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ANY monstrous anomalies,” says a recent 
 writer in The Saturday Review, “ flourish 
 without remark, until chance consigns them 
 to the rubbish-room of history. Then for the first 
 time they turn to useful purpose by satisfying future 
 generations as to the creditable advances men make 
 on the intelligence of their fathers.” The writer goes 
 on to remark, that surely the day must come, and come 
 speedily, when the present standard price of novels 
 will strike common sense from the ludicrous point of 
 view. 
 
 That time may be much nearer than the writer an¬ 
 ticipated, but that it will come very shortly can hardly 
 be doubted by anyone acquainted with the subject. 
 Not a word is to be said in favour of the present sys¬ 
 tem, it is now universally condemned as mischievous 
 and absurd; in the language of The Times, “ the three 
 volume system has become an abomination and a 
 curse.” 
 
 The present custom is somewhat as follows:—a 
 
11 
 
 THE PUBLISHER'S CIRCULAR. 
 
 novel is first produced in two or three volumes, at half 
 a guinea a volume, and if moderately successful, or by 
 a well-known author, it is in a few months reproduced 
 in ond volume, at about five or six shillings, and 
 generally in a few months more it comes a step lower, 
 and is done up in a staring paper cover, and sold at 
 about two shillings. 
 
 The absurdity of this system must be obvious; no 
 one, of course, invests a guinea and a half in a three 
 volume novel, consequently, while a novel is new, and 
 is being brought prominently into notice by criticism, 
 advertisements, etc., it is inaccessible except to a lucky or 
 favoured few of the subscribers to circulating libraries, 
 and its circulation depends entirely upon librarians, to 
 whose interest it is to hinder that circulation as far as 
 possible. None of the large class of readers, who, from 
 various causes and for various reasons, never subscribe 
 to a circulating library, have a chance of reading a new 
 novel, and those who do subscribe to a library, know 
 well how difficult it is to obtain a sight of a popular 
 novel until it has been out a long time. The subscriber 
 is told, that to avoid disappointment, he must send a 
 list of at least twice as many volumes as he is entitled 
 to, and thus, although most anxious to read a certain 
 new novel, he is induced to ask for something else 
 also, which he does not care to read, or leave the 
 librarian to select for him, in which case, he will be 
 put off with some novel by a new and unknown writer, 
 or with something which has been out a long time, and 
 which everyone else has read. 
 
 No complaint is more frequently heard by popular 
 
THE PUBLISHERS CIRCULAR. m 
 
 wi iters than this, that their friends have asked at the 
 libraries over and over again for their new novel, but 
 have not been able to obtain it, but have had something 
 else forced upon them, some of the many novels that 
 are produced by certain publishers now-a-days, because 
 some aspiring young gentleman or lady is anxious to 
 see his or her name in print, and is willing to pay a 
 publisher a certain sum to guarantee him against any 
 risk in the matter, and because the publisher can dis¬ 
 pose of a certain number of copies to the libraries, no 
 matter how bad it may be. As is well remarked by 
 the writer before cpioted, such books may never be 
 asked for by the subscribers at all, but if bound in 
 regulation fashion, and up to regulation bulk, they 
 serve as well as anything else to stuff the boxes which 
 the librarian contracts to fill. 
 
 Of course it is to the librarian's interest to use as 
 few copies as possible of any novel, for in a few months, 
 when the first rush is over, when the popular demand 
 has somewhat abated, most of the copies he has bought 
 will be of no further use to him, and he must sell them 
 at an enormous sacrifice. In the case of a three vo¬ 
 lume novel, copies which only four or five months 
 before cost him from fifteen to eighteen shillings each, 
 he must sell at two or three shillings for the three vo- 
 lumes, and surely no one can blame the librarian for 
 keeping this sacrifice in view. 
 
 Then even at the very low figures at which these 
 books are marked in the surplus lists of the libraries, 
 they are very unsaleable. Not being suitable for a 
 private book-shelf, their only purchasers are a second 
 
IV 
 
 THE PUBLISHERS CIRCULAR. 
 
 or third class of librarians, who cannot afford to buy 
 new copies, but whose subscribers can easily be induced 
 to wait until a novel has had its day at Mudie’s or 
 Smith's. 
 
 The librarians are hardly to blame in the matter; 
 they purchase to the full extent of their means, and 
 their profit is small enough. It is in consequence of the 
 monstrous prices at which all kinds of library books are 
 published, the enormous mass of rubbish that is pro¬ 
 duced under this system, and the small sum they obtain 
 from subscribers, that the Librarians cannot keep any¬ 
 thing like a sufficient supply of new books to meet all 
 demands. If they raised their subscriptions they would 
 lose their customers, or if they kept them, could never 
 give satisfaction so long as novels are published at a 
 guinea and a half, and a new book of travels or bio¬ 
 graphy is spun out into two octavo volumes, at about 
 the same price. For there is scarcely any difference 
 between the publication of Lothair at thirty-one shil¬ 
 lings and six-pence, and New America at thirty shil¬ 
 lings. Had such books, or any of the successful works 
 of the last few years, been published in a handy por¬ 
 table volume, at a few shillings, their circulation would 
 have been larger by fifty times than it actually was. 
 Large numbers would have been exported to all parts 
 of the world by the trade and by travellers, vast num¬ 
 bers would have been purchased by almost every class 
 of persons throughout the country, many subscribers 
 to the libraries would have purchased copies, the 
 librarians would have used at least ten copies where 
 they actually used one, and could easily have disposed 
 
THE PUBLIS HERS CIRC ULAR. v 
 
 of their surplus stock at little less than cost price. 
 Eveiy bookseller would have taken copies and pushed 
 che sale in every possible way, the actual profits would 
 have been very much greater, and the books would 
 have found a permanent place in thousands of homes 
 where the sensation caused by their publication is now 
 entirely forgotten. 
 
 Time passes on, and a book, if it has made its mark 
 at &11 in the library form is produced in a form suitable 
 to purchasers: but by this time, any interest that may 
 have been excited by its original publication has died 
 away, the book, and, as is frequently the case, the sub¬ 
 ject too, are forgotten, and many books that have been 
 popular in the library form, are a long time in the 
 cheap form before they repay the large expense of their 
 reproduction. 
 
 Our system, too, places the would-be 'purchaser of 
 books in a very peculiar position. Supposing he were to 
 give thirty shillings say for the library edition of a new 
 work, in a very short time he would probably see a 
 new edition of the same book announced “ with correc¬ 
 tions and additions,” and in a form much more suitable 
 to his purpose at about one sixth of the price he paid 
 for his cumbersome copy. 
 
 The bookseller is of course in a worse position. He 
 cannot take copies of an important new work on 
 the chance of selling them, for should he have a few 
 copies left on hand for only a short time, how can he 
 dispose of them at anything like cost price in the face 
 of a new edition of the same work, or while the libra¬ 
 rians are selling their surplus copies, neatly bound in 
 
vi TIIE PUBLISHER'S CIRCULAR. 
 
 half-calf perhaps at something less than half the 
 original price ? If he takes a good number of the five or 
 six shilling edition of a novel, he has generally no 
 guarantee that the hook will not be published in a few 
 months, at about two shillings. 
 
 There is another side to the picture, well worthy of 
 the consideration of authors and publishers. 
 
 While books are being published here at such 
 exorbitant prices, and thus placed entirely out of the 
 reach of all but a few of the more fortunate sub¬ 
 scribers to circulating libraries, they are being produced 
 in America and on the continent, not, perhaps, in a 
 form to make them suitable to the book-case and 
 library, but very nicely printed in readable type, and 
 as a matter of course, enormous numbers of the Tauch- 
 nitz and American editions are being constantly 
 brought into this country by Tourists and others who 
 are continually passing to and fro, until one can 
 scarcely go into a railway train, or into any house 
 where there is a collection of books, without meeting 
 with some popular English work printed and pub¬ 
 lished abroad. 
 
 Take as an instance bearing on this part of the ques¬ 
 tion the case of Mr. Tennyson’s Poems. 
 
 Three guineas is about the lowest price in this coun¬ 
 try for the few wretched little volumes through which 
 the Laureate's works are spun out, and no one, of 
 course has any idea when a new and complete edition 
 may be expected. If a new edition is announced 
 it must be “ in five monthly volumes at half a guinea 
 a volume/'’ 
 
THE PUBLISHERS CIRCULAR. 
 
 Vll 
 
 Meantime The Poetical Works of Alfred Tennyson, 
 Poet Laureate, may be purchased at any American 
 book-stall for seventy-five cents (three shillings). I 
 have a copy of this edition (Harper’s), which I bought 
 at Montreal last summer. It contains every scrap of 
 poetry Mr. Tennyson is known to have written, and 
 every new piece which makes its appearance in this 
 country is immediately added. “The Window” with 
 the music, (published here at the moderate sum of one 
 guinea) occupies just fifty-eight pages of this edition. 
 The book is well printed in very readable type; there 
 are some very good illustrations, and, except that it is 
 not bound in cloth, it is in all other respects well got 
 up. Of course vast numbers of this and other popu¬ 
 lar English works are being constantly introduced into 
 England. They are curiosities of literature in this 
 country and are rarely noticed by the custom-house 
 officers. Besides, they are well worth smuggling. 
 The complete works of Mr. Tennyson, by reason of the 
 high price at which they are published here must be 
 worth at least a guinea—that is to say, seven times as 
 much as they would cost the person who brought 
 them over. No wonder then that the American pub¬ 
 lishers are not over anxious for an international copy¬ 
 right ; they are hardly likely to be, so long as the 
 English publishers continue thus to play into their 
 hands, by making what they “ steal,” of more value to 
 them. If books were published here and there simul¬ 
 taneously at about the same price,, we should very 
 much injure their trade, and vastly improve our own. 
 
 The system now suggested, if generally adopted 
 
Vlll 
 
 THE PUBLISHER'S CIRCULAR. 
 
 here, would, beyond all question, be vastly to the ad¬ 
 vantage of all parties immediately concerned, and its 
 effects on the state of literature and the spread of 
 knowledge, throughout this country and the world, is 
 not to be estimated. 
 
 From a purely commercial point of view, some of its 
 advantages may be briefly indicated. 
 
 Under the present system, as The Saturday Review 
 remarks, “ the Author, poorly as he may be paid, ob¬ 
 tains a fictitious price when he receives any money at 
 all, or, if he be content to write for fame, his publisher at 
 least has a certain profit, which profit ultimately comes 
 out of the pockets of meritorious competitors who really 
 offer something for sale that is worth paying for. If 
 there were fewer bad novels, the libraries would have 
 to fill their boxes with better ones; and the prizes for 
 better work would be raised sufficiently to induce 
 authors to study quality rather than quantity. As 
 things go, there is as little motive for a writer to pro¬ 
 duce artistic and highly-finished work as for a South 
 African sheep-farmer to be over particular as to the 
 quality of his wool. Roughly speaking, there is only 
 a single quality recognised in the market, or, if that be 
 not exactly the case, at any rate a pound of coarse will 
 pay better than three-quarters of a pound of fine. . . . 
 By exploding the tradition that makes three volumes an 
 inexorable conventionality, we should relieve many a 
 wretched author from the bed of Procrustes that cramps 
 him and tortures us. Every one can call to mind many 
 a promising work irretrievably ruined by being spun 
 out to feebleness, or patched with extraneous and 
 
THE PUBLISHER’S CIRCULAR. ix 
 
 inferior stuff. If we once admitted novels in five- 
 shilling or seven-and-sixpenny single volumes, the 
 writers might please themselves, while greatly increas- 
 ing the chances of pleasing their readers/’ 
 
 The Publisher would be working on a sound and 
 simple basis. By apjoealing to the whole of the read¬ 
 ing public, he would be greatly assisted by the book- 
 sellers, and would thus add another very powerful 
 string to his bow, which would make him practically 
 independent of every one. Under the present system 
 he is entirely at the mercy of the librarian, and no 
 matter what efforts he may make to increase the sale 
 of any book, they will be utterly fruitless if the libra- 
 lian cannot afford or does not choose to take any more 
 copies. If he printed books worthy of circulation at 
 all, his surplus stock would always find a ready market 
 at something more than the cost of production, whereas 
 the surplus stock of a three volume novel is only so 
 much waste paper when once the supply at the libraries 
 in any way meets the demand. 
 
 The system would be vastly to the advantage of the 
 Bookseller, who could make a good bargain by taking 
 a large number of any new book, and if he could not 
 dispose of them at once, he would, by the low price, be 
 practically guaranteed against loss. It would be greatly 
 to his advantage to have original works for sale, in¬ 
 stead of only the reproductions which are now so com¬ 
 mon on every bookstall. The bookseller would do a 
 good trade, get quick returns, and would be furthering 
 his own interests by bringing new works into notice. 
 
 The Librarians could take enough copies to meet all 
 
X 
 
 THE PUBLISHERS CIRCULAR. 
 
 demands, and their surplus stock would always be sale¬ 
 able at something less than cost price. Whether, if 
 persons could buy any new book for a few shillings, 
 they would submit to the trouble and inconvenience 
 that subscribers to a library—and especially those who 
 live in the country—must necessarily experience is 
 another question; but for the present, at any rate, the 
 system would be greatly to the librarian’s advantage. 
 
 The Reader would have the unquestionable advan¬ 
 tage of a book complete in one volume, such as he 
 could easily hold in his hand, or carry in his bag or 
 pocket even, without feeling it any great incumbrance. 
 
 The Printer’s task would be very simple. Some¬ 
 times under the present absurd system, his ingenuities 
 are taxed to the utmost to spin a few rills of large type 
 through the meadows of margin, and make a book 
 appear to contain even a moderate quantity of matter. 
 
 The Material required for a book would be very 
 greatly in excess of what is now used. 
 
 As I recently remarked in a letter in The Times, ‘re¬ 
 ferring to a statement of Mr. Charles Reade that 
 370,000 copies of his new novel had been sold by three 
 publishers in the United States, the profits on the 
 sale of such a large number — the book being 
 published at a dollar — would be something like 
 £25,000, and the Paper required would be at least 
 eighty times as much as would be required for the 
 three volume edition of a novel by one of our most 
 popular authors. 
 
 Of course the system would be some time in adop¬ 
 tion here before we could expect to sell anything like 
 
THE PUBLISHERS CIRCULAR . 
 
 xi 
 
 such a vast number; but if we could only dispose of 
 70,000 copies where the Americans sell 370,000 the sys¬ 
 tem would be much more profitable than that hitherto 
 adopted. 70,000 copies, got up in a manner similar in 
 all respects to the present volume and published at the 
 same price (four shillings), would bring a clear profit 
 of over £5,000, which is just about five times as much 
 as would be realised from the sale of 2,000 copies 
 of a three volume edition; and I may say that the 
 instances are few and far between when the sale of a 
 three volume novel reaches the latter figures. In 
 
 O 
 
 the case of the average run of novels, the sale of 500 
 copies is considered a success; very often it does not 
 reach 250. 
 
 34, Southampton Street, Strand, 
 January, 1S/2. 
 
 SAMUEL TINSLEY. 
 

“LANGDALE HALL,” 
 
 From a drawing by Clara Mackenzie Kettle 
 
THE 
 
 ^ A - 
 
 ITmtgimle 
 
 A ROMANCE OF THE WEST RIDING. 
 
 HAZLEDON CRAGS. 
 
 From a drawing by the Author. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 SAMUEL TINSLEY, 34, SOUTHAMPTON STREET, 
 
 STRAND. 
 
THE 
 
 MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL 
 
 <21 ^Romance of the ®e$t Jtibing. 
 
 BY 
 
 ROSA MACKENZIE KETTLE. 
 
 “ Red and white roses on terrace and wall, 
 
 Stars of white jasmine illumine our Hall; 
 
 Old checker’d woodwork, cream white and dark brown; 
 Moonlight o’erflooding the dough and the down, 
 Lights sparkling out on the hillside and crest; 
 Fountains at play, and all nature at rest.” 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 SAMUEL TINSLEY, 34, SOUTHAMPTON ST., STRAND. 
 
 1872. 
 
 [All Eights of Translation and Reproduction reserved,] 
 
TO 
 
 JOHN LISTEK, Esq., 
 
 OF 
 
 SHIBDEN HALL, YORKSHIRE, 
 
 IN MEMORY OF 
 
 HAPPY SUMMERS SPENT UNDER HIS ROOF, 
 
 TEItis (Stori) is gRbicateb bu 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
 Heathside, January, 187*2. 
 
PART THE FIRST. 
 
 THE HALL AND THE GRANGE. 
 
 Where are the ancient halls and towers 
 That used to stand in pride. 
 
 Girt round by streams,—pranked out with flowers— 
 On many a green hill side ? 
 
 Halls of the old West Riding ! 
 
 This cannot be your fate ! 
 
 You dare not say yon mouldering pile 
 Was once a Tower of State ! 
 
 The beck flows swiftly from the moor, 
 
 Dashed with dull russet stains ; 
 
 The sunlight flickers on the floor, 
 
 Through stained and storied panes ; 
 
 Under the eaves the swallow builds, 
 
 Where, deep cut in the stone, 
 
 The eyes of God’s good Providence 
 On the old house look'down. 
 
 R. M. K. 
 
 1 
 

THE 
 
 MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 that part of the West-Riding of Yorkshire border¬ 
 ing upon the wild hills which separate the county 
 from Lancashire, about the middle of the present 
 century, an old house, which had been unoccirpied for several 
 years, was suddenly filled, from basement to garret, by a 
 large family. Godley Grange, so the place was called, derived 
 its name, some people said, from having been at one time 
 the residence of the Puritan Oliver Heywood ; but more 
 learned authorities pronounced that Cromwell’s fanatical 
 follower had, in reality, dwelt in a neighbouring mansion, 
 and that the appellation was bestowed in honour of the 
 good lea, or meadow, watered by a sparkling stream, which 
 surrounded the ancient mansion. 
 
 “ The name of this property,” says an unpublished manu¬ 
 script, “ is evidently derived from the <jodc lea (good 
 meadow), lying low in the vale and bordering on the rivu¬ 
 let. Yet a wide-spread mistake has attributed it to the 
 sanctifying influence of the Puritan Nonconformist, Oliver 
 Heywood, who resided at an adjoining house, and so Godley, 
 as I have been told, won its name from its supposed relation 
 to this really earnest good man. The ring of a word often 
 
 1—2 
 
4 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF LANG DALE HALL. 
 
 in the mouths of that party to which Hey wood belonged y 
 and one that irresistibly strikes the ear with a puritanical 
 jingle, may, perhaps, explain the source of this false etymo¬ 
 logical inference. 
 
 “ The name had become a dead letter ; its primitive and 
 expressive notion lost; but a time came when the current 
 word, defaced and worn to such a degree that no vestige 
 of its original stamp could be detected, was, as it were, 
 melted down and coined afresh, and shortly in circulation, 
 tamped with the bold and life-like image of the godly Oliver 
 Heywood, and, possessing the true ring of his currency. 
 
 “It was well, perhaps, that it should be linked even with 
 this erroneous signification—better than to remain lifeless 
 —but we must remember that it is our fault when names 
 become so. We should study them as we do antique 
 pictures and statues, endeavouring, if possible, to throw 
 ourselves entirely into their meaning. As we cannot under¬ 
 stand the full import of the lesson the artist would teach us 
 without the same requisite, or the book of Nature—as the 
 yellow primrose will only be a yellow primrose to the unre¬ 
 flecting—so, and even more emphatically so, are names 
 always on the tongue certain to become utterly meaningless 
 to those who merely give them utterance. To such persons 
 the substitution of an insignificant epithet for a fine old 
 name, fraught with a sentiment embalmed in it ten or 
 twelve centuries ago, would be no matter for regret, except 
 on the score of sound. 
 
 “ The name of our own valley—the Sheep Deane, or 
 Valley of Sheep—sweeps us back centuries, to an ante-en¬ 
 closure period, when the woolly flocks were grazing, after 
 their manner, on our hills and leas, and a few shepherd 
 families were the sole representatives of the well-peopled 
 Shibden Vale of our day.”* 
 
 * Manuscript found in the library at Shibden Hall, near Halifax. 
 
THE HALL AND THE GRANGE. 5 
 
 The old Yorkshire mansion, approached by stony cause¬ 
 ways, with precipitous embankments of the same hard 
 material, lay deep down in the dale, overhung by lofty 
 trees, close at hand, and darkened still more by the shadow 
 of a wooded hill which shut out from view a large manufac¬ 
 turing town. Two tall chimneys, recently erected, were just 
 visible, serving as a warning of what might be hereafter, 
 should the land fall into the hands of persons less careful of 
 its wonderful beauty than its present proprietor. From the 
 narrow casement windows of The Grange nothing could be 
 seen but its own immediate grounds, which were not exten¬ 
 sive. The architecture was very }>icturesque—beautiful 
 ancient windows, set dee}) within stone mullions, and filled 
 ii}) with stained glass of rare antiquity, were garlanded 
 with jessamine and honeysuckle. Great stacks of carved, 
 twisted, chimneys peeped out of masses of shrouding ivy, 
 which an antiquarian would have torn away. Over the door 
 was inscribed a motto in Latin, bidding those within 
 to Best Secure; and to those who came from without, 
 Welcome ! 
 
 There was a great deal of bustle and confusion before the 
 new-comers settled down into their respective places. The 
 children swarmed like bees “ up stairs and down stairs,” 
 and everywhere excepting “ in my lady’s chamber.” They 
 ran, helter-skelter, through the large stables, offices, fruit 
 and flower gardens; planning all sorts of impossibilities, for 
 money was less abundant than olive branches in that house¬ 
 hold. They played at hide and seek among the empty 
 bins and wine casks in the great echoing cellars. 
 
 The cawing of the rooks in the tall elm-trees delighted 
 these children. It was an unaccustomed sound, for they 
 had not been brought up in England. Often in their de¬ 
 lighted wonder they spoke to each other in German. Ach, 
 
6 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 wie schon !” came more naturally to their lips than “ Oh, 
 how beautiful!” 
 
 Only one room in that house was kept sacred from hurry¬ 
 ing footsteps. A great calmness seemed at once to settle 
 down upon it, and the quick tread and laughter of the chil¬ 
 dren were stayed and softened as they passed the door, or 
 entered. The invalid wife and mother, sorely fatigued, was 
 resting there after her long journey. 
 
 She was not, however, left entirely alone. Whatever 
 might be their respective occupations or amusements, one 
 or other of the large family always waited upon and cheered 
 their suffering mother. It was necessary, in her enfeebled 
 state, that some attentive companion should be always 
 close at hand. 
 
 In contrast with his patient wife the new master of the 
 Grange was never still. He was nervously, irritably active, 
 as if to make up for her infirmity. In the early years of 
 their marriage, he and the children’s little mother, as he 
 called her, had been inseparable; now, though from long 
 habit he sometimes called her, “ Abra” could not come. 
 
 He had never entirely reconciled himself to the decree 
 which stayed that light elastic tread. Though he was a 
 religious, good man, and a kind father, as well as a most 
 tender husband, something had been taken from him which 
 he missed so sorely, that he strove in vain to imitate the 
 meek submission of the principal sufferer. He went on 
 hoping for improvement; struggling and chafing against the 
 conviction that, so far as complete recovery was concerned, 
 her case was hopeless. 
 
 Each change of season and of place was regarded as pos¬ 
 sibly bringing relief. Even shocks of sorrow were welcomed 
 if they might restring nerves and faculties once vigorously 
 and harmoniously attuned ; but as yet no important altera- 
 
THE HALL AND THE GRANGE. 7 
 
 tion had occurred. With more or less of suffering, days, 
 weeks, and months, and years, wore on. 
 
 The eldest daughter, though only just seventeen, was the 
 active head, in all feminine matters, of the establishment. 
 In her the best qualities of both parents were combined. 
 For hours the young, beautiful girl would sit unwearied, 
 unoccupied, at times when any movement jarred her mo¬ 
 ther’s quivering nerves. On other occasions the light¬ 
 heartedness and industry of the Haus-Fraulein were equally 
 remarkable. Steady as a woman, serene as an angel, playful 
 as a child, Gertrude Lang was like a semblance of summer, 
 or a soft stream of moonlight in her home. 
 
 Mr. Lang’s eldest child and only son was at present 
 absent from home. Truthful, impetuous, and quick-witted, 
 Fritz, as his companions- called him, in the German uni¬ 
 versity where he had been educated, won almost every 
 prize for which he took the tremble to contend; and he was 
 now striving manfully to obtain the crowning honour of 
 his scholastic career. In the midst of every burst of youth¬ 
 ful joy over the wonders of the new house—in the mother’s 
 low-voiced ejaculations of thankfulness at having safely 
 arrived at her haven of rest—in the father’s active super¬ 
 intendence of the settling in the old mansion—in the loving 
 prayers of Gertrude, his favourite sister, as she knelt for 
 the first time beside the strange bed in her English home— 
 the name of Fritz—suggestions for his accommodation and 
 comfort, as well as the wish that he might speedily join 
 them, were uttered fervently. 
 
 Mr. Lang did not waste many days in idleness. He had 
 accepted employment in the great house of business for 
 which he hacl been agent in Prussia, and he at once ap¬ 
 plied himself to what were to be henceforth his daily 
 labours. His knowledge of the German language and of 
 
8 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF LANG DALE HALL. 
 
 the habits of a country with which, commercially, England 
 and the great trading cities and towns of Yorkshire are so 
 closely connected, made him a valuable assistant to the 
 firm, and he was well known in the county. The house he 
 lived in was his own, and he was heir presumptive to a 
 much larger property. 
 
 Perhaps it was from false humility, which is the same as 
 secret pride, that Mr. Lang chose to drop one-half of his 
 patronymic. A name of one syllable, he said, was enough 
 for a clerk in a house of trade. No one was permitted to 
 call him Langdale, though he was so like his cousin, the 
 present mistress of Langdale Hall, the representative of the 
 Langdales of Langdale, that it was impossible to forget the 
 relationship. 
 
 The settlement at Godley Grange, he said, saved house- 
 rent. The place was so overshadowed by the Langdale 
 woods, and the Langdale prerogatives, that no one else 
 could, or would, live in it. The dwelling was spacious, 
 well adapted for an invalid, and for the accommodation of 
 his family. There was coal under the soil, and plenty of 
 stone in the quarries. He meant to make what he could of 
 his slice of the family property—sink a shaft, if necessary 
 and likely to be profitable, without fear or favour. 
 
 As is the case in German households, the habits of the 
 young people were extremely simple. Their hours were 
 primitively early, and they were all as busy as bees long be¬ 
 fore the breakfast-bell at the Hall rang out over the dale. 
 The children soon knew its tones well. They served them 
 as a clock, punctually summoning the little girls to their 
 tasks, after the hour allowed for working in their gardens 
 and feeding their pets had expired; and they were accus¬ 
 tomed to say, “ Now their majesties are going to sit in state 
 at their banquet.” They had read of the royalties of France 
 
the hall and the grange. 
 
 9 
 
 being served on bended knee at their levees and repasts. 
 In their plays the children often pretended to be the ladies 
 at the Hall, and were more arrogant than any crowned 
 heads, princes, princesses, or potentates. 
 
 Over the tops of the high walls could be seen the tall 
 trees in the park of Langdale Hall; and, from the garden 
 of the Grange, a glimpse might be caught cf the lake, set 
 like a brilliant jewel amid emeralds in the bosom of the 
 smooth sward, and changing its hue as light and shadow 
 swept over its surface. There was a boat on the water, 
 and a couple of swans sailing proudly, ruffling up their 
 white feathers, as though vain of their own reflected beauty. 
 The children at Godley peeped through the trees at the 
 silvery sail and stately birds, gleaming in the sunlight, but 
 they never went near its banks when the Langdale ladies 
 were taking their pleasure on the waters of the lake. They 
 knew that their father would not approve of idle curiosity. 
 
