard the
sound of your voice, or seen your face.
Augustus says, of late you have turned quite gray.
Never mind, Max! I like silver locks. An old man I knew
used to say, "At the root of every gray hair is a cell of
wisdom." How will you be able to bear with the foolishness of this me? Yet all the better for you. I know you
would soon be ten years younger-looks and all-if, after
your hard work, you had a home to come back to, andand me.
See how conceited we grow! See the demoralizing result of having been for a whole year loved and cared for;
of knowing ourselves, for the first time in our lives, first
object to somebody!
There now, I can laugh again; and so I may begin and
write my letter. It shall not be a sad or complaining letter, if I can help it.
Spring is coming on fast. I never remember such a
March. Buds of chestnuts bursting, blackbirds singing,
primroses out in the lane, a cloud of snowy wind-flowers
gleaming through the trees of my favorite wood, concerning which, you remember, we had our celebrated battle
about blue-bells and hyacinths. These are putting out their
leaves already; there will be such quantities this year.




A LIFE FOE A LIFE.             843
How I should like to show you my bank of-ahem! bluebells I
Mischievous still, you perceive. Obstinate, likewise; almost as obstinate as-you.
Augustus hints at some "unpleasant business" you have
been engaged in lately. I conclude some controversy, in
which you have to " hold your own" more firmly than usual. Or new "enemies"-business foes only, of course,
about which you told me I must not grieve; you will live
down any passing animosity. It will be all smooth sailing
by-and-by. But in the mean time, why not tell me? I am
not a child-and am to be your wife, Max.
Ah! now the thorn is out, the one little sting of pain.
It isn't this child you were fond of, this ignorant, foolish,
naughty child, it is your wife, whom you yourself chose, to
whom you yourself gave her place and her rights, who
comes to you with her heart full of love and says, "Max,
tell me!"
Now, no more of this, for I have much to tell you-I tell
you every thing.
You know how quietly this winter has slipped away with
us at Rockmount; how, from the time Penelope returned,
she and I seemed to begin our lives anew together, in one
sense beginning almost as little children, living entirely in
the present; content with each day's work and each day's
pleasure-and it was wonderful how many small pleasures
we found-never allowing ourselves either to dwell on the
future or revert to the past, except when, by your desire,
I told my sister of Francis's having passed through the Insolvent Court, and how you were hoping to obtain for him
a situation as corresponding clerk. Poor Francis! all his
grand German and Spanish to have sunk down to the
writing of a merchant's business letters, in a musty Liverpool office! Will he ever bear it? Well, except this time,
and once afterward, his name has never been mentioned,
either by Penelope or me.
The second time happened thus-I did not tell you then,
so I will now. When our Christmas bills came in-our
private ones, my sister had no money to meet them. I
soon guessed that-as, from your letter, I had already
guessed where her half-yearly allowance had gone. I was
perplexed, for though she now confides to me nearly every
thing of her daily concerns, she has never told me that.
Yet she must have known I knew-that you would be sure
to tell me.




344             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
At last, one morning, as I was passing the door of her
room, she called me in.
She was standing before a chest of drawers, which, I had
noticed, she always kept locked. But to-day the top drawer
was open, and out of a small jewel-case that lay on it she
had taken a ~tring of pearls.
"You remember this?"
Ah! yes. But Penelope looked steadily at it; so, of
course, did I.
"Have you any idea, Dora, what it is worth, or how much
Sir William gave for it?"
I knew: for Lisabel had told me herself, in the days when
we were all racking our brains to find out suitable marriage
presents for the governor's lady.
" Do you think it would be wrong, or that the Trehernes
would be annoyed if I sold it?"
" Sold it!"
"I have no money-and my bills must be paid. It is
not dishonest to sell what is one's own, though it may be
somewhat painful."
I could say nothing. The pain was keen-even to me.
She then reminded me how Mrs. Granton had once admired these pearls, saying, when Colin married she should
like to give her daughter-in-law just such another necklace.
" If she would buy it now-if you would not mind asking her-"
"No, no!"
"Thank you, Dora."
She replaced the necklace in its case, and gave it into my
hand. I was slipping out of the room when she said,
" One moment, child. There was something more I wished to say to you. Look here."
She unlocked drawer after drawer. There lay, carefully
arranged, all her wedding-clothes, even to the white silk
dress, the wreath, and veil. Every thing was put away in
Penelope's own tidy, over-particular fashion, wrapped in
silver paper, or smoothly folded, with sprigs of lavender
between. She must have done it leisurely and orderly,
after her peculiar habit, which made us, when she was only
a girl of seventeen, tease Penelope by calling her "old
maid!"
Even now, she paused more than once, to refold or rearrange something-tenderly, as one would arrange the
clothes of a person who was dead-then closed and locked




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.            345
every drawer, putting the key, not on her household-bunch,
but in a corner of her desk.
" I should not like any thing touched in my lifetime, but,
should I die-not that this is likely; I believe I shall live
to be an old woman-still, should I die, you will know
where these things are. Do with them exactly what you
think best. And if money is wanted for-" She stopped,
and then, for the first time, I heard her pronounce his
name, distinctly and steadily, like any other name, "for
Francis Charteris, or any one belonging to him-sell them.
You will promise?"
I promised.
Mrs. Granton, dear soul! asked no questions, but took
the necklace, and gave me the money, which I brought to
my sister. She received it without a word.
After this, all went on as heretofore; and though sometimes I have felt her eye upon me when I was opening
your letters, as if she fancied there might be something to
hear, still, since there never was any thing, I thought it
best to take no notice. But Max, I wished often, and
wish now, that you would tell me if there is any special
reason why, for so many weeks, you have never mentioned
Francis?
I was telling you about Penelope. She has fallen into
her old busy ways-busier than ever, indeed. She looks
well too, "quite herself again," as Mrs. Granton whispered
to me, one morning when-wonderful event-I had persuaded my sister that we ought to drive over to lunch at
the Cedars, and admire all the preparations for the reception of Mrs. Colin, next month.
" I would not have liked to ask her," added the good old
lady; "but, since she did come, I am glad. The sight of
my young folk's happiness will not pain her? She has
really got over her trouble, you think?"
"Yes, yes," I said hastily, for Penelope was coming up
the green-house walk. Yet, when I observed her, it seemed not herself but a new self-such as is only born of sorrow which smiled out of her poor thin face, made her move
softly, speak affectionately, and listen patiently to all the
countless details about "my Colin" and "my daughter
Emily" (bless the dear old lady, I hope she will find her a
real daughter). And though most of the way home we
were both more silent than usual, something in Penelope's
countenance made me, not sad or anxious, but inly awed,
P2




346             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
marveling at its exceeding peace. A peace such as I could
have imagined in those who had brought all their earthly
possessions and laid them at the apostles' feet; or holier
still, and therefore happier-who had left all, taken up
their cross, and followed Him. Him who through His
life and death taught the perfection of all sacrifice, selfsacrifice.
I may write thus, Max, may I not? It is like talking to
myself; talking to you.
It was on this very drive home that something happened,
which I am going to relate as literally as I can, for I think
you ought to know it. It will make you love my sister as
I love her, which is saying a good deal.
Watching her, I almost-forgive, dear Max! but I almoat forgot my letter to you, safely written overnight, to
be posted on our way home from the Cedars; till Penelope
thought of a village post-office we had just passed.
"Doh't vex yourself, child," she said, "you shall cross
the moor again; you will be quite in time: and I will drive
round, and meet you just beyond the ponds."
And, in my hurry, I utterly forgot that cottage you
know, which she has never yet been near, nor is aware who
live in it. Not till I had posted my letter, did I call to
mind that she would be passing Mrs. Cartwright's very
door!
However, it was too late to alter plans, so I resolved not
to fret about it. And, somehow the spring feeling came
over me; the smell of furze-blossoms, and of green leaves
budding; the vague sense as if some new blessing were
coming with the coming year. And, though I had not
Max with me, to admire my one stray violet that I found,
and listen to my lark-the first, singing up in his white
cloud, still I thought of you, and I loved you! With a
love that, I think, those only feel who have suffered, and
suffered together; a love that, though it may have known
a few pains, has never, thank God, known a single doubt.
And so you did not feel so far away.
Then I walked on as fast as I could to meet the ponycarriage, which I saw crawling along the road round the
turn-past the very cottage. My heart beat so! But Penelope drove quietly on, looking straight before her. She
would have driven by in a minute, when, right across the
road, in front of the pony, after a dog or something, I saw
run a child.




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.            347
Iow I got to the spot I hardly know; how the child escaped I know still less; it was almost a miracle. But there
stood Penelope, with the little fellow in her arms. He was
unhurt-not even frightened.
I took him from her; she was still too bewildered to observe him much; besides, a child alters so in six months.
" He is all right, you see, Run away, little man."
" Stop! there is his mother to be thought of," said Penelope; "where does he live? whose child is he?"
Before I could answer the grandmother ran out, calling,
"Franky! Franky!"
It was all over. No concealment was possible.
I made my sister sit down by the road-side, and there,
with her head on my shoulder, she sat till her deadly paleness passed away, and two tears slowly rose and rolled
down her cheeks; but she said nothing.
Again I impressed upon her what a great comfort it was
that the boy had escaped without one scratch; for there
he stood, having once more got away from his granny, staring at us, finger in mouth, with intense curiosity and enjoyment.
"Off with you!" I cried more than once. But he kept
his ground; and when I rose to put him away, my sister
held me.
Often I have noticed that in her harshest days Penelope
never disliked nor was disliked by children. She had a
sort of instinct for them. They rarely vexed her, as we, or
her servants, or her big scholars always unhappily contrived
to do. And she could always manage them, from the
squalling baby that she stopped to pat at a cottage door,
to the raggedest young scamp in the village, whom she
would pick up after a pitched battle, give. a good scolding
to, then hear all his tribulations, dry his dirty face, and send
him away with a broad grin upon it, such as was upon
Franky's now.
He came nearer, and put his brown little paws upon Penelope's silk gown.
The pony," she muttered; "Dora, go and see after the
pony."
But when I was gone, and she thought herself unseen, I
saw her coax the little lad to her side, to her arms, hold
him there and kiss him; oh! Max, I can't write of it; I
could not tell it to any body but you.
After keeping away.as long as was practicable, I retura



348             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
ed, to find Franky gone, and my sister walking slowly up
and down; her veil was down, but her voice and step had
their usual "old-maidish" quietness-if I dared, without a
sob at the heart, even think that word concerning our Penelope!
Leaving her to get into the carriage, I just ran into the
cottage to tell Mrs. Cartwright what had happened, and
assure her that the child had received no possible harm;
when, whom should I see sitting over the fire but the last
person I ever expected to see in that place!
Did you know it? was it by your advice he came? what
could be his motive in coming? or was it done merely for
a whim-just like Francis Charteris.
Any where else I believe I could not have recognized
him. Not from his shabbiness; even in rags, Francis would
be something of the gentleman; but from his utterly brokendown appearance, his look of hopeless indifference, settled
discontent; the air of a man who has tried all things and
found them vanity.
Seeing me, he instinctively set down the child, who clung
to his knees, screaming loudly to " Daddy."
Francis blushed violently, and then laughed. " The brat
owns me, you see; he has not forgotten me; likes me also
a little, which can not be said for most people. Heyday,
no getting rid of him? Come along, then, young man; I
must e'en make the best of you."
Franky, nothing loth, clambered up, hugged him smotheringly round the neck, and broke into his own triumphant
"Ha! ha! he!" His father turned and kissed him.
Then, somehow, I felt as if it were easier to speak to
Francis Charteris. Only a word or two-inquiries about
his health, how long he had left Liverpool, and whether he
meant to return.
" Of course. Only a day's holiday. A horse in a mill
-that is what I am now. Nothing for it but to grind on
to the end of the chapter-eh, Franky, my boy!"
"Ha! ha! he!" screamed the child, with another delighted hug.
"He seems fond of you," I said.
"Oh yes; he always was." Francis sighed. I am sure
nature was tugging hard at the selfish pleasure-loving
heart. And pity —I know it was not wrong, Max!-was
pulling sore at mine.
I said I had heard of his illness in the winter, and was




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.            849
glad to find him so much recovered; how long had he
been about again?
"How long? Indeed, I forget. I am so apt to forget
things now. Except"-he added bitterly-"the clerk's
stool and the office window, with the spider-webs over it,
and the thirty shillings a week. That's my income, Dora
-— I beg your pardon, Miss Dora-I forgot I was no longer
a gentleman, but a clerk at thirty shillings a week."
I said I did not see why that should make him less of a
gentleman; and, broken down as he was-sitting crouching
over the fire, with his sickly cheek pressed against that
rosy one-I fancied I saw something of the man-the honest, true man-flash across the forlorn aspect of poor Francis Charteris.
I would have liked to stay and talk with him, and said
so, but my sister was outside.
"Is she? will she be coming in here?" and he shrank
nervously into his corner. " I have been so ill, you know."
He need not be afraid, I told him; we should have driven
off in two minutes. There was not the slightest chance of
their meeting; in all human probability he would never
meet her more.
" Never more!"
I had not thought to see him so much affected.
" You were right, Dora, I never did deserve Penelope,
yet there is something I should like to have said to her.
Stop, hold back the curtain; she can not see me sitting
here?"
" No."
So, as she drove slowly past, Francis watched her. I
felt more than glad-proud-that he should see the face
which he had known blooming and young, and which.would never be either the one or the other again in this
world, and that he should see how peaceful and good it was.
"She is altered strangely."
I asked, in momentary fear, did he think her looking out
of health?
" Oh no, it is not that; I hardly know what it is;" then,
as with a sudden impulse, "I must go and speak to Penelope."
And before I could hinder him he was at the carriage
side.
No fear of a " scene." They met-oh Max, can any two
people so meet who have been lovers for ten years?