 It was not in human nature, however, shut in and circum¬ 
 scribed as they were, for those young creatures not to let 
 their thoughts wander within the jealously-guarded adjacent 
 enclosure, more especially as they had a particular reason 
 for taking an interest in the place. 
 
 Over and over again, in that far-off German home, to 
 which, in its perfect freedom, the children often looked 
 back with fond regard ; they had heard their father say, 
 when stung by some fresh mark of unkindness on the part 
 of their English relative— 
 
 “ My cousin Maud ma}'' act as she pleases now, but, 
 whether she likes it or not, she cannot prevent Fritz being 
 one day, if he lives long enough, the Master of Langdale 
 Hall.” 
 
10 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL, 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 On one of the few holidays which the summer afforded to* 
 the busy managing clerk, Mr. Lang’s children persuaded 
 him to accompany them to Hazeldon Crags, a place where 
 the finest and rarest ferns might be found. The twins, 
 Annie and May, were making a collection, and Frances was 
 anxious to sketch the rocks overhanging the river. 
 
 The foreign-looking girls, with their simple but well-cut 
 blouses, with leather belts girding their slender waists, 
 broad hats, and rush baskets, clustered fondly round the 
 grave, care-encumbered man. Little Flo, the youngest of 
 the party, as usual kept them waiting, and came down at 
 last with two left-hand gloves ; but she was the spoilt pet 
 and darling of her much older sisters, who ran hither and 
 thither to supply all her deficiencies. Fully equipped, at 
 last, and with a wicker basket for wild flowers, lent by her 
 mother, in her hand, Florence was the prettiest of the group, 
 as they set forth from the antique portal of the Grange. 
 Although she was the image of her father, Florence was 
 not his favourite. Mr. Lang loved better his fair-haired 
 German girls, who resembled their mother. “ The little 
 one,” as she was called in the family, at whose birth so dire 
 a calamity had fallen upon his previously active, helpful 
 wife—a cloud which, strive as he might to drive it away by 
 toil, always lowered over his altered home—reminded him 
 too keenly of his bitter woe ever to seem to him like the 
 sunny-faced darlings who had flitted after their girlish-look¬ 
 ing mother in the terraced garden of the old Schloss where 
 they first drew breath. 
 
THE HALL AND THE GRANGE. 
 
 11 
 
 The great delicacy of Mrs. Lang’s health, previous to her 
 last confinement, had induced her husband to winter in 
 Italy, after he had vainly endeavoured to secure a pleasant 
 reception for her in the neighbourhood of his English rela¬ 
 tives. There were times when the man who had, since the 
 birth of her youngest child, lost the sweet companionship in 
 which his soul delighted, could not bear to look upon the 
 infant named after the fair Tuscan capital. This feeling of 
 repulsion softened gradually, but it never entirely left him. 
 The black-eyed, straight-browed, regular-featured girl, who 
 resembled the Langdales, was not so dear to Frank Lang 
 as his other children. 
 
 The thought, how all these young creatures were to be 
 brought up and set forward in the world, was a heavy care 
 to their father, which he kept locked up in his breast. His 
 children were not to him what his wife had been, though 
 he loved them tenderly ; and in losing her active co-opera¬ 
 tion, he often felt as if he had lost all. On her he suffered 
 no care to intrude that could by possibility be kept from 
 her. He bore his own burden silently, but its pressure never 
 lightened. 
 
 Frances, the eldest of the party—Gertrude having re¬ 
 mained at home with her mother—walked demurely beside 
 her father, glancing from side to side for the best points of 
 view for sketching. The twins were running about looking 
 for specimens of beech and oak ferns, and calling fearlessly 
 to their father for assistance in plucking them from crannies 
 in the rocks high above their heads. “ The little one ” 
 wandered on alone, gathering wild flowers, which she some¬ 
 times collected in her basket, or put into the band round 
 her hat, or the girdle at her waist. At last, with her hands- 
 full of freshly-gathered ferns, and foxgloves with long, un¬ 
 manageable stalks, she sat down on a stone by the river-side,. 
 
12 THE mistress of langdale hall. 
 
 to arrange her treasures. Frances could scarcely have found 
 a piettier foreground for her picture than the little maiden, 
 hat in hand, with her long, dark, silky curls falling below 
 hei waist * sitting among the feathery fern and grass and 
 great dock leaves, on the bank, with her head bent seriously 
 ovei the flowers in her basket and the garland she was 
 weaving. 
 
 A lady, on horseback, drew in her rein sharply, and 
 stopped just in front of the child, who looked up at her 
 shyly- ^ was not usual for any person to enter these woods 
 
 which were the property of a nobleman who did not re¬ 
 side in the neighbourhood—without permission; and, at a 
 certain spot, carriages and horses were dismissed, or kept 
 waiting. There was not even a regular foot-path. 
 
 Mr. Lang had gone farther on, past an intervening bar- 
 lier of rock, and was now assisting Frances to cross the 
 stream. He intended to come back for the little one, and 
 to carry her over the water, which in this part was shallow, 
 rippling joyously among stones and pebbles. 
 
 “ Shall I take you across the river?” said the lady. “Why 
 are you all alone T 
 
 Florence was delighted with the proposition. Though 
 slie looked bashful, the child loved change and new faces. 
 She started up, twisting the end of her unfinished wreath 
 into the ribband of her hat, and letting the rest of her 
 flowers fall among the grass. 
 
 Light as a bird, with the aid of the lady’s strong, firm 
 clasp of her hand, Flo sprang up into the saddle, nestling- 
 down in front of her new friend. She felt herself to be very 
 securely held, and was not in the least frightened, though 
 she had never in her life been on horseback. 
 
 The little one was perfectly at her ease, and chattered 
 away freely, longing to overtake her father and sisters. She 
 
THE HALL AND THE GRANGE. li 
 
 was proud of the notice taken of her, and rather unwilling 
 to descend from her elevated station. She wished them all 
 to see how carefully the beautiful lady, on the tall black 
 mare, was holding her fast in the saddle. 
 
 The words of a German ballad, in which the sound of a 
 steed tramping through water and stones was imitated, came 
 into the child’s recollection, and she murmured them softly. 
 
 “ Are you a foreigner, little maid ?” said the lady; “your 
 accent is very good.” 
 
 “ No ; I am English. Papa and mamma are both English, 
 and my sisters and brother, but we were all born abroad in 
 Germany and Italy. I think Frances is on the other side of 
 that great rock sketching. Annie and May are not far off. 
 How surprised they will be to see me !” 
 
 She stretched her slender neck in vain at present, the 
 great boulder hid the whole party from sight. There was 
 no level ground on either bank ; the lady was riding in the 
 shallow bed of the river. Steep rocks, garlanded with creep¬ 
 ers, their crevices set thick with fern and moss, rose on 
 either hand; but there was ample space for the sure-footed, 
 high-mettled steed to pick its way over the shining pebbles. 
 The rein hung loose on its neck. 
 
 “ We are all English girls,” continued the little one, 
 proudly; “ and we live in our English house. Won’t you come 
 and see us 1 There is nice grass in our large meadow, and 
 such great coach-houses and stables, but no horses in them.” 
 
 “ Take care, take care,” said the lady, as the little girl 
 bent down to stroke the glossy neck, which arched itself at 
 her caress; “ Christobel is as lively as she is gentle. Y on have 
 a brave spirit. Are your sisters like you ?” 
 
 “ No ; I am not at all like, my sisters. They are all fair. 
 I am like my father’s family,” the child said, haughtily. 
 “ The Langdales are dark, and my nurse says that I might 
 
14 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 liave walked out of one of the old picture-frames at Lang- 
 dale Hall.” 
 
 The arm that had held her so firmly suddenly relaxed in 
 its pressure, and Florence nearly fell into the water; but the 
 lady, though less tenderly, kept her hold, just preventing 
 her from slipping down. “ Why do you not take more care T 
 ,she said, severely ; “I told you to keep still. Now, I shall 
 set you down. Your friends are on the other side of this 
 rock ; I hear their voices, and I do not wish to meet them. 
 See, there is a narrow strip of turf at its base; you can 
 easily creep round dry-shod/’ 
 
 Edging the tall steed close to the bank, the lady assisted 
 the little girl to descend. Flo was afraid to speak, she looked 
 so stern and grand ; and tears rose to her eyes, but she was 
 too proud to let them fall. “ Thank you,” she managed to 
 say, when she was safely deposited on the ground; but she 
 did not venture again to ask her new friend to come and 
 see her. 
 
 There was a slight opening in the trees and the bank was 
 lower at the place where the lady had stopped. Setting 
 her teeth, and without another glance at the child, she 
 struck a small spur, which was concealed by her long riding- 
 habit, into the mare’s glossy flank, and, tapping her sharply 
 with the whip on the shoulder, whilst she gathered up the 
 reins tightly, Cliristobel reared, and sprang into the thicket, 
 forcing a path through the bending boughs. 
 
 The thorns of the underwood caught the lady’s skirt 
 and the boughs brushed against her face, but she pushed 
 through them, recklessly, until she reached a narrow path 
 along which she rode with a frowning brow. After a time 
 the track was lost as she came out upon wild, barren 
 moors, which overhung the dough through which the river 
 flowed. 
 
THE HALL AND THE GRANGE. 15 
 
 T\ lien the lady found herself upon the turf she once more 
 pricked her willing steed, and rode at a swift gallop on her 
 homeward way. All the time she seemed to hear the child’s 
 voice repeating the refrain of the wild German song, and to 
 feel the little warm clasping hands pressed close to her heart. 
 
 ■o 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Mr. Lang was just turning away from the spot chosen by 
 Frances for her sketch, intending to go back for his little 
 daughter, when Florence emerged slowly from behind the 
 great grey boulder of rock. She was quite crestfallen, and 
 she said very little about the adventure, which would have 
 furnished conversation for the whole afternoon if its termi¬ 
 nation had been as pleasant as its commencement. Some¬ 
 thing in the lady’s way of setting her down and parting 
 from her had hurt the child’s sensitive feelings, and Florence 
 could not endure ridicule. She was reserved to a fault, and 
 afraid of her father’s slighting, sarcastic tone; which she 
 more than others provoked him to use, by indications of 
 vanity. 
 
 The twins clambered about, searching for ferns, and Frances 
 sat still on the bank sketching, while her little sister watched 
 her progress thoughtfully. Mr. Lang fancied that the rough 
 walk had tired “ the little one.” He was very kind to her 
 on the way home, carrying her over the stones, but, even 
 while her head rested on his shoulder, Florence was thinking 
 regretfulty of the proud lady with the jewelled riding whip, 
 and the long, fine, cloth habit, mounted on the beautiful 
 black mare which had borne her also so deftly over the 
 
10 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 rough stones in the channel of the stream, and left her, sad 
 and solitary, at the base of the grey lichen-covered rock ! 
 
 Mr. Lang took the little girl straight up to her mother’s 
 room. Although his manner was often cold and abstracted, 
 his heart was very tender, and he feared that Flo had been 
 frightened at finding herself alone on the bank of the river; 
 a longer time than he intended having passed away in the 
 discussion of the best points of view. 
 
 “ Marina, the little one is tired,” he said, after greeting 
 the invalid tenderly, “ Keep her with you. She has not 
 , spoken six words all the way home. I am afraid the walk 
 was too long for her.” 
 
 Mrs. Lang looked anxiously at the child. If not her 
 father’s favourite, Flo was her mother’s darling. Maternal 
 instinct taught her that the child was more vexed than 
 weary, but she asked no questions. Florence shared her 
 mothers tea, while Gertrude went down to hear the adven¬ 
 tures and misadventures of the day, to admire Frances’ 
 pretty sketch, and to help to plant the beech and oak ferns 
 among the stones of the rockery. 
 
 “ Where are my wild flowers, Flora?” said Mrs. Lang. 
 “ Have you not even brought me a tuft of heath? I never 
 knew my little goddess to be forgetful of me before. I 
 hope you have not lost my pretty German basket ?” 
 
 Florence coloured over neck and brow. It occurred to 
 her now, for the first time, that she had dropped the basket 
 at the place where she had been sitting weaving her garland 
 of wild flowers. 
 
 “ Oh, mamma, I am so sorry, I thought of nothing but 
 the lady and the horse. I must have left your basket 
 behind me on the bank.” 
 
 “You should have told your father. He would have 
 gone back for my basket, it is one that I value extremely. 
 
17 
 
 THE HALL AND THE GRANGE. 
 
 Tell me, Flora, what you were thinking about all the way 
 home when your father says you were so sad and silent. 
 
 What had the lady and the horse to do with your losing mv 
 basket f ° * 
 
 Flora hid her face in her mother’s dress to conceal her tears. 
 
 “ I was so tired,” she faltered out. “ I wanted to ride 
 home. I was vexed, too, with the lady. I wonder why she 
 
 was angiy with me, and put me down all alone after being 
 so kind. 
 
 Mrs. Lang drew the little girl fondly towards her, and 
 soothed her. When Florence ceased crying, she said softly, 
 “ I should like to hear all that haj)pened to you, my pet. 
 Perhaps I may be able to explain what puzzles and grieves 
 you.” 
 
 “ A lady on a very tall black horse came past me while I 
 was gathering flowers,” said Flo, very gravely, with her eyes 
 fixed not on her mother’s face, but on a dark spot in the 
 carpet, and with the air of a child repeating a difficult 
 lesson. “ No, I had left off gathering flowers. I was 
 making them into a garland for my hat. She said, ‘ Jump 
 up, little one,’ and up I got. I felt quite safe, and I could 
 look up and see the blue sky through the trees, and 
 down on the tops of the rocks. I longed to stop and gather 
 the ferns and moss, but I would not trouble the lady. I 
 was not a bit frightened or troublesome. I was quite 
 happy.” 
 
 The little girl stopped abruptly. Her rising tears im¬ 
 peded speech. 
 
 “ I am glad you enjoyed it, dear,” said her mother, with 
 interest; “ I was very fond of riding myself, formerly,” she 
 added with a sigh. 
 
 “ I was thinking about the river and the pretty coloured 
 stones,” continued Florence. “ We rode in the bed of the 
 
18 THE MISTRESS OF LANG DALE HALL. 
 
 stream, with the water splashing up all round us. It seemed 
 such a strange thing to do, and I fancied how surprised 
 papa and my sisters would he when I came up to them. All 
 of a sudden the lady’s arm seemed to slip. She had been 
 holding me quite tightly before—so tight that it hurt me a 
 little, but I did not complain. I almost fell off, but she 
 gripped me fast, and saved me. ‘ You should keep still/ 
 she said, crossly, and then she set me down all at once on 
 a green patch of turf, and struck the beautiful mare with a 
 whip till it reared and sprang right away through the 
 bushes. They were gone in a moment. And now I have 
 lost your pretty basket. Oh, how I wish I had never gone 
 near those nasty crags !” 
 
 Mrs. Lang kissed and comforted the little girl, who was 
 now crying bitterly. “ It is of no consequence, love. Most 
 likely the basket is where you left it, hidden among the long 
 crass. Some one shall be sent to look for it to-morrow. 
 Never mind about my basket. It is not worth so many 
 tears. I do not quite understand what vexes you so sorely. 
 The lady certainly might have been more considerate. Per¬ 
 haps she has no little ones of her own, and does not know 
 as well as I do how easily their hearts are wounded.” 
 
 “ I want to ride the pretty mare again !” said Flo, brush¬ 
 ing away her tears, and looking straight at her mother, with 
 a passionate gleam in her dark eyes. “ Hiding is much 
 nicer than walking. It did not tire me a bit. Why have 
 we no horses ? What is the use of those great stables and 
 yards, and the nice grass in the meadow, if we have nothing 
 to put there 1 I think the lady despised me when I said we 
 had no horses of our own.” 
 
 “ It is for your father to decide, Flora, whether it is right 
 and proper for us to keep horses,” said her mother, reprov¬ 
 ingly. “ You are much too young to have an opinion on 
 
19 
 
 THE HALL AND THE GRANGE. 
 
 the subject. All, if you knew, my child, what I would give 
 to walk by your fathers side, as you did to-day, to wander 
 about with you and your sisters, gathering the flowers with 
 which God’s beautiful earth is set so thickly at this season, 
 you would care less for luxuries. But I am not angry with 
 you,” she said, checking herself. “ I do not wonder that 
 you were vexed and frightened. How glad you must have 
 been to get back to your father and sisters.” 
 
 Again she soothed and caressed the child, but Florence 
 was not easily comforted. All night she dreamed that she 
 was mounted before the lady on the tall mare, or that she 
 was slipping off, or set down, ignominiously. 
 
 The first thing that met Flo’s eyes when she came down 
 the next morning, was her basket on the stand in the hall. 
 It was filled with choice fruits, and rare hot-house flowers, 
 with a few very delicate fern leaves laid on the top. The 
 person who brought it said that there was no message, and 
 did not wait a minute. 
 
 Florence distributed her fruit with lavish generosity, but 
 she kept the flowers to herself. There were none like them, 
 she said, in the garden or in the fields. The little girl was 
 never weary of questioning her mother about these precious 
 exotics. She treasured them till they faded, and then the 
 relics were put carefully away. 
 
 The ferns Annie and May had planted, Flo said, were so 
 insignificant compared to the waving, feathery hot-house 
 beauties in her aristocratic bouquet. It was true that the 
 more hardy tufts grew and flourished, long after the child’s 
 costly bouquet had withered. Even her lioj^es, rekindled 
 by her anonymous present, faded. No further notice was 
 taken of her ; she saw nothing of the lady or of Christobel, 
 though she looked out for them furtively every day, as she 
 searched for wild flowers in the wooded lanes. 
 
20 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF LANGE ALE HALL. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Her haughty head slightly bent—her searching eyes fixed 
 with a strange eager glance on the face of her young half- 
 sister—Maud Langdale stood on the terrace of the old Hall 
 in the West-Riding, which owned her as its mistress. You 
 may see exactly the same attitude, the same expression, in 
 the portrait which hangs over the door, between the draw¬ 
 ing-room, and what was then generally termed the house- 
 body, at Langdale Hall. 
 
 It is not altogether a pleasant countenance which looks 
 down upon you from the oak panel, although strangely 
 beautiful and suggestive. The eager glance seems to follow 
 your slightest movement. You cannot help looking at that 
 picture of a lady in a riding-habit, with short dark hair, 
 curling like a boy’s, round her bright, animated face; one 
 large, white, well-shaped hand clasping a gold-mounted, 
 jewelled whip ; the head bent forward; her red lips, half 
 smiling, yet with a proud, firm, settled purpose in their 
 clearly marked curve and close pressure. You would never 
 expect a jest from those lips. 
 
 In the courtyard on the opposite side of the old black and 
 white-timbered mansion, in front of the jasmine-covered 
 porch, a tall black mare was pawing the ground impatiently, 
 and a hound, by its noisy baying, resented the unwonted 
 delay on the part of one whose movements were usually 
 punctual and rapid. As the great clock over the stables 
 clanged forth the hour, a groom began to lead his mistress’s 
 horse up and down the walled enclosure. 
 
 “ Yes or No ! How can you hesitate, Ellinor T said Miss 
 
THE HALL AND THE GRANGE 1 21 
 
 Langdale, imperatively addressing her much younger half- 
 sister, who trembled under the conviction that much of the 
 colouring of her future life depended on the answer she might 
 give to the question. “ Is there a man on the face of the 
 earth whose love is worth what lies before your eyes ? Yon¬ 
 der great Carr, wooded from base to summit—those green 
 slopes dotted with sheep—the cattle in the rich meadow 
 grass—this dear old place—our ancient name ! Choose, 
 Ellinor! Will you go to your grave, as I intend to do, un¬ 
 married, or must I find another mistress, after I am dead, 
 for Langdale Hall T 
 
 “ Give me time, Maud. Let me think it over. Kemem- 
 ber I am not like you, firm of purpose. If I decide hastily, 
 I may repent hereafter.’' 
 
 “ You have had the whole night for deliberation, Ellinor, 
 and you are not one bit forwarder. You ought to know 
 your own mind by this time.” 
 
 “ No, I am farther off than ever from a conclusion, Maud. 
 It seems wrong to pledge myself as you desire.” 
 
 “ Nonsense !” said the elder woman, tapping the balus¬ 
 trade on which Ellinor was leaning, with her whip. “ Lands 
 or Love ! You cannot have both. You may have neither.” 
 
 “ Leave me in peace, Maud !” said the girl, passionately. 
 “ I will not give you an answer now. Hark, there is Chris- 
 tobel pawing up the gravel. Do not keep her waiting.” 
 
 The mistress of Langdale Hall read in her sister’s coun¬ 
 tenance a resolution as determined, for the moment, at least, 
 as her own, and turned away. Stooping her head, though 
 it was not absolutely necessary, Maud passed through the 
 deep porch, fringed with jasmine, and along a wide, low 
 passage, which divided the old house into two portions, each 
 fronting north and south. 
 
 Hound the courtyard were lofty walls and peaked gables 
 
22 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 clothed with ivy, belonging to stables and offices. Under a 
 lofty archway fell a flood of light on golden sheaves waiting 
 to be unloaded. Pigeons cooed on the steeply-pitched roofs ; 
 a peacock spread his tail on the top of a low wall; half-a- 
 dozen silver-haired terriers ran forward yelping and barking 
 at sight of their mistress, but fell back obediently at a sign 
 from her whip. 
 
 The old house had not survived so many generations of 
 occupants, without bearing traces of their different tastes. 
 Whatever may be thought of mine, I confess there is a 
 charm for me in such tokens which brick and mortar, stone 
 and stucco, do not, simply on their own account, possess. 
 
 The lofty arch of the gateway, the battlemented walls, 
 blackened by coal-smoke from the not far-distant furnaces, 
 frowning over the valley, might be, as judges in such matters 
 affirmed, quite out J of character with the chequer-work of 
 black and white timber, and the ancient gables—set, like 
 precious jewels, between the Norman tower, added by one 
 proprietor, and the new drawing-room fronted by a conser¬ 
 vatory, supplemented by another—but these luxurious ap¬ 
 pendages added greatly to the size and comfort of the house, 
 and were veiled from sight by clinging creepers, choice 
 flowers, and shrubs. The lofty walls shut in the beautiful 
 valley of the Lang from the busy, noisy traffic ceaselessly 
 carried on outside the barrier, along the dusty highway 
 leading to the neighbouring town. 
 
 Maud turned off the thoroughfare by a steep stone-paved 
 track which wound up to the top of the highest acclivity in 
 that hilly district. Perhaps she wished to see the dale from 
 end to end, with the rivulet winding like a silver thread 
 through emerald turf, for she pulled in her rein sharply, and 
 sat still, contemplating the prospect. Her rich red lips 
 were tightly, scornfully, compressed as she marvelled whether 
 
THE HALL AND THE GRANGE. 
 
 23 
 
 lier young half-sister would make up her mind to relinquish 
 the prospect of succession to all that goodly heritage, or con¬ 
 sent to remain unwedded till the day of her death. 
 
 At the head of the valley, far above the turn of the wind¬ 
 ing road where Miss Langdale had stopped to look down 
 upon the river and its wooded banks, stood one of those 
 clusters of habitations for mill-hands, or farm labourers, and 
 their families, into which many of the old halls of the West 
 Bidinhave degenerated. The arms of an ancient and once 
 influential family, a date carrying back the imagination to a 
 time when those verdant heights were redolent of the song 
 of birds instead of echoing the screech and whistle of 
 the railway—a boastful Latin motto proclaiming that for so 
 long as it would take a tortoise to travel round the world, 
 and for an ant to drink up the waters of the sea, the land 
 should belong to the race by whose name the place was still 
 known—were nearly all the traces left of the sway of its 
 old masters at Noel Hall. A child bearing a pitcher, her 
 clustering curls pressed down by a bright coloured handker¬ 
 chief, is coming to draw water from the well in the court¬ 
 yard—a pretty dark haired girl looks out from a narrow 
 stone-mullioned window—two aged crones are gossiping 
 under the stately portal—all alike unmindful of the boastful 
 inscription falsified in the lifetime of the son of the proud 
 man who set it on high. 
 
 Inside of the old walls, several poor families, in this in¬ 
 stance, agricultural labourers, are located ; no mill spans the 
 beck, its bright waters are not reddened by cloth-die. It 
 flows, dancing down over stone and peat from the moor, as 
 freely and gladly as when the first stone was laid of the now 
 ancient mansion. 
 
 These people, rude as they look, feel some pride in the 
 
24 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 tokens of antiquity around them, when an opportunity 
 arises for pointing them out to strangers. There are panes 
 still left in the richly stained windows, emblazoned with 
 quaint devices and armorial bearings. It is true that, ne¬ 
 cessity having no law, and the wind blowing from the York¬ 
 shire moor no mercy, sheets of brown paper or canvas have 
 been nailed across some of the panes ; and, over the richly 
 carved balustrade of the gallery above the central hall, whence 
 formerly highly-born beautiful ladies may have looked down, 
 a row of dilapidated family garments is hanging to dry. 
 
 Round the large open fireplace in the hall are congregated 
 some children in tattered garments ; two or three half- 
 starved curs, a fierce-looking cat bristling up her fur in anger 
 at their intrusion ; and her mistress, who is regarded by the 
 neighbourhood as an arrant witch, as mischievous as ever 
 haunted Pendle Forest. 
 
 “ Did ye say it washYaud Langdale as gev’ ye the shilling, 
 lad ?” she said, addressing her grandchild, a curly haired 
 boy who had just handed up the coin for inspection. “ Ye 
 must have done her a good turn. She’s none so fond of 
 parting with her money.” 
 
 “ I picked a stone out of the black mare’s hoof,” said^the 
 urchin; “ she might have stumbled on the causeway. The 
 lady rides down and up the hill as fast, and faster than Meg 
 yonder can clamber.” 
 
 The cat purred in acknowledgment of the compliment, 
 but, when the boy offered to stroke her, she scratched him 
 violently, and then flew off to avoid the blow he aimed at 
 her. 
 
 “ Let Meg bide. Ye’ll come off the worst if ye meddle 
 with her,” said his grandmother. “ But, good lack ! who 
 is coming across the court ? I’ll engage it’s the lady herself.” 
 
 An elderly man, who was sunning his gray hairs at the 
 
THE HALL AND THE GRANGE. 
 
 25 
 
 window, looked up sharply as Miss Langdale, in her usual 
 costume, a dark cloth riding habit and high black beaver 
 hat, holding the long skirt up with one hand, and carrying 
 her whip in the other, entered the hall. 
 
 The dogs barked in chorus and flew at her, but a few 
 strokes of the gold-mounted whip sent them back cowering 
 to the chimney corner. 
 
 “ Who keeps these yelping curs T she said, uncourteously, 
 without acknowledging the old dame’s obsequious salutation. 
 “ No wonder my keepers complain ! That great cat looks 
 like a terrible poacher. I have heard tales of her prowess.’’ 
 
 The dame dared not tell the lady to let Meg alone ; but 
 the cat’s grey-green eyes glared defiance at her through the 
 banisters. 
 
 “ Come, sit ye down, Miss Langdale. Draw in the settle. 
 Yer wont harm our Meg, I know. The curs’ bark is "worse 
 than their bite, as is the case with yourself, I fancy. The 
 cat’s the only beast that owns me: the curs belong to the 
 neighbours. Drive them out, Ned.” 
 
 The boy, who had been enlisted as the lady’s retainer by 
 the gift of the shilling, laid about him vigorously, dispersing 
 the clamorous terriers from the vicinity of the hearth. 
 
 Miss Langdale sat down in the high-carved oak settle with 
 her back to the door. In this position she faced the man 
 who was still sitting in the window. He had not risen on 
 her entrance, or made any obeisance. Cold and firm as 
 Maud Langdale usually was, a sort of instinctive fear crept 
 over her, and her cheek flushed hotly as she looked at him. 
 
 “ Who is that person sitting in the window out yonder 1 
 she said, in a low tone. “ He is a stranger to me.’ 
 
 The woman turned herself round and stared. " Oh, } ou 
 be there, be you?” she said, unceremoniously; “the place is 
 like a rabbit-warren. Yes, Madam, that be the last comei, 
 
THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 26 
 
 The General, the folk here and the children call him, be¬ 
 cause he’s been in the wars, beyond seas, in South Ameri- 
 kay. They read about it in the papers. You can say what 
 you like, without troubling yourself about him—lie’s mortal 
 hard of hearing. He just likes to bide in the sunshine.” 
 
 Miss Langdale asked no further question for the moment 
 about the intruder, but questioned the old woman about the 
 state of repair of the forlorn old building which, at the re¬ 
 quest of her steward, she had ridden over to inspect. She 
 had bought the property when it was brought to the ham¬ 
 mer, after the death of the last of the old race in poverty 
 and exile. Most of its occupants worked on her land. Ned’s 
 father had been thrown from the top of a waggon and lost 
 his life, two years before, in the harvest-field. Miss Lang¬ 
 dale allowed his grandmother and the boy shelter, rent free, 
 at the old Hall. 
 
 “ The water comes in at all points, and the floors are that 
 rotten some of us expect to fall through. The boy ketched 
 his foot the other day in a crack, and well-nigh sprained his 
 ancle. I’m almost afeard to sleep in my bed for the rats; 
 but for Meg they’d have the child out of his’n. The birds 
 build in the big chimley, and make the fires smoke fit to 
 choke ye, and the slates rattle off in the wind. The place 
 be scarce fit for Christian folk to bide in. Good enough for 
 such as he as comes from among the Blackamoors, and has 
 roughed it with all sorts of customers. He says he don’t mind 
 it, and somehow he manages to keep things comfortable about 
 him. He’s picked up some sense in his journeyings, as well 
 as that queer old cloak that helps to make the young folk 
 think that he looks like an officer.” 
 
 The old woman jerked out her thumb in the direction of 
 the window. As she ceased speaking the man rose, shroud¬ 
 ing himself in the dark blue roquelaure to which she had 
 
THE HALL AND THE GRANGE. 
 
 27 
 
 alluded, and which had dropped off him as he sat in the 
 warm sunshine. He was above six feet high, and his frame 
 was still erect and powerful. Without in any manner sa¬ 
 luting the lady, he stalked past the hearth and out of the 
 
 hall. 
 
 Miss Langdale’s countenance darkened. “ I do not at all 
 like that person’s appearance and manners,” she said, angrily. 
 “ I wonder that Mr. Hay warden allows such vagrants to 
 squat here. He looks more like a bushranger than an officer, 
 nr even an old soldier. Does he lead an entirely idle life ? 
 He seems active and vigorous.” 
 
 “ He does a stroke of work sometimes. For that matter, 
 he’s not unneighbourly,” said the old dame, who had her 
 own reasons for not wishing to rouse Miss Langdale’s fiery 
 temper against one who had done her many a good turn, in 
 reward for the use of the seat he liked in the liall-window. 
 “He says he’s got a fancy for the place yonder, and, poor 
 body, he does no harm. When the fits are not on him he s 
 quiet enough, and, when lie’s bad with them, he shuts him¬ 
 self up, and wants nought but a jug of water set at his door. 
 Any of the lads and lassies will draw it for him; and, vlien 
 one is empty, he just sets it outside and fetches in another. 
 No one sees him till lie’s better. I wouldnt wish to harm 
 him, and few people would lodge where he puts up. It s the 
 oldest part of the building, and, one of these windy nights, 
 ’twill be a mercy if it does not all come rattling down a-top 
 of him. I fancy he pays his rent regular. Your ladyship 
 will scarce get a better tenant if you shift him. 
 
 “Well, if the poor creature has fits, and is contented with 
 his lodging, I should be sorry to disturb him,” said Maud, 
 more kindly, as she rose and gathered up her long skirt. 
 “ I will tell Mr. Haywarden he had better ride round and 
 see what can be done for you. If I were to put this place 
 
2S 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 into complete repair, the first tiling I should do would be to 
 eject you all; so, if you wish to remain, the fewer complaints 
 I hear the better/' 
 
 The old dame stood up, and went on curtseying as long 
 as Miss Langdale remained in the hall. Meg, more sincere 
 than her mistress, arched her back and put out her claws, 
 sputtering with wrath, and prepared to spring down from 
 the staircase; but a glance from the dame quieted her. 
 
 With scant leave-taking, and no token of generosity, 
 Maud left the old house, followed by no good wishes. In 
 the corner of the courtyard the veteran, draped in his mili¬ 
 tary cloak, was sitting in the sunshine. For a moment 
 Maud hesitated whether to address her new tenant, but the 
 man looked so stolid that she could not make up her mind 
 to speak to him. 
 
 He watched her tall figure, as she crossed the courtyard 
 and went out at the gateway in front of which Christobel 
 was standing. The boy was rather in hopes of a second 
 benefaction, as he took the rein of the mare and led her to¬ 
 wards the lady; but Miss Langdale was no prodigal. She 
 vaulted into the saddle unassisted, and pursued her haughty, 
 careless way, followed by the hound, without even troubling 
 herself to say “ Thank you ” or “ Good day” to the lad, whose 
 blue eyes would have gleamed joyfully if the lady had vouch¬ 
 safed him a single kind word. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Ellinor Langdale remained on the terrace long after the 
 sharp sound of the horse’s hoofs on the gravel died away. 
 Her thoughts strayed involuntarily; now following the 
 
THE HALL AND THE GRANGE. 
 
 29 
 
 white curls of smoke from rural homes, well-known to her 
 from childhood, as they floated over the valley • now blend¬ 
 ing with the rush and roar of the railway trains, as they 
 swept round a curve on the opposite hill before plunging 
 into the dark aperture of a tunnel. Her senses seemed 
 preternaturally active; and she strove in vain to reflect 
 calmly. She was distracted by watching some little girls 
 in white frocks, working in a garden on the other side of 
 the lake, and the labourers in the fields by the beck. 
 
 Yonder, amid the trees, glowed the tranquil waters of the 
 lake—nearer at hand splashed the foamy cataracts of the 
 fountains, casting showers of spray on the glistening pebbles 
 of the walks. Ellinor’s eyes filled with tears as she gazed 
 at the old house; especially at the long low window of what 
 had been her own mother’s room and was now occupied by 
 herself. The girl loved every stone of the old house, which 
 had been in the possession of her family for centuries. She 
 had as yet never thought seriously of leaving home. Love and 
 marriage had small place in her thoughts ; and the question 
 whether the property would become her own, had never, 
 
 ' until the night before, been brought under her consideration. 
 Maud had told her then, and not for the first time, that 
 she never intended to marry; no man should ever lord it 
 over her in Langdale. Would Ellinor make the same com¬ 
 pact ? Engage to live and die unmarried ?—If so, she would 
 at once exert the power which she possessed, in common 
 with other female owners of property, of leaving a life in¬ 
 terest in the estate to Ellinor. 
 
 Eventually Maud continued with bitter emphasis, 1 The 
 land must all belong to then' cousin, Frank Langdale, the 
 heir-at-law, and descend to his children—the wliite-frocked 
 crew by the lake—but as long as she lived, and it was in 
 Ellinor’s power to extend the exemption much longer, no 
 
30 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF LANGE ALE HALL. 
 
 coal should be dug, no stone quarried, no more railways be 
 made in the dale. The one line, which passed over the 
 upper end of the lake and under the hill, had been carried 
 through the estate, against Maud’s wish, in her father’s life¬ 
 time. 
 
 This question was what the girl must answer before night¬ 
 fall. How could she reflect upon it calmly while her 
 thoughts vibrated with the soft gushes of the summer wind, 
 the notes of the birds, and the plash of the fountains. 
 
 Just as the sun sank below the hill, casting a golden gleam 
 over the valley, Ellinor arrived at a conclusion. 
 
 Better to be poor—to lose everything—to be an exile from 
 this dear home—than to barter her freedom, her womanly 
 feelings and judgment for lands and gold. Her resolution 
 was taken, and with a firm step—without venturing to cast 
 another glance round her—Ellinor passed beneath the jas¬ 
 mine-covered porch and entered the house. She then sat 
 down quietly in the old oak-panelled hall, after making some 
 slight alteration in her dress, and awaited her sister’s return. 
 
 Hour after hour went by, and still no chorus of barking 
 in the yard announced Maud’s approach. Ellinor grew cold 
 and impatient as she watched the moon rising above the 
 dough, whilst the sounds of rural life died away and silence 
 settled down upon the valley. Through the small panes 
 of the mullioned casements the rays glinted fitfully, now 
 catching the salient angles of the dark oak furniture, now 
 lying in a long line, like water, on the polished floor. Ellinor 
 changed her place in the room to avoid the eyes of the pic¬ 
 ture, which seemed again to ask the question she had men¬ 
 tally solved. At last, solitude becoming unbearable indoors, 
 she went out again on the terrace. 
 
 A fiery eye seemed again to be watching her; but it was 
 only the signal-light of the railway trains—now one colour, 
 
THE HALL AND THE GRANGE. 
 
 31 
 
 now another—according to the direction in which they were 
 moving. Although it increased the value of the property, 
 great opposition had been made to this line—Maud would 
 never have allowed it to be brought through the Dale ; but, 
 in reality, the passing trains, viewed at a distance from the 
 terrace of the old Hall, were not unpicturesque. Especially 
 at night, Ellinor liked to watch them as they flashed to and 
 fro j and to see the light in front of the long trains of car¬ 
 riages plunge into, or emerge from, the tunnel under the 
 great hill. 
 
 Beautiful as Langdale Hall was at all times, it was most 
 lovely by moonlight. The wide terrace walks, with trees 
 and statues on either hand ; the bright borders of flowers ; 
 the glittering fountains; the white-starred jasmine mantling 
 the deep-set casements, with the silvery rays sparkling on 
 the diamond-panes, or, here and there, a light shining from 
 within, casting a redder gleam on the chequered timber 
 work of the old gables, imparted to the mansion magical 
 loveliness. 
 
 Ellinor stood at some distance, gazing at the home of her 
 infancy and youth • wondering to whom, if she spurned the 
 gifts, Maud would bequeath it. Not to Frank Langdale, 
 the heir presumptive ; for he and, still more, his wife, were 
 the objects of her intense dislike. As far as her half-sister 
 knew, the mistress of Langdale Hall had no personal friends, 
 no favourites of any description. Her tastes were all for 
 seclusion and solitude ; and acquaintances were kept at a 
 distance by her cold manner. Maud was kind to the poor, 
 and to dumb animals; but any one who exercised inde¬ 
 pendence enough to dispute her will, soon ceased to be in 
 favour with her. Even her sister, just attaining woman¬ 
 hood, after being as a child Miss Langdale’s pet and play¬ 
 thing, must learn this bitter truth. 
 
32 THE MISTRESS OF LANG DALE HALL. 
 
 Ellinor went round the outside of the old house to the 
 courtyard, when she heard Christobel’s hoofs on the gravel, 
 and all the dogs barking. Maud rode very slowly up the 
 avenue, and, after dismounting unaided, threw the reins to 
 a groom, and entered the house silently. 
 
 She did not speak to her sister, but rang the bell sharply 
 for lights, ordering the servant to close the heavy shutters 
 of the hall and drawing-room. Ellinor regretted the exclu¬ 
 sion of the moonlight, but she said nothing; and, sitting 
 down at the table, occupied herself with her needlework. 
 
 Miss Langdale pushed back her hat with an unwonted 
 ■expression of lassitude, and, finally, took it off, passing her 
 hand over and through her short curls, and shaking them 
 into order, much in the same manner that a water-spaniel 
 might do after emerging from a stream or a pond. Winter 
 and summer she spent most of her time out of doors, return¬ 
 ing home at irregular hours, and attending to few of the 
 forms and habits of domestic feminine life. A plunge in 
 an ice-cold bath, night and morning, a rapid toilette, neat 
 but plain, and scarcely altered by the change of season or 
 fashion, satisfied the strong-minded woman, who, though 
 still young, cared little for appearance. Ellinor’s habitual 
 attention to the conventionalities of life was a subject for 
 ridicule with her sister. 
 
 Miss Langdale drank off hastily the large goblet of water, 
 the only beverage she patronised, which was placed in readi¬ 
 ness for her ; whilst Ellinor made tea for herself, in the little 
 old-fashioned set of china, which woidd have delighted a 
 cognoscente in such matters—egg-shell cups, almost trans¬ 
 parent, and filigree silver spoons and sugar-tongs. 
 
 “ How tired you look, Maud,” she said affectionately. 
 “ Did you ride far ?” 
 
 “ Eight over the hill, past Noel Hall, where I stopped to 
 
THE HALL AND THE GRANGE. ' 33 
 
 see what repairs are wanted—then to the Crags, and home 
 over Hazel Down. I had to go back, too, for something 
 that a little girl whom I carried over the river had dropped 
 on the bank. I thought she would be sorry to lose it, and 
 I remembered seeing it fall from her arm after I had gone 
 some way over the Down—it was a pretty, foreign-look- 
 mg basket. The child would have missed it, later, and 
 might have been scolded for carelessness. Ellinor,” she 
 said, gra\ely, after a pause, u was it not strange? this child, 
 who attracted me wonderfully, a beautiful, brave little crea¬ 
 ture, proved to be a daughter of Langdale of the Grange, 
 the youngest of his children. There he was, with the whole 
 kit of them, within twenty yards of me. I found it out just 
 in time to avoid meeting him.” 
 
 “ I wish you had seen each other,” said her sister : “ old 
 prejudices die out in time. I dare say he is very much 
 altered. We have certainly heard nothing which is not to 
 his credit respecting his present mode of life.” 
 
 “ How dare you say so ?” said Maud, flushing to her tem¬ 
 ples. “ Is it creditable that our cousin, the heir of Lang- 
 dale, should be managing clerk in a house of trade at Hazel- 
 don ? If his tastes were so grovelling, he might have had 
 the decency to take himself, and his pauper brood and in¬ 
 firm wife, to Leeds or Manchester, instead of parading his 
 German radicalism at my very gates. Little as I care for 
 long life, I hope I may be an old woman ere I die, to spite 
 the Langdales.” 
 
 “ I hope you may live long enough to survive these un¬ 
 charitable feelings,” said Ellinor gently. “ But tell me more 
 about the little girl whom you liked so much.” 
 
 “ She is a thorough little lady !” said Maud enthusiasti¬ 
 cally ; “ not a bit like her mother, but dark and distinguished- 
 looking, as her father was before he married and went into 
 
 3 
 
34 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 business. No doubt that has roughened him—there is no 
 other word for it. The little girl reminded me of the lady 
 of whom the country people in the south tell a fable, in 
 which she was changed into a mole, or wont, as they phrase 
 it, because, when her friends urged her to set her delicate 
 foot to the ground, she said, ‘ I won’t.’ Her delicate little 
 hands, or fore feet, still remain the portion of the mole or 
 wont ! The slender, dark-haired child looked inclined to 
 cry when I set her down on God’s earth—just like the 
 proud lady in the legend. Frank Langdale’s penniless girls 
 will have to foot it over rough paths !” 
 
 “ Little ones are as easily vexed as flattered,” said Ellinor 
 compassionately. “ Perhaps you put her down suddenly, 
 and frightened her.” 
 
 “ It was lucky I did not drop her into the river, when 
 I found out whom I had in the saddle before me,” said 
 Maud. “ You need not look so shocked, Ellinor, I set the 
 little lassie down all right, high and dry, on the bank. At 
 first I did think that Christobel had an imp on her neck, an 
 evil sprite, but the child clung so lovingly to me, that I was 
 not likely to harm her. I am glad I gave her a sharp lesson; 
 but I took some trouble to fetch the little creature’s basket, 
 and you have my leave to fill it with the choicest fruits you 
 can gather, and send it back to her. Only, remember, it 
 must be left at the Grange, with no card or message. If 
 Frank Langdale expected to be noticed by his family, he 
 should not have married a pauper—a waif and stray cast 
 ashore in a storm, and left upon the beach like a coil of sea¬ 
 weed !” 
 
THE HALL AND THE GRANGE. 
 
 35 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Mother, sdid Florence Lang, lifting her dark curls from 
 their resting-place on her invalid parent’s knee, and looking 
 
 up in her face; “ why does not Miss Langdale call upon 
 us?” 
 
 Mrs. Lang was silent for a moment; the fair, sweet face 
 clouded over ; then she said, 
 
 “ What made you ask that question, Flo ?” 
 
 Because Miss Langdale is the lady who rides Christobel, 
 the tall, beautiful black mare, ’ said the little girl impetu¬ 
 ously. “ I saw her pass our gate, yesterday, and turn up the 
 road to the Hall. Meredith says it is a shame that she takes 
 no notice of us, as she is my father’s first cousin.” 
 
 “ Meredith ought to know better than to express an 
 opinion on a subject she does not understand ; especially to 
 a little girl like yourself,” said Mrs. Lang, colouring with 
 vexation. “ But you were quite right to tell me, and I ex¬ 
 pected that some day you would ask this question. I am 
 quite willing to answer it now.” 
 
 “ Did you guess that the lady who took me uji before her 
 in the saddle, was Miss Langdale ?” said Flo, her eyes ojien- 
 ing wide with admiration. “ Mother, you sit up here so 
 quietly, and yet you know everything.” 
 
 “Xot quite, my darling,” said Mrs. Lang, smiling; “but 
 I did guess that the lady who was so kind at first, and so 
 stern afterwards, was Miss Langdale. Your father knew it 
 also. He is not on friendly terms with the lady at the Hall, 
 though they are near relations. It is not in the least likely 
 that Miss Langdale will call upon us.” 
 
 Flo’s eye filled with tears. 
 
36 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 “ Then I am not to see that nice lady again,” she said. 
 
 I thought it was wrong to go on being angry. If she has 
 been naughty, should not my father forgive her T 
 
 “ It is not exactly a question of forgiveness,” said Mrs. 
 Lang, gravely. “ People, older than you are, often disagree 
 without either party being naughty. I hope this alienation 
 may not last for ever; but, just at present, I cannot advise 
 your father to take any steps towards a reconciliation. I 
 am sure, if our rich neighbour came forward, he would meet 
 her with an outstretched hand.” 
 
 The little girl looked dissatisfied. 
 
 “ There is a boat on the lake, and the beautiful mare to 
 ride, and numbers of pretty walks, that we are never allowed 
 to take, near the Hall. Did you tell Meredith that we were 
 not to go through the little gate into the Park opposite to 
 the church? Numbers of people go that way on Sundays. 
 It seems open to everybody.” 
 
 “ Your father and I do not wish you to go that way,” 
 said her mother. “ The gate is open by favour on Sundays, 
 to those who live in out-lying cottages belonging to Miss 
 Langdale. It would not shorten your walk.” 
 
 “ I want to go through,” said Flo passionately. Last 
 Sunday a little common child ran in, and shut the gate in 
 my face. I was not going into the park, but I wanted to 
 look at the river winding under the old bridge. Frances 
 says what a pretty sketch it would make, and the palings 
 are too high to see over. It seems so hard that Meredith 
 should call us back, when every other child in the parish 
 may pass through.” 
 
 “ I am glad Meredith obeys my orders. Florence you are 
 very wilful,” said Mrs. Lang, with displeasure. “ Your 
 sisters never dispute their father’s will and mine ; they 
 are content to be ruled by it without asking for as much 
 
THE HALL AND THE GRANGE. 
 
 37 
 
 explanation as I have given you. They are older and wiser 
 than my little spoilt pet.” 
 
 “ I am sure I saw Christobel grazing under the trees, and 
 there were so many little dogs running about,” said Flo, 
 scarcely attending to her mother. “I dare say Miss Lang- 
 dale would let me play with them, and be ever so kind, if I 
 told her that I did not mean to make her angry.” 
 
 “ In this matter, Flo, you must be ruled by me,” said her 
 mother, kindly but firmly. “ Set your heart at rest. You 
 did nothing to make the lady angry ; and, therefore, there 
 is no reason why she should be asked to forgive you. It 
 was because she recognised that you were her little cousin 
 Florence Langdale,—for that you all know is your name, 
 though it suits your father to alter it slightly—that she put 
 you down so hastily. Surely you do not wish to intrude 
 upon her, if she does not wish to see more of you, or to 
 know me and your father, brother, and sisters? There are 
 occasions on which it is right even for a little girl like your¬ 
 self to keep up her dignity and self-respect. Even if Miss 
 Langdale were to offer to take you up before her, or invite 
 you into her park, you must not profit by the indulgence. 
 I am not blaming you, love, for what you did in ignorance, 
 but, now that you know our wishes, it must not occur again.” 
 
 A whole host of dazzling visions faded away. The child’s 
 imagination had been actively at work. Florence had rid¬ 
 den Christobel fearlessly, had played with the blue and grey 
 silver-haired terriers for hours—had been invited to enter 
 the park, and to sail on the blue waters of the lake, time 
 after time, in fancy. She could not bear to hear that she 
 was not to respond to the lady’s advances. 
 
 “ Some day she will say she was sorry to have vexed me, 
 said Flo, struggling with her tears. “ What am I to do then ? 
 
 “ My love, I do not think Miss Langdale will ever conde- 
 
38 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 scend so far/’ said Mrs. Lang. “ Be as grateful as you like 
 for lier involuntary kindness ; forget the mortification that 
 followed as soon as you can; but remember, that it is not my 
 wish or your father’s that you should accept any favours 
 from the Lady of Langdale Hall. Do not say another word.” 
 
 Florence was silent, but she remained wholly unconvinced 
 and very dissatisfied. Her disposition was entirely different 
 to the sunny confiding natures of her sisters. Mrs. Lang’s ill- 
 health had at one time caused her education to be neglected. 
 During this period of anxiety the child had been left 
 greatly to the care of an affectionate but injudicious nurse. 
 Like many old-fashioned faithful domestics, Meredith had 
 as many prejudices as good qualities. Florence was her 
 favourite, and the pet and darling of her elder sisters. She 
 had not escaped unscathed from the fiery furnace of over- 
 indulgence. 
 
 Maud Langdale had not reverted to the question which 
 had caused her half-sister so much pain. An unwonted 
 softness had crept into her heart, betraying itself involun¬ 
 tarily in voice and manner. 
 
 Over the arid soil, swept bare in her passionate youth, 
 Miss Langdale had, with her own strong will and firm hand, 
 guided the ploughshare which was to root up every tiny 
 blade, every flower that sprang up unbidden. While still 
 quivering with regret for the loss of all that makes life 
 worth having, she had scotched the snake; tearing out and 
 rooting up every flattering illusion, and leaving the present 
 as blank and desolate as the past and future. Since the 
 destruction of her first dreams of happiness, Maud had 
 suffered no fresh human affections to spring up in her heart. 
 
 Her affection for her young half-sister was not a softening 
 characteristic At the smallest assertion on her part of in- 
 
THE HALL AND THE GRANGE. 
 
 39 
 
 dependence, Maud tightened the rein which at other times 
 hung loose. In her eyes Ellinor was still a child, and 
 would continue to be so, till some ebullition of womanly 
 feeling broke the bond woven by the habits of com¬ 
 panionship. 
 
 Quite another feeling had sprung up in the breast which 
 had for so many years been cold, for the beautiful daughter 
 of Frank Langdale. Never, since, had Maud vaulted into 
 her saddle, without fancying that the child’s tenderly clasp¬ 
 ing fingers rested on the arm that encircled her slender 
 waist. The musical voice of the little maiden sounded close 
 to her ear during Miss Langdale’s long, solitary rides. She 
 heard it in the murmur of the beck, and the cooing of the 
 wood-pigeons. 
 
 When the boughs closed over her head, making a soft 
 green twilight, Maud remembered the clear dark eyes of 
 the child, looking up at the net-work of foliage overhanging 
 the crags and the river. If Christobel arched her neck for 
 a caress after stepping daintily over the ford of the river, 
 Miss Langdale seemed to see again, nay even herself to feel 
 the pressure of the small white hand laid timidly upon the 
 flowing black mane. The wild flowers, scarcely noticed 
 usually, recalled the beautiful vision which had first attracted 
 her attention, of the dark-liaired girl, half hidden among the 
 large fern-leaves and rushes, weaving her garland on the 
 brink of the river. 
 
 Child and woman, alike wilful, suffered their imaginations 
 to run wild. There was no kindly feeling towards the 
 p>arents of Florence in their kinswoman’s suddenly evoked 
 partiality. Maud, bitterly envied them the possession of 
 their pet lamb. She would have robbed them of their dar¬ 
 ling without the slightest compunction. Had the woman 
 lived in earlier times she would without scruple have armed 
 
40 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 her retainers, and carried off the pearl she coveted. Frank 
 
 Langdale had wounded her pride, and she longed for re¬ 
 taliation. 
 
 Little did her parents dream, in sprite of all their precau¬ 
 tions, how constantly Florence’s glance turned towards the 
 stately lady who stood or sat, with the crimson curtains 
 parted back, in full view of the congregation during the 
 morning service in Langdale Church. In winter a large fire 
 was kept up in the great warm comfortable pew half the 
 size of the chancel. Above her head gorgeous entablatures 
 and escutcheons, memorials of her family,—about her still 
 handsome person, every sign of worldly prosperity. 
 
 Florence knew every one of her costly rings; for she al¬ 
 ways took off her gloves, and the child loved to see the 
 flash of the diamonds. She watched, enviously, the lady 
 moving slowly through the curtseying crowd about the 
 church door, distributing a word or two right and left, as 
 she waited for the handsome equipage from the Hall/ to 
 diaw up at the gate. The little girl never bestowed a 
 glance on the fair, simply dressed, graceful girl, who came 
 up in haste from the side aisle to join her sister. 
 
 Neither the jewelled fingers, nor the stately bearing of 
 the lady of the Hall, attracted the attention of the hand¬ 
 some chestnut-haired student who had recentlv returned 
 from the German University, where he had won the coveted 
 jirize, and received from his comrades every possible token 
 of good will. After their simple fashion, a festival in the 
 green wood had been given to the fortunate English youth 
 who had distanced all competitors, and he went on his way 
 rejoicing. 
 
 The young man was delighted at first with the old family 
 mansion, overhung with ivy, and picturesquely situated. 
 For a few days he wandered about with his sisters, in a 
 
THE HALL AND THE GRANGE. 
 
 41 
 
 .state of perfect contentment; but, when a fortnight had 
 passed away, he was less satisfied with his position. It 
 was true that the stream, meandering through the meadow, 
 was full ol trout, but he could not pursue its course after it 
 flowed under the stone bridge at the entrance of Langdale 
 Park. The game was strictly preserved, and although the 
 keepers were disposed to treat civilly the aristocraticdooking 
 youth, whose prospective heirship was well known, Fritz 
 knew his father’s proud reluctance to accept any favour from 
 their haughty kinswoman, too well to profit by their courtesy. 
 Even his rambles with his sisters were circumscribed by the 
 high walls and park-palings. Before he had been a month at 
 Godley Grange, Fritz heartily wished that his father had 
 not jDitclied his tent under the Langdale beech trees. 
 