350             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
It might have been that the emotion of the last few minutes left her in that state when no occurrence seemed unexpected or strange, but Penelope, when she saw him, only
gave a slight start, and then looked at him straight in the
face for a minute or so.
"I am sorry to see that you have been ill."
That one sentence must have struck him, as it did me,
with the full conviction of how they met-as Penelope
and Francis no more-merely Miss Johnston and Mr.
Charteris.
"I have been ill," he said, at last, "almost at death's
door. I should have died, but for Doctor Urquhart andone other person, whose name I discovered by accident. I
beg to thank her for her charity."
He blushed scarlet in pronouncing the word. My sister
tried to speak, but he stopped her.
"Needless to deny."
"I never deny what is true," sai4 Penelope, gravely. "I
only did what I considered right, and what I would have
done for any person whom I had known so many years.
Nor would I have done it at all, but that your uncle refused."
"I had rather owe it to you-twenty times over!" he
cried. "Nay; you shall not be annoyed with gratitude;
I came but to own my debt-to say, if I live I will repay
it, if I die-"
She looked keenly at him. "You will not die."
" Why not? What have I to live for-a ruined, disappointed, disgraced man? No, no; my chance is over for
this world, and I do not care how soon I get out of it."
" I would rather hear of your living worthily in it."
" Too late-too late!"
"Indeed, it is not too late."
Penelope's voice was very earnest, and had a slight falter that startled even me. No wonder it misled Francishe who never had a particularly low opinion of himself, and
who for so many years had been fully aware of a fact
which, I once heard Max say, ought always to make a man
humble rather than vain-how deeply a fond woman had
loved him.
"How do you mean?" he asked, eagerly.
"That you have no cause for all this despair. You are
a young man still; your health may improve; you are free
from debt, and have enough to live upon. Whatever dis



A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             351
agreeables your position has, it is a beginning; you may
rise. A long and prosperous career may lie before you
yet; I hope so."
"Do you?"
Max, I trembled, for he looked at her as he used to look
when they were young. And it seems so hard to believe
that love ever can die out. I thought, what if this exceeding calmness of my sister should be only the cloak which
pride puts on to hide intolerable pain? But I was mistaken. And now I marvel, not that he, but that I, who
know my sister as a sister ought, could for an instant have
seen in those soft, sad eyes any thing beyond what her
words expressed-the more plainly, as they were such extremely kind and gentle words.
Francis came closer, and said something in a low voice,
of which I only caught the last sentence,
" Penelope, will you trust me again?"
I would have slipped away, but my sister detained me;
tightly her fingers closed on mine, but she answered Francis composedly,
" I do not quite comprehend you."
"Will you forgive and forget? Will you marry me?"
"Francis!" I exclaimed indignantly, but Penelope put
her hand upon my mouth.
" That is right. Don't listen to Dorh; she always hated
me. Listen to me, Penelope, you shall make me any thing
you choose; you would be the saving of me-that is, if
you could put up with such a broken, sickly, ill-tempered
wretch."
"Poor Francis!" and she just touched him with her
hand.
He caught it and kept it. Then Penelope seemed to
wake up as out of a dream.
"You must not," she said hurriedly; "you must not
hold my hand."
"Why not?"
"Because I do not love you any more."
It was so; he could not doubt it. The vainest man alive
must, I think, have discerned at once that my sister spoke
out of neither caprice or revenge, but in simple sadness of
truth. Francis must have felt almost by instinct that,
whether broken or not, the heart so long his was his no
longer-the love was gone.
Whether the mere knowledge of this made his own re



352             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
vive, or whether, finding himself in the old familiar places
-this walk was a favorite walk of theirs-the whole feeling returned in a measure I can not tell; I do not like to
judge. But I am certain that, for the time, Francis suffered acutely.
"Do you hate me, then?" said he, at length.
"No; on the contrary, I feel very kindly toward you.
There is nothing in the world I would not do for you."
"Except marry me?"
"Even so."
"Well, well; perhaps you are right. I, a poor clerk,
with neither health, nor income, nor prospects-"
He stopped, and no wonder, before the rebuke of my sister's eyes.
" Francis, you know you are not speaking as you think.
You know I have given you my true reason, and my only
one. If we were engaged still, in outward form, I should
say exactly the same, for a broken promise is less wicked
than a deceitful vow. One should not marry-one ought
not-when one has ceased to love."
Francis made her no reply. The sense of all he had lost,
now that he had lost it, seemed to come upon him heavily,
overwhelmingly. His first words were the saddest and
humblest I ever heard from Francis Charteris.
"I deserve it all. No wonder you will never forgive
me."
Penelope smiled-a very mournful smile.
"At your old habit of jumping at conclusions! Indeed,
I have forgiven you long ago. Perhaps, had I been less
faulty myself, I might have had more influence over you.
But all was as it was to be, I suppose; and it is over now.
Do not let us revive it."
She sighed and sat silent for a few moments, looking absently across the moorland; then, with a sort of wistful
tenderness-the tenderness which, one clearly saw, forever
prevents and excludes love-on Francis.
"I know not how it is, Francis, but you seem to me
Francis no longer-quite another person. I can not tell
how the love has gone, but it is gone-as completely as if
it had never existed. Sometimes I was afraid if I saw you
it might come back again; but I have seen you, and it is
not there. It never can return again any more."
"And so, from henceforth, I am no more to you than
any stranger in the street?"




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             353
"I did not say that-it would not be true. Nothing you
do will ever be indifferent to me. If you do wrong-oh,
Francis, it hurts me so! it will hurt me to the day of my
death. I care little for your being very prosperous or very
happy-possibly no one is happy; but I want you to be
good. We were young together, and I was very proud of
you; let me be proud of you again as we grow old."
"And yet you will not marry me?"
"No, for I do not love you; and never could again, no
more than I could love another woman's husband. Francis," speaking almost in a whisper, " you know as well as
I do that there is one person, and only one, whom'you
ought to marry."
He shrank hack, and, for the second time-the first being
when I found him with his boy in his arms-Francis turned scarlet with honest shame.
" Is it you-is it Penelope Johnston who can say this?"
" It is Penelope Johnston."
" And you say it to me?"
" To you."
" You think it would be right?"
" I do."
There were long pauses between each of these questions,
but my sister's answers were unhesitating. The grave decision of them seemed to smite home-home to the very
heart of Francis Charteris. When his confusion and surprise abated, he stood with eyes cast down, deeply pondering.
" Poor little soul!" he muttered. "So fond of me, too
-fond and faithful. She would be faithful to me to the
end of my days."
" I believe she would," answered Penelope.
Here arose a piteous cry of " Daddy, daddy!" and little
Franky, bursting from the cottage, came and threw himself
in a perfect paroxysm of joy upon his father. Then I understood clearly how a good and religious woman like our
Penelope could not possibly have continued loving, or
thought of marrying, Francis Charteris, any more than if,
as she said, he had been another woman's husband.
" Dora, pray don't take the child away. Let him remain
with his father."
And from her tone, Francis himself must have felt-if
farther confirmation were needed-that now and hence.
forth Penelope Johnston could never view him in any other light than as Franky's father.




354             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
He submitted-it always was a relief to Francis to have
things decided for him. Besides, he seemed really fond of
the boy. To see how patiently he let Franky clamber up
him, and finally mount on his shoulder, riding astride, and
making a bridle of his hair, gave one a kindly feeling-nay,
a sort of respect for this poor sick man whom his child comforted, and who, however erring he had been, was now, nor
was ashamed to be, a father.
"You don't hate me, Franky?" he said, with a sudden
kiss upon the fondling face. "You owe me no grudge,
though you might, poor little scamp! You are not a bit
ashamed of me; and, by God" (it was more a vow than
an oath) " I'll never be ashamed of you."
"I trust in God you never will," said Penelope, solemnly.
And then, with that peculiar softness of voice, which I
now notice whenever she speaks of or to children, she said
a few words, the substance of which I remember Lisabel
and myself quizzing her for years ago, irritating her with
the old joke about old bachelors' wives and old maids' children-namely, that those who are childless, and know they
will die so, often see more clearly and feel more deeply than
parents themselves the heavy responsibilities of parenthood.
Not that she said this exactly, but you could read it in
her eyes, as in a few simple words she praised Franky's
beauty, hinted what a solemn thing it was to own such a
son, and, if properly brought up, what a comfort he might
grow.
Francis listened with a reverence that was beyond all
love, and a humility touching to see. I, too, silently observing them both, could not help hearkening even with a
sort of awe to every word that fell from the lips of my sister Penelope. All the while hearing, in a vague fashion,
the last evening song of my lark, as he went up merrily
into his cloud-just as I have watched him, or rather his
progenitors, numberless times, when, along this very road,
used to lag behind Francis and Penelope, wondering what
on earth they were talking about, and how queer it was
that they never noticed any thing or any body except one
another.
Heigho! how times change!
But no sighing: I could not sigh; I did not. My heart
was full, Max, but not with pain. For I am learning to




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             355
understand what you often said, what I suppose we shall
see clearly in the next life if not in this-that the only permanent pain on earth is sin. And, looking in my sister's
dear face, I felt how blessed above all mere happiness, is
the peace of those who have suffered and overcome suffering, who have been sinned against and have forgiven.
After this, when Franky, tired out, dropped suddenly
asleep, as children do, his father and Penelope talked a
good while, she inquiring, in her sensible, practical way,
about his circumstances and prospects; he answering, candidly and apparently truthfully, without any hesitation, anger, or pride; every now and then looking down, at the
least movement of the pretty, sleepy face; while a soft expression, quite new in Francis Charteris, brightened his
own. There was even a degree of cheerfulness and hope
in his manner, as he said, in reply to some suggestion of
my sister's, "Then you think, as Doctor Urquhart did, that
my life is worth preserving —that I may turn out not such
a bad man after all."
"How could a man be any thing but a good man, who
really felt what it is to be the father of a child?"
Francis replied nothing, but he held his little son closer
to his breast. Who knows but that the pretty boy may
be heaven's messenger to save the father's soul?
You see, Max, I still like, in my old moralizing habit, to
" justify the ways of God to men," to try and perceive the
use of pain, the reason of punishment; and to feel, not only
by faith, but experience, that, dark as are the ways of Infinite Mercy, they are all safe ways. "All things work togetherfor good to them that love HIM."
And so, watching these two, talking so quietly and friendly together, I thought how glad my Max would be; I remembered all my Max had done-Penelope knows it now;
I told her that night. And, sad and anxious as I am about
you and many things, there came over my heart one of
those sudden sunshiny refts of peace, when we feel that
whether or not all is happy, all is well.
Francis walked along by the pony-carriage for a quarter
of a mile or more.
" I must turn now. This little man ought to have been
in his bed an hour or more; he always used to be. His
mother-" Francis stopped-" I beg your pardon." Then,
hugging the boy in a sudden passion of remorse, he said,
" Penelope, if you want your revenge, take this. You can