 Annoyed by these restrictions on his freedom, the young 
 man heartily disliked their proud neighbour, who had not 
 deigned to notice his mother and sisters, and had inflicted 
 numberless annoyances on his father. On the first Sunday 
 -after his return, he had left the family pew without waiting 
 for his father and sisters, in order to avoid the crowd. A 
 lady, to him perfectly unknown, was passing down the 
 middle aisle, and, with instinctive courtesy, the young man 
 stood aside for her to pass. Their glances met for one mo¬ 
 ment, as, without the smallest recognition of his civility, 
 Miss Langdale swept past. 
 
 A very different form and face had riveted Fritz’s atten¬ 
 tion during the singing. A sweet, clear voice, true and 
 harmonious, had satisfied the ear accustomed to German 
 music. It was a keen disappointment, when he rejoined 
 his sisters, and ascertained that the fair girl in blue, who 
 sang so well, was another Miss Langdale. He felt inclined 
 to ask whether the Lady of the Manor had a right to mono¬ 
 polise every good thing in her vicinity. 
 
42 THE MISTRESS OF LANGE ALE HALL. 
 
 More than one of the rural congregation, as the young- 
 man stood bareheaded in the church, remarked how like he 
 was to Miss Ellinor. They were cousins on the father’s- 
 side, it was true, but Fritz had his mother’s sunny brow 
 and sweet expression, bright brown hair and azure eyes. 
 There was no relationship between Marina Lang, the waif 
 and stray picked up on the coast after a storm, and the 
 Langdales of Langdale. 
 
 As Fritz walked, staff in hand, with his favourite sister, 
 Gertrude, one Sunday evening, up the steep Roman road 
 from the Grange, he inquired why she and Frances did not 
 help in the singing, like the young lady in blue; and whether 
 they taught in the school, and made themselves useful. 
 
 “ It would not do for us to put ourselves forward in this 
 parish,” said Gertrude. “ Miss Langdale manages every- 
 thing, and is most generous in her charities and benefac¬ 
 tions. She gave that fine organ to the church last year.” 
 
 “ She preserves strictly in all senses of the word,” said 
 Fritz, bitterly. “ No one may do good, or carry a gun on 
 these lands, or cast a line in these waters. So long as you 
 keep to the foot pathway the gates are open, but if you step 
 to the right or left you are sure to stumble upon a placard 
 announcing vengeance against trespassers ! I cannot under¬ 
 stand my father’s bringing us to live in a place where we 
 are so completely overshadowed by this arrogant woman.” 
 
 “ My father is universally respected,” said Gertrude. 
 
 11 There was an opening for him here, which might not have 
 offered elsewhere; and it is a great consideration to have a 
 large house rent-free.” 
 
 “ I would rather live in a nutshell than under Miss Lang- 
 dale’s park wall,” said Fritz impetuously. “ Gertrude, this 
 was an ill-advised removal. How happy we all were in 
 Germany! Count Max gave me the run of his woods in 
 
THE HALL AND THE GRANGE. 43 
 
 the vacations ; and yon and the little girls used to bring us 
 our luncheon, and warble as sweetly as nightingales. Here 
 we are caged like convicts !” 
 
 A bright blush mounted up to the roots of his sister’s 
 fair hair, as Fritz’s words recalled past pleasures in the life 
 they had led among the Thuringian forests. 
 
 “ If your friend comes to see us at Goclley, we will not 
 shut him up in prison,” she said, softly. “You shall ramble 
 about over the hills together, and we will bring you your 
 luncheon and sing to you, if you like, as of yore.” 
 
 Fritz looked at his sister inquiringly. 
 
 “Shall I write and tell Max to come, Gerty? He will 
 not need much pressing; only, I am afraid he will want to 
 take away what we may not like to lose.” 
 
 “Then do not invite him,” said Gertrude, looking stead¬ 
 fastly away from her brother. “ My father and mother 
 have nothing to spare. They cannot in this time of trial 
 be generous to strangers.” 
 
 “ Well, he must bide his time. To tell the truth, I was 
 a little jealous of Max, last summer. We will not disturb 
 him in his political considerations now that he is a member 
 of the Eeiclis-Eath. I doubt whether I shall stay long in 
 England, myself. My father wants me to choose a profes¬ 
 sion, but he can give me a helping hand in nothing but 
 commerce, and I have no fancy for dangling my legs on a 
 stool behind a counter. It is hard to pass one’s best days 
 in drudgery, with the prospect of such a glorious inheritance, 
 when one is too old to enjoy it. That woman looks as it 
 she would live for ever !” 
 
 The brother and sister walked on, talking of various 
 matters, and did not again revert to the Langdales. The 
 moonlight was silvering the waters of the lake in the v ooik, 
 as they wound their way home. 
 
I 
 
 44 THE MISTRESS OF LANGE ALE HALL. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Miss Langdale had not lost the disagreeable recollection 
 of “ the General’s ” contemptuous neglect of the obsequious 
 civility usually shown to her by her dependents, when she 
 rode over to the neighbouring town to consult her friend 
 and land agent, Mr. Haywarden, respecting the repairs to 
 be effected at Noel Hall. 
 
 The country lawyer was steward and agent for many of 
 the county families, and was highly respected; very straight¬ 
 forward, indeed rather blunt in manner, yet possessed of 
 considerable tact, well connected and gentleman-like, Mr. 
 Haywarden was a person of consequence in the neighbour¬ 
 hood. No one had half so much influence with Miss 
 Langdale. He alone could laugh her out of a prejudice, or 
 persuade her to desist from some proceeding more eccentric 
 than usual. 
 
 His cool reception of Maud’s passionate reproaches for 
 allowing vagrants to roost in the old Hall, staggered her at 
 the first burst. The man was a stranger, certainly, Mr. Hay¬ 
 warden admitted, but, in the present state of the place, dis¬ 
 tinguished occupants were not to be expected. 
 
 “ To tell you the truth,” he added, “ the old fellow rather 
 won me over. He is quite a character, and has, I am sure, 
 known better days. He fought with Garibaldi in Central 
 America. I have no doubt he is a democrat, and I dare 
 say would not take off his cap to the queen. His rent was 
 paid beforehand, and he offered to give more than I should 
 have thought of asking for a nook in the Gateway Tower 
 of the old hall.” 
 
 “ I do not care what he offered,” said Miss Langdale, 
 
THE HALL AND THE GRANGE. 45 
 
 angrily ; “ pay him off and get rid of him. I believe he is 
 an escaped convict, and may prove an incendiary, or at best 
 a lunatic. I will not harbour him on my premises a week 
 longer.” 
 
 Mr. Hay warden looked annoyed. “ Pardon, me, Miss 
 Langdale,” he said, gravely. “It is not quite so easy as 
 you imagine to dislodge a tenant who pays a fair rent regu¬ 
 larly, and who brought me unexceptionable references. If 
 this be indeed your wish, I must give the man proper legal 
 notice.” 
 
 “ The sooner it is done the better,” replied Miss Langdale. 
 “ Who recommended him to you ?” 
 
 “ Oh, he is known to one or two people in Hazeldon,” - 
 said the lawyer, carelessly, conscious that to acknowledge it 
 was her cousin, Frank Lang, his own oldest and dearest 
 friend, who had asked him to allow the old soldier to take 
 rooms at Noel Hall, would be to seal his sentence of dis¬ 
 missal. “ I am very sorry that you dislike the General, upon 
 my word I believe him to be a capital fellow. He must have 
 some property, for he has fitted up the two rooms he occu¬ 
 pies with some degree of taste. Let me advise yon. not to be 
 hasty. His infirmity, perhaps, made him quite unconscious 
 that he was in the presence of the Lady of the Manor. It 
 would be an act of cruelty foreign to your nature, to dis¬ 
 lodge him for what might, after all, be an unintentional dis¬ 
 courtesy. 
 
 “ The people complain bitterly of the state of the build¬ 
 ings,” said Miss Langdale, changing her tone when she 
 perceived that Mr. Haywarden was not inclined to yield the 
 point, and Avas on the brink of being seriously offended. 
 “I do not want the old house to be flooded, or the women 
 and children crippled with rheumatism; but farther than is 
 absolutely necessary I will not go. I will not lay out an addi- 
 
46 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 tional shilling. As for your favourite—the General,” she 
 added, with a propitiatory smile, “ I suppose I must give 
 him brevet rank to please you; what on earth makes him 
 wish to lodge at the old Hall ? I sometimes wish I had 
 never bought it 1” 
 
 “The land was not a bad bargain,” said the lawyer. 
 “ As for the Hall, as you chose to purchase it, against my ad¬ 
 vice and warning that I did not approve of the title, and that 
 the house and offices were falling into ruin, you ought to have 
 laid out money in necessary repairs twenty years ago, instead 
 of allowing its present tenants to occupy separate portions. 
 If you wish to get rid of the place it is by no means im¬ 
 possible that the old family may wish to buy it back again. 
 That property of the Noels in the North Riding is improv¬ 
 ing, and might pay even Cuthbert Noel’s debts over again.” 
 
 Miss Langclale rose abruptly. “ That is more than any 
 man can affirm,” she said, sternly. “ Men may search the 
 bottom of the sea, but there has never yet been found a line 
 long enough to reach the bottom of a selfish, unprincipled 
 spendthrift’s extravagance.” 
 
 She shook hands with Mr. Haywarden, and left his office 
 without another word. Apparently she had relinquished 
 her vengeful purpose, and Mr. Haywarden was not inclined 
 to remind her of it. 
 
 Maud rode swiftly along the stony high road to the gates 
 of her own mansion, which were set open at the sound of 
 Ohristobers approach. As she pursued the beautiful winding 
 drive, overlooking the valley, her mind was full of thoughts 
 partly suggested by the objects which came successively into 
 view. 
 
 Above her frowned the blackened towers which, though 
 
 comparatively recent additions to the old Manor House_ 
 
 owing to the polluted state of the atmosphere near Hazeldon 
 
THE HALL AND THE GRANGE. 
 
 47 
 
 looked grim, and sepulchral. Below wound the rivulet, a 
 tributary of the Lang, and on the opposite bank, set among 
 trees, were farms and cottages, of which she was the owner. 
 
 Maud paused, and, turning in her saddle at a spot where 
 a wider view opened, looked along the wider valley of the 
 Lang, into which the brook entered. Many a time in her 
 impetuous girlhood, wilful as now, had she so turned and 
 looked back ; but it was years since she had literally or 
 metaphorically stayed her course. The action was involun¬ 
 tary now, but she did not check it. Why must she to-day, 
 willingly or unwillingly, sit silently gazing past croft and 
 spinny, at the hill which shut in the valley; seeing, instead 
 of the ruinous abode she had recently visited, a noble man¬ 
 sion, full of tokens of luxury and extravagance—all that her 
 soul revolted from now, but which, in her girlish folly, was 
 most prized ? 
 
 Maud’s grip of the rein tightened as the past, of which 
 she never spoke, and seldom thought, rolled back into her 
 memory :—the mad rides, taken in defiance of parental 
 authority, sometimes alone, sometimes attentively escorted 
 back to the house, where she often expected to find the doors 
 barred against her. Could it be the sight of the composed, 
 clever lawyer—the friend of her youth, who knew more of 
 her history than most others (but not the whole)—which 
 had awakened recollections she generally contrived to put 
 away from her when they strove to intrude upon her pre¬ 
 sent, calmly prosperous, uneventful life 1 Something in the 
 gleam of the low sunlight on the water, in the glitter of the 
 upward floating rays on the many windows of the Hall, on 
 the distant hill-top, might recall the days of old—those long 
 banished thoughts. 
 
 Not so ! neither the flashing lights on hill and dale, nor 
 the brief allusion made by Mr. Hay warden to the misfor- 
 
48 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 tunes of her former friends, had first roused the reminis¬ 
 cences which swept over the shuddering woman. The train 
 had been lit by the spark which shot from the eyes of the 
 old soldier as he sat on the broken wall, disdaining to rise 
 as she passed. What was the spell that made the usually 
 undaunted Maud Langdale fear as well as hate him ? Even 
 at this moment Maud resolved to let him stay in the niche 
 he coveted. She did not dare to dislodge him. In the 
 heart of this proud woman were depths into which she sel¬ 
 dom cared to look. Out of these sources welled up some¬ 
 times waters of bitterness; at others sweet womanly im¬ 
 pulses. Perhaps as a wife and mother, Maud might have 
 been tender and affectionate; but she chose to tread her 
 way in solitude, without seeking to find happiness, or to 
 impart it; yet still the sweet waters, though kept back from 
 sight, were there. 
 
 One of these softer emotions was stirred when the old 
 woman spoke of the veteran’s hopeless malady, bravely borne 
 in solitude. She saw him, in fancy, battling with his foe,, 
 and honoured him for the conquest. Had the man doffed 
 his cap as she passed, Maud would have befriended him ever 
 after. Kind impulses were in her heart when she left the 
 Hall, and saw him sitting patiently in the sunshine, on the 
 very spot where, in her happiest hours of girlhood, she had 
 often lingered, rejoicing, when life was in itself a joy. 
 
 Why had he confronted her so insolently, when her inten¬ 
 tion was to be charitable and compassionate 1 and yet, on 
 consideration, Maud felt half ashamed of her vindictiveness. 
 Mr. Haywarden must be right. What moth 3 could the 
 man have for wilfully annoying her ? 
 
 Maud rode on quietly, full of kindly thoughts. She was- 
 not angry now with the poor old General, as the children 
 called him, when she thought of him as she had last seen 
 
THE HALL AND THE GRANGE. 49 
 
 him, sitting on the courtyard wall, wrapped in his blue 
 roquelaure. She would almost like, if the man were more 
 
 civil, to see the two chambers which Mr. Haywarden_a 
 
 man of taste and refinement—said he had contrived to fit 
 up skilfully, and where the old dame said he would, on 
 
 some wild winter night, be buried in the midst of the 
 rubbish. 
 
 At all events that must not be. Maud sent stringent 
 orders to Mr. Haywarden to have the necessary repairs set 
 on foot. Although some evil memories clung about the 
 place, Maud had no wish to see the home of the ruined 
 Noels ciumble to decay. It might yield shelter to a few 
 
 otherwise houseless peasants, and the obscure, afflicted 
 soldier. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Tiie work-people employed in repairing the dilapidated 
 building at the head of the valley, soon fraternised with the 
 old soldier who was always ready to lend a helping hand to 
 anyone who stood in need of assistance. In return, the 
 men gave him, good-humouredly, pieces of the rotten wain¬ 
 scoting for which they were substituting plain, serviceable 
 deal, unmindful of the scriptural injunction not to mend 
 old things with new material. 
 
 fn like manner the broken panes of stained glass, precious 
 to an antiquarian, were replaced by green-tinged diamond 
 or square-shaped panes of the commonest description; but 
 the smallest of the curious antique fragments on which 
 
 4 
 
50 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 bird, flower, or heraldic sign, had been emblazoned was 
 carried off in triumph by the General. 
 
 He scarcely looked his age when, in the heat of excitement, 
 he cast off his coat and worked lustily with the masons and 
 carpenters, incurring great risk, to take out with more 
 care than the workmen would have bestowed upon it a 
 cracked window-pane. In the heat of battle, the men said, 
 he must have learnt steadiness of eye and hand ; they could 
 fancy him mounting a scaling ladder in the teeth of the 
 enemy’s guns. On one occasion a boy had turned suddenly 
 faint and giddy, just as he gained the top of a ladder reared 
 against one of the twisted chimneys of the old house ; the 
 General, who was on the scaffolding, hard at work removing 
 some curious bits of sculpture, saw the lad’s danger just in 
 time, saved him from falling, and bore him down in his arms 
 to the ground. The workmen cheered him heartily as he 
 deposited his burden on the turf; but the veteran stalked 
 off at once, as though unwilling to be thanked or noticed, 
 and was seen no more that day. 
 
 Next morning he came out, looking aged and weary, 
 wrapped in his cloak ; and sat apart in his favourite corner 
 of the courtyard where the father and mother of the boy 
 came to thank him. No need of that, he said, but he was 
 glad the boy was none the worse, for at first he feared it 
 might be a sun-stroke. When he saw the danger, he forgot 
 for the moment, that he himself was not so young and 
 active as he had once been. 
 
 The father, a master-mason, from that moment was the 
 General’s staunch friend. He even ventured to speak about 
 the matter to Miss Langdale, when he went up to the Hall; 
 telling her how bravely and coolly the old man had borne 
 himself; and that he owed his son’s life to him, but he 
 would scarcely bear to be thanked. From that day the 
 
THE HALL AND THE GRANGE. 
 
 51 
 
 General became a prime favourite among the workmen ; any 
 choice bits of carving, panelling, or glass which they came 
 . across were reserved for him. 
 
 He was almost wild with delight when, on the inside of 
 a board used to stop up a chimney-place, a picture was dis¬ 
 covered. The General carried away his jwize ; and after 
 washing and scraping off all impurities, fitted it into a frame 
 of his own making, out of bits of antique oak-carving. 
 Then he set it up on high above the great sculptured 
 mantel-piece in his own den, and worshipped it. Truly it 
 was a quaint chamber on which the eyes of Lady Barbara 
 Noel (for such was the name and title at the back of the can¬ 
 vas) looked down with aristocratic contempt and wonder. A 
 haughty dame, clad in rich satin and lace, her hair looped with 
 pearls, and a page holding up the train of her court dress. 
 
 The picture was not of ancient date; but then the people 
 located at the Hall were mostly strangers ; few traditions 
 hung about the place, and no one assisted the republican 
 soldier in discovering the appellation of the lady. He said 
 that in clearing the dirt off the picture, he had detected 
 some writing at the bottom of the canvas, among the weeds 
 in the foreground on which she looked too proud to set her 
 dainty feet; the centre of the ground on which she stood 
 was covered with rich crimson cloth, over which she was 
 supposed to be stepping to her carriage through the gateway 
 of the Hall. 
 
 With infinite care and skill, the man fitted bits of old 
 painted glass into the framework of his diamond-paned case¬ 
 ment windows. An antiquarian might have found amuse¬ 
 ment for hours in studying these singular devices; birds, 
 such as never flew over land or sea—fish, that swam in no 
 waters—coats of arms worn by no one now living brave 
 colours faded—outlines fast disappearing ! 
 
 4—2 
 
52 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 Through these motley transparencies the autumn sunlight 
 fell on the dark oak boards of the floor, polished daily till 
 they shone like glass, on massive beams, and curiously 
 painted borders of panel and wainscot, joined together and 
 fastened to the wall in the fashion of olden times. Hither 
 had been brought, honestly purchased, or exchanged for 
 common useful articles with the other inmates of the Hall, 
 a few choice pieces of furniture which had survived the 
 general wreck, a bed on which King James slej)t when he 
 made a crusade against the Y orkshire YVitches—a chair with 
 the royal arms and cypher on the back—probably used on 
 the same occasion—and a harpsichord, much older than the 
 picture, which might have responded to the touch of the 
 fair fingers of an ancestress of the Lady Barbara Noel. 
 
 TV hen the fit was upon him the old soldier would sit, 
 with his hands clutched convulsively, as if stiffened by 
 cramp, in the twisted woodwork arms of the antique chair, 
 his glance riveted on the eyes of the picture above the fire¬ 
 place. Thus would he remain for hours, uttering now and 
 then a groan or shriek of pain audible to his compassionate 
 neighbours. All the colour would die out of his weather¬ 
 beaten face, and strange hues of age and sickness would 
 creep over it; not a morsel passed his lips, not a tear de- 
 dewed his eyelids, till the paroxysm was past. He would 
 then get up and go about as though nothing had happened. 
 
 Sometimes he remained entranced for days together; 
 only moving, at intervals, to fetch a fresh jug of water from 
 the outside of the door, which he would, in his fiery thirst, 
 drain oft at a draught. No wonder, if, after such terrible 
 attacks, white lines were more numerous in his still thick 
 hair and beard, in some places black as night, or that the 
 eyelids drooped wearily over orbs at other times full of fiery 
 light. Years of prosperity might pass over a man’s head 
 
THE HALL AND THE GRANGE. 53 
 
 without ageing him as much as these periods of intense tor 
 ture. 
 
 Often at night, when every other occupant of Noel Hall 
 had been long in bed, a light might he seen burning in the 
 gateway tower, through the window that overlooked the 
 valley of the Lang; or, if all was still and dark within the 
 old walls, a worn, haggard face, nailed to the glass, would 
 turn its wild eyes eastward, in the direction where the young 
 moon silvered the tops of Miss Langdale’s trees. As the 
 planet rose higher and higher, glancing rays fell upon the 
 stream, and weird shadows were cast on the hill-side. 
 
 Perhaps the baying of a watch-dog at the neighbouring 
 farm, or the hooting of an owl, would disturb the hearer’s 
 reverie, and he crept shivering to his lair, like some hunted 
 animal; throwing his ponderous limbs on the old oak bed¬ 
 stead, which creaked and groaned as a ship’s timbers moan 
 when about to part in a storm. The tired soldier would 
 draw his cloak over his weary frame in vain; shivering 
 with cold, sleep far from his eyelids, he would lie awake till 
 dawn broke over the landscape ; or the first sun rays stole, 
 through the high uncurtained window, athwart his couch. 
 Then at last he would close his aching eyes and sleep dream- 
 lessly until the sun was high in heaven. The cheery song 
 of the workmen, the tap of the hammer, the driving of the 
 saw, after a time would dispel the enchantment, which had 
 banished alike the sense of present desolation and the 
 memor } 7 of the past. 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
PART THE SECOND. 
 
 CAUGHT IN THE SNOW-STORM. 
 
 Proud words are graven in the stone, 
 
 O’er my portal grey and low, 
 
 Boasts of the sons who have left me lone, 
 
 "Where tempests round me blow. 
 
 “ Ours is the soil of the old West-Riding !— 
 While sunlight gilds the dale :— 
 
 So long as the beck flows down from the moor 
 And the swallow flies over the vale.” 
 
 The children cluster at my door, 
 
 The beck flows darkened past, 
 
 Dim shadows flit across my floor, 
 
 Cold blows the wintry blast. 
 
 Through cracks and chinks the rain-drops steal, 
 Moss clings upon my walls, 
 
 And the stamp of labour’s heavy heel 
 Upon my pavement falls. 
 
 Where, oh where are the Mighty hiding 
 
 Who dwelt in the Halls of the old West-Riding? 
 
■ 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 * 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 . 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
CHAPTER I. 
 
 WINTER of unusual severity had passed away at 
 Godley Grange, and although Easter was close at 
 hand, the frost-bitten earth showed no token of 
 advancing spring. Hard and cold, the soil yielded little 
 encouragement to vegetation, and the March winds blighted 
 the shrinking buds and blossoms. 
 
 Mrs. Lang had suffered very much from the intense cold 
 of the season during the three winters spent at the Grange, 
 although she never quitted the two rooms facing the south, 
 which were appropriated to her use, and where every effort 
 was made to equalize the temperature. Bitterly had her 
 husband repented of his rashness in bringing the invalid 
 into Yorkshire, though his principal motive had been, to 
 obtain for the delicate mother of his children more comforts 
 in the old family mansion than were provided in temporary 
 foreign homes. The addition to his not over large income, 
 which his position afforded as principal clerk in the largest 
 house of business in the neighbouring manufacturing town, 
 was also an important consideration. 
 
 Fritz had not remained long at Godley, nor often visited 
 Yorkshire. He was not so persevering as his father, and 
 the prospect of being eventually Miss Langdale’s heir, helped 
 to unsettle him. An invitation to visit the elder brother 
 
.58 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF LANGE ALE HALL. 
 
 of one of his fellow-students, the head of one of the usually 
 exclusive aristocratic families of Germany, afforded irresist¬ 
 ible temptations, and was followed by many similar courte¬ 
 sies. The splendid hunting-grounds of the Austrian and 
 Prussian nobility, the perfect freedom of a sportsman’s life 
 in those extensive domains, offered a striking contrast to 
 the circumscribed precincts hemmed in by Miss Langdale’s 
 park fences and prerogatives. 
 
 Mr. Lang had pressed urgently upon his son the duty of 
 choosing a profession, and not depending upon uncertain 
 expectations ; but Fritz steadily refused to enter a counting- 
 house ; and felt no disposition towards any of the learned 
 professions. He was a great favourite with foreigners, and 
 had made friends in circles to which the generality of 
 Englishmen were not admitted. His German education, 
 and ardent love for, as well as skill and daring, in all manly 
 exercises and pursuits, made him popular with the owners 
 of the princely territories seldom visited by English sports¬ 
 men. His greatest friend, Count Max von Berliegen, pos¬ 
 sessed large estates, where he could roam at will, chasing 
 the deer or chamois. Fritz greatly preferred such a life to 
 being cooped up at Godley Grange, within the narrow ring 
 of Miss Langdale’s preserves. 
 
 The twins were growing up into pretty fair-haired girls, 
 so alike, that it was difficult to know them apart. Gertrude 
 and Frances attended alternately upon their mother or 
 managed the household. They knew more of the difficulties 
 of their father’s position, and entered more fully into his 
 anxieties now than their invalid mother. Frances, her 
 father said, was a capital woman of business. 
 
 Florence was more altered than any of her sisters. She 
 had shot up suddenly from the little slender child into a 
 tall, dark-haired girl. Her manners were singularly self- 
 
CA UGHT IN THE SNO W-STORM. 59 
 
 possessed, considering that she had lived in no society, and 
 enjoyed few advantages. She was still a great favourite 
 with all, and very good-tempered ; but there were points on 
 which her elder sisters were wont to say, if Flo had made 
 up her mind, it was of no use to contradict or argue with 
 her. 
 
 One of Flo's fancies was on all possible occasions to call 
 .and sign herself Langdale, although it was in opposition to 
 her father’s desire. As she had few correspondents, the 
 matter at present was of little consequence ; but her sisters 
 were right in blaming her, and in considering that it might 
 •occasion inconvenience, if she persisted in the practice after 
 she was grown up. She would undoubtedly excite her 
 father’s anger, if it were brought under his observation. 
 
 When quite a little child, if strangers asked her name, 
 Flo would answer “ Langdaleand Meredith, her nurse, a 
 worshipper of the old family, always encouraged her. “ Miss 
 Florence,” she would say, “ is a real Langdale, the image 
 of the lady at the Hall, who had been the greatest beauty 
 in all the country side.” Her little lady, Meredith would 
 say, when gossiping with her especial crony, the wife of the 
 head keeper, was the only regular Langdale amongst them. 
 She had a will of her own—just the same as Miss Lang- 
 ■dale. Truly, humility and dutifulness were not likely to 
 be inculcated by the old family servant, and in one, at least, 
 of these virtues, Florence was naturally deficient. She 
 now looked as much older than her age as she had previ¬ 
 ously appeared to be younger. The little one, as she was 
 •still called, although she had ceased to deserve the name, 
 
 was undeniably the beauty of the family. 
 
 The first person who noticed the alteration in Florence’s 
 manners and disposition, which had more than kept pace 
 with her growth, was her mother. Mrs. Lang pticeiv ed, 
 
60 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF LANG DALE HALL . 
 
 with one of the sharpest pangs which had ever pierced her 
 tender heart, that the little one came less often and less wil¬ 
 lingly than of yore, into her apartments—hitherto the sanc¬ 
 tuary into which all the hopes and fears of childhood, as 
 well as its fleeting j oys and sorrows, had been carried. The- 
 mother, with patient, watchful tenderness, tried to discover 
 the cause of Flo’s alienation, but the young girl’s reserve was 
 impenetrable. She came, indeed, at proper times to enquire 
 after and attend upon her mother, and was always attentive 
 and affectionate; but she no longer crept in unbidden, or 
 waited tearfully at the door, or sat quietly behind the cur¬ 
 tain, during her mother’s worst attacks of pain. Often, for¬ 
 merly, had Mrs. Lang put back the chintz hangings, feeling 
 instinctively that the little, sweet, anxious face of her 
 youngest-born would be revealed; and gathered the loving 
 child to her bosom, comforted by her sympathy. Now, when 
 startled by some indistinct sound, she looked round long¬ 
 ingly, if Florence were the appointed watcher, her mother 
 would see her sitting unoccupied, with a book in her lap, 
 gazing into the fire. 
 
 When the invalid spoke, Flo would rally back her 
 thoughts, and attend upon her devotedly, with more than a 
 child’s consideration; but, as soon as she was released from 
 duty, she would fall again into a reverie. When away from 
 her mother’s apartments, she would ramble about alone for 
 hours in the now leafless plantations ; forgetting to bring 
 home to gladden the sick-room, as had been her wont, the- 
 earliest primrose or violet. 
 
 Mrs. Lang’s medical attendant warned her husband that 
 some wearing mental disquietude aggravated her sufferings, 
 and prevented the remedies he prescribed having the proper 
 effect. For the first time since her marriage, the wife did 
 not confide this trouble to her husband. She knew that Flo- 
 
CA UGHT IN THE SNO W-STORM. 
 
 61 
 
 was not her father’s favourite child, and she feared that he 
 might exaggerate the failings which, even to herself, she was 
 not willing to admit existed in her darling. 
 
 To her father Flo was always submissive. In truth, she 
 was very much afraid of him. Her little ebullitions of pride, 
 vanity, and self-will, were carefully hidden from his view, 
 for her sisters still regarded her as a complete child. Not 
 one of the household would make a complaint which might 
 brine; the little one into trouble. 
 
 Florence took her own course unchecked, save occasion¬ 
 ally by a mild remonstrance on the part of her eldest sister, 
 when she persisted wilfully in signing herself Langdale, thus 
 making an inconvenient difference between herself and the 
 rest of the family. Why should she give up a name which 
 had come down to them through generations? Flo argued 
 passionately. Fritz signed his name as he liked, why might 
 not she? No one but herself ever touched the books on her 
 own shelves, where she had written her name properly, as 
 she considered, and as she liked to see it. 
 
 “ You may take my word for it, an English winter is not 
 the only reason for Mrs. Lang’s increased sufferings,” said 
 Dr. Forsyth, an old friend of the family, as he walked by 
 the side of the grave, anxious husband of his patient, up the 
 long winding avenue, leading from Godley Grange, towards 
 the gate where his carriage waited. “ Yorkshire is not such 
 a bad place after all, and the thick walls ot your old house, 
 together with your admirable daughter and excellent nurse’s 
 care, keep out the cold winds and draughts, as well as damp. 
 Nothing amiss, I hope, with that pretty little girl of yours, 
 Miss Florence ?” added the good doctor, with professional 
 acuteness, quickened by very sincere regard. ‘ She has 
 grown wonderfully of late, and I cannot help fancying she 
 
62 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 is rather delicate. Mrs. Lang looks a little uneasy about her,, 
 and says she wants air and exercise. She sighed as she said 
 so, after sending the young lady to take a long walk with 
 Mrs. Meredith. By the way, what a treasure that good ser¬ 
 vant of yours is ; I never saw a better nurse.” 
 
 “ No, no; Florence is all right,” said Mr. Lang, impa¬ 
 tiently. “ Thank goodness, none of my girls are delicate. 
 She has been growing very fast this winter, as you say, and 
 my poor wife thinks of, and takes care for, everybody. Of 
 course, she has anxieties. What mother of six children can 
 be free from them ? But we share them together. My wife 
 has never kept a secret from me since the day of our mar¬ 
 riage.” 
 
 O 
 
 “So much the better—I am glad to hear it,” said the 
 acute physician, who, nevertheless, had visited too many 
 households, and travelled too far in the West Biding for 
 many years, to take for granted the most confident assertion. 
 “ I suppose, as you are quite sure that Mrs. Lang has no 
 hidden, wearing subject for uneasiness pressing on her mind, 
 and retarding our efforts, we must trust that the approach 
 of a more genial season will bring about a pleasanter state of 
 affairs. Speaking of weather, I don’t like the look of those 
 blackish-blue clouds on the top of our great hill. The Beacon 
 is certainly putting on his niglit-cap. I think there will be 
 more snow and hail before night-fall. March is going out, 
 as he came in, like a lion. I wonder in which direction Miss- 
 Florence is walking? I might be able to give her a lift.” 
 
 “ Meredith was going to take some wine and warm cloth¬ 
 ing to a pensioner of ours who lodges at the old Hall at the 
 head of the valley, where the Noels once lived,” said Mr. 
 Lang, after a moment’s consideration. “ We—Marina and I 
 
 _owe him a good turn, and my wife never forgets a friend 
 
 or a service.” 
 
CAUGHT IN THE SNOW-STORM. 
 
 G3 
 
 “ I know whom you mean, and a strange creature lie is. 
 He saved a boy’s life last September, and got laid up with a 
 sprained back and acute rheumatism,” said the doctor, “ I 
 am afraid merit is its own reward here below, though we 
 will hope it has its guerdon in the courts above. But what 
 on earth could the old General, as the people at the Hall have 
 named him, ever have done for you and Mrs. Lang V 
 
 “ He saved Marina’s life,” said her husband, “ a life 
 most precious to us all. But for the General, as you call 
 him, Marina would have been drowned. The ship in which 
 she and her parents returned to England was lost, as you 
 well know, and only one little girl, my wife, was saved. 
 But for the old man at the Hall, she would never have 
 known me, or become the partner of my indifferent fortune^ 
 and the mother of my children.” 
 
 I)r. Forsyth looked at him sharply. “Come, come, man, 
 it is only right to give the devil his due. If that poor 
 fellow, Cuthbert Noel, never did another good deed, he 
 pulled that child out of the wreck of the Hesperus at the 
 risk of his life.” 
 
 “ Neither will I stand by and hear the old General de¬ 
 frauded of his dues,” said Mr. Lang, hotly. “ I do not 
 deny that Cuthbert Noel had a share in the work, but that 
 old soldier at the Hall brought her to shore in his arms. 
 He saw a black speck on the raging waters, and swam out. 
 That speck was Marina, wrapped up in an officer’s cloak. 
 He has it to this day.” 
 
 “ I do not suppose that, excepting the great lady at the 
 Hall, there is a soul now living wdio cares much for Bertie 
 Noel,” said the doctor, as he stepped into his gig. “ And 
 yet he was no one’s enemy so much as his own. You and 
 he were never the best of friends.” 
 
 - “ I am not his enemy now,” said Mr. Lang. “ Death 
 
*04 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 settles all scores—even the longest—but the old man at 
 Noel Hall is the only living being to whom I can manifest 
 my gratitude for Marina’s preservation from shipwreck.” 
 
 “ Well, be it so,” said the doctor, giving his reins a vin¬ 
 dictive shake, and drawing his plaid rug over his legs, as he 
 settled himself in the driving seat. “I think gratitude 
 should survive even death itself; and I have no notion of 
 transferring the remembrance of a benefit, like a ticket for 
 n raree-show, to a person who had, I firmly believe, no more 
 to do than I had in rescuing your wife from the cold 
 embrace of the water. For that matter I had a great deal 
 more to do with her preservation, for, as I will do you the 
 justice to admit, you have never forgotten, I brought the child 
 back to life and warmth, and got rid of the cold water out 
 of her little body. But I never heard till this moment that 
 yonder old pauper had any share in the business.” 
 
 “ Pardon me, Forsyth, in this matter, I am not likely to 
 be mistaken ; and I assure you, on my word of honour, that 
 the General took part in the brave and efficient aid rendered 
 to the beloved woman whom you and others rescued from a 
 watery grave,” said Mr. Lang, shaking hands warmly with 
 his friend. “Now if you are going over the hill, look 
 out for my little daughter. My wife is sure to see those 
 snow-laden clouds, coming up from the direction in which 
 she has sent her.” 
 
 “ You will have to give up calling her ‘ The Little One ’ 
 soon,” the doctor said, good liumouredly. “Miss Flo will be a 
 beauty like her cousin, Miss Langdale.” 
 
 “ I trust she will be a better woman,” said Mr. Lang, 
 sternly ; “I do not like them to be named in the same 
 sentence.” 
 
 He walked quickly back to the house, and up to his wife’s 
 room, where, as he expected, Mrs. Lang was anxiously 
 
CA UGHT IN THE SNO W-STORM. 65 
 
 watching the weather. Mr. Lang assured her that Dr. 
 Forsyth had promised to bring Florence back with him, and 
 judging by the pace at which his fine old mare had started, 
 and by his usual rate of progiess, it would not take him long 
 to reach the ancient house of the Noels. 
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 The wind blew strongly and right in his teeth, after Dr. 
 Forsyth parted from Mr. Lang at the sheltered gate of the 
 Grange. Accustomed as she was to encounter on those 
 bleak hills the fiercest extremes of weather, his fine old 
 black mare shuddered, as after breasting the steep ascent, 
 she came full into the sweep of the gale. 
 
 The good doctor looked sharply over the hedges, or stone 
 enclosures, at the clearly defined pathway across the fields. 
 Grey slabs laid down between bright green grass, and stone 
 walls indented by narrow apertures, or with steps on either 
 side, afforded easy means of crossing on foot those verdant 
 pastures. At intervals the path dipped down into thick 
 coverts of foliage, as yet leafless ; and narrow foot-bridges 
 were laid over a brawling beck, hidden among trees ; but he 
 
 could see no one on the footway. 
 
 He touched the mare with the whip when they reached 
 the higher level overlooking the valley of the Lang, and 
 drove on fast * hoping to be in time to prevent the young 
 lady and her attendant from leaving the shelter x)f the old 
 Hall; still far above him. 
 
 Another sharp ascent obliged him to slacken speed, and, 
 
 at a turn in the road, a close carriage passed the doctor’s 
 
 5 
 
66 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 gig. Accustomed to being out at all hours and seasons, 
 pacing the same monotonous round of professional duty, 
 Dr. Forsyth knew most persons on his beat: but though 
 he was quite familiar with the appearance of Miss Langdale’s 
 equipage, liveries, and servants, it was almost the first time 
 he had ever met her driving out in her carriage on a week¬ 
 day. 
 
 The wind nearly blew his hat out of the Doctor’s hand,, 
 and played roughly with his grey locks, as he uncovered 
 them, to salute the ladies seated opposite to each other in the 
 carriage. Dr. Forsyth almost forgot to put his hat on 
 again, when his sharp eyes noticed that Florence Lang was 
 seated side by side with the lady of the Hall, whilst Mere¬ 
 dith, bolt upright, occupied the opposite place next to Miss 
 Ellinor Langdale. 
 
 “ The little one ” looked flushed and happy, not in the 
 least awed by her formidable companion, and the first smile 
 Dr, Forsyth had seen there since the days of her beaming, 
 beautiful youth, sat on the lips, and lighted up the dark eyes 
 of Maud Langdale, as she listened to her young cousin. 
 
 Not one of the party inside the carriage noticed Dr. For¬ 
 syth’s polite salutation. The servants touched their hats, 
 and in a moment the vision, stereotyped in the Doctor’s 
 retentive memory by that one quick glance, had swept past 
 him. 
 
 “ No occasion to call for ‘ the little one ’ at Noel Hall,” 
 he muttered to himself. “ Miss Florence is better off inside 
 that snug close carriage, than she would be in my old gig, 
 facing this hail storm. Strange though ! I should never 
 have thought that Miss Langdale would have given a lift to 
 one of the family at the Grange. That was one of her old 
 smiles! She looked quite handsome. Come, come, old 
 lady,” lie added, addressing the mare, to whom, in his long, 
 
CAUGHT IN THE SNOW-STORM. 
 
 07 
 
 lonely rides, lie constantly talked. “ We can take the lower 
 . road now, and the sooner yon are in your warm stable, this 
 rough evening, the better.” 
 
 The good Doctor drove on quickly after this colloquy, or 
 soliloquy • visiting many a remote homestead on his lonely 
 round of country practice, where he chatted pleasantly with 
 the families of his patients.. He was known and loved 
 through all the country-side, and could have told many a 
 tale which would have surprised his hearers; but he was 
 equally discreet and intelligent. 
 
 He was by no means devoid of curiosity, and his next 
 visit to Godley Grange was paid earlier than might other¬ 
 wise have been the case ; owing to his intense desire to ascer¬ 
 tain what effect his usually haughty kinswoman’s courtesy 
 might have had upon its master. 
 
 Mr. Lang, however, was not at home; and the Doctor, 
 who always acted pautiously, said nothing to the invalid 
 respecting the occurrence he had noticed. His visit was 
 most welcome. Florence, her mother said, was ill. She 
 had caught a severe, feverish cold the day of the great hail 
 and snow storm. Mrs. Lang had been on the point of send¬ 
 ing for him, when his gig stopped at the gate. 
 
 “ Oh, indeed,” said the Doctor, while the vision he had 
 seen of the flushed face, just visible through the carriage 
 window, returned to his recollection. “ What a pity I did 
 not fall in with her a little sooner. If she had waited at 
 Noel Hall she would have escaped the storm altogether. It 
 passed over much more quickly than I expected. My mare 
 could hardly keep her legs at one time. I was glad to turn 
 into the lower road.” 
 
 “ Flo is a tender plant,” said her mother, with a sigh, 
 “ I am never quite easy about her. She did not seem more 
 wet than she might have been after running up the avenue, 
 
 K _9 
 
 o —-j 
 
68 THE MISTRESS OF LANGE ALE HALL. 
 
 when caught at the gate in a shower ; ancl our children are 
 accustomed to going out in rough weather. Nevertheless,* 
 she has been unwell ever since. Last night she was very 
 feverish. Gertrude will take you at once to see her.” 
 
 Dr. Forsyth followed Miss Lang silently to the room called 
 the nursery, which of late had belonged especially to “ the 
 little one.” The door next to this apartment opened into 
 the work-room, where Meredith was sitting diligently occu¬ 
 pied with her needle. She did not even look up as they 
 passed. 
 
 Florence was lying on a small couch by the fire, with her 
 eyes full of tears. The feverishness had passed off, and she 
 looked very pale and languid. An open book lay beside 
 her, but she was not reading. 
 
 “ Leave me alone with your sister for a few minutes,” the 
 Doctor whispered to his companion. “ She looks very far 
 from well. I should like to have a little conversation with 
 her.” 
 
 Miss Lang complied immediately with his request, and 
 waited for him in the next room. Dr. Forsyth entered the 
 old nursery alone, closing the door carefully behind him. 
 
 Florence, who had not at all expected this visit, started 
 nervously. Her pale cheeks were flushed instantly with 
 crimson, as she rose to greet him. 
 
 “ Lie still, my dear, I am sorry to see you so poorly,” said 
 the Doctor kindly, making her resume her recumbent posi¬ 
 tion, and taking her hand in his own, as he sat down beside 
 her. “ So you caught cold from getting wet last Saturday. 
 How did that happen ? I meant to have brought you home 
 in my gig, but you seemed still better off, when I passed 
 you on the road. I thought you looked very happy and 
 comfortable in Miss Langdale’s family coach. Did she take 
 you up too late, or set you down too soon 1 I should like 
 
CA UOHT IN THE SNO W-STORM. 69 
 
 to hear all about it. Perhaps your boots were wet before 
 you got into the carriage T 
 
 “ I don’t know—I don’t care !” exclaimed Florence, burst¬ 
 ing into tears. “ Oh, Dr. Forsyth. I hope you have not 
 told them that you saw me in Miss Langdale’s carriage 1 
 It was against papa’s orders. He will never, never, forgive 
 me.” 
 
 “ Nonsense, my dear,” said the Doctor, patting kindly the 
 little hand that trembled in his grasp. “ Why, if your 
 worst enemy had offered you a lift in that hail-storm, you 
 would have been a goose not to accept it. So this has made 
 you ill 1 I thought you could not have had much of a 
 wetting ! You were afraid to tell your father and mother 
 who brought you home. Take my advice, and always tell 
 the whole truth at once. It is much more difficult to confess 
 it afterwards.” 
 
 “ Oh, I dare not, I cannot tell my father and mother how 
 kind Miss Langdale is to me. They would not believe it. 
 I am afraid they hate her,” said Florence, starting up from 
 the couch. “ Promise, dear, kind Dr. Forsyth, not to say 
 a word. I will take as much physic as you like. Indeed, 
 indeed, I have told no stories. No one asked me a single 
 question, except whether I had seen you, and I said, no. I 
 really, and truly, did not see you on the road at all. Mere¬ 
 dith and I had just left the Hall, when the carriage over¬ 
 took us, and Miss Langdale said ‘ Jump in, little one,’ and I 
 got in. Meredith sat opposite to me. Miss Langdale was 
 as pleasant as possible. I cannot help loving her. It was 
 as warm and soft in her carriage, as it was hard and cold on 
 the road and across the fields. Meredith said that papa 
 would be very angry, and he would tell my mother. Per¬ 
 haps it would bring on one of her terrible illnesses. Oh, 
 
70 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 please, please, say nothing about your having seen me in 
 Miss Langdale’s carriage.” 
 
 “Well, for my part, I hate petty mysteries,” said the Doc¬ 
 tor testily. “ I can keep a really important secret, but 
 trifles are sure to ooze out. There, now, I did not mean to 
 set you off crying again. I don’t want to vex you. We 
 will see about it. Let me feel your pulse.” 
 
 As Flo timidly held out her hand the Doctor noticed on 
 one of her small Angers an old-fashioned ring. 
 
 “ That is a gem of the first water,” he said, with the 
 enthusiasm of a connoisseur. “ When I have a little 
 daughter of your age, I shall not let her wear such valu¬ 
 able ornaments, especially when they are so large that they 
 will hardly stay on her fingers. That ring might drop off 
 any moment, when you were running about in the garden. 
 It ought to be an heirloom.” 
 
 Flo pulled off her ring, hurriedly. “ Oh, I only wear it 
 when I am here—all alone. You gave me such a surprise, 
 Dr. Forsyth, I forgot to take it off. Please not to mention 
 my ring any more than your having met me with Miss 
 Langdale.” 
 
 “ I wonder how many more secrets you expect me to 
 keep, young lady ?” said the Doctor. “ Did Miss Langdale 
 give you this ring ?” 
 
 “ Yes ;” said Florence, colouring violently. “ Papa would 
 not let me keep it, I know, and I could not bear to give it 
 up. It would break my heart if it were sent away.” 
 
 “ You may depend upon it I will tell no tales while you 
 are my patient,” said the Doctor kindly, anxious to quiet 
 her increasing excitement. “ It all depends on your good 
 behaviour, afterwards. Try and get better, and we will 
 have another talk over this matter. I make no promises, 
 remember, for the future, excepting that you shall have fair 
 
CA UGHT IN THE SNO W-STORM. 71 
 
 warning before I say a word to any one else. At present 
 you can get into no more scrapes, lor I foibid your leu^ mg 
 your room, and you must tube some medicine tliat X will 
 send you. It shall not be very disagreeable. Do not think 
 about Miss Langdale more than you can help, and lock up 
 your ring in your trinket box, for a fortnight. Do not look 
 at it once during that time. I do not believe that it will 
 seem such a loss then, if you think it right to part with 
 it, as it would be to forfeit the love and confidence of youi 
 sweet mother. Now go to sleep if you can, or read your 
 book. To-morrow I will bring Nina to see you. Don’t 
 make troubles for yourself causelessly, about what will be 
 just the same a hundred years hence, whether we worry 
 ourselves about it, or not, in the meantime. 
 
 With this philosophical conclusion the Doctor took 
 leave of his patient. Flo obeyed him implicitly, so far 
 as locking up her ring was concerned, and after a short 
 time she went to sleep over her book : thoroughly worn out 
 with fatigue, but relieved from the dread of immediate be¬ 
 trayal. 
 
 The first point, in the Doctor’s opinion, was to keep Ins 
 excitable patient cpiiet. He thought her looking extremely 
 delicate, and felt considerable alarm respecting her state of 
 health. “ Just the subject for brain fever,” he muttered, as 
 he descended the stairs, after noticing that Mrs. Meredith’s 
 room was vacant. He found her waiting upon her invalid 
 mistress, with the attentive care which made her services in 
 
 the sick chamber so invaluable. 
 
 For the present, at all events, the Doctor considered 
 himself bound in honour to keep his patient’s secret. He 
 told her mother and sisters that Flo wanted perfect quiet 
 and soothing care. Medicine suitable for hei condition 
 should be sent immediately, and must be regularly admims 
 
72 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 tered. Should any change of an unfavourable nature take 
 place, it would be desirable to let him know without 
 delay. 
 
 Florence was greatly relieved when Gertrude’s tender 
 manner convinced her that her secret was undiscovered. 
 The draughts arrived in due course of time, and assuaged 
 her nervous irritability. At the end of a week her health 
 seemed to be re-established, though her mother and Dr. 
 Forsyth still regarded her with considerable anxiety. 
 
 It was in vain that Flo tried to gain courage, day after 
 day, to reveal the trifling deception which, as her kind 
 friend and confidant tried to i:>ersuade her, bore with it an 
 excuse; as in such a storm any shelter was not to be de¬ 
 spised. Florence knew, in her heart of hearts, that this was 
 not her first indiscretion; and that, over and over again, she 
 had disobeyed her parents’ orders. She instinctively feared 
 that one disclosure would lead the way to others. 
 
 Dr. Forsyth renewed his solicitations, and Florence’s 
 favourite friend and companion, his invalid niece, who was 
 in her confidence, also urged upon her the advantages of 
 candour; but it was entirely without success that they 
 pleaded the cause of truth. The little lady could not see 
 the matter from their point of view, and remained obstinately 
 silent. Nevertheless, and in spite of the inutility of his 
 counsels and arguments, Florence wound herself into his 
 affections. 
 
 “ After all,” he murmured, as he drove along, after leaving 
 the Grange, “perhaps the little lady is right; and, be that 
 as it may, I will not be the means of getting her into dis¬ 
 grace. If Frank Lang has a fault, it is too great a resent¬ 
 ment of injuries. Everything comes to an end in time ; and 
 so, if he would meet her half way, or even a quarter, there 
 might be a termination to his cousin’s vindictiveness. Ho 
 
CAUGHT IN THE SNOW-STORM. 
 
 73 
 
 is such a peculiar fellow—no wonder my little friend, Miss 
 Florence, is a trifle obstinate. What nonsense he talked the 
 other day about that old fellow, at Noel Hall, saving Mrs. 
 Lang’s life; when everybody knows that it was poor Cuth- 
 bert who swam out to the ship and brought her to shore. 
 But it is of no use to attempt to turn him from his convic¬ 
 tion. Lang will tell the story in his own way to the day of 
 his death.” 
 

 
PART THE THIRD. 
 
 THE RUINED NOELS. 
 
 As snow in April, sudden falling, 
 
 In its fair graceful mantle veils 
 Flowers, leaves, and blossoms, just recalling 
 That Spring-time upon Winter steals. 
 
 Half hidden by that ivy wreath 
 
 The rocks, and streams, and woods abide, 
 While Nature bright and warm beneath, 
 Shows like a veiled and blushing bride. 
 
 » 
 
 R. M. K. 
 
CHAPTER I. 
 
 LLINOR LANGDALE was standing at one of the 
 windows of the Hall, looking out at the white 
 flakes of snow, falling on terrace and wall. At 
 no time did the old house look so beautiful as during the 
 first days of the frequent storms of snow, in that northern 
 county, before its purity was dimmed by passing footsteps 
 or the soft breathing of the thaw; at this season the frost 
 seldom lasted long. 
 
 The ice on the pond below was covered with a soft 
 white carpet; the trees in the dough, hooded like nuns, 
 shook off, ever and anon as the March wind swept past, 
 their heavy cowls; and, here and there, on the borders of 
 the parterre, a timid spring flower peeped out through the 
 snow. 
 
 “You are not going to ride to-day, Maud !” said her sis¬ 
 ter, turning from the window. “ There is a strong wind, 
 and the drifts will be deep in the valleys. I am glad we 
 made our annual round of visits yesterday.” 
 
 “Yes,” said Miss Langdale, laying down her riding-hat 
 and gloves, and joining her sister at the 'window. “ The 
 weather is not worse than it was when you objected to 
 going out last Saturday. It was most fortunate I did not 
 yield. I would not for worlds have missed the opportunity 
 
78 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 of taking that pretty, delicate girl, home. Her parents 
 should be more careful. 
 
 Ellinor looked at her sister with surprise. Many a snow¬ 
 storm had whirled round her—many a hurricane had she 
 encountered on the plains and hills, darkness had fallen 
 upon her in the valley, without Maud’s troubling herself to 
 send even a dog in search of her. The sudden outburst of 
 womanly tenderness was quite unusual. 
 
 “ I wish, Maud, if you feel so kindly towards this young 
 girl, you would shew some sympathy with the rest of the 
 family ! Her poor mother has been sinking gradually ever 
 since they came to live at Godley, and we have never sent 
 even a civil message of enquiry. I would have given much, 
 in the summer, to be allowed to take a basket of fruit, or 
 to send game in the winter to the invalid: but I fancied 
 your prejudice, against the whole family, was so inveterate 
 that I did not venture to propose the smallest act of neigh¬ 
 bourly kindness.” 
 
 “ My prejudice, as you call it, does not extend to Flo¬ 
 rence Langdale,” said her sister, sternly. “I warn you, 
 Ellinor, that you have a formidable rival in that child.” 
 
 Her sister’s face flushed slightly as she answered. “ Do 
 not sow enmity, Maud, in that poor but united household, 
 by instilling ambitious hopes in the mind of that young 
 girl. I confess that I like her less than her sisters. Her 
 face has not the same open expression. She is vain and 
 ambitious, if I am not mistaken, longing for luxuries and 
 splendour above her station.” 
 
 “ You are jealous, Ellinor,” said Miss Langdale, “ and 
 not without cause. That girl has, as you say, ambition 
 and vanity. She has also a strong character, and will one 
 day be a beautiful woman, worthy of wealth and station. 
 For that matter, she comes of a good stock, and. has our 
 
THE RUINED NOELS. 
 
 79 
 
 blood in her veins. Next to yourself, the Langdales of 
 Godley Grange are my nearest relatives; nay, perhaps, 
 nearer than we are to each other, since we are only sisters 
 on the father’s side. Frank Lang, as he chooses to call 
 himself, is the grandson of my grandfather and grand¬ 
 mother.” 
 
 “I am quite aware of it, Maud,” said Ellinor, drawing 
 up her fair head haughtily. “ To what end is this dis¬ 
 cussion T 
 
 “ To prepare you for what may happen, if you persist in 
 refusing the terms on which I offered to make you my 
 heiress,” said Miss Langdale, impetuously. “ I do not 
 wish this property to go away from the Langdales, but I 
 will not suffer a chance to exist, that I can prevent, of 
 Marina Lang’s being ever mistress of Langdale Hall. If I 
 were to make the proposal to that girl which you, three 
 years ago, would not condescend to accept, Florence would 
 not reject it: and, ultimately, when I am in my grave, and 
 after her life tenure ceases, young Frederick Langdale, 
 against whom I entertain no rancour, would inherit all. I 
 am not old ; but I want to put a life between me and him; 
 and that life shall not be his father’s.” 
 