356             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
not tell what a man feels, who, when the heyday of youth
is gone, longs for a home, a virtuous home, yet knows that
he never can offer or receive unblemished honor with his
wife-never give his lawful name to his first-born."
This was the sole allusion made openly to what both
tacitly understood was to be, and which you, as well as
we, will agree is the best thing that can be, under the circumstances.
And here I have to say to you, both from my sister and
myself, that if Francis desires to make Lydia Cartwright
his wife, and she is willing, tell them both that if she will
come direct from the jail to Rockniount, we will receive
her kindly, provide every thing suitable for her (since Francis must be very poor, and they will have to begin hqusekeeping on the humblest scale), and take care that she is
married in comfort and credit. Also, say that former
things shall never be remembered against her, but that she
shall be treated henceforward with the respect due to
Francis's wife; in some things, poor loving soul, a better
wife than he deserves.
So he left us. Whether in this world he and Penelope
will ever meet again, who knows? He seemed to have a
foreboding that they never will, for, in parting, he asked,
hesitatingly, if she would shake hands?
She did so, looking earnestly at him-her first love, who,
had he been true to himself and to her, might have been
her love forever. Then I saw her eye wander down to the
little head which nestled on his shoulder.
" Will you kiss my boy, Penelope?"
My sister leaned over, and touched Franky's forehead
with her lips.
" God bless him! God bless you all!"
These were her last words, and however long both may
live, I have a conviction that they will be her last wordsto Francis Charteris.
He went back to the cottage; and through the rosy
spring twilight, with a strangely solemn feeling, as if we
were entering upon a new spring in another world, Penelope and I drove home.
And now, Max, I have told you all about these. About
myselfNo, I'll not try to deceive you; God knows how true
my heart is, and how sharp and sore is this pain.
Dear Max, write to me; if there is any trouble, I can




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.            857
bear it; any wrong-supposing Max could do me wrongI'll forgive. I fear nothing, and nothing has power to
grieve me, so long as you hold me fast, as I hold you.
Your faithful    THEODORA.
P.S.-A wonderful, wonderful thing-it only happened
last night. It hardly feels real yet.
Max, last night, after I had done reading, papa mentioned your name of his own accord.
He said Penelope, in asking his leave, as we thought it
right to do before we sent that message to Lydia, had told
him the whole story about your goodness to Francis. He
then inquired abruptly how long it was since I had seen
Doctor Urquhart?
I told him never since that day in the library, now a year
ago.
"And when do you expect to see him?"
" I do not know." And all the bitterness of partingthe terrors lest life's infinite chances should make this parting perpetual-the murmurs that will rise, why hundreds
and thousands who care little for one another should be
always together, while we-we-oh, Max! it all broke out
in a sob, " Papa, papa, how can I know?"
My father looked at me as if he would read me through.
"You are a good girl, and an honorable. He is honorable too. He would never persuade a child to disobey her
father."
"No, never."
"Tell him"-and papa turned his head away, but he did
say it, I could not mistake, "tell Doctor Urquhart if he
likes to come over to Rockmount, for one day only, I shall
not see him, but you may."
Max, come. Only for one day of holiday rest. It would
do you good. There are green leaves in the garden, and
sunshine and larks in the moorland, and-there is me.
Come!
CHAPTER XXXV.
HIS STORY.
MY DEAR THEODORA,-I did not write, because I could
not. In some states of mind nothing seems possible to a
man but silence. Forgive me, my love, my comfort and joy.




358             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
I have suffered much, but it is over now, at least the suspense of it; and I can tell you all, with the calmness that
I myself now feel. You are right; we love one another;
we need not be afraid of any tribulation.
Before entering on my affairs, let me answer your letter
-all but its last word, "Come!" My other self, my better
conscience, will herself answer that.
The substance of what you tell me, I already know.
Francis Charteris came to me on Sunday week, and asked
for Lydia. They were married two days after-I gave the
bride away. Since then I have drunk tea with them at his
lodging, which, poor as it is, has already the cheerful comfort of a home with a woman in it, and that woman a wife.
I left them-Mr. Charteris sitting by the fire, with his
boy on his knee; he seems passionately fond of the little
scapegrace, who is, as you said, his very picture. But more
than once I caught his eyes following Lydia with a wistful,
grateful tenderness.
"The most sensible practical girl imaginable," he said,
during her momentary absehce from the room; "and she
knows all my ways, and is so patient with them.  A poor
wench,' as Shakspeare hath it.'A poor wench, sir, but
mine own."
For her, she busied herself about house matters, humble
and silent, except when her husband spoke to her, and then
her whole face brightened. Poor Lydia! None familiar
with her story are likely to see much of her again; Mr.
Charteris seems to wish, and for very natural reasons, that
they should begin the world.entirely afresh; but we may
fairly believe one thing concerning her, as concerning an.
other poor sinner-"Her sins, which were many, areforgiven,for she loved much."
After I returned from them, I found your letter. It made
me cease to feel what I have often felt of late, as if hope
were knocking at every door except mine.
I told you once never to be ashamed of showing me that
you loved me. Do not be; such love is a woman's glory,
and a man's salvation.
Let me now say what is to be said about myself, begin.
ning at the beginning.
I mentioned to you once that I had here a good many
enemies, but that I should soon live them down; which, for
some time I hoped and believed, and still believe that it
would have been so under ordinary circumstances. I have




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             359
ever held that truth is stronger than falsehood-that an
honest man has but to sit still, let the storm blow over, and
bide his time. It does not shake this doctrine that things
have fallen out differently with me.
For some time I had seen the cloud gathering caught
evil reports flying about; noticed that, in society or in public meetings, now and then an acquaintance gave me the
" cold shoulder." Also, what troubled me more, for it was
a hinderance felt daily, my influence and authority in the
jail did not seem quite what they used to be. I met no
tangible affront, certainly, and all was tolerably smooth sailing till I had to find fault, and then, as you know, a feather
will show which way the wind blows.
It was a new experience, for, at the worst of times, in
camp or hospital, my poor fellows always loved me-I found
it hard.
More scurrilous newspaper paragraphs, the last and least
obnoxious of which I sent you lest you might hear of it in
some other way, followed those proceedings of mine concerning reformatories. Two articles-the titles, "Physician, heal thyself," and " Set a thief to catch a thief," will
give you an idea of their tenor-went so far as to be actionable libels. Several persons here, our chaplain especially,
urged me to take legal proceedings in defense of my character, but I declined.
One day, arguing the point, the chaplain pressed me for
my reasons, which I gave him, and will give you, for I have
since had only too much occasion to remember them literally.
I said I had always had an instinctive dislike and dread
of the law; that a man was good for little if he could not
defend himself by any better weapons than the verdict of
an ignorant jury, and a specious, sometimes lying, barrister's
tongue.
The old clergyman, alarmed, "hoped'I was not a duelist," at which I only smiled. It never occurred to me to
take the trouble of denying any such ridiculous purpose.
I knew not how, when once the ball is set rolling against a
man, his lightest words are made to gather weight and
meaning, his very looks are brought in judgment upon him.
It is the way of the world.
You see I can moralize, a sign that I am recovering my,
self; I think, with the relief of telling all out to you.
" But," reasoned the chaplain, "when a man is innocent,




360             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
why should he not declare it? Why sit tamely under calumny? It is unwise, nay, unsafe. You are almost a stranger here, and we in the provinces like to find out every
thing about every body. If I might suggest," and he apologized for what he called the friendly impertinence, "why
not be a little less modest, a little more free with your personal history, which must have been a remarkable one, and
let some friend, in a quiet, delicate way, see that the truth
is as widely disseminated as the slander? If you will trust
me-"
" I could not choose a better pleader," said I, gratefully;
"but it is impossible."
" How so? A man like you can have nothing to dread
-nothing to conceal."
I said again, all I could find words to say,
" It is impossible."
He urged no more, but I soon felt painfully certain that
some involuntary distrust lurked in the good man's mind,
and though he continued the same to me in all our business
relations, a cloud came over our private intercourse, which
was never removed.
About this time another incident occurred. You know
I have a little friend here, the governor's motherless daughter, a bonnie wee child whom I meet in the garden sometimes, where we water her flowers, and have long chats
about birds, beasts, and the wonders of foreign parts. I
even have given a present or two to this, my child-sweetheart. Are you jealous? She has your eyes!
Well, one day when I called Lucy, she came to me slowly, with a shy, sad countenance; and I found out after
some pains that her nurse had desired her not to play with
Doctor Urquhart again, because he was "naughty."
Doctor Urquhart smilingly inquired what he had done?
The child hesitated.
"Nurse does not exactly know, but she says it is something very wicked-as wicked as any thing done by the
bad people in here. But it isn't true-tell Lucy it isn't
true?"
It was hard to put aside the little loving face, but I saw
the nurse coming. Not an ill-meaning body, but one whom
I knew for as arrant a gossip as any in the place. Her
comments on myself troubled me little; I concluded it was
but the result of that newspaper tattle, against which I was
growing hardened; nevertheless, I thought it best just to




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.            361
say that I had heard with much surprise what she had
been telling Miss Lucy.
" Children and fools speak truth," said the woman saucily.
" Then you ought to be the more careful that children
always hear the truth." And I insisted upon her repeating all the ridiculous tales she had been circulating about
me.
When, with difficulty, I got the facts out of her, they
were not what I expected, but these: Somebody in the
jail had told somebody else how Doctor Urquhart had
been in former days such an abandoned character, that still
his evil conscience always drove him among criminals;
made him haunt jails, prisons, reformatories, and take an
interest in every form of vice. Nay, people had heard me
say-and truly they might!-apropos to a late hanging at
Kirkdale; that I had sympathy even for a murderer.
I listened-you will imagine how-to all this.
For an instant I was overwhelmed; I felt as if God had
forsaken me, as if His mercy were a delusion, His punishments never-ending, His justice never satisfied. Despite
my promise to your father, I might in some fatal way have
betrayed myself, even on the spot, had I not heard the little girl saying, with a sob, almost-poor pet I
"For shame, nurse! Doctor Urquhart isn't a wicked
man; Lucy loves him."
And I remembered you.
"My child," I said in a whisper, " we are all wicked, but
we may all be forgiven; I trust God has forgiven me;"
and I walked away without another word.
But since then I have thought it best to avoid the governor's garden; and it has cost me more pain than you
would imagine-the contriving always to pass at a distance, so as to get only a nod and a smile, which can not
harm her, from little Lucy.
About this time-it might be two or three days after,
for out of work-hours I little noticed how time passed-an
unpleasant circumstance occurred with Lucy's father.
I must have told you of him, for he is a remarkable man;
young still, and well-looking, with manners like his features,
hard as iron, though delicate and polished as steel. He
seems born to be the ruler of criminals. Brutality, meanness, or injustice would be impossible to him. Likewise,
another thing-mercy.
Q




3862            A   TBE F3OB A LFs.
It was on this point that he and I had our difference.
We met in the east ward, when he pointed out to me in
passing the announcement on the centre slate of " a boy to
be whipped."
It seems ridiculous, but the words sickened me. For I
knew the boy, knew also his offense; and that such a punishment would be the first step toward converting a mere
headstrong lad, sent here for a street row, into a hardened
ruffian. I pleaded for him strongly.
The governor listened-polite, but inflexible.
I went on speaking with unusual warmth; you know my
horror of these floggings.; you know, too, my opinion on
the system of punishment, viewed as mere punishment, with
no ulterior aim at reformation. I believe it is only our
blinded human interpretation of things spiritual, which
transforms the immutable law that evil is its own avenger
and that the wrath of God against sin must be as everlasting as His pity for sinners-into the doctrine of eternal torment, the worm that dieth not, and the fire that is never
quenched.
The governor heard all I. had to say; then, politely always, regretted that it was impossible either to grant my
request, or release me from my duty.
"There is, however, one course which I may suggest to
Doctor Urquhart, considering his very peculiar opinions,
and his known sympathy with criminals..Do you not
think it might be more agreeable to you to resign?"
The words were nothing; but as he fixed on me that
keen eye, which, he boasts, can without need of judge or
jury detect a man's guilt or innocence, I felt convinced
that with him too my good name was gone. It was no
longer a battle with mere side-winds of slander-the storm
had begun,
I might have sunk like a coward, if there were only my"
self to be crushed under it. As it was, I looked the governor in the face.
" Have you any special motive for this suggestion?"
"I have stated it."
"Then allow me to state that, whatever my opinions
may be, so long as my services are useful here, I have not
the slightest wish or intention of resigning."
He bowed, and we parted.
The boy was flogged. I said to him, "Bear it; better
confess"-as he had done-" confess and be punished now.




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.            363
It will then be over." And I hope, by the grateful look
of the poor young wretch, that with the pain, the punishment was over; that my pity helped him to endure it, so
that it did not harden him, but, with a little help, he may
become an honest lad yet.
When I left him in his cell, I rather envied him.
It now became necessary to look to my own affairs, and
discover, if possible, all that report alleged against mefalse or true-as well as the originator of these statements.
Him I at last by the merest chance discovered.
My little lady, with her quick, warm feelings, must learn
to forgive, as I have long ago forgiven. It was Mr. Francis Charteris.
I believe still, it was less from malice premeditated, than
from a mere propensity for talking, and that looseness and
inaccuracy of speech which he always had-that he, when
idling away his time in the debtors' ward of this jail, repeated, probably with extempore additions, what your sister Penelope once mentioned to him concerning me-namely, that I was once about to be married, when the lady's
father discovered a crime I had committed in my youthwhether dishonesty, dueling, seduction, or what, he could
not say-but it was something absolutely unpardonable by
an honorable man, and the marriage was forbidden. On
this, all the reports against me had been grounded.
After hearing this story, which one of the turnkeys,
whose children were down with fever, told me while watching by their bedside, begging my pardon for doing it, honest man! I went and took a long walk down the Waterloo shore, to calm myself, and consider my position. For
I knew it was in vain to-struggle any more. I was ruined.
An innocent man might have fought on; how any one,
with a clear conscience, is ever conquered by slander, or
afraid of it, I can not understand. With a dlean heart, and
truth on his tongue, a man ought to be as bold as a lion.
I should have been; but-  My love, you know.
This Waterloo shore has always been a favorite haunt
of mine. You once said, you should like to live by the
sea; and I have never heard the ripple of the tide without
thinking of you-never seen the little children playing
about and digging on the sands without thinking-God
help me! if one keeps silence, it is not because one does
not feel the knife. "Who would have thought the old
man had so much blood in him?"




864             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
Let me stop. I will not pain you, my love, more than I
can help. Besides, as I told you, the worst of my suffeling
is ended.
I believe I must have sat till nightfall among the sandhills by the shore. For years to come, if I live so long, I
shall see as clear and also as unreal as a painting-that
level sea-line, along which moved the small white silent
ships, and steamers, with their humming paddle-wheels and
their trailing thread of smoke, dropping one after the other
into what some one of your favorite poets, my child, calls
"the under world." There seemed a great weight on my
head-a weariness all over me. I did not feel any thing
much, after the first half hour; except a longing to see
your little face once again, and then, if it were God's will,
to lie down and die, somewhere near you, quietly, giving
no trouble to you or to any one any more. You will remember, I was not in my usual health, and had had extra
hard work, for some little time.
Well, my dear one, this is enough about myself, that day.
I went home and fell into harness as usual; there was nothing to be done but to wait till the storm burst, and I wished for many reas6ns to retain my situation at the jail as
long as possible.
But it was a difficult time: rising to each day's duty,
with total uncertainty of what might happen before night;
and, duty done, struggling against a depression such as I
have not known for these many years. In the midst of it
came your dear letters-cheerful, loving, contented-unwontedly contented they seemed to be. I could not answer them, for to have written in a false strain was impossible, and to tell you every thing seemed equally so. I said
to myself, "No, poor child! she will learn all soon enough.
Let her be happy while she can."
I was wrong; I was unjust to you and to myself. From
the hour you gave me your love, I owed it to us both to
give you my full confidence, as much as if you were my
wife. I had no right to wound your dear heart by keeping
back from it any sorrows of mine. Forgive me, and forgive something else, which I now see was crueler still.
Theodora, I wished many times that you were free; that I
had never bound you to my hard lot, but kept silence and
left you to forget me-to love some one else better than
me-pardon, pardon!
For I was once actually on the point of writing to you,




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             365
saying this, when I remembered something you had said
long ago-that whether or no we were ever married you
were glad we had been betrothed-that so far we might
always be a help and comfort to one another. For, you
added, when I was blaming myself, and talking as men do
of " honor" and "pride"-to have left you free when you
were not free, would have given you all the cares of love,
with neither its rights, nor duties, nor sweetnesses; and
this might-you did not say it would-but it might have
broken your heart.
So in my bitter strait I trusted that pure heart, whose
instinct, I felt, was truer than all my wisdom. I did not
write the letter, but at the same time, as I have told you,
it was impossible to write any other, even a single line.
Your last letter came. Happily, it reached me the very
morning when the crisis which I had been for weeks expecting occurred. I had it in my pocket all the time I
stood in that room before those men. But I had best relate from the beginning.
You are aware that any complaints respecting the officers of this jail, or questions concerning its internal management, are laid before the visiting justices. Thus, after the governor's hint, on every board-day I prepared myself for a summons. At length it came, ostensibly for a
very trivial matter-some relaxation of discipline which I
had ordered and been counteracted in. But my conduct
had never been called into question before, and I knew what
it implied. The very form of it-" The governor's compliments, and he requests Doctor Urquhart's attendance in
the board-room," instead of " Doctor, come up to my room
and talk the matter over"-was sufficient indication of
what was impending.
I found present, besides the governor and chaplain, an unusual number of magistrates. These, who are not always
or necessarily gentlemen, stared at me as if I had been
some strange beast, all the time I was giving my brief evidence about the breach of regulations complained of. It
avas soon settled, for I had been careful to keep within the
letter of the law, and I made a motion to take leave, when
one of the justices requested me to " wait a bit-they hadn't
done with me yet."
These sort of men, low-born-not that that is any disgrace, but a glory, unless accompanied with a low nature
-and " dressed in a little brief authority," one often meets




366             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
with here; I was well used to deal with them, and to their
dealings with the like of me-a poor professional, whose
annual income was little more than they would expend carelessly upon one of their splendid "feeds."  But, until lately, among my co-mates in office, I had been both friendly
and popular. Now they took their tone from the rest, and
even the governor and the chaplain preserved toward me
a rigid silence. You do not know our old mess-phrase of
being "sent to Coventry." If you did you would understand how those ten minutes that, according to my orders,
I sat aloof from the board while other.business was proceeding were not the pleasantest possible.
Men among men grow hard, are liable to evil passions,
fits of pride, hatred, and revenge, that are probably unfamiliar to you sweet women. It was well I had your letter
in my pocket. Besides, there is something in coming to
the crisis of a great misfortune, which braces up a man's
nerves to meet it. So when the governor, turning round
in his always courteous tone, said the board requested a
few minutes' conversation with me, I could rise and stand
steady to meet whatever shape of hard fortune was before
me.
The governor, like most men of non-intrusive but iron
will, who have both temper and feelings perfectly under
control, has a very strong influence wherever he goes. It
was he who opened and carried on with me what he politely termed a " little conversation."
"These difficulties," continued he, after referring to the
dismissed complaint of my straining the rules of the jail to
their utmost limit, from my "sympathy with criminals,"
"these unpleasantnesses, Doctor Urquhart, will, I fear, be
always occurring. Have you reconsidered the hint I. gave
to you some little time ago?"
I answered that it was rarely my habit to take hints; I
preferred having all things spoken right out.
"Such candor is creditable, though not always possible
or advisable. I should have been exceedingly glad if you
had saved me from what I feel to be my duty, however
painful-namely, to repeat my private suggestion publicly."
" You mean that I should tender my resignation?"
" Excuse my saying-and the board agrees with methat such a step seems desirable, for many reasons."
I waited, and then asked for those reasons.
"Doctor Urquhart must surely be aware of them."




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             367
A man is tot bound to rush madly into his ruin. I determined to die fighting, at any rate. I said, addressing
the board,
"Gentlemen, I am not aware of having conducted myself in any manner that unfits me for being surgeon to this
jail. Any slight differences between the governor and myself are mere matters of opinion, which signify little so long
as neither trenches on the other's authority, and both are
amenable to the regulations of the establishment. If you
have any cause of complaint against me, state it, reprove
or dismiss me-it is your right; but no one has a right,
without just grounds, to request me to resign."
The governor, even through that handsome, impassive,
masked countenance of his, looked annoyed. For an instant his hard manner dropped into the old friendliness,
even as when, in the first few weeks after his wife's death,
he and I used to sit playing chess together of evenings,
with little Lucy between us.
" Doctor, why will you misapprehend me? It is for your
own sake that I wish, before the matter is opened up farther, you should resign your post."
After a moment's consideration, I requested him to explain himself more clearly.
One of the magistrates here cried out with a laugh:
"Come, come, Doctor, no shamming. You are the town's
talk." And another suggested that "Brown had better
mind his P's and Q's; there were such things as actions
for libel."
I replied if the gentlemen referred to the scurrilous allegations against me which had appeared in print, they might
speak without fear; I had no intention of prosecuting for
libel. This silenced them a moment, and then the first
magistrate said,
"Give a dog a bad name and hang him; but surely, Doctor, you can't be aware what a very bad name you have
somehow got in these parts, or you would have been more
eager to draw your neck out of the halter in time. Why,
bless my soul, man alive, do you know what folk make you
out to be?"
"This discussion is growing foreign to the matter in
hand," interrupted the governor, who I felt had never taken his sharp eyes off me. "The question is merely this:
that any officer in authority among criminals must of necessity bear an unblemished character. Neither in the estab



368             A LIFE FOR A LIFE..
lishment nor out of it ought people to be able to say of
him that-that-"
"Say it out, sir."
"That there were circumstances in his former life which
would not bear inspection, and that merely accident drew
the line between himself and the convicts he was bent on
reforming."
" Hear, hear!" said a justice, who had long thwarted me
in my schemes; having a conscientious objection to reforming every body-including himself.
"Nay," said the governor. "I did not give this as a
fact-only a report. These reports have come to such a
height, that they must either be proved or denied. And
therefore I wished, before any public inquiry became necessary-unless, indeed, Doctor Urquhart will consent to
the explanatory self-defense which he definitely refused
Mr. Thorley-"
And they both looked anxiously at me-these two whom
I have always found honest, honorable men, and who were
once my friends, or at least friendly associates-the chaplain and the governor.
Theodora, no one need ever dread lest the doctrine of
total forgiveness should make guilt no burden, and repentance pleasant and easy. There are some consequences of
sin which must haunt a sinner to the day of his death.
It might have been one minute or ten that I stood motionless, feeling as if I could have given up life and all its
blessings without a pang to be able to face those men with
a clear conscience, and say, "It is all a lie; I am innocent."
Then, for my salvation, came the thought-it seemed
spoken into my ear, the voice half like Dallas's half like
yours-" If God hath forgiven thee, why be afraid of
men?" And I said, humbly enough-yet, I trust, without
any cringing or abjectness of fear-that I wished, before
taking any farther step, to hear the whole of the statements current -against myself, and how far they were
credited by the gentlemen before me.
The accusation, I was informed, stood thus: floating
rumors having accumulated into a substantive form-terribly near the truth! that I had in my youth, either here
or abroad, committed some crime which rendered me
amenable to the laws of my country; and though, by some
trick of law, I had escaped justice, the ban upon me was
such, that only by the wandering life which I myself had




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             369
owned to having led, could I escape the fury of public
opinion. The impression against me was now so strong, in
the jail and out of it, that the governor would not engage
even by his own authority to preserve mine unless I furnished him with an immediate, explicit denial to this
charge. Which, he was pleased to say, if it had not been
so widely spread, so mysterious in its origin, and so oddly
corroborated by accidental admissions on my part, he
should have treated as simply ridiculous.
"And now," he added, apparently reassured by the
composure with which I had listened, "I have only to ask
you to deny it, point-blank, before the board and myself."
I asked, what must I deny?
" Why, if the accusations were not too ludicrous to express, just state that you are neither forger, burglar, nor
body-snatcher; that you never either killed a man (unprofessionally, of course, if we may be excused the joke) for
professional purposes, or shot him irregularly in a duel, or
waylaid him with pistols behind a hedge."
"Am I supposed to have committed all these crimes?"
"S Such is the gullibility of the public; you really are,"
said the governor, smiling.
On the indignant impulse of the moment, I denied them
each and all, upon my honor as a gentleman; until, feeling
the old chaplain cordially grip my hand, I was roused into
a full consciousness of where and what I was, and what,
either by word or implication, I had been asserting.
Somebody said, " Give him air; no wonder he feels it,
poor fellow!" And so, after a little, I gathered up my
faculties, and saw the board sitting waiting; and the governor with pen and ink before him.
"This painful business will soon be settled, Doctor,"
said he, cheerfully.  "Just answer a question or two,
which, as a matter of form, I will put in writing, and then,
if you will do me the honor to dine with me to-day, we can
consult how best to make the statement public; without
of course compromising your dignity. To begin. You
hereby make declaration that you never were in jail? never tried at any assizes? have never committed any act
which rendered you liable to prosecution under our criminal law?"
He ran the words off carelessly, and paused for my answer. When none came, he looked up, his own penetrative2 suspicious look.
Q2