 “ Better at once leave the property to Frederick Lang¬ 
 dale,” said Ellinor. “I would far rather give up my 
 chance of inheritance to him than to his sister. T\ hat 
 heartburnings and jealousy it would cause! Her young 
 life would be blighted, as you wished mine to be ; and he 
 might, probably would, waste his whole life in dreams of 
 hopes deferred. Maud, you are preparing misery for us all. 
 
 “ No, Ellinor. It was your own romantic, unruly fancy 
 which made you reject real, tangible good for the sake of a 
 happiness which existed only in your imagination. As j et 
 you have never loved. Be warned in time. Take the gift 
 
•so 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 I am ready to give to-day—to-morrow it may not be in your 
 power or mine to offer or to accept it.” 
 
 “ That must be as you please, Maud,” said her sister, 
 looking out over the snowy landscape, with eyes blinded by 
 tears. “ I may never love. I may never marry. The 
 future lies in God’s hand; but I will not bind myself by 
 the conditions you. impose.” 
 
 “ On your head be the consequences,” said Miss Lang- 
 dale, taking up her hat and gloves, and leaving the room, 
 while Ellinor knelt down, laying her head on the oak 
 wainscot, and crying like a child. What would the young, 
 tender girl have given at that moment for the love of a 
 living mother, for the protecting care of a father—that 
 father and mother whom she faintly remembered the mas¬ 
 ter and mistress of Langdale Hall,—where she now felt like 
 an interloper! 
 
 Deeper and deeper fell the snow, drifting into the valleys 
 and stopping all j communication. For many days people 
 were imprisoned in their houses, and then, with a burst of 
 joy, Spring broke over the land. Brooks swelled into tor¬ 
 rents with'the melting of the snow ; at the old Hall, at the 
 head of the valley, the workmen were again engaged, mend¬ 
 ing the damage caused \ by the heavy floods that poured 
 down from the high roofs and chimneys of the dwelling 
 and out-offices f but the genial warmth and fresh winds soon 
 dried up the deluge, and on t the coping-stone corner of the 
 old Avail, wrapped in his blue roquelaure, the General sat, 
 like “the monarch of all he surveyed,” enjoying the April 
 .sunshine. 
 
THE RUINED NOELS. 
 
 81 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 A FAIR youth, staff in hand, was walking quickly through 
 one of the romantic gorges which intersect the hills between 
 Lancashire and Yorkshire. In summer, these rocky high¬ 
 lands are full of sunshine and beauty, whilst the melting of 
 the winter snows, or the violent floods of rain which accom_ 
 pany the severe thunder storms which often break over them, 
 convert the narrow valleys into channels for rushing, roar 
 ing torrents. 
 
 At the present moment the bed of the Calder was full, 
 but not overflowing : birds were building in the tufted 
 branches overhead, and the voices of the peasants, busy 
 with their spring crops in every overhanging croft that would 
 allow of cultivation, were borne upon the breeze that swept 
 through the hawthorn and hazel bushes. 
 
 “ When the trout darted and the pigeons cooed, humanity 
 was sparse,” says a clever modern writer. “ Now it teems 
 o’er dell and hill-side. Yet there is something more deserv¬ 
 ing; admiration in Calder Dale now than formerly. There 
 is token of prosperity, there is work for nimble fingers, 
 work for active brains. Intelligence which before lay dor¬ 
 mant has been elicited. Energy which before was undi¬ 
 rected finds now a legitimate field for exercise.” * 
 
 Centuries ago the traveller in these wild recesses of the 
 hills, or on the moors above, might have been bewildered 
 among winding paths through heathery wastes and tangled 
 thickets—at a later date he would have found the people 
 weaving and spinning in their own houses ; now the roar ot 
 factories fills the air, and mill after mill spans the stream 
 
 * “Through Flood and Flame.”—By Baking Gould. 
 
 6 
 
S2 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF RANGE ALE HALL. 
 
 and casts down, nightly, the reflection of its serried rows of 
 blazing windows into the water. 
 
 Just over the road a crag seemed to start out from a wall of 
 rock, like an eagle in the act of springing on its prey; whilst, 
 as if in contrast with the sublime features of the natural 
 landscape, a train rushed through the valley, filling it with 
 clouds of smoke; and the screech of the signal-whistle over¬ 
 powered the sweet notes of the thrushes and blackbirds. A 
 large factory filled up all the space left by the railway, the 
 bridge over the river, and the road through the Eagle’s Gorge. 
 
 Accustomed to the free range of wide domains where com¬ 
 merce has not laid her disfiguring touch—flinging the 
 smoke-wreaths of trade over the beautiful arches of Kirk- 
 stall, and blackening the glad rejoicing streams that rise to 
 the light of day only to fall back dimmed and polluted— 
 the young man looked angrily at the visible tokens of 
 industrious prosperity everywhere surrounding him: all 
 along the course of the river, mills, hamlets, and factories, 
 bad sprung up. The water-privilege had been used and 
 abused to the fullest extent; and neither his age nor his 
 disposition prompted him to look for good under the un¬ 
 sightly mantle which had fallen upon a grand and beautiful 
 scene. Had it been Sunday, the atmosphere would have 
 regained its natural purity; or had he been wandering in the 
 lovely valley of the Bib urn, the mills would have consumed 
 their own smoke ; but, here, the wind, blowing from the 
 west, sent the smoke before it down the dale, and the sound 
 of the machinery at work echoed from the rocky overhanging 
 crags. 
 
 A great bell rang out suddenly, and the mills poured 
 forth their busy hands. In a moment the valley was full of 
 life—over the high bridge—along the winding road—here 
 pausing to gossip—there delaying to meet, or hurrying to 
 
THE RUINED NOELS. 
 
 83 
 
 overtake some favourite companion—came pretty young girls 
 with bright-coloured shawls drawn over their heads and 
 pinned beneath their chins. For a moment, as, one after 
 another, merry groups passed him, the youth thought there 
 were some adjuncts of picturesque beauty in the workings 
 of commerce. 
 
 When the mills stopped, the smoke for a while cleared 
 off—the great piles of rock stood out against the clear sky 
 —here and there a gleam of scarlet, crimson, purple, or 
 magenta showed the presence of the mill-girls, returning 
 homeward, to cottages clustered in the roughs above the 
 wooded valley. The last faint gleam of colour died away— 
 the last whirl of black smoke cleared off—the puff of the 
 engine of the six o’clock train, with its curl of white vapour 
 wound out of sight, and the youth for half-an-hour seemed 
 to have the Eagle’s Gorge to himself. 
 
 Fritz climbed up a steep path that led away from the 
 dusty high-road, and cast himself down under a clump of 
 trees. The first news of his mother’s .increased illness had 
 brought him home ;—away from his sporting friends—from 
 his free life at the Chateau in Upper Austria, which was 
 like home to him,—back to the narrow, circumscribed orbit 
 of domestic life. He had unhesitatingly obeyed the sum¬ 
 mons, but now, though deeply thankful to find immediate 
 cause for anxiety past, he liked Godley Grange less than ever. 
 
 His sisters were too much engaged in attending upon 
 their mother, and in household matters, to be as constant 
 and amusing companions as formerly. Gertrude, his espe¬ 
 cial favourite, now seldom left Mrs. Lang’s room for more 
 than an hour in the twilight, when Fritz usually took a 
 little walk with her. The pale, patient girl will miss him 
 this evening. He is miles away from home, lying in a lazy 
 discontented mood under the birch trees at Todmorden ! 
 
 G—2 
 
84 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 Fritz was just beginning to think of his long walk home,, 
 when the last of the stragglers from the mill came, suddenly, 
 round the corner of the rocky pathway towards him. A 
 young, dark-haired girl, her bright locks covered by a Rob- 
 Roy plaid, fastened under her chin with a Scottish pebble ; 
 her short black petticoat revealing small feet and delicate 
 ankles. She stopped shyly for a moment on seeing a gentle¬ 
 man, then, modestly and quietly, passed on, with a slight 
 respectful gesture, full of natural dignity. 
 
 The young man rose slowly after the girl had passed him, 
 and followed her at a distance. He did not for a moment 
 think of addressing her; for he was of a chivalrous dispo¬ 
 sition, and the girl’s dress showed her to be of humbler 
 station than his own ; one to whom the open expression 
 of his involuntary admiration would be insulting. Neither 
 was there anything in her manner to encourage a stranger 
 in taking a liberty. Still, almost unconsciously, he yielded 
 to the desire of knowing whither her light, buoyant foot¬ 
 steps were carrying her. The path wound upward and on¬ 
 ward through thickets of blackthorn and hazel, and larch, 
 with tassels hanging from the boughs and bursting leaves ; 
 then it dipped down suddenly into an orchard full of bud¬ 
 ding blossoms, with the sweet scent of hidden violets per¬ 
 fuming the air, and banks starred with primroses. 
 
 Fritz wandered on, though he had lost sight of the bright 
 shawl and black skirt,—past old crumbling walls of out- 
 offices, fallen completely to decay, and overgrown with stone- 
 crop and ivy,—till he came in sight of one of the few small, 
 old stone Mansions which may still be found in that district. 
 
 The one in front of which he suddenly stopped, conscious 
 that he was trespassing, was square-built and solid, with 
 marks of wind and weather on its venerable front, which 
 was mantled by a large-leaved creeper, framing in a bay- 
 
THE R UINED NOELS. 
 
 85 
 
 window and an escutcheon, beneath which was the date of 
 the erection of the building. 
 
 Another Ion" low window—with stone mullions ancl cu- 
 
 O 
 
 rious antique painted glass in the upper panes, whilst the 
 lower ones were left clear—overlooked the gravelled court 
 in front of the old house. The narrow casement between 
 the deep mullions stood open, and Fritz saw the scarlet- 
 hooded maiden gazing from it. An older female in black, 
 with her hair drawn off her face under a white plaited 
 muslin cap—evidently a widow—was standing in the door¬ 
 way feeding poultry. 
 
 The low sunlight glanced on the bright wings of the fowls 
 as they fluttered about, picking up their food. White 
 pigeons came down from the roofs and settled on the 
 woman’s shoulder and sleeve, cooing, and receiving a portion 
 of the banquet. Two little blue terriers with their long 
 hair blown back and shining like silver, ran out barking at 
 the stranger; as he stood still for a moment, admiring the 
 pretty rural scene, and anxious to apologise for trespassing 
 upon it. 
 
 “ Bertina,” said the woman at the door, looking up from 
 satisfying her clamorous pensioners, “ come out and tell 
 the gentleman the way. I know nothing about this part of 
 the country, sir; I never leave home from one years end 
 to another.” 
 
 Her eyes filled with tears as she spoke, and she smoothed 
 nervously the wide lappets of her cap hanging down over 
 her black dress. The girl came forward bashfully, and stood 
 in the ancient portal beside her. In feature and figure, 
 making allowance for difference in age, the mother and 
 daughter were very much alike. 
 
 “ You must go back all the way, to where I saw you sit¬ 
 ting under the birch trees,” she said. “The road to the 
 
THE MISTRESS OF LANGE ALE HALL . 
 
 80 
 
 station runs just below. I am sorry you did not ask me 
 when I passed you. It would have saved you the long 
 walk." 
 
 “ Indeed I do not regret it," said Fritz. “ I am a stranger 
 in this part of the country, and I have seen few quaint old 
 houses like yours. I hate these mills and factories, and the 
 ostentatious dwellings of the merchants and mill-owners ; 
 and I regret the ruin which has fallen on the fine old houses 
 of the gentry of the West Riding. Yours is the only one I 
 have seen in good order, excepting, indeed, the one in which 
 my family have recently taken up their abode." 
 
 “ We can scarcely call ourselves gentlefolks,” said the 
 widow. “ Come in, sir, if you like, and rest a while, and 
 see our old house. It is curious, and we try to keep it in 
 order, but it is a struggle. My daughter has a position of 
 responsibility at the Mill—though she is so young she is 
 steady enough to be one of the Overlookers—and she 
 manages to keep order among girls older and more unruly 
 than herself. I fancy it is often difficult, but she is too 
 good to worry me with complaints for which there is no re¬ 
 dress, since she cannot afford to give up her employment.” 
 
 While she was speaking, the widow led the way indoors, 
 and into the principal sitting-room, the one looking out into 
 the court-yard. At the further end was a high chimney- 
 piece, curiously inlaid with foreign woods, and wide steps 
 on each side of the hearth. Above was the same date as 
 the one over the door, and a Latin inscription, with a coat 
 of arms. 
 
 “ That is the crest of the Noels,” said Fritz. “ I have 
 seen it often in the old Hall, near my father’s house, which 
 once belonged to that family, but is now utterly dilapidated.” 
 
 “ Yes,” said the widow, while the colour, which seemed 
 to have utterly deserted it, suddenly flushed her pale face; 
 
THE RUINED NOELS . 
 
 S7 
 
 “ this house still belongs to the Noels. It is pretty nearly 
 all they have left. And this young girl, who has to work 
 for her bread at the Mill in the valley, is Bertina Noel, the 
 last of the race.” 
 
 The young man, thoroughly aristocratic in his tastes, and 
 rendered more so by association with the exclusive nobility 
 of Austria and Bavaria, looked, with increased respect and 
 admiration, at the descendant of the ruined Noels. The girl 
 did not manifest as much emotion as her mother, blie 
 stood, calm, quiet, and dignified, in her virgin modesty, as 
 though the innate loftiness and integrity of her character 
 lifted her above worldly pride, and said, gently— 
 
 “ Do not speak of that, mother. Since it is God’s will 
 that we should be poor, it is no degradation to work for our 
 livelihood.” 
 
 “God’s will and man’s wickedness,” said the mother, with 
 more anger and less resignation. “ But the child is right, 
 as she always is, for that matter; and I must ask you to 
 forgive me, sir, for troubling a stranger like yourself with 
 my woes. ‘ The heart knoweth its own bitterness, and 
 there are times when I think, ‘ no sorrow is like unto my 
 sorrow,’ but it passes off, and I remember that I have still 
 many blessings to be thankful for. Bertina, fetch some 
 milk, and a crust of the loaf. I have no wine to offer you, 
 sir; but of such as we have you are most cordially welcome 
 to partake. You must have had a long walk, if your house 
 is anywhere near the old Hall.” 
 
 Fritz willingly accepted the proffered hospitality, and 
 thought that the cool sweet milk was like nectar, when 
 handed to him by the pretty Overlooker at the Mill. The 
 home-made loaf, set before him with some preserved straw¬ 
 berries, tasted deliciously, and the repast was one fit foi the 
 gods, with Ilebe for their cup-bearer. 
 
88 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 The pale blue sky was set thickly with stars, which, in the 
 deepening twilight, shone forth more and more strongly, as 
 Fritz retraced his way along the path towards the Factory. 
 There was no gleam of scarlet, no light footstep now to lead 
 him on; the road seemed much longer and duller than before. 
 
 At last he reached the spot above the river where he had 
 cast himself down to rest; and, hurrying on, was just in 
 time to catch the evening train to Hazeldon. The carriage 
 into which he hastily leapt as the bell rang out, contained 
 only one lady, and it was now getting so dark that he 
 scarcely noticed whether she were old or young, plain or 
 pretty. Most probably she was handsome and youthful, for 
 her veil was drawn closely over her face. 
 
 One of those prolonged unearthly whistles, followed by 
 short sharp shrieks, which often foretell danger, and always 
 make timid hearts quail, caused the lady apparently some 
 uneasiness. She put back her veil, and looked out of the 
 window; but nothing was visible, excepting the sides of a 
 deep excavation, a railway signalman flourishing a flag fran¬ 
 tically, and clouds of escaping steam. 
 
 “ A r e are all right,” said Fritz, encouragingly. “ There 
 must have been some impediment on the line. The train 
 does not usually stop here. Now we are off again,” he 
 added, as the line of carriages was again put in motion, 
 slowly at first, then rushing at full speed through the dark¬ 
 ness. “ I do not think there is any cause for alarm.” 
 
 The lady thanked him courteously. Something in the 
 voice seemed familiar to his ear, and it was low and sweet. 
 
THE RUINED NOELS. 
 
 89 
 
 "Now that her veil was raised, and the lamp in the carriage 
 burned more clearly, Fritz noticed a fair pale face, framed 
 in by smooth bands of light hair; resting upon the sunny 
 tresses were some blue flowers, corresponding with a muslin 
 dress of the same colour. 
 
 He contrasted mentally the black hair and eyes and glow¬ 
 ing complexion of Bertina Hoel, the Overlooker at the Mill, 
 with the blonde young lady, and decidedly preferred the 
 warm, gipsey-like colouring, set off by the scarlet shawl 
 .and short black skirt, to the flowing draperies and forget- 
 me-nots, which relieved becomingly the paler countenance of 
 the refined looking girl sitting opposite to him in the rail¬ 
 way carriage. 
 
 Though by no means conceited respecting his own appear¬ 
 ance, Fritz could not help fancying, after a time, that the 
 young lady bestowed some attention upon him. More than 
 one furtive glance met his own, with a reflective, melancholy 
 expression—and more than once his companion sighed 
 audibly. At last, in a voice that trembled slightly, she 
 said:— 
 
 “ Are you not Mr. Frederick Langdale 1 ?” 
 
 Fritz assented, and the young lady went on, speaking in 
 somewhat tremulous accents, 
 
 “ I have seen you in church with your sisters, and I longed 
 to speak to you all, but I dared not. Everyone at Langdale 
 knows me, and would have thought it strange,—might have 
 mentioned it—in short, I dared not. But since accident has 
 thrown us together, and you have been kind to me, I may 
 venture to thank you otherwise than as a stranger. I am 
 your cousin, Ellinor Langdale. It is not by my wish, nor is 
 it my fault, that we are so completely estranged. I would 
 give the world to know your mother and sisters; but I have 
 not the power—perhaps I have not strength of mind, to act 
 
90 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF LANG DALE HALL . 
 
 independently. Still, I slionld like your sisters to know that 
 I feel kindly towards them. I hope you find your mother 
 better than you expected ? I was told in the village that 
 you had been suddenly summoned from abroad, during her 
 recent illness.” 
 
 Fritz was somewhat embarrassed by the knowledge which 
 the young lady possessed of his proceedings, but she was 
 quite pretty and interesting enough to make him consider 
 the acquaintance desirable. The two young cousins shook 
 hands, and appeared to be as devoid of enmity and jealousy 
 as though no hopes of inheritance, no family prejudices,, 
 existed to impair their friendship. 
 
 Fritz learned, during their short journey, that the younger 
 Miss Langdale had been spending the day with a school- 
 friend, whose father was the proprietor of the Mill where 
 Bertina Noel was employed. The beautiful scenery of the 
 Gorge supplied them with subjects for conversation, till the 
 train stopped. A carriage was waiting, and an elderly man¬ 
 servant, who had attended the young lady, came from the 
 other end of the platform to assist her out. Fritz, however, 
 performed that service. He perceived that the moment 
 Ellinor Langdale was under the surveillance of the sharp- 
 eyed domestic her manner changed; and, in obedience to 
 what he believed might be her wishes, young Langdale com¬ 
 ported himself as a perfect stranger might have done; handing 
 her out of the railway carriage and into her own equipage with 
 the most formal courtesy, and raising his cap silently and 
 respectfully, as he took leave of his timid and pretty travel¬ 
 ling companion. More than once during the long walk 
 home, the carriage with the Langdale liveries overtook him, 
 after he had shortened the way by cutting off angles in the 
 winding road, and crossing fields and meadows, but he took 
 care not to look that way; uncertain whether any mark of 
 
THE RUINED NOELS. 
 
 91 
 
 recognition would be bestowed upon him by its fair occu¬ 
 pant, and unwilling to subject himself to an affront. 
 
 Gertrude and Frances were walking together in front of 
 the old house at Godley, as he approached it. They ran to 
 meet him. u How late you are, Fritz. u We have been 
 half way to Hazeldon to meet you, but it became so daik 
 we turned back.” “Have you enjoyed yourself? u Hov 
 hungry you must be. Let us go in to supper. 
 
 These ejaculations, alternately uttered by the sisters, 
 having been affectionately responded to, Fritz went indoois. 
 He told them frankly of his meeting with the pretty young 
 
 Miss Langdale in the train, and repeated her kind messages; 
 but he did not say a single syllable respecting Bertina Noel 
 and her widowed mother, nor acknowledge that he had been 
 
 hospitably welcomed at the old stone Mansion in the Eagle s 
 Gorge. 
 
 -• 0 + 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Mr. Lang was spending one of the few holidays his bus} 
 life afforded, at home with his family; and amusing himself 
 working in the large old-fashioned garden, which needed 
 more hands to keep it in order than he could afford to pay; 
 when Mr. Hay warden rode up the avenue, and, catching 
 sight of him through the trees, threw the reins to his groom, 
 
 after dismounting, and joined him. 
 
 The horses were led away to the stables, and the two 
 gentlemen, who had been friends from their youth, walked 
 up and down together. Mr. Haywarden, since Mr. Lang s 
 return to England, had frequently ridden over to Godh }, 
 
'92 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 and it did not occur to Mr. Lang' that his present visit was 
 one of business rather than of pleasure. 
 
 Mrs. Lang, since the fine weather set in, had slightly im¬ 
 proved in health, and the whole family were in better spirits. 
 Fritz and his sisters were practising archery, excepting Flo¬ 
 rence, who was sitting with her mother. 
 
 Mr. Haywarden looked at the young people critically, 
 made some good-humoured remarks on their proficiency, and 
 then resumed his walk with his old friend, declining for the 
 present to enter the house. “Upon my word, Lang, you 
 have a goodly row of olive branches! what a splendid young 
 fellow your son is—thoroughly English in spite of his foreign 
 •education,” he said, as they turned away from the archery 
 ground; “you have, I think, one other daughter whom I 
 do not see now T 
 
 “Flo is with her mother,” said Mr. Lang. “We never 
 leave her entirely alone, and the little one, as we call her, 
 has been rather delicate since she was caught in a snow and 
 hail storm last month. She is not at all like any of her sis¬ 
 ters. Some people call her the handsomest of all my chil¬ 
 dren, and yet they are, as you say, a goodly flock. I do not 
 —I admire fair women. Florence is dark, like me.” 
 
 “ Well, I do not know that the resemblance would mar 
 her prospects,” said Mr. Haywarden, laughing, and glancing 
 at the regular but now severe lineaments which he remem¬ 
 bered well in their first youthful beauty, when Frank Lang- 
 dale was the handsomest man of his accpiaintance. “ I 
 confess I have a great desire to see your youngest daughter, 
 Miss Florence.” 
 
 “ Oh, presently, presently will do,” said Mr. Lang. “Don’t 
 tell her you think her a beauty, Haywarden; the little maid 
 is vainer than her pretty grown-up sisters already, and much 
 more forward than my little Saxon twins, perfect children 
 
THE R UINED NOELS. 93 
 
 still, though they are four years older than Florence, who 
 has shot up suddenly almost into a woman. Lou will see 
 her when we go indoors to luncheon.” 
 
 “ I am afraid I cannot stay so long to-day,” said the law¬ 
 yer, looking at his watch. “ Another time I shall he most 
 happy, but now I am limited to an hour, and we have some' 
 business matters to discuss. Upon my word, Lang, I am at 
 a loss how to begin.” 
 
 His friend looked at him with surprise. “ It is the first 
 time I ever heard you confess yourself at fault, Haywarden. 
 What on earth are you come to propose 1 Anything new, 
 and, of course, disagreeable, on the part of my amiable 
 cousin at the hall V 
 
 u I scarcely know how you will take it, said Mr. Hay- 
 warden. “ Some persons might consider it a concession, a 
 very fair offer—but I told Miss Langdale it was a pioposai 
 I scarcely advised her to make. As usual, however, she 
 considers her own way the best, and chooses to take it. 
 
 Mr. Lang walked on silently for some moments. “ Out 
 with it, man,” he said at last. “ Nothing pleasant evei came 
 to me from that quarter. Let me know the worst at once. 
 
 “ It is rather a strange coincidence that you should have 
 mentioned the strong resemblance between yourself and 
 Miss Florence,” said the lawyer, turning towards the house. 
 “ I did not know that it existed, and I was just thinking 
 how singularly unlike you were to your other daugliteis and 
 to your son. If I were a believer in gossip, I should say 
 that it was this close resemblance between your youngest 
 child and yourself, which leads to the proposition I have to 
 make, on the part of the woman who is said never to ha\ e 
 forgotten or forgiven your preference of a fair-haired Saxon 
 beauty. Let us go indoors for lialf-an-liour. I am certain 
 I shall make myself more intelligible between foiu vails, 
 
94 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 than among these flowers, and within sight of the young 
 people and the targets.” 
 
 Mr. Lang led the way at once to his own study, a rather 
 dull room at the back of the house, looking into the avenue, 
 and full of books and papers. Mr. Haywarden, with a sigh 
 of relief, sat down with his back to the window. 
 
 “This will do,” he said, taking up a paper-knife, and 
 twisting it in his fingers. “ A capital business room ; no¬ 
 thing to distract one’s attention from work. The fact is, 
 Miss Langdale has taken a wonderful fancy to your youngest 
 daughter. She wishes to leave her that life interest in the 
 property which is at her disposal. Afterwards the estate 
 would revert to yourself and your heirs.” 
 
 “ After Florence ?” said Mr. Lang, opening his dark eyes 
 wide in astonishment, whilst his cheek flushed angrily. 
 “ After the little one ? I cannot understand your meaning.” 
 
 “It is nevertheless very simple,” said the lawyer, warming 
 to the subject, now that he was no longer distracted by out¬ 
 ward circumstances. “ Miss Langdale has an undoubted 
 right to bequeath a life interest in her large property to any 
 person she may choose to select. In the present case her 
 proceedings are less eccentric than usual, and will benefit 
 your family considerably. Instead of the property going 
 away from you all, as it might do, for an indefinite number 
 of years, you will have the prospect of keeping it in your 
 own family, and I am empowered to say you will have an 
 immediate and not inconsiderable increase of income.” 
 
 Mr. Lang remained silent for some minutes, and his friend 
 took care not to interrupt his meditations. 
 
 “ How can Miss Langdale reconcile to her own conscience 
 such an injustice to her unoffending half-sister ?” lie said, at 
 last. 
 
 “That is her own affair, not yours,” said the lawyer. 
 
THE RUINED NOELS. 
 
 95 
 
 Miss Langdale affirms that she has offered to make her 
 half-sister her heiress on certain conditions, which have been 
 rejected. Perhaps this is an atonement for past injustice to 
 the elder branch, on the part of your ancestor. She is quite 
 free to act as she pleases, and Miss Ellinor Langdale is 
 amply provided for, as she has her mother’s fortune settled 
 upon her—a large property at the other side of the county, 
 m the North Riding. With regard to the estate in the 
 Dale, of which we are speaking, Miss Ellinor is entirely and 
 absolutely out of the question.” 
 
 “ I cannot accept favours from my cousin,” said Mr. Lang, 
 haughtily. “ Had she treated me like a relation, my whole 
 position might have been different. My wife’s ill health may 
 be attributed to inconveniences and hardships consequent 
 upon a narrow income ; and, as you know, in every possible 
 way Miss Langdale has circumscribed my powers, and re¬ 
 fused to treat me as her heir-at-law, and nearest relation. I 
 cannot bend to her now.” 
 