370             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
"Perhaps I did not express myself clearly." And he
slightly changed the form of the sentence. " Now, what
shall I write, Doctor Urquhart?"
If I could then and there have made full confession, and
gone out of that room an arrested prisoner, it would have
been, so far as regarded myself, a relief unutterable, a mercy beyond all mercies. But I had to remember your father.
The governor laid down his pen.
"This looks, to say the least, rather strange."
"Doctor," cried one of the board, "you must be mad to
hold your tongue and let your character go to the dogs in
this way."
Alas! I was not mad; I saw all that was vanishing from
me-inevitably, irredeemably-my good name, my chance
of earning a livelihood, my sweet hope of a home and a
wife. And I might save every thing, and keep my promise
to your father also, by just one little lie.
Would you have had me utter it? No, love; I know
you would rather have had me die.
The sensation was like dying, for one minute, and then
it passed away. I looked steadily at my accusers; for accusation, at all events strong suspicion, was in every countenance now; and told them that though I had not perpetrated a single one of the. atrocious crimes laid to my
charge, still the events of my life had been peculiar; and
circumstances left me no option but the course I had
hitherto pursued, namely, total silence. That if my good
character were strong enough to sustain me through it, I
would willingly retain my post at the jail, and weather the
storm as I best could. If this course were impossible"It is impossible," said the governor, decisively.
"Then I have no alternative but to tender my resignation."
It was accepted at once.
I went out from the board-room a disgraced man, with a
stain upon my character which will last for life, and follow
me wherever I plant my foot. The honest Urquhart name,
which my father bore, and Dallas-which I ought to have
given stainless to my wife, and left-if I could leave nothing else-to my children-ay, it was gone. Gone, forever
and ever.
I stole up into my own rooms, and laid myself down on
my bed, as motionless as if it had been my coffin.
Fear not, my love; one sin was saved me, perhaps by




A LIFE FOR A  IFE.            371
your letter of that morning. The wretchedest, most hopeless, most guilty of men would never dare to pray for death
so long as he knew that a good woman loved him.
When daylight failed I bestirred myself; lit my lamp,
and began to make a few preparations and arrangements
about my rooms-it being clear that, wherever I went, I
must quit this place as soon as possible.
My mind was almost made up as to the course I ought
to pursue; and that of itself calmed me. I was soon able
to sit down, and begin this letter to you; but got no farther than the first three words, which, often as I have written them, look as new, strange, and precious as ever: "My
dear Theodora." Dear-God knows how infinitely! and
mine-altogether and everlastingly mine. I felt this, even
now. In the resolution I had made, no doubts shook me
with respect to you; for you would bid me to do exactly
what conscience urged-ay, even if you differed from me.
You said once, with your arms round my neck, and your
sweet eyes looking up steadfastly in mine: "Max, whatever happens, always do what you think to be right, without reference to me. I would love you all the better for
doing it, even if you broke my heart."
I was pondering thus, planning how best to tell you of
things so sore; when there came a knock to my room door,
Expecting no one but a servant, I said " Come in," and did
not even look up-for every creature in the jail must be familiar with my disgrace by this time.
"Doctor Urquhart, do I intrude?"
It was the chaplain.
Theodora, if I have ever in my letters implied a word
against him-for the narrowness and formality of his religious belief sometimes annoyed and Was a hinderance to
me-remember it not. Set down his name, the Reverend
James' Thorley, on the list of those I wish to be kept always in your tender memory, as those whom I sincerely
honored, and who have been most kind to me of all my
friends.
The old man spoke with great hesitation, and when I
thanked him for coming, replied in the manner which I had
many a time heard him use in convict cells:
" I came, sir, because I felt it to be my duty."
"Mr. Thorley, whatever was your motive, I respect it,
and thank you."
And we remained silent-both standing-for he declined




372             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
my offer of a chair. Noticing my preparations, he said,
with some agitation, "Am I hindering your plans for departure? Are you afraid of the law?"
" No."
He seemed relieved; then, after a long examining look
at me, quite broke down.
"O0 Doctor, Doctor, what a terrible thing this is! who
would have believed it of you!"
It was very bitter, Theodora.
When he saw that I attempted neither answer nor defense, the chaplain continued sternly: "I come here, sir,
not to pry into your secrets, but to fulfill my duty as a minister of God; to urge you to make confession, not unto me,
but unto Him whom you have offended, whose eye you can
not escape, and whose justice sooner or later will bring you
to punishment. But perhaps," seeing I bore with composure these and many similar arguments; alas, they were
only too familiar! " perhaps I am laboring under a strange
mistake? You do not look guilty, and I could as soon
have believed in my own son's being a criminal, as you.
For God's sake break this reserve, and tell me all."
"It is not possible."
There was a long pause, and then the old man said, sighing:
"Well, I will urge no more. Your sin, whatever it be,
rests between you and the Judge of sinners. You say the
law has no hold over you?"
"I said I was not afraid of the law."
"Therefore it must have been a moral rather than a legal crime, if crime it was." And again I had to bear that
searching look, so dreadful because it was so eager and
kind. " On my soul, Doctor Urquhart, I believe you to be
entirely innocent."
" Sir," I cried out, and stopped; then asked him "if he
did not believe it possible for a man to have sinned and yet
repented?"
Mr. Thorley started back-so greatly shocked that I perceived at once what an implication I had made. But it
was too late now; nor, perhaps, would I have had it otherwise.
" As a clergyman-I-I-" He paused. "'If a man
sin a sin which is not unto death-' You know the rest.'And there is a sin which is unto death; I do not say
that he shall pray for it.' But never that we shall not
pray for it."




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             373
And falling down on his knees beside me, the old chaplain repeated in a broken voice:
"'Remember not the sins of my youth nor my transgressions; according to thy mercy, think thou upon me, 0
Lord, for thy goodness.' Not ours, which is but filthy
rags; for Thy goodness, through Jesus Christ, 0 Lord."
"Amen."
Mr. Thorley rose, took the chair I gave him, and we sat
silent. Presently he asked me if I had any plans? Had I
considered what exceeding difficulty I should find in establishing myself any where professionally, after what happened this day?
I said I was fully aware that so far as my future prospects were concerned, I was a ruined man.
"And yet you take it so calmly?"
"Ay."
"Doctor," said he, after again watching me, "you must
either be innocent, or your error must have been caused by
strong temptation, and long ago retrieved. I will never
believe but that you are now as honorable and worthy a
man as any living."
"Thank you."
An uncontrollable weakness came over me; Mr. Thorley,
too, was much affected.
"I'll tell you what it is, my dear fellow," said he, as he
wrung my hand, " you must start afresh in some other part
of the world. You are no older than my son-in-law was
when he married and went to Canada, in your own profession too. By the way, I have an idea."
The idea was worthy of this excellent man, and of his
behavior to me. He explained that his son-in-law, a physician in good practice, wanted a partner-some one from
the Old Country, if possible.
"If you went.out, with an introduction from me, he
would be sure to like you, and all might be settled in no time.
Besides, you Scotch hang together so-my son-in-law is a
Fife man-and did you not say you were born or educated
at St. Andrews? The very thing!"
And he urged me to start by next Saturday's American
mail.
A sharp struggle went on within my mind. Mr. Thorley
evidently thought it sprang from another cause, and, with
much delicacy, gave me to understand that in the promised
introduction, he did not consider there was the slightest




374             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
necessity to state more than that I had been an army surgeon, and was his valued friend; that no reports against
me were likely to reach the far Canadian settlement, whither I should carry, both to his son-in-law and the world at
large, a perfeetly unknown and unblemished name.
If I had ever wavered, this decided me. The hope must
go. So I let it go, in all probability, forever.
Was I right? I can hear you say, " Yes, Max."
In bidding the chaplain farewell, I tried to explain to him
that in this generous offer he had given to me more than
he guessed-faith not only in heaven, but in mankind, and
strength to do without shrinking what I am bound to dotrusting that there are other good Christians in this world
besides himself who dare believe that a man may sin and
yet repent-that the stigma even of an absolute crime is
not hopeless nor eternal.
His own opinion concerning my present conduct, or the
facts of my past history, I did not seek; it was of little
moment; he will shortly learn all.
My love, I have resolved, as the only thing possible to
my future peace, the one thing exacted by the laws of God
and man-to do what I ought to have done twenty years
ago-t6 deliver myself up to justice.
Now I have told you; but I can not tell you the infinite
calm which this resolution has brought to me. To be free;
to lay down this living load of lies, which has hung about
me for twenty years; to speak the whole truth before God
and man-confess all, and take my punishment —my love,
my love, if you knew what the thought of this is to me, you
would neither tremble nor weep, but rather rejoice!
My Theodora, I take you in my arms, I hold you to my
heart, and love you with a love that is dearer than life and
stronger than death, and I ask you to let me do this.
In the inclosed letter to your father, I have, after relating
all the circumstances of which I here inform you, implored
him to release me from a pledge which I ought never to
have given. Never, for it was putting the fear of man be.
fore the fear of God; it was binding myself to an eternal
hypocrisy, an inward gnawing of shame, which paralyzed
my very soul. I must escape it; you must try to release
me from it-my love, who loves me better than herself, better than myself, I mean this poor worthless self, battered
and old, which I have often thought was more fit to go
down into the grave than live to be my dear girl's husband.




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.            3s7
Forgive me if I wound you. By the intolerable agony of
this hour, I feel that the sacrifice is just and right.
You must help me, you must urge your father to set me
free. Tell him-indeed I have told him-that he need
dread no disgrace to the family, or to him who is no more.
I shall state nothing of Henry Johnston excepting his name,
and my own confession will be sufficient and sole evidence
against me.
As to the possible result of my trial, I have not overlooked it. It was just, if only for my dear love's sake, that I
should gain some idea of the chances against me. Little as
I understand of the law, and especially English law, it seems
to me very unlikely that the verdict will be willful murder,
nor shall I plead guilty to that. God and my own conscience are witnesses that I did not commit murder, but unpremeditated manslaughter.
The punishment for this is, I believe, sometimes transportation, sometimes imprisonment for a long term of years.
If it were death-which perhaps it might as well be to a
man of my age-I must face it. The remainder of my days,
be they few or many, must be spent in peace.
If I do not hear within two days' post from Rockmount,
I shall conclude your father makes no opposition to my
determination, and go at once to surrender myself at Salisbury.  You need not write; it might compromise you; it
would be almost a relief to me to hear nothing of or from
you until all was over.
And now, farewell! My personal effects here I leave in
charge of the chaplain, with a sealed envelope, containing
the name and address of the friend to whom they are to be
sent in case of my death, or any other emergency. This is
yourself. In my will I have given you, as near as the law
allows, every right that you would have had as my wife.
My wife-my wife in the sight of God, farewell!-that
is, until such time as I dare write again. Take good care
of yourself; be patient, and have hope. In whatever he
commands-he is too just a man to command an injustice
-obey your father.
Forget me not-but you never will. If I could have seen
you once more, have felt you close to my heart-perhaps
it is better as it is.
Only a week's suspense for you, and it will be over. Let
us trust in God; and farewell! Remember how I loved
you, my child!                   MAX URQUHABT.