 “ Neither is there the slightest necessity to surrender one 
 iota of your independence,” said Mr. Hay warden, earnestly. 
 Now that he was fairly under weigh, all the advantages of 
 the offer be had made seemed to gather strength. “ Lang, 
 I know your character. I am aware that you have strong, 
 perhaps well-founded, prejudices against Miss Langdale. 
 But in this matter, I confess, I think she is willing to act 
 most generously. If you continue in charge of Miss Flo¬ 
 rence, a large annual sum will be allowed to be spent, exactly 
 as you desire, for the purpose of her future maintenance and 
 •education. If you decline these terms, Miss Langdale wishes 
 me to say that she will adopt the young lady herself, and 
 bring her up in a manner suitable to her position.” 
 
 A brief sharp ejaculation, that sounded like a cry of 
 bodily pain, burst from the father’s lips. 
 
96 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 11 She would rob us of our child !” he said. “ Haywarden, 
 if I were to consent, this would be Marina s death-strobe ! 
 
 “ Nay, nay ; you take it too strongly. Mrs. Lang would 
 see the immense benefits to be derived from this proposi¬ 
 tion,” said Mr Hay warden. “ If you dislike one course, 
 another lies open to you. Certainly it would be hard to 
 deprive Mrs. Lang of her daughter, though you have a large 
 —rather a trying family. Many parents would rejoice in 
 having one girl out of five handsomely provided for. 
 
 “ The seeds of dissension are easily sown. Maud Lang- 
 dale will take care that we reap the crop, said Mr. Lang, 
 bitterly. “ You must let me think the matter over, Hay- 
 warden, and consult with my wife. What time is allowed 
 us for deliberation 1” 
 
 u Oh, there was no limit mentioned,” said Mr. Haywar- 
 den, rising. 11 Take time, by all means. I have set down 
 on this paper the exact terms of Miss Langdale s proposal, 
 and I will leave it with you. I cannot help thinking the 
 more you reflect upon it, the more you will realise that her 
 scheme has its advantages, and very strong recommenda¬ 
 tions.” 
 
 He shook hands with his friend, and, without repeating 
 his request to be introduced to the young girl, who had sud¬ 
 denly become an important personage in his eyes, Mr. Hay- 
 warden mounted his horse, and rode away. 
 
 There was no more work done in the garden that day by 
 the master of Godley. He sat in his dull study, alone and 
 unoccupied, the rest of the morning ; hearing, occasionally, 
 the voices of the young people, as they passed in and 
 out of the house, but not attending to them. The iron had 
 entered into his very soul, and he shrank from inflicting the 
 same pain upon his suffering wife : yet he knew that he could 
 not come to any conclusion without consulting her. 
 
THE RUINED NOELS. 
 
 97 
 
 "Willingly, most willingly, would he have left the inherit 
 ance of the Langdales in its present vague , uncomfortable 
 state, and worked night and day to keep his family inde¬ 
 pendent. It was true the struggle was a wearing one, hut 
 at present they were all, as he believed, united in heart and 
 mind—poor, but well satisfied. He did not suspect that 
 already, without his consent or knowledge, the thin edge 
 of the wedge had been inserted; and that it was even now 
 beyond his power to keep the crack from widening through 
 which jealousy and discontent might, ere long, find entrance 
 into his quiet home. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 “ Come nearer to me, Florence. Why do you keep so far 
 away 1 Where is the little chair you used to draw close to 
 my knee V said Mrs. Lang, that same fine spring afternoon, 
 to “the little one,” as she sat somewhat sadly by the fire¬ 
 side. 
 
 The windows of the invalid’s room were open, and all 
 sorts of cheerful sounds, the notes of birds, the hum of 
 voices, came in with the soft westerly breeze. 
 
 Florence obeyed her mother listlessly. “ Are you cold, 
 darling V said Mrs. Lang, tenderly putting over her shoulders 
 one of the numerous wraps laid on the sofa. “ The sun is 
 warmer than the fire on a day like this. I do not think you 
 have been quite yourself since the day of the snow-storm. 
 Ring for Meredith to bring her work and sit with me if you 
 like to go to your sisters. I hear their voices, and the 
 arrows striking the targets. It is a shame to keep you a 
 prisoner on such a lovely day.” 
 
98 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 “ No, thank you, mamma ; I would rather stay here till 
 Gertrude comes in,” said Florence. “ Fritz begged her to 
 come and shoot with him. They do not want me.” 
 
 “ That is a silly fancy, Flo. Your sisters and Fritz 
 always like to have you with them. He and Gertrude shoot 
 more equally, but there is room for you at the other targets. 
 I can quite well spare you.” 
 
 “No, no, please let me stay with you,” said Flo, laying 
 her head down on the invalid’s couch, close to which she 
 had now drawn a high footstool. “ There is a gentleman 
 in the garden with papa.” 
 
 “ I thought I heard a stranger’s voice,” said Mrs. Lang ; 
 £< stay here by all means, if you like it best, my love; I am 
 always glad to hear you say that you wish to be with me, 
 but I should be sorry to keep you an unwilling prisoner. 
 Do you know who it is that I hear talking to your father ?” 
 
 “ Yes,” said Flo, colouring, “ it is Mr. Haywarden, the 
 lawyer, from Hazeldon.” 
 
 “ I remember him years ago, but he is too busy now to 
 come often to Godley. Have you seen him lately %—How 
 came you to know his voice so well ?” said Mrs. Lang, with 
 some surprise. 
 
 Flo did not answer. Mrs. Lang put her hand affection¬ 
 ately round the young girl’s neck. As she did so, Florence 
 suddenly burst into tears. “ What is the matter, my 
 darling f said her mother, tenderly caressing her. “ I am 
 not angry; there was no harm in what you said. Why are 
 you crying 1” 
 
 Florence was quite unable to speak. Mrs. Lang drew 
 the slender girl within her arms, and soothed her passionate 
 grief. “ Never mind answering me, love, it is of no con¬ 
 sequence,” she said, mixing for her from one of the small 
 phials and a decanter close at hand, a little salvolatile and 
 
THE RUINED NOELS. 
 
 99 
 
 water. “ I know you were not well this afternoon; lie still, 
 aud do not attempt to talk. You will feel better presently.” 
 
 Florence took her advice and lay quietly beside her, her 
 cheeks flushed with emotion, her dark eyes full of tears. 
 Mother and daughter were thus found lying together on the 
 invalid couch, when Mr. Lang entered the room. 
 
 He looked at them fixedly. “Is Florence ill, Marina? 
 What has she been saying to you V 
 
 “ She is not quite well this afternoon,” said her mother, 
 tenderly. “ Something has troubled her. I scarcely know 
 what it is, but she will be better out of doors. Go, darling,” 
 she said, tenderly kissing her, “ your father is come to stay 
 with me for a little while. Go and enjoy yourself in the 
 garden with your sisters.” 
 
 Florence had turned pale at sight of her father’s grave 
 countenance. She slid down from the sofa, after kissing her 
 mother, and stole quietly away. Mr. Lang did not speak 
 until the last sound of her footsteps died out of hearing. 
 In truth he knew not how to begin, and the sight of the 
 mother and her youngest born, with their arms interlaced, 
 had not made his task more easy. 
 
 “ You have had a visitor ;” his wife said cheerfully; “ Flo 
 told me you were talking to Mr. Haywarden in the garden. 
 What brought him to Godley V 
 
 Mr. Lang still hesitated. “He came on business—nothing 
 pleasant—business seldom is agreeable. I could not per¬ 
 suade him to stay for luncheon.” 
 
 “ I hope it was nothing very serious,” said his wife, 
 alarmed at his grave accent. “ Nothing wrong at the office. 
 Oh, Frank, tell me at once. What has vexed you ?” 
 
 “ No; there is nothing wrong at the office,” said Mr. 
 Lang, slowly, anxious to give his wife time for preparation. 
 “ All my annoyances come from the same quarter. Hay- 
 
 7—2 
 
100 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 warden brought me a message from my cousin, Maud Lang¬ 
 dale.” 
 
 “From Miss Langdale ! Does she wish for a reconcilia¬ 
 tion ? I thought she must unbend at last,” said Mrs. Lang. 
 “ Oh, Frank, though it is very bitter to make any conces¬ 
 sion to that hard haughty woman ; sometimes, for her own 
 sake, and for the sake of the children, I feel tempted to ask 
 you to overlook the past and forgive her. She is so utterly 
 lonely.” 
 
 “ Yes, she feels that at last,” said Mr. Lang, “she is very 
 lonely. I fancy there has been some disagreement between 
 her and her half sister. Ellinor Langdale has given mortal 
 offence by rebelling against her arbitrary temper. She is set 
 aside from the succession to the Langdale property.” 
 
 “ That is very hard upon her,” said Mrs. Lang, com¬ 
 passionately ; without, however, seeing that this fresh eccen¬ 
 tricity on the part of the owner of Langdale Hall called for 
 any peculiar mark of indignation on her part. “ But after 
 all, Frank, you are Miss Langdale’s heir-at-law. Your parents 
 ought to have inherited Langdale. If she restores the right 
 order of succession at last, as Miss Ellinor Langdale is well 
 provided for, I do not see that we of all people need com¬ 
 plain. You see I am leaping to a conclusion like a very 
 woman ; but since you. say she has made some overtures to 
 you, I cannot imagine that she means to leave the life in¬ 
 terest in the property to a stranger.” 
 
 “ No, Marina, it is not to a stranger, neither is it to me, 
 the rightful heir, nor to Fritz, that my cousin Maud wishes 
 to leave the life interest in the property,” said Mr. Lang. 
 “ Both these courses I have often foreseen, and considered 
 what would be the result: but the plan submitted to my 
 consideration now, by Mr. Haywarden, never entered into 
 my mind.” 
 
THE RUINED NOELS. 
 
 101 
 
 “ Did the child know what he came to propose?” said Mrs. 
 Lang, sharply, her woman’s instinct prompting the conclu¬ 
 sion, that in some mysterious way, Florence was connected 
 with this question, though she was far from guessing its 
 nature. 
 
 “ Florence ! what made you think so?” said Mr. Lang, in 
 an agitated voice. “ I hope not, I think not: surely even 
 Maud Langdale would not tamper with her—with that 
 young creature—before consulting me; and yet who can tell 
 what course a jealous vindictive woman will pursue ? Marina, 
 this rich, childless woman has cast a covetous glance upon 
 our darling—upon our little ewe lamb. Must we give her 
 up ? Haywarden thinks me a fool for hesitating. Miss 
 Langdale wishes to adopt Florence, and to bring her up as 
 the heiress of Langdale. If I consent, she will not object 
 to my becoming, after her own death, protector of the estate, 
 which, ultimately, will be, when she can no longer prevent 
 it, at the expiration of the life interest, mine or my son s ; 
 but can we any of us look forward so far ? What will be 
 Fritz’s feelings ? He has counted more on these expecta¬ 
 tions than I have ever done. It will be a dreadful disap¬ 
 pointment.” 
 
 Mrs. Lang listened to her husband with dismay. “ Fritz 
 will indeed be deeply wounded,” he went on. “ The worst 
 of this trial is, that I dread the effect it may have on the 
 dispositions of our children. Hitherto the struggle has been 
 
 ours. Must we tell Florence ?” 
 
 “ Are you sure she does not know it already ? said the 
 mother, more calmly than her husband expected. She 
 has been crying, because I startled her by asking how 
 she knew that it was Mr. Haywarden who was 'with you in 
 the garden. She could not answer me. For some time she 
 has been mysteriously agitated, and she has always had a 
 
102 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 great liking for Miss Langdale. I fear that our haughty 
 neighbour, though she has not condescended to notice us, 
 has won our child’s affections. Ever since she met Flo at 
 the Crags, the child has been possessed by a strange love 
 for this cold, hard woman. Of late she has been much 
 changed. I am afraid hidden influences have been at work/' 
 
 Mr. Langdale got up and began walking up and down 
 the room, striving vainly to subdue his irritation. u I be¬ 
 lieve you may be right, Marina, and that the mischief is 
 done. Dr. Forsyth dropped a hint the other day about 
 Florence’s wonderful power of keeping a secret. I thought 
 him in joke, but I believe now he spoke in earnest. Miss 
 Langdale must have seen and spoken to her oftener than 
 we have any idea of, to have formed this plan. Not one 
 of the other children ever kept back a thought from us, 
 but Florence has a shy, proud, inscrutable nature, which 
 has been proof against even your tenderness and integrity. 
 She is, after all, a Langdale, and will have her own way.” 
 
 “ Do not be hasty,” said Mrs. Lang, while her soft eyes 
 filled with tears, as, worn and weary, she lay back on her 
 couch. “ Florence is of a different disposition to her sisters, 
 and you have never understood her so well, but I have 
 great confidence in her affection. Leave me to deal with 
 her to-morrow, when we have thoroughly mastered all the 
 circumstances of the case. It would not be fair to leave 
 her in ignorance of the brilliant destiny offered to her; but 
 t is quite possible that she may prefer a more lowly one 
 rather than be separated from her family.” 
 
 “ There is another alternative, Marian,” said Mr. Lang, 
 placing in his wife’s hands the paper Mr. Ilaywarden had 
 left with him. “ Florence may be Miss Langdale’s heiress 
 without leaving her home; but, I confess, I do not think 
 that plan would answer. There would be heartburning 
 
THE RUINED NOELS. 
 
 103 
 
 between her and her brother and sisters, if the youngest 
 were suddenly to be placed in such a different position. 
 Fritz, I am certain, would never submit to it. I am of 
 opinion that it would be far better, if we can but all agree 
 upon the matter, to reject this insidious proposal altogether, 
 than to agree to it in part.” 
 
 Mrs. Lang sighed deeply. 
 
 “ Let us think it over till to-morrow, and then consult 
 the young people,” she said. “ After all, they are none of 
 them children, and they are more interested in the matter 
 than we are. Their fresh feelings may teach us sorrowful 
 worldlings, lessons of wisdom. What can Flo know about 
 the advantages of wealth and station 
 
 “ If they would but listen to you,” said her husband, ten¬ 
 derly embracing her. u The world has not laid a speck on 
 the fair truthfulness which first won my love. I only hope 
 ‘ the little one’ may prove as pure-minded and disinterested 
 at fifteen, as her mother is still.” 
 
 The entrance of Meredith interrupted the conversation, 
 and Mr. Lang went down stairs. Perhaps Mrs. Lang would 
 have questioned the attendant, who was often Florence s 
 companion in her walks, but the young girl crept in after 
 her with a bunch of violets, which she laid silently in her 
 mother’s lap. 
 
 Florence still looked flushed, but her manner was more 
 composed. She waited affectionately upon her mother, 
 after the servant left the room, with more of her old coax¬ 
 ing, caressing affection than she had of late exhibited. Her 
 dark eyes were full of tears, and Mrs. Lang felt as if a spell 
 was laid upon her, and that she could not disturb the serenity 
 of the hour ; as the long shadows fell across the lawn, and 
 the birds thronged on the window-ledge, where I loience v as 
 accustomed to feed them, before they went to loost. 
 
104 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF LANGE ALE HALL. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Langdale Hall had never looked more beautiful in the 
 eyes of its haughty mistress than it did on the day when 
 she expected her cousin’s answer to the proposal that she 
 should make his youngest child her heiress. The old 
 thorn-trees in the park were covered with blossom, and the 
 bright tender spring green enlivened what sometimes was a 
 sombre prospect. 
 
 Masses of flowering shrubs, white and coloured lilacs, 
 laburnums, guelder-roses, azaleas, gold-tinted and white, 
 filled up the angles of the stone terrace, or streamed over 
 the dusky balustrades—shrubs which had grown into a 
 magnitude never seen except in the vicinity of some time- 
 honoured mansion, where they have been carefully cul¬ 
 tured and yet have attained freedom and dignity which 
 emulate nature. The sweet notes of the singing birds,—of 
 the cuckoo by day and the nightingale at night,—made the 
 old place resonant of music, whilst the flowers filled the 
 clear air with fragrance, and decked the dark rich soil of 
 the recently upturned beds and borders. Up and down 
 the garden walks, under the arches of lilac and syringa, 
 through the hawthorn-scented glades of the park, Miss 
 Langdale wandered restlessly. There was an unwonted 
 light in her dark eyes, a flush on her usually pale cheek, 
 which showed that the woman’s heart was strangely moved. 
 Contrary to her usual custom she found no fault, and her 
 whole soul seemed alive to the beauty of the scene and 
 of the day. She had ordered Christobel back to the 
 stable, and seemed for once satisfied that no place on earth 
 
THE RUINED NOELS. 
 
 105 
 
 could be more like Paradise than the home appointed for 
 her. 
 
 Ellinor Langdale, on the other hand, was depressed and 
 unsatisfied. The air, laden with perfume, bewildered her ; 
 nnd she shrank from meeting her half-sister, as she had 
 done twice, unexpectedly,—wandering restlessly to and fro, 
 with that flush of excitement on her face. Though un¬ 
 acquainted with the exact nature of the steps Miss Lang¬ 
 dale had taken, Ellinor knew that a crisis was impending. 
 
 Very little had been said on either side since Ellinor had 
 rejected the conditions offered by her elder sister. Mr. 
 Haywarden had been summoned, and, on his departure, he 
 had spoken a few kindly words, expressive of regret, at the 
 decision which had robbed her of a rich inheritance, but he 
 had not argued with her. Evidently he considered that the 
 time for consideration was over. Xow, as Ellinor Langdale 
 looked from her own window over the beautiful garden and 
 wide-spread park, and caught, ever and anon, through the 
 spring green of the foliage, a glimpse of the dark cloth dress 
 of the mistress of the domain, as she hurried along the 
 winding walks, she knew that the wilful woman had in her 
 own wayward pride cut her off from what she had from 
 childhood been taught to regard as her inheritance. 
 
 Over and over again Miss Langdale had declared that she 
 should never marry, and urged Ellinor to take a more active 
 part in the superintendence of the property ; and, although 
 the younger woman knew better than to oppose her will 
 oven in trifles, she had grown up in the firm belief that 
 Langdale Hall would (if she survived its present possessor) 
 eventually be her own. 
 
 It was impossible not to regret the change which was im¬ 
 pending, although it was with no covetous thoughts that 
 Ellinor contemplated the future. Her own home in the 
 
106 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL . 
 
 North Riding situated on a bleak sea coast, was quite un¬ 
 familiar to her. The place had been let on lease to strangers, 
 and she had never seen it, or thought of residing there; the 
 tenure would expire in less than a year, but, until the last 
 few weeks, she had been willing to renew it. Now the first 
 exercise of womanly authority she had ever put forth with¬ 
 out consulting her sister, had been to give notice, through 
 Mr. Haywarden, to her tenants, that she required them to 
 leave Moriscombe at the end of six months. 
 
 The thoughts that filled her eyes with tears and her heart 
 with sadness were connected with the rupture of the many 
 ties which bound her to the home of her infancy. Come 
 what might, Langdale could never again be to her the safe 
 refuge—the untroubled sanctuary—which home, whatever 
 joys may be outside its walls, should be to the young. 
 
 In all her restless wanderings that day, Maud had never 
 gone beyond the sound of the great entrance bell. Now, 
 when it rang out sharply, she stopped short—the unwonted 
 colour faded from her cheeks—in a moment she turned 
 deadly pale, faint and sick. Could it be that her hopes were 
 to be disappointed 1 That the girl’s hand would never 
 pluck the spring flowers—the girl’s feet never wander over 
 the blooming sward ? The gardeners had been forbidden, 
 for the first time, to put their scythes to the lawn, where 
 the j orchises were sending up spikes of purple blossom. 
 Miss Langdale had seen Florence gathering them, as a child, 
 on the edge of the park, and fancied she would like to see 
 them flourishing; or that she might sorrow if they were 
 humiliated, swept away, and forgotten—cut down in the 
 height of their glory 1 
 
 It was the first doubt of success which had assailed her ; 
 and the proud woman thrust it away from her. Was it 
 likely that Frank Lang, as he chose to call himself, would 
 
THE RUINED NOELS. 
 
 107 
 
 hesitate 1 The only doubt was whether he and his Marina 
 would give up their child—as she hoped and wished—en¬ 
 tirely to her. Florence, she felt convinced, would he as glad 
 of the change to affluence and independence, as herself. 
 
 Maud walked slowly to the house after this momentary 
 struggle with her feelings. She did not cast another glance 
 at the shrubs and flowers—all the beauties of the Garden of 
 Eden would have been lost upon her. Her whole nature 
 was strung up to meet the crisis. Perhaps the woman’s 
 fate, for good or evil, might hang upon the turn of a die ! 
 
 Mr. Haywarden, anticipating her impatience, and having 
 learnt from the servants that their mistress was in the flower- 
 garden, came to meet Miss Langdale on the terrace. The 
 pale girl at her high window could see the two dark figures 
 walking backwards and forwards, though she did not hear 
 their words. The lawyer’s tones were always low and 
 measured—Miss Langdale’s rather loud, clear accents were 
 subdued by strong inward feeling. 
 
 Calm and cool as Mr. Haywarden usually was, he dreaded 
 this interview. He knew Maud Langdale better than most 
 men; and his step was slow as he crossed the grass in front 
 of the windows of the Hall, and advanced along the wide 
 gravelled terrace to meet her. 
 
 “ How slowly you walk—I thought you were never 
 coming !” the lady said, quickening her own steps. “ You 
 do not look like a messenger of good tidings.” 
 
 “ I have, I assure you, done my be^t. It never was my 
 fault to be lukewarm or dilatory; and no one can fail to 
 see the immense advantage to Frank Lang of the plan you 
 propose;” said the laAvyer, standing still for a moment 
 beside her. “ Unfortunately, he cannot see the matter as 
 plainly as I do.” 
 
 “ You do not mean that he is fool enough to refuse my 
 
108 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL . 
 
 offer, said Miss Langdale. “ He must be a madman. What 
 right has he to say that I shall not do what I like with my 
 own ?” 
 
 “ That point is of course open for your own decision,” 
 said Mr. Hay warden. “ All that Mr. Lang can do is to re¬ 
 ject your kind offers; both as regards your adoption of his 
 daughter, or your appropriating an annual sum for her 
 maintenance and education whilst she remains under his 
 roof. He says he will have nothing whatever to do with 
 this scheme, and that he hopes you will alter your mine 
 about the disposal of your life-interest in the property.” 
 
 “ He does not know me as well as you, or the meanest 
 hind on the estate, do, or he would not think it,” said Miss 
 Langdale, all the softness dying out of her countenance and 
 her voice. “Did you tell him I was not one given to 
 change ?” 
 
 “ Yes,” said Mr. Haywarden. “ I said so, but he only re¬ 
 plied—‘ Tell my cousin, Maud Langdale, that I am as firm 
 -as herself. Nothing she can say or do will alter my reso¬ 
 lution.’ ” 
 
 Miss Langdale remained still and silent for some moments. 
 Mr. Haywarden did not interrupt her meditations. 
 
 “ And the child—” she said at last, her voice breaking as 
 she spoke—“Florence!—Is she to have no voice in this 
 question ? she whom it most vitally concerns ! Are all her 
 future prospects to be obscured and blighted by her father’s 
 dogged obstinacy ?” 
 
 “ Miss Florence is at jwesent a minor—under her father’s 
 control,” said Mr. Haywarden. “ I understand it to be her 
 wish to remain at Godley, ana to submit entirely to the 
 wishes of her parents.” 
 
 “ Ah, you do not speak so confidently,” said Miss Lang¬ 
 dale quickly, while a burning flush rose to her cheek. 
 
THE RUINED NOELS. 
 
 100 
 
 “ This man has no right to destroy his child’s future. 
 Florence is old enough to think and to feel—to know the 
 difference between wealth and poverty, luxury and a nar¬ 
 row competence. If she has consented to throw me over, 
 it is under compulsion. Her father and mother,—Marina 
 was always artful—have over-persuaded or frightened her. 
 I will not take their answer.” 
 
 ‘‘Miss FlorenceLangdale,” said the lawyer, unconsciously 
 giving her the family name which her father had relin¬ 
 quished, “ was not well enough to see me this morning. I 
 cannot speak from my own observation ; but her father said 
 the whole family were of one opinion as to the undesirability 
 of accepting either of your propositions. His great fear is, 
 that by placing his youngest child in such a position, dissen¬ 
 sion might be caused; and he hopes that you will not be 
 tempted to throw such a fire-brand into his hitherto peace¬ 
 ful circle. That was his own expression, though he did not 
 exactly tell me to repeat it to you.” 
 
 “ He is afraid of me,” said Miss Langdale. “ His nest is 
 straw-thatched, and will ignite easily ! That is his look out. 
 He might have made a friend of me easily, if he had chosen, 
 but, if he prefers to have me for an enemy, he must take 
 care of his own property. Let him look out for sparks ! 
 Impossible to say where or when they may fall. His mer¬ 
 cantile avocations must have taught him to warehouse his 
 goods safely, and insure them sufficiently. Well—I will 
 think it over, and let you know my intentions.” 
 
 Mr. Haywarden was somewhat relieved by her apparent 
 calmness. He had seen her more chafed outwardly, by a 
 branch lopped off in an unsightly manner, or an injudi¬ 
 ciously felled tree. He bade her good day; and, remounting 
 his horse, rode down the long avenue, thankful that Ins 
 morning’s work was over. 
 
110 THE'MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 Miss Langdale stood still, on the spot where he had left 
 her, looking over the valley. The landscape in its lovely 
 spring green, was as blooming as ever; the birds sang as 
 sweetly, but she neither saw nor heard the sweet sights and 
 minstrelsy. If a torrent had rushed along the vale she 
 would have been equally insensible. The heart within her 
 seemed suddenly turned to stone. All the sweet impulses, 
 which the thought of the young life she wished to bind in 
 with her own had called forth, were at once summarily 
 blighted. She stamped upon the blooming orchises 
 furiously, as she strode across the grass, desiring one of 
 ,the gardeners whom she encountered to have the grass 
 mown immediately, and commenting severely on the untidy 
 appearance of the daisy-enamelled, purple-streaked mead; 
 though it had been kept unshorn by her orders. 
 
 A wild turmoil of vengeful memories, of mortified hopes 
 and unruly passions, woke up in Maud’s ill-regulated heart 
 and mind. Foremost of all was a proud selfish satisfaction, 
 in the thought that her cousin feared her influence with 
 Florence. After all, the contest was not over. It had as 
 yet scarcely begun; and it remained to be proved, whether 
 the man’s firm authority, and the mother’s love, would win 
 the victory over a wilful woman’s wayward will. 
 
 -•O#- 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Mrs. Lang reproached herself bitterly for the relaxation of 
 her former watchfulness, which had made it possible for 
 Florence to grow up in a realm of fancy, to which even her 
 mother had not found entrance. In the tortures of her 
 self-reproach, when questioned by her parents as to her in¬ 
 timacy with Miss Langdale, Florence had confessed that, 
 
THE RUINED NOELS. 
 
 Ill 
 
 ■over and over again, with Meredith’s concurrence, she had 
 transgressed their orders, and crossed the prohibited boun¬ 
 daries of the Langdale property. It was true that she had 
 never actually visited the Hall. Meredith had made a sort 
 of compromise with her conscience, by stopping at the 
 pretty Lodge which gave entrance to the Park; but there, 
 -and at the old Hall of the Noels, and at other trysting 
 places, the great lady had meanly condescended to meet 
 them—had flattered, ancj praised, and caressed the vain 
 little daughter of Eve, whom she was trying to win over, 
 by artful gifts and lavish promises, to enliven her more 
 splendid but desolate home. 
 