37'6            A LIFE FOR A LIFE,
CHAPTER XXXVI.
HIS STORY.
MY DEAR THEODORA,-By this time you will have known
all. Thank God, it is over. My dear, dear love-my own
faithful girl-it is over!
When I was brought back to prison to-night, I found
your letters; but I had heard of you the day before from
Colin Granton. Do not regret the chance which made Mr.
Johnston detain my letter to you, instead of forwarding it
at once to the Cedars. These sort of things never seem to
me as accidental; all was for good. In any case I could
not have done otherwise than I did; but it would have
been painful to have done it in direct opposition to your
father. The only thing I regret is, that my poor child
should have had the shock of first seeing these hard tidings
of my surrender to the magistrate, and my public confession, in a newspaper.
Granton told me how you bore it. Tell him I shall remember gratefully all my life his goodness to you, and his
leaving his young wife-whom he dearly loves, I can see
-to come to me here. Nor was he my only friend; do
not think I was either contemned or forsaken. Sir William Treherne and several others offered any amount of
bail for me; but it was better I should remain in prison
during the few days between my committal and the assizes.
I needed quiet and solitude.
Therefore, my love, I dared not have seen you, even had
you immediately come to me. You have acted in all things
as my dear girl was sure to act-wise, thoughtful, self-controlled, and oh! how infinitely loving.
I had to stop here for want of daylight; but they have
now brought me my allowance of candle-slender enough,
so I must make haste. I wish you to have this full account as soon as possible after the brief telegram which I
know Mr. Granton sent you the instant my trial was over.
A trial, however, it was not; in my ignorance of law, I imagined much that never happened. What did happen I
will here set down.
You must not expect me to give many details; my head




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             377
was rather confused, and my health has been a good deal
shaken, though do not take heed of any thing Granton may
tell you about me or my looks. I shall recover now.
Fortunately, the four days of imprisonment gave me
time to recover myself in a measure, and I was able to
write out the statement I meant to read at my trial. I
preferred reading it, lest any physical weakness might
make me confused or inaccurate. You see I took all rational precautions for my own safety. I was as just to
myself as I would have been to another man. This for
your sake, and also for the sake of those now dead, upon
whose fair name I have brought the first blot.
But I must not think of that-it is too late. What best
becomes me is humility, and gratitude to God and man.
Had I known in my wretched youth, when, absorbed in
terror of human justice, I forgot justice divine-had I but
known there were so many merciful hearts in this world!
After Colin Granton left me last night I slept quietly, for
I felt quiet and at rest. Oh, the peace of an unburdened
conscience, the freedom of a soul at ease, which, the whole
truth being told, has no longer any thing to dread, and is
prepared for every thing!
I rose calm and refreshed, and could see through my
cell window that it was a lovely spring morning. I was
glad my Theodora did not know what particular day of
the assizes was fixed for my trial. It would make things
a little easier for her.
It was noon before the case came on: a long time to
wait.
Do not suppose me braver than I was. When I found
myself standing in the prisoner's dock, the whole mass of
staring faces seemed to whirl round and round before my
eyes; I felt sick and cold; I had lost more strength than I
thought. Every thing present melted away into a sort of
dream through which I fancied I heard you speaking, but
could not distinguish any words-except these, the soft,
still tenderness of which haunted me as freshly as if they
had been only just uttered: "My dear Max! my dear
Max!"
By this I perceived that my mind was wandering, and
must be recalled; so I forced myself to look round at the
judge, jury, witness-box, in the which was one person sitting with his white head resting on his hand. I felt who
it was.




37 8            A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
Did you know your father was subpoenaed here? If so,
what a day this must have been for my poor child! Think
not, though, that the sight of him added to my suffering.
I had no fear of him or of any thing now. Even public
shame was less terrible than I thought; those scores of inquisitive eyes hardly stabbed so deep as in days past did
many a kind look of your father's, many a loving glance of
yours.
The formalities of the court began, but I scarcely listened to them. They seemed to me of little consequence. As
I said to Granton when he urged me to employ counsel, a
man who only wants to speak the truth can surely manage
to do it, in spite of the encumbrances of the law.
It came to an end-the' long, unintelligible indictmentand my first clear perception of my position was the judge's
question:
How say you, prisoner at the bar, guilty or not guilty?"
I pleaded "guilty," as a matter of course. The judge
asked several questions, and held a long discussion with
the counsel for the crown on what he termed "this very
remarkable case." The purport of it was, I believe, to ascertain my sanity, and whether any corroboration of my
confession could be obtained. It could not. All possible
witnesses were long since dead, except your father.
He still kept his position, neither turning toward me nor
yet from me-neither compassionate nor revengeful, but
sternly composed, as if his long sorrows had obtained their
solemn satisfaction; and, even though the end was thus, he
felt relieved that it had come. As if he, like me, had learned to submit that our course should be shaped for us rather than by us, being taught that even in this world's events
the God of Truth will be justified before men-will prove
that those who, under any pretense, disguise or deny the
truth, live not unto Him, but unto the father of lies.
Is it not strange that then and there I should have been
calm enough to think of these things? Ay, and should
calmly write of them now. But, as I have told you, in a
great crisis my mind always recovers its balance and becomes quiet. Besides, sickness makes us both clear-sighted
and far sighted-wonderfully so, sometimes.
Do not suppose from this admission that my health is
gone or going, but simply that I am, as I see in the looking-glass, a somewhat older and feebler man than my dear
love remembers me a year ago. But I must hasten on.




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             379
The plea of guilty being recorded, no trial was necessary; the judge had only to pass sentence. I was asked
whether, by counsel or otherwise, I wished to say anly
thing in my own defense? And then I rose and told the
whole truth.
Do not grieve for me, Theodora. The truth is never
really terrible. What makes it so is the fear of man, and
that was over with me; the torment of guilty shame, and
that was gone too. I have had many a moment of far
sharper anguish, more grinding humiliation than this, when
I stood up and publicly confessed the sin of my youth, with
the years of suffering which had followed-dare I say, expiated it?
There is a sense in which no sin ever can be expiated
except in One Blessed Way; yet in so far as a man can
atone to man, I believed I had atoned for mine; I had tried
to give a life for a life, morally speaking-nay, I had given
it. But it was not enough; it could not be. Nothing less
than the truth was required from me, and I here offered it.
Thus, in one short half hour, the burden of a lifetime was
laid down forever.
The judge-he was not unmoved, so they told me afterward-said he must take time to consider the sentence.
IHad the prisoner any witnesses as to character?
Several came forward. Among the rest, the good old
chaplain, who had traveled all night from Liverpool, in order, he said, just to shake hands with me to-day-which he
did, in open court-God bless him!
There was also Colonel Turton, with Colin Grantonwho had never left me since daylight this morning-but
they all held back when they saw rise and come forward,
as if with the intention of being sworn, your father.
Have no fear, my love, for his health. I watched him
closely all this day. He bore it well-it will have no ill
result, I feel sure. From my observation of him, I should
say that a great and salutary change had come over him,
both body and mind, and that he is as likely to enjoy a
green old age as any one I know.
When he spoke, his voice was as steady and clear as before his accident it used to be in the pulpit.
"My lords and gentlemen, I was subpoenaed to this trial.
Not being called upon to give evidence, I wish to make a
statement upon oath."
There must have been a "sensation in the court," as




380             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
newspapers say, for I saw Granton look anxiously at me.
But I had no fears. Your father, whatever he had to say,
was sure to speak the truth, not a syllable more or less, and
the truth was all I wanted.
The judge here interfered, observing that, there being
no trial, he could receive no legal evidence against the
prisoner.
" Nor have I any such evidence to give: I was only for
justice. My lord, may I speak?"
Assent was given.
Your father's words were brief and formal; but you will
imagine how they fell on one ear at least.
" My name is William Henry Johnston, clerk, of Rockmount, Surrey. Henry Johnston, who-died-on the night
of November 19th, 1836, was my only son. I know the
prisoner at the bar. I knew him for some time before he
was aware whose father I was, or I had any suspicion that
my son came to his death in any other way than by accident."
" Was your first discovery of these painful facts by the
prisoner's present confession?"
"No, my lord."  Your father hesitated, but only momentarily. " le told me the whole story himself, a year
ago, under circumstances that would have induced most
men to conceal it forever."
The judge inquired, " Why was not this confession made
public at once?"
"Because I was afraid. I did not wish to make my
family history a by-word and a scandal. I exacted a promise that the secret should be kept inviolate. This promise
he has broken; but I blame him not. It ought never to
have been made."
" Certainly not. It was thwarting the purposes of justice and of the law."' My lord, I am an old man, and a clergyman; I know
nothing about the law; but I know it was a wrong act to
bind any man's conscience to live a perpetual lie."
Your father was here asked if he had any thing more to
say.
" A word only. In the prisoner's confession, he has, out
of delicacy to me, omitted three facts, which weigh materially in extenuation of his crime. When he committed it
he was only nineteen, and my son was thirty. He was
drunk, and my son, who led an irregular life, had made him




A LIFE FOR A IIFE.             881
ab, and afterward taunted him more than a youth of nineteen was likely to bear. Such was his statement to me,
and, knowing his character and my son's, I have little doubt
of its perfect accuracy."
The judge looked up from his notes. "You seem, sir,
strange to say, to be not unfavorable toward the prisoner."
"I am just toward the prisoner. I wish to be, even
though he has on his hands the blood of my only son."
After the pause which followed, the judge said:
" Mr. Johnston, the Court respects your feelings, and regrets to detain you longer or put you to any additional
pain. But it may materially aid the decision of this very
peculiar case if you will answer another question. You
are aware that, all other evidence being wanting, the prisoner can only be judged by his own confession. Do you
believe, on your oath, that this confession is true?"
" I do. I am bound to say, from my intimate knowledge
of the prisoner, that I believe him to be now, whatever he
may have been in his youth, a man of sterling honor and
unblemished life; one who would not tell a lie to save himself from the scaffold."
"The Court is satisfied."
But before he sat down your father turned, and, for the
first time that day, he and I were face to face.
" I am a clergyman, as I said, and I never was in a court
of justice before. Is it illegal for me to address a few
words to the prisoner?"
Whether it was or not, nobody interrupted him.
"Doctor Urquhart," he said, speaking loud enough for
every one to hear, "what your sentence may be, I know
not, or whether you and I shall ever meet again until the
day of judgment. If not, I believe that if we are to be forgiven our debts according as we forgive our debtors, I
shall have to forgive you then. I prefer to do it now,
while we are in the flesh, and it may comfort your soul. I,
Henry Johnston's father, declare publicly that I believe
what you did was done in the heat of youth, and has ever
since been bitterly repented of. May God pardon you,
even as I do this day."
I did not see your father afterward. He quitted the
court directly after sentence was given-three months' imprisonment-the judge making a long speech previously;
but I heard not a syllable. I heard nothing but your father's words-saw no one except himself, sitting there be



382            rA zBE FOz  A LrhE.
low me, with his hands crossed on his stick, and a stream
of sunshine falling across his white hairs-Theodora-TheodoraI can not write; it is impossible.
Granton got admission to me for a minute after I was
taken back to prison. He told me that the " hard labor"
was remitted; that there had been application made for
commutation of the three months into one, but the judge
declined. If I wished, a new application should be made
to the Home Secretary.
No, my love, suffer him not to do it. Let nothing more
be done. I had rather abide my full term of punishment.
It is only too easy.
Do not grieve for me. Trust me, my child, many a peer
puts on his robes with a heavier heart than I put on this
felon's dress, which shocked Granton so much that he is
sure to tell you of it. Never mind it-my clothes are not
me, are they, little lady? Who was the man that wrote
"Stone walls do not a prison make,
Nor iron bars a cage;
Minds innocent-"
Am I innocent? No; but I am forgiven, as I believe,
before God and man. And are not all the glories of heaven preparing, not for sinners, but for pardoned souls?
Therefore I am at peace. The first night of my imprisonment is, for some things, as happy to me as that which I
have often imagined to myself when I should bring you
home for the first time to my own fireside.
Not even that thought, and the rush of thoughts that
come with it, are able to shake me out of this feeling of unutterable rest-so perfect that it seems strange to imagine
I shall ever go out of this cell to begin afresh the turmoil
of the world-as strange as that the dead should wish to
return again to life and its cares. But this as God wills.
My love, good-night. Granton will give you any farther
particulars. Talk to him freely-it will be his good heart's
best reward. His happy, busy life, which is now begun,
may have been made all the brighter for the momentary
cloud which taught him that Providence oftentimes blesses
us in better ways than by giving us exactly the thing we
desired. He told me when we parted, which was the only
allusion he made to the past, that, though Mrs. Colin was
"the dearest little woman in all the world," he should always adore, as " something between a saint and an angel,"
Miss Dora.




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             3883
Is she my saint and angel? Perhaps-if she were not
likewise the woman of my love.
What is she doing now, I wonder? Probably vanishing, lamp in hand, as I have often watched her, up the stair
into her own wee room, where she shuts the door and remembers me.
Yes, remember me, but not with pain. Believe me, that
I am happy-that whatever now befalls me I shall always
be happy.
Tell your fatherNo, tell him nothing. He surely knows all. Or he will
know it, when, this life having passed away like a vapor,
he and I stand together before the One God, who is also
the Redeemer of sinners.
Write to me, but do not come and see me. Hitherto
your name has been kept clear out of every thing; it must
be still, at any sacrifice to both of us. I count on this from
you. You know, you once said laughing, you had already
taken in your heart the marriage vow of " obedience," if I
chose to exact it.
I never did, but I do now. Unless I send for youwhich I solemnly promise to do if illness or any other cause
makes it necessary-obey me, your husband; do not come
and see me.
Three months will pass quickly. Then? But let us not
look forward.
My love, good-night.           MAX URQUHART.
CHAPTER XXXVII.
HER STORY.
MAx says I am to write an end to my journal, tie it up
with his letters and mine, fasten a stone to it, and drop it
over the ship's bulwarks into this blue, blue sea. That is,
either he threatened me or I him, I forget which, with such
a solemn termination; but I doubt if we shall ever have
courage to do it. It would feel something like dropping a
little child into this " wild and wandering grave," as a poor
mother on board had to do yesterday.
" But I shall see him again," she sobbed, as I was helping her to sew the little white body up in its hammock.
"The good God will take care of him, and let me find him




384             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
again, even out of the deep sea. I can not lose him; I
loved him so."
And thus, I believe, no perfect love, or the record of it,
in heart or in word, can ever be lost. So it is of small matter to Max and me whether this, our true love's history,
sinks down into the bottom of the ocean, to sleep thereas we almost expected we should do yesterday, there was
such a storm-or is sealed up and preserved for the benefit of-of our great grandchildren.
Ah! that poor mother and her dead child!
Max here crept down into the berth to look for me, and
I returned with him and left him resting comfortably on
the quarter-deck, promising not to stir for a whole hour.
I have to take care of him still; but, as I told him, the sea
winds are bringing some of its natural brownness back to
his dear old face, and I shall not consider him " interesting" any more.
During the three months that Max was in prison I never
saw him. Indeed, we never once met from the day we
said good-by in my father's presence till the day thatBut I will continue my story systematically.
All those three months Max was ill; not dangerouslyfor he said so, and I could believe him. It would have
gone very hard with me if I could not have relied on him
in this, as in every thing. Nevertheless, it was a bitter
time, and now I almost wonder how I bore it-now, when
I am ready and willing for every thing, except the one
thing, which, thank God, I shall never have to bear again
- -separation.
The day before he came out of prison Max wrote to me
a long and serious letter. Hitherto both our letters had
been filled up with trivialities, such as might amuse him
and cheer me. We deferred all plans till he was better.
My private thoughts, if I had any, were not clear even
to myself until Max's letter.
It was a very sad letter. Three months' confinement in
one cell, with one hour's daily walk round a circle in a
walled yard-prisoner's labor, for he took to making mats,
saying it amused him-prisoner's rules and fare-no wonder that toward the end even his brave heart gave way.
He broke down utterly, otherwise he never would have
written to me as he did-bidding me farewell-me! At
first I was startled and shocked; then I laid down the letter and smiled-a very sad sort of smile, of course, but still




A "LFE FOR A LIFE.             385
it was a smile. The idea that Max and I could part, or
desire to do so, under any human circumstances, seemed
one of those amusingly impossible things that one would
never stop to argue in the least, either with one's self or
any other person. That we loved one another, and therefore some day should probably be married, but that any
how we belonged to one another till death, were facts at
once simple and natural, and immutable as that the sun
stood in the heavens or that the grass was green,
I wrote back to Max that night.
Not that I did it in any hurry or impulse of sudden feeling. I took many hours to consider both what I should
say, and in what form I should put it. Also, I had doubts
whether it would not be best for him, if he accepted the
generous offer of Mr. Thorley's son-in-law, made with full
knowledge of all circumstances, to go first to America
alone. But, think how I would, my thoughts all returned
and settled in the same track, in which was written one
clear truth; that, after God and the right —which means
all claims of justice and conscience-the first duty of any
two who love truly is toward one another.
I have thought since that if this truth were plainer seen
and more firmly held by those whom it concerns, many
false notions about honor, pride, self-respect, would slip off;
many uneasy doubts and divided duties would be set at
rest; there would be less fear of the world and more of
God, the only righteous fear. People would believe more
simply in His ordinance, instituted "from the beginning"
-not the mere outward ceremony of a wedding, but the
love which draws together man and woman until it makes
them complete in one another, in the mystical marriage
union, which, once perfect, should never be disannulled.
And if this union begins, as I think it does, from the very
hour each feels certain of the other's love-surely, as I said
to Max-to talk about giving one another up, whether
from poverty, delay, altered circumstances, or compulsion
of friends, any thing, in short, except changed love or lost
honor-like poor Penelope and Francis-was about as
foolish and wrong as attempting to annul a marriage. Indeed, I have seen many a marriage that might have been
broken with far less unholiness than a real troth plight,
such as this of ours.
After a little more " preaching" (a bad habit that I fear
is growing upon me, save that Max merely laughs at it, or
R




386             A LIFE FQO  A LIFE.
when he does not laugh he actually listens!), I ended my
letter by the earnest advice that he should go and settle in
Canada, and go at once, but that he must remember he had
to take with him one trifling encumbrance-me.
When the words were written, the deed done, I was a
little startled at myself. It looked so exceedingly like my
making him an offer of marriage! But then-good-by,
foolish doubt! good-by, contemptible shame.! Those few
tears that burned my cheeks after the letter was gone were
the only tears of the sort that I ever shed-that Max will
ever suffer me to shed. Max loves me!
His letter in reply I shall not give-not a line of it. It
was onlyfor me.
So that being settled, the next thing to consider was
how matters could be brought about, without delay either;
for, with Max's letter, I got one from his good friend Mrs.
Ansdell, at whose house in London he had gone to lodge.
Her son had followed his two sisters-they were ta consumptive family —leaving her a poor old childless widow
now. She was very fond of my dear Max, which made her
quick-sighted concerning him, and so she wrote as she did,
delicately, but sufficiently plainly to me, who she said he
had told her was, in case of any sudden calamity, to be sent
for as " his nearest friend."
My dear Max! Now, we smile at these sad forebodings; we believe we shall both live to see a good old age.
But if I had known that we should only be married a year,
a month, a week-if I had been certain he would die in my
arms the very same day; I should: still have done exactly
what I did.
In one sense, his illness made my path easier. He had
need of me-vital, instant need, and no one else had. Also,
he was so weak that even his will had left him; he could
neither reason nor resist. He just wrote, "You are my
conscience; do as you will, only do right." And then, as
Mrs. Ansdell afterward told me, he lay for days and days,
calm, patient-waiting, he says, for another angel than
Theodora.
Well, we smile now at these days, as I said; thank God,
we can smile; but it would not do to live them over again.
Max refused to let me come to see him at Mrs. Ansdell's
until my father had been informed of all our plans. But
papa went on in his daily life, now so active and cheerful;
he did not seem to remember any thing concerning Doctor




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.            387
Trquhart and me. For two whole days did I follow him
about, watching an opportunity, but it never came. The
first person who learned my secret was Penelope.
How many a time, in these strange summers to come,
shall I call to mind that soft English summer night, under
the honeysuckle bush-Penelope and I sitting at our work;
she talking the while o' Lisabel's new hope, and considering which of us two should best be spared to go and take
care of her in her trial.
"Or, indeed, papa might almost be left alone for a week
or two. He would hardly miss us, he is so well. I should
not wonder if, like grandfather, whom you don't remember,
Dora, he lived to be ninety years old."
" I hope he may-I hope he may!"
And I burst out sobbing; then, hanging about my sister's neck, I told her all.
" Oh!" I cried, for my tongue seemed unloosed, and I
was not afraid of speaking to her, nor even of hurting her
-if now she could be hurt by the personal sorrows that
mine recalled to her mind. "Oh, Penelope, don't you
think it would be right? Papa does not want me-nobody wants me. Or if they did-"
I stopped. Penelope said, meditatively, "A man shall
leave his father and his mother and cleave unto his wife."
"And equally a woman ought to cleave unto her husband. I mean to ask my father's consent to my going
with Max to Canada."
"Ah that's sudden, child." And by her start of pain
I felt how untruly I had spoken, and how keenly I must
have wounded my sister in saying, " Nobody wanted me"
at home.
Home, where I lived for nearly twenty-seven years, all
of which now seem such happy years. " God do so unto
me, and more also," as the old Hebrews used to say, if
ever I forget Rockmount, my peaceful maiden home!
It looked so pretty that night, with the sunset coloring
its old walls, and its terrace walk, where papa was walking
to and fro, bareheaded, the rosy light falling like a glory
upon his long white hair. To think of him thus pacing
his garden, year after year, each year growing older and
feebler, and I never seeing him, perhaps never hearing from
him-either not coming back at all, or returning after a
lapse of years to find nothing left to me but my father's
grave!




888             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
The conflict was very terrible; nor would Max himself
have wished it less. They who do not love their own flesh
and blood, with whom they have lived ever since they were
born, how can they know what any love is?
We heard papa call us: "Come in, you girls! The sun
is down, and the dews are falling."
Penelope put her hand softly on my head.
"Hush, child, hush! Steal into your own room, and
quiet yourself. I will go and explain things to your father."
I was sure she must have done it in the best and gentlest
way; Penelope does every thing so wisely and gently now;
but when she came to look for me, I knew, before she said
a word, that it had been done in vain.
" Dora, you must go yourself and reason with him. But
take heed what you say and what you do. There is hardly a man on this earth for whom it is worth forsaking a
happy home and a good father."
And truly, if I had ever had the least doubt of Max, or
of our love for one another; if I had not felt as it were already married to him, who had no tie in the whole wide
world but me, I never could have nerved myself to say
what I did say to my father. If, in the lightest word, it
was unjust, unloving, or undutiful, may God forgive me,
for I never meant it! My heart was breaking almost; but
I only wanted to hold fast to the right, as I saw it, and as,
so seeing it, I could not but act.
"So I understand you wish to leave your father?"
"Papa! papa!"
" Do not argue the point. I thought that folly was all
over now. It must be over. Be a good girl, and forget
it. There!"
I suppose I must have turned very white, for I felt him
take hold of me, and press me into a chair beside him.
But it would not do to let my strength go.
"Papa, I want your consent to my marriage with Doctor Urquhart. He would come and ask you himself, but
he is too ill. We have waited a long time, and suffered
much. He is not young, and I feel old-quite old myself,
sometimes. Do not part us any more."
This was, as near as I can recollect, what I said-said
very quietly and humbly, I know it was, for my father
seemed neither surprised nor angry; but he sat there as
hard as a stone, repeating only, " It must be over."
"Why?"




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.            389
He answered by one word: "2Harry."
" No other reason?"
" None."
Then I dared to speak out plain, even to my father.
"Papa, you said publicly you had forgiven him for the
death of Harry."
"But I never said I should forget."
"Ay, there it is!" I cried out bitterly. "People say
they forgive, but they can not forget. It would go hard
with some of us if the just God dealt with us in like manner."
" You are profane."
" No; only I am not afraid to bring God's truth into all
the circumstances of life, and to judge them by it. I believe, if Christ came into the world to forgive sinners, we
ought to forgive them too."
Thus far I said, not thinking it just toward Max that I
should plead merely for pity to be shown to him or to me
who loved him, but because it was the right and the truth,
and as such, both for Max's honor and mine, I strove to
put it clearly before my father. And then I gave way,
pleading only as a daughter with her father, that he should
blot out the past, and not, for the sake of one long dead
and gone, break the heart of his living child.
" Harry would not wish it-I am sure he would not. If
Harry has gone where he, too, may find mercy for his many
sins, I know that he has long ago forgiven my dear Max.
My father, muttering something about " strange theology," sat thoughtful. It was some time before he spoke
again.
"There is one point of the subject you omit entirely.
What will the world say? I, a clergyman, to sanction the
marriage of my daughter with the man who took the life
of my son? It is not possible."
Then I grew bold: " So, it is not the law of God, or justice, or nature, that keeps us asunder, but the world?
Father, you have no right to part Max and me for fear of
the world."
When it was said, I repented myself of this. But it was
too late. All his former hardness returned as he said,
" I am aware that I have no legal right to forbid your
marriage. You are of age; you may act, as you have all
along acted, in defiance of your father."
"Never in defiance, nor even in secret disobedience;"




390             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
and I reminded him how all things had been carried onopen and plain-from first to last; how patiently we had
waited; and how, if Max were well and prosperous, I might
still have said, " We will wait a little longer." Now"Well, and now?"
I went down on my very knees, and with tears and sobs
besought my father to let me be Max's wife.
It was in vain.
"Good-night; go to your bed, Dora, and weary me no
more."
I rose, certain now that the time was come when I must
choose between two duties-between father and husband;
the one to whom I owed existence, the other to whose iniluence I owed every thing that had made me a girl worth
living or worth loving. Such crises do come to poor souls!
God guide them, for He only can.
"Good-night, father." My lips felt dry and stiff; it was
scarcely my own voice that I heard. "I will wait; there
are still a few days."
He turned suddenly upon me. "What are you planning? Tell the truth."
"I meant to do so." And then, briefly-for each word
came out with pain, as if it were a last breath-I explained
that Doctor Urquhart would have to leave for Canada in
a month-that, if we had gained my father's consent, we
intended to be married in three weeks, remain a week in
England, and then sail.
" And what if I do not give my consent?"
I stopped a moment, and then strength came.
" I must be Max's wife still. God gave us to one another, and God only shall put us asunder."
After that, I remember nothing till I found myself lying
in my own bed, with Penelope beside me.
No words can tell how good my sister Penelope was to
me in the three weeks that followed. She helped me in all
my marriage preparations, few and small, for I had little
or no money except what I might have asked papa for, and
I would not have done that-not for worlds! Max's wife
would have come to him almost as poor as Griseldis, had
not Penelope one day taken me to those locked-up drawers
of hers.
"Are you afraid of ill luck with these things?  No?
Then choose whatever you want, and may you have health
and happiness to wear them, my dear."




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             391
And so, with a little more stitching-for I had a sort of
superstition that I should like to be married in one new
white gown, which my sister and I made between us-we
finished and packed the small wardrobe which was all the
marriage portion poor Theodora Johnston could bring to
her husband.
My father must have been well aware of our preparations,
for we did not attempt to hide them; the household knew
only that Miss Dora was " going a journey," but he knew
better-that she was going to leave him and her old home,
perhaps forevermore. Yet he said nothing. Sometimes I
caught him looking earnestly at me-at the poor face which
I saw in the looking-glass-growing daily more white and
heavy-eyed-yet he said nothing.
Penelope told me when, hearing me fall, she had run into
the library that night, he bade her "take the child away,
and say she must not speak to him on this subject any
more." I obeyed. I behavedall through those three weeks
as if each day had been like the innumerable other days
that I had sat at my father's table, walked and talked by
his side, if not the best loved, at least as well loved as any
of his daughters. But it was an ordeal such as even to remember gives one a shiver of pain, wondering how one bore
it.
During the daytime I was quiet enough, being so busy,
and, as I said, Penelope was very good to me; but at night
I used to lie awake, seeing, with open eyes, strange figures
about the room-especially my mother, or some one I fancied was she. I would often talk to her, asking her if I
were acting right or wrong, and whether all that I did for
Max she would not have once done for my father; then
rouse myself with a start, and a dread that my wits were
going, or that some heavy illness was approaching me, and
if so, what would become of Max.
At length arrived the last day-the day before my marriage. It was not to be here, of course, but in some London church, near Mrs. Ansdell's, who was to meet me herself at the railway station early the same morning, and remain with me till I was Doctor Urquhart's wife. I could
have no other friend; Penelope and'I agreed that it was
best not to risk my father's displeasure by asking for her
to go to my marriage. So, without sister or father, or any
of my own kin, I was to start on my sad wedding morning
-quite alone.




392             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
During the week I had taken an opportunity to drive
over to the Cedars, shake hands with Colin and his wife,
and give his dear old mother one long kiss, which she did
not know was a good-by. Otherwise I bade farewell to
no one. My last walk through the village was amid a deluge of August rain, in which my moorlands vanished, all
mist and gloom. A heavy, heavy night; it will be long
before the weight of it is lifted off my remembrance.
And yet I knew I was doing right, and, if needed, would
do it all over again. Every human love has its sacrifices
and its anguishes as well as its joys-the one great love
of life has often most of all. Therefore, let those beware
who enter upon it lightly, or selfishly, or without having
counted its full cost.
"I do not know if we shall be happy," said I to Penelope, when she was cheering me with a future that may never come; " I only know that Max and I have cast our lots
together, and that we shall love one another to the end."
And in that strong love armed, I lived-otherwise, many
times that day, it would have seemed easier to have died.
When I went, as usual, to bid papa good-night, I could
hardly stand. He looked at me suspiciously.
" Good-night, my dear. By-the-by, Dora, I shall want
you to drive me to the Cedars to-morrow."
" I-I-Penelope will do it." And I fell on his breast
with a pitiful cry. "Only bid me good-by!  Only say' God bless you,' just once, father."
He breathed hard. "I thought so. Is it to be to-morrow?"
"Yes."
"Where?"
I told him.
For a few minutes papa let me lie where I was, patting
my shoulder softly, as one does a sobbing child; then, still
gently, he put me away from him.
" We had better end this, Dora; I can not bear it. Kiss
me. Good-by."
"And not one blessing? Papa, papa!"
My father rose, and laid his hand solemnly on my head:
"You have been a dutiful girl to me in all things save this,
and a good daughter makes a good wife. Farewell!
Wherever you go, God bless you!"
And as he closed the library door upon me I thought I
had taken my last look of my dear father.




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.             393
It was only six o'clock in the morning when Penelope
took me to the station. Nobody saw us-nobody knew.
The man at the railway stopped us, and talked to Penelope
for full two minutes about his wife's illness-two whole
minutes out of our last five.
-My sister would not bid me good-by, being determined,
she said, to see me again, either in London or Liverpool,
before we sailed. She had kept me up wonderfully, and
her last kiss was almost cheerful, or she made it seem so.
I can still see her-very pale, for she had been up since
daylight, but otherwise quiet and tearless, pacing the solitary platform-our two long shadows gliding together before us in the early morning sun. And I see her, even to
the last minute, standing with her hand on the carriage
door-smiling.
"Give Doctor Urquhart my love; tell him I know he
will take care of you. And, child," turning round once
again with her " practical" look that I knew so well, " remember, I have yritten'Miss Johnston' on your boxes.
Afterward, be sure that you alter the name. Good-bynonsense, it is not really good-by."
Ay, but it was. For how many, many years?
In that dark, gloomy London church, which a thundery
mist made darker and stiller, I first saw again my dear Max.
Mrs. Ansdell said, lest I should be startled and shocked,
that it was only the sight of me which overcame him-that
he was really better. And so when, after the first few minutes, he asked me, hesitatingly, "if I did not find him much
altered?" I answered boldly, "No; that I should soon get
accustomed to his gray hair; besides, I never remembered
him either particularly handsome or particularly young;"
at which he smiled; and then I knew again my own Max!
and all things ceased to feel so mournfully strange.
We went into one of the far pews, and Max tried on my
ring. How his hands shook! so much that all my trem.
bling passed away, and a great calm came over me. Yes,
I had done right. He had nobody but me.
So we sat side by side, neither of us speaking a word,
until the pew-opener came to say the clergyman was ready.
There were several other couples waiting to be married
at the same time-who had bridesmaids, and friends, and
fathers. We three walked up and took our places-there
was no one to pay heed to us. I saw the verger whisper
something to Max, to which he answered "Yes," and the
R2




394             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
old man came and stood behind Mrs. Ansdell and me. A
few other folk were dotted about in the pews, but I only
noticed them as moving figures, and distinguished none.
The service began, which I-indeed we both-had last
heard at Lisabel's wedding, in our pretty church, all floweradorned, she looking so handsome and happy, with her sisters near her, and her father to give her away. For a moment I felt very desolate; and hearing a pew door open
and a footstep come slowly up the aisle, I trembled with a
vague fear that something might happen, something which
even at the last moment might part Max and me.
But it did not; I heard him repeat the solemn promises
--— hlow dare any one make them lightly, or break them afterward?-to " love, comfort, honor, and keep me, in sickness and in health, and, forsaking all other, keep me only
unto him, so long as we both should live." And 1 felt that
I also, out of the entire trust I had in him, and the great
love I bore him, could cheerfully forsake all other, father,
sisters, kindred, and friends, for him. They were very dear
to me, and would be always; but he was part of myselfmy husband.
And here let me relate a strange thing-so unexpected
that Max and I shall always feel it as a special blessing from
heaven to crown all our pain and send us forth on our new
life in peace and joy. When in the service came the question, " Who giveth this woman, etc.," there was no answer,
and the silence went like a stab to my heart. The minister,
thinking there was some mistake, repeated it again: " Who
giveth this woman to be married to this man?"
"I do."
It was not a stranger's voice, but my dear father's.
My husband had asked me where I should best like to
go for our marriage journey. I said to St. Andrew's. Max
grew much better there. He seemed better from the very
hour when, papa having remained with us till our train
started, we were for the first time left alone by our two
selves. An expression ungrammatical enough to be quite
worthy, Max would say, of his little lady, but people who
are married will understand what it means. We did, I
think, as we sat still, my head on his shoulder and my hand
between both his, watching the fields, trees, hills, and dales
fly past like changing shadows, never talking at all, nor
thinking much, except-the glad thought came in spite of all




A LIFE FOR A LIFE.                395
the bitterness of these good-bys-that there was one goodby which never need be said again. We were married.
I was delighted with St. Andrew's. We shall always
talk of our four days there, so dream-like at the time, yet
afterward become clear in remembrance down to the minutest particulars. The sweetness of them will last us
through many a working hour, many an hour of caresuch as we know must come, in ours as in all human lives.
We are not afraid; we are together.
Our last day in St. Andrew's was Sunday, and Max took
me to his own Presbyterian church, in which he and his
brother were brought up, and of which Dallas was to have
been a minister. From his many wanderings it so happened that my husband had not heard the Scotch service for
many years, and he was much affected by it. I too, when,
reading together the psalms at the end of his Bible, he showed me, silently, the name written in it-Dallas Urquhart.
The psalm-I shall long remember it, with the tune it
was sung to-which was strange to me, but Max knew it
well of old, and it had been a particular favorite with Dallas. Surely if spirit, freed from flesh, be every where, or,
if permitted, can go any where that it. desires-not very
far from us two, as we sat singing that Sunday, must have
been our brother Dallas.
"How lovely is thy dwelling-place,
O Lord of hosts, to me!
The tabernacles of thy grace,
How pleasant, Lord, they be!
My thirsty soul longs vehemently,
Yea, faints, thy courts to see;
My very heart and flesh cry out,
0 living God, for thee.....
Bless'd are they, in thy house who dwell,
Who ever give thee praise;
Bless'd is the man whose strength thou art,
In whose heart are thy ways;
Who, passing thorough Baca's vale,
Therein do dig up wells;
Also the rain that falleth down
The pools with water fills.
Thus they from strength unwearied go
Still forward unto strength,
Until in Zion they appear
Before the Lord at length."
Amen! So, when this life is ended, may we appear, even
there still together, my husband and I!




896             A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
Contrary to our plans, we did not see Rockmount again,
nor Penelope, nor my dear father. It was thought best
not, especially as in a few years, at latest, we hope, God willing, to visit them all again, or perhaps even to settle in England.
After a single day spent at Treherne Court, Augustus
went with us one sunshiny morning on board the American
steamer, which lay so peacefully in the middle of the Mersey, just as if she were to lie there forever, instead of sailing, and we with her, in one little half hour-sailing far
away, far away, to a home we knew not, leaving the old
familiar faces and the old familiar land.
It seemed doubly precious now, and beautiful-even the
sandy flats, that Max had so often told me about, along the
Mersey shore. I saw him look thoughtfully toward them,
after pointing out to me the places he knew, and where his
former work had lain.
"That is all over now," he said, half sadly. "Nothing
has happened as I planned, or hoped, or-"
"Or feared."
"No. My dear wife, no! Yet all has been for good.
All is very good. I shall find new work in a new country."
"And I too?"
Max smiled. "Yes, she too. We'll work together, my
little lady!"
The half hour was soon over-the few last words soon
said. But I did not at all realize that we were away till I
saw Augustus wave us good-by, and heard the sudden boom
of our farewell gun as the Ezturopa slipped off her mail tender, and went steaming seaward alone-fast, oh! so fast.
The sound of that gun, it must have nearly broken many
a heart many a time! I think it would have broken mine
had I not, standing, close-clasped, by my husband's side,
looked up in his dear face, and read, as he in mine, that to
us, thus together, every where was Home.
THE IND.