 Awakened, as if from a dream, by her father’s anger and 
 her mother’s grief, Florence cordially united with them 
 in repudiating the thought of a final separation. Mr. Lang 
 had made up his mind, before submitting Miss Langdale’s 
 proposals to her consideration, that, if Florence chose to 
 profit by them, it must be at the cost of leaving her home. 
 Nothing would induce him to consent to receive the offered 
 allowance, nor to sanction what he regarded as an act of in¬ 
 justice. If Florence elected to be Miss Langdale’s heiress, 
 she must resign her own family ties, and abide altogether 
 with her. 
 
 It needed only one look in her mother’s pale, tear-stained 
 face, to decide the affectionate, though erring, girl’s choice. 
 Florence threw her arms round Mrs. Lang’s neck, and posi¬ 
 tively refused to leave her. The mother and daughter clung 
 to each other, in an embrace which seemed as if it would 
 last for ever. 
 
 The only plea she made was that her attendant should be 
 forgiven. Meredith had such a reverence for the Langdales, 
 that it seemed almost like sacrilege to disobey the arbitrary 
 woman who was the representative of her master’s family. 
 
112 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 Gratitude for her faithful service to herself made Mrs. Lane: 
 support her daughter’s petition. Her husband gave way re¬ 
 luctantly, and on condition that the waiting-woman should 
 attend only on her mistress for the future, and that she 
 should have no control over, and no connection with, the 
 young people. 
 
 After this point was settled, by common consent the sub¬ 
 ject was dropped; and the family at the Grange became, to 
 all appearance, the same happy and united household as of 
 yore. 
 
 The first disturbance of this blessed tranquillity came, as 
 might have been expected, from the direction of the grey 
 turrets of the old Hall. Miss Langdale sent a formal inti¬ 
 mation to her cousin, through the medium of Mr. Hay warden, 
 that she had altered her will; and that she had left the life 
 interest in the Langdale estate, of which she had the dis¬ 
 posal, to Miss Florence Langdale. Should her father see fit 
 to reconsider his harsh resolution, the allowance she wished 
 to make for her young cousin’s maintenance and education 
 should be paid into his banker’s hands ; or, if he preferred 
 it, Miss Langdale would at any time be willing, and happy, 
 to receive its future mistress as a permanent inmate of 
 Langdale Hall. 
 
 Many an anxious deliberation ensued between the hus¬ 
 band and wife, before the contents of Mr. Haywarden’s 
 letter were submitted to the young people; but, on the 
 whole, it seemed best and wisest that the family should be 
 informed by their parents of circumstances which otherwise 
 might be learnt by chance. Miss Langdale was not likely 
 to observe secrecy respecting the fresh disposition she had 
 made of her propert}'; and the subject would be freely and 
 widely canvassed. 
 
 Florence did not speak when her mother told her of the 
 
THE RUINED NOELS 
 
 113 
 
 cliange effected in her prospects, warning her, at the same 
 time that, from a person so eccentric as Miss Langdale, con¬ 
 stancy was not to be expected; and that it would be in her 
 power to alter the present arrangement if she wearied of it, 
 after findiug that it did not give her access to Florence’s 
 society. The mother saw the large dark eyes fill slowly 
 with tears, and wondered what were the thoughts that made 
 the deep waters rise; but Florence silently kissed her and 
 went away. Fritz, on the contrary, flew into a violent pas¬ 
 sion, vowing that the matter was decided in a way which 
 injured everyone and benefited nobody. Perhaps, in a 
 worldly point of view, he was not absolutely wrong, but his 
 father remained fixed and firm. 
 
 After the first turbulent emotion aroused by Mr. Hay- 
 warden’s communication had subsided, Fritz manifested a 
 steadiness of purpose which hitherto had been deficient in 
 his character. He had always shown a taste for mechanical 
 science, and he now announced his intention of becoming a 
 civil engineer. 
 
 Preparations for his leaving home to devote himself to 
 study were immediately commenced. Only Mrs. Lang de¬ 
 tected a shade of bitterness in Fritz’s raillery when he found 
 his sisters, as usual, busily occupied with his outfit. Flo¬ 
 rence was too great a lady now, he said, to be set to mend 
 and make shirts and collars. It was, perhaps, scarcely in 
 human nature that Fritz should not, for a time at least, feel 
 some jealousy regarding the youthful heiress of Langdale. 
 
 8 
 
114 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Ellinor Langdale had exerted the independence, which her 
 rejection of Maud’s proposal had won for her, to make the 
 acquaintance of Mrs. Lang, and now frequently spent an 
 hour with the invalid. Maud acquiesced in the change 
 silently. She was wise enough not to murmur when the con¬ 
 viction first dawned upon her that her half-sister, if not 
 likely to he her successor at the Hall, was no longer inclined 
 to be her slave. 
 
 For the present Ellinor agreed to remain at Langdale, but 
 preparations were going on at the mansion in the North 
 Riding for the reception of its mistress, whenever circum¬ 
 stances arose which might render it more agreeable for her 
 to dwell in a house of her own. 
 
 A great regard had sprung up already between Ellinor 
 and Gertrude Lang. Fritz was very proud of having brought 
 about this intimacy, and quite disposed to share in it. Mrs. 
 Lang’s improved health, and Florence’s constant companion¬ 
 ship, enabled her to dispense, more than had been the case 
 for years, with Gertrude’s affectionate attendance; and the 
 three cousins took many pleasant excursions together among 
 the lovely doughs and carrs, and in the valleys of the Calder, 
 the Hebdon, the Ryburn, and the Hebble. 
 
 Gertrude Lang was interested especially in the great manu¬ 
 factures and prosperous industry of the North. The voices 
 of the mill-girls, as they sang at their work, stirred her heart 
 deeply. Her own sweet yet practical disposition made her 
 long to be of service, and many of the young girls of the 
 neighbourhood came to her for instruction, after the hours 
 of labour. 
 
THE RUINED NOELS. 
 
 115 
 
 This interest seemed strange to the prosperous girl, who 
 had been too much accustomed to see the daily routine of 
 trade for any strong impressions to be roused by it. Ellinor 
 constantly declared that she could take part in the joys and 
 sorrows of cottage life, but not in the more bustling existence 
 of the mill-hands and factory-girls ; whilst Gertrude, to 
 whom all was fresh and untried, longed to pour light into 
 the dark corners of the city, or the crowded, whirring, 
 whirling, perilous, often unhealthy structures, filled with the 
 clang and clamour of machinery, the heat of steam, and 
 heavy odours. Never did the fair girl pass under the tall 
 buildings, with rows upon rows of windows, from which 
 issued the beat and tramp of the ceaselessly-pulsing engines ; 
 and hear, high above all, the shrill clear voices of the girls 
 singing at their monotonous work, without longing to be¬ 
 friend them. Her simple training in Germany—her own 
 life of constant quiet usefulness and self-sacrifice—li§r know¬ 
 ledge of sickness and suffering, and their best alleviations— 
 soon made her acquainted with the wants of her humble 
 neighbours. If a man met with an accident, or a child was 
 injured by the machinery, the parents came to Gertrude for 
 help, counsel, and sympathy. She knew more about the 
 troubles and calamities, incidental to the mechanical existence 
 of the poor people among whom she had recently been 
 planted, than Ellinor; although the young lady at the Hall 
 had led the choir in Langdale Church, and distributed cha¬ 
 rities among the villagers, since her childhood. 
 
 Ellinor, nevertheless, felt no jealousy of her new friend. 
 She acknowledged, at once, the superiority of Gertrude’s 
 practical knowledge of the best modes of alleviating human 
 suffering, and the two girls often visited the sick and poor 
 together. Ellinor’s well-filled purse was open to every call 
 upon her benevolence; and she learned, while bestowing 
 
 8—2 
 
] 16 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 lavish alms, that her friend, poor as she was in worldly 
 goods, yet had at her disposal gifts which wealth could not 
 bestow, and even heavenly-minded charity like her own 
 could not supply—the power of entering fully and com¬ 
 pletely into the minds and wants of others, inferior to them¬ 
 selves in station. 
 
 Arrangements had been made that Ellinor and Gertrude 
 should visit together, under Fritz’s escort, the week before 
 he left home, the great Mill in the Eagle’s Gorge. The 
 owner, a friend of the Miss Langdales, whose daughter 
 had been for a time at school with Ellinor, showed them 
 the whole of the vast establishment. Gertrude’s intelligent 
 interest pleased him, and he paid her particular attention; 
 affording all the information in his power, and keeping close 
 beside her, as they moved from room to room; with the 
 busy wheels and beating hammers plying incessantly. 
 
 Fritz coloured deeply, and respectfully lifted his hat, as 
 they entered a long room, where a number of girls were at 
 work, under the charge of one, younger than most of them, 
 who acted as overlooker. 
 
 Ellinor Langdale glanced at him quickly, and then at the 
 lovely young woman who quietly and gravely returned his 
 salutation. The owner of the Mill, meanwhile, said to 
 Gertrude, “Miss Noel will explain this part of the operation 
 to you. This is all women’s work, as you see, and she has 
 the entire charge of this room. Excuse me for a moment, 
 whilst I give an order. I shall be back directly.” 
 
 He said a few words in an undertone to Bertina, treating 
 her with marked respect; and left the room for the purpose 
 of obtaining specimens of the fabric they had seen in the 
 process of manufacture, to give to the two ladies. 
 
 Gertrude looked with much interest at the young girl, 
 about her own age, who seemed to occupy such a responsible 
 
THE RUINED NOELS. 
 
 117 
 
 position. In some respects the occupation struck her as not 
 being altogether disagreeable. The long rows of bobbins 
 were set in motion, or stayed in a moment, at her will • as 
 she explained clearly the part of the process which went on 
 in this room. A slight sign of disapproval on the part of 
 the young monitress, checked the inclination among her 
 subordinates to talk together and look at the visitors. In 
 one corner was a small table, on which stood account books, 
 ledgers, and an inkstand. A volume that looked like 
 poetry was carelessly laid down. Gertrude, as she passed 
 close by, saw that it was “ The Lord of the Isles,” and a 
 marker showed where the reader had left off on their en¬ 
 trance. Over the table, on a hook, hung a shawl of Rob- 
 Roy Tartan, the same Fritz had followed through the wind¬ 
 ings of the gorge. His heart beat a little more quickly as he 
 recognised it. Bertina Noel’s dress was black, slightly re¬ 
 lieved by a simple collar and cuffs of snow-white linen. 
 Over the heads of some of the workwomen, against the wall, 
 hung similar shawls, bonnets not being allowed in the mills. 
 All sorts of colours, patterns, and textures might be seen. 
 The only difference was that Bertina’s shawl was larger and 
 softer than the rest. 
 
 Not one syllable was exchanged between Fritz Langdale 
 and Bertina Noel. The young man saw that she did not 
 wish him to address her; and, beyond the slight salutation 
 on his first entrance, he did not venture upon any mark of 
 recognition. Bertina explained quickly to the two young 
 ladies all that was necessary, and then returned to her usual 
 station. Gertrude, full of interest in the beautiful girl, 
 could not help following her. Ellinor, on the contrary, paid 
 less attention than usual to this part of the labour, and won¬ 
 dered audibly why they were left in this room so long, when 
 there was so little to be seen there. She turned her back on 
 
118 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 the workwomen and winding bobbins, and stood close to the 
 open door, complaining to Fritz of the noise and heat. 
 
 “ You are sufficiently accustomed to these sounds not to 
 be disturbed by them in your reading,” said Gertrude, 
 touching the book that lay on the table close to Bertina’s 
 chair. “I see you love poetry, and of the best description. 
 What a comfort you must find in it here!” 
 
 “ Yes,” said Bertina, lifting her large dark eyes gratefully 
 to the fair face of Gertrude Lang. “ It makes me forget 
 much that is painful, and soothes many discordances. I am 
 so accustomed to reading poetry here, that the noise of the 
 machinery, which that young lady dislikes so much, seems to 
 me rather a pleasant accompaniment—like the sound of run¬ 
 ning water.” 
 
 “ That shows you have a poetical imagination,” said Ger¬ 
 trude, smiling. “ Sir Walter Scott, or any true and good 
 poet, would be glad to be so appreciated. But you are 
 very young to be so much trusted. How long have you held 
 this position V 
 
 “ Three years,” said Bertina. “ Since I was seventeen. 
 I am older than I seem, and I am much older in disposition 
 than my actual years. My mother is more impetuous ; she 
 says that she is more of a child still, in many respects, than I 
 have ever been.” 
 
 The girl sighed deeply. An early acquaintance with 
 sorrow had aged her prematurely. Gertrude, whose young 
 life had been clouded by anxiety for her mother, felt deeply 
 interested, 
 
 “ I wish that we lived nearer to each other,” she said. 
 “ Even as it is I could send you some books, and, if you 
 will permit me, I should like to see your home and your 
 mother. My brother and I sometimes come to this pretty 
 lace by train. Will you tell me where you live ?” 
 
THE RUINED NOELS . 
 
 119 
 
 “ If you ask for Bertina Noel, any one in the town will 
 tell you the way to our old house in the Gorge. That gen¬ 
 tleman—I am sure by the likeness that he is your brother— 
 once found, or rather, lost his way, and came there,” said the 
 young overlooker, colouring as she glanced shily at Fritz, 
 who was standing just outside the door, conversing with 
 Miss Langdale. “ Ours is a curious old house. There are 
 not many like it now in this part of the country. My mo¬ 
 ther will be very glad to see you there, even if I am not at 
 home. I am at the mill all day, but, after six o’clock, I am 
 always with her.” 
 
 Gertrude renewed her promise of visiting the young girl, 
 and then rejoined the party, and completed her round of 
 inspection. The deep Gorge was darkened by heavy clouds 
 as the two young girls and Fritz walked to the house of the 
 gentleman to whom the Mill belonged, where refreshments 
 were awaiting them. 
 
 An hour passed away, and still the same deep gloom hung 
 over the beautiful valley. Suddenly the clouds broke as¬ 
 under; and, with a crash, which sounded more like an explo¬ 
 sion than thunder, a deluge of water descended from the 
 skies. In villages but a few miles distant, not a drop of rain 
 fell, though over the whole district hung the ominous dark¬ 
 ness of that heavy canopy of clouds. 
 
 Down the deep narrow Gorge swept the rain flood, meet¬ 
 ing the seething Calder waters, which seemed to rise in wrath 
 at its approach. The w r hite foaming cataract filled to over¬ 
 flowing the narrow bed of the river; bearing down with it 
 planks, trees, machinery, and every obstacle that impeded its 
 raging course. Smiling cottage gardens, full of summer 
 flowers, bee-hives and vegetables, were swept bare in an 
 instant. Calder in flood at winter time, or filled by autumn 
 tempests, had never presented such a spectacle. 
 
120 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 Standing ont into the river, the very image of prosperity, 
 was a little dwelling, and surrounding acre of garden ground, 
 of which every yard had been utilised. Now it was a pic¬ 
 ture of desolation. The out-buildings thrown down, the 
 cottage wall overthrown, a stream of white raging water 
 passing through the lower rooms, hearing along with it 
 tables, chairs, crockery, kitchen utensils, and a litter of 
 young pigs, all squeaking and choking in the torrent; such 
 were the signs and tokens, which the river was bearing 
 away, of one single hour’s work of havoc and destruction. 
 
 Within this oasis, laved at all seasons by the Calder 
 waters, and often trespassed upon and ravaged by winter 
 floods, but hitherto not irreparably damaged, two tiny chil¬ 
 dren had been playing, when the torrent bore down full upon 
 the little territory on which so much care and industry had 
 been bestowed. The mother, looking out of her lattice 
 window, saw the white rolling wave of water bearing down 
 upon her house like a monster; the children, at play in the 
 garden, looked up and laughed, ignorant of danger. The 
 next moment the flood was upon them, whirling, blinding, 
 bewildering, defying all efforts to save life and property. 
 The wall built up to prevent inundation split in twain, and 
 the water, passing through the breach, dashed against the 
 walls of the small house, flinging foam and spray against 
 the higher windows. The man, who had hurried home, 
 was busy putting up the shutters, striving to make all safe, 
 and did not notice the children playing in the garden, till the 
 woman’s wild, despairing shriek roused his attention. The 
 water rose like a white wall in front of him, dashing over 
 everything. The cowshed at the end of the walk was car¬ 
 ried down the stream ; the coops for poultry, pea-sticks, 
 furniture, whirled past. Blinded as he was, when the father 
 lifted himself from the ground, he saw, through the mist of 
 
THE RUINED NOELS. 
 
 121 
 
 raging waters, and heard,'through the surging of the billows 
 in his ears, the little hands and voices of his children, vainly, 
 uplifted for succour. 
 
 No mortal man could stem the flood. Onward it swept, 
 bearing all before it, and leaving behind a desolate wilder¬ 
 ness : but, as the mighty wave tore along, it cast upon one 
 of the platforms of rock on the other side of the river-bed, 
 a little white heap, that lay there almost like foam shed 
 from the water—motionless, save when the wind lifted and 
 fluttered a tiny rag of clothing, and then laid it down again, 
 as if tired of its plaything. The mother’s eyes rested upon 
 the tiny white speck on the bank, and descried the outlines 
 of two childish forms. None dared to tell her that, tossed 
 about by the raging waters, dashed against sharp stones, 
 and drenched with cold showers, what she saw, if indeed it 
 proved to be her children, might be only their lifeless bodies. 
 
 At present it was impossible to ascertain the fact. High 
 and dry above the bed of the Calder; where no foot could 
 reach them, it was said, till the water subsided; lay the 
 shrouded heap, which only a mother could have supposed 
 consisted of her lost babes ! Men gathered together, look¬ 
 ing wistfully across, as minute after minute went by; but no 
 one ventured over. 
 
 The tidings of the disaster spread far and wide. The 
 owner of the Mill had come down to the spot; and a large 
 subscription was speedily raised amongst his friends, for the 
 sufferers. Fritz had been actively engaged helping to save 
 the poor people’s property. Gertrude and Ellinor, with 
 other young ladies, were going from house to house, ren¬ 
 dering comfort and assistance. The mill-hands, set free from 
 work, were busy and useful. A train came into the station 
 from Hazeldon, bringing men who had families or relatives 
 within reach of danger. All were anxious to be of service. 
 
122 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF LANGE ALE HALL. 
 
 Fritz recognized some of the work people who had been 
 employed at the Hall on the summit of the hill, and, in their 
 company, the old soldier, wrapped in his blue roquelaure, 
 who had made for himself a home on the ruinous Gateway 
 Tower of the Noels. 
 
 “ I tell you, sir,” said the builder whose son’s life had 
 been saved by the veteran, “ that old fellow scents danger 
 as a dog scents game. He has been restless all day; and 
 when it grew so dark, he was neither to hold nor to bind. 
 He borrowed the money for his fare from me—the first 
 favour he ever asked, after saving my boy. If he did not 
 reach Calder Yale, he said, he should have the worst fit he 
 ever was in for in his life. There was mischief brewing, 
 he knew, and it was there , when the clouds broke, that the 
 bolt would fall.” 
 
 CHAPTEE IX. 
 
 Through the crowd which had collected on the brink of 
 the swollen torrent pouring down Calder Yale, a slender 
 black-robed girl, with a scarlet tartan fastened under her chin, 
 forced a way to the spot where the mother was swaying 
 herself backwards and forwards in mortal agony, sometimes 
 hiding her face with her apron, at others staring across the 
 river with wild wide-open eyes. 
 
 “Oh, don’t ye see them?” she exclaimed; “don’t ye see 
 the children ? That’s Meg, and yonder one is Jennie, my 
 little children. Where else would they be ? There never is 
 an inch, if they can help it, betwixt them. I can see a bit 
 of Meg’s frock when the wind stirs their pinafores,—that’s 
 what looks white. I made ’em myself, long and wide, to 
 
THE RUINED NOELS. 
 
 123 
 
 keep the darlings clean, and now they’re wrapped round 
 in them as if they were shrouded. Oh, will no one go 
 across and bring them over ?” 
 
 Her voice rose to a shriek as she concluded. Her hus¬ 
 band tried to sooth her. “I’m going, Jane. ’Tis but a 
 minute since we were both of us in the raging water. Bide 
 patient till we find a way to cross it.” 
 
 “ Oh, don’t go, don’t leave me,” cried the poor distracted 
 woman, sobbing yet more wildly. “ The water ’ll take ye 
 off your legs, and ye’ll be drowned before my eyes. Better 
 leave the babes to perish than lose my man. What would 
 I do without ye ?” She wound her arms tight round his 
 neck. “ Is there no lad or man, without wife or child, that 
 will venture ?” 
 
 “ Aye, aye—I’m your man,” said the old soldier, throw¬ 
 ing his blue cloak into her arms. “ Just take care of that, 
 my good woman, whilst I go over to fetch the babies. I’m 
 alone in the world, with none to care whether I drown or 
 hang, if ever a fellow was.” 
 
 Just as he spoke the old man caught sight of Bertina, 
 who had pressed eagerly forward. A leaden hue spread 
 over his face, he threw up his arms with a wild cry, and 
 but for the support of one of the men near him, he would 
 have fallen to the ground. The girl drew near pitifully to 
 aid him. 
 
 “ He’s got one of his terrible fits, poor fellow, I suppose,” 
 said the builder. “ Don’t come too close, young woman \ 
 he might strike out hard, or clutch ye : I don’t know ex¬ 
 actly what sort of seizures lie’s liable to. He hides himself, 
 mostly, when they come on him.” 
 
 Bertina bent over the pale face fearlessly. “ He has 
 fainted. Bring water, some of you. Is there never a drop 
 to be had, when it’s pouring down from the skies and driving 
 you out of house and home ?” 
 
124 " THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 A boy brought a hat full of water and dashed it in 
 the old man’s face, to which the colour soon began to 
 return. When he came to his senses he stared up wildly 
 at the beautiful girl bending compassionately over him. 
 
 “ Why do you pin your shawl that way, mistress T he 
 said sharply. “Who gave you that cairngorm brooch? 
 Are you a ghost or a mill-girl ? What in the name of 
 Heaven, or the devil, brought you across my path just when 
 I wanted all the little strength I have left T 
 
 He struggled to his feet and swallowed a few drops of 
 brandy, which some one in the crowd had procured for 
 him. 
 
 “ Now stand out of the road all of ye—men and women 
 —dead or alive. Here, tie a rope round me, Will Hathaway; 
 it might help me to get back if the fit came on. Stand out 
 of the road, I say.” 
 
 Resolutely turning his back on the girl, whose sudden 
 appearance had so strangely affected him, the old soldier 
 knotted and reknotted the rope furnished by the father of 
 the children, and descended to the edge of the torrent, which 
 was roaring down the rocky bed of the river. As he set his 
 foot on the first jutting stone which rose above the flood, he 
 said in a hoarse voice, “ Afore I start I should like to know 
 what that young woman, with the Rob-Roy shawl and 
 cairngorm pin, chooses to call herself T 
 
 Through the roar of the cataract and the rain floods it 
 came to his ear distinctly, “ Bertina Noel.” 
 
 The next instant he was struggling with the mad rage of 
 the torrent, dashed against rocks, blinded and bewildered 
 by the din of angry water, threatened with death from the 
 huge logs of wood, limbs of trees, and numberless articles of 
 furniture borne down the stream. No one who had not 
 known the Calder well, in all its moods, could have made 
 
THE RUINED NOELS. 
 
 125 
 
 way; now swimming like a water dog, now springing on 
 some upstanding rock, now diving under wide-spreading 
 boughs, and deftly avoiding the various perils of the passage. 
 Half-way across, a small island, on which grew two large 
 trees, divided the stream, some distance lower down than 
 the spot where the children were supposed to have been 
 thrown on the bank. To this halting-place the swimmer 
 directed his efforts, gaining strength, by the pause thus 
 afforded, for renewed efforts. It was wonderful how a man 
 so apparently worn and aged, could resist the force of the 
 torrent. Men shouted encouragement, women’s tears rained 
 down, but the poor mother neither spoke nor wept. With 
 eyes strained and fixed on the white speck, which her heart 
 told her hid her little ones, she clung to Bertina Noel, who 
 watched every brave effort of the swimmer with an emotion 
 never felt before. She did not herself understand the feel¬ 
 ing, deeper than compassion, more absorbing than the dread 
 of death or love of life, which filled her whole soul; though 
 her slender arm was bruised and blackened, for days after¬ 
 wards, by the agonised grasp of the terrified woman beside 
 her, Bertina did not feel it, as she watched the tall form 
 struggling against the immense power of the water, now 
 seen, now lost, amid foam and spray. 
 
 “ Hurrah !—God bless him !—he’s done it!” exclaimed 
 the men, as, across the widened river, twice its natural span, 
 came a faint shout, and a tall form was visible on the oppo¬ 
 site bank. “Is it them?—is it Meg?—is it Jennie?” burst 
 from the mother’s hitherto closed lips, as the first doubt 
 assailed her. She took courage as she saw, dimly, through 
 tears, that the swimmer had lashed the rope round the 
 bundle on the bank, and bound it firmly to his own person. 
 A low wail of mingled agony and thankfulness burst from 
 her. She hid her face in Bertina’s lap, unable to watch the 
 
126 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 yet more dangerous return of the man thus burdened, through 
 the raging waters of the Calder. 
 
 In the father’s heart the revival of hope—for Hathaway 
 had not shared his wife’s belief that the children were cast 
 ashore—awoke a different spirit. He gave the rope he had 
 been holding to another looker-on, and, following the course 
 taken by the soldier, plunged into the river. 
 
 His wife, if she saw the action, made no attempt to stop 
 him. She remained with her head down and her face hid¬ 
 den, sobbing convulsively, all the time he was struggling 
 through the encumbered bed of the river. The old man 
 had not stirred. He was probably much exhausted, and 
 glad to see that assistance was approaching. From the other 
 side it was impossible to perceive, through the blinding mist 
 and rain, how tenderly the old fellow was chafing the cold 
 limbs of the half-perished, terrified children. He had forced 
 a few drops of spirit, from the flask handed to him, be¬ 
 tween their blue lips; and they were gradually returning to 
 life and consciousness. Full well he knew—the practised 
 swimmer who had saved many a human life—how much it 
 would aid in their rescue, if they could cling with warm 
 living grasp to their preserver, instead of hanging a dead 
 weight on his shoulders, palsying exertion. 
 
 Hathaway, though in the prime of life, hale and strong,, 
 was longer in crossing than his predecessor. At last he 
 touched the land; and, much exhausted, was glad of a 
 helping hand to pull him up the bank on which, oh joy !— 
 lay his reviving infants. 
 
 The two men aided each other in making fast the burden 
 which they must carry back through the raging flood. For¬ 
 tunately the wrath of the elements was now subsiding. 
 The rain fell less violently, and the course of the river was 
 not so heavily encumbered. The shattered homesteads on 
 
THE RUINED NOELS. 
 
 127 
 
 its banks had been rifled, and their contents swept away 
 farther down the stream. Hathaway was astonished at the 
 superior knowledge of every turn in the bank—of each 
 shoal and current, and submerged stepping-stone or coign of 
 vantage, possessed by his companion over himself—though 
 he was a man born on the banks of the Calder, who had 
 lived in the same place all his life. 
 
 “ You be a Yorkshireman, surely,” he said, as they rested 
 for a moment on the island. “ You do know Calder to a 
 turn. Were ye bred and born in these parts ?” 
 
 But the veteran vouchsafed him no reply. Probably he 
 was aware that he required all the breath left in his old 
 body, to help him through the remainder of the passage. 
 
 The women, when danger was over, had gone into a 
 neighbouring cottage, to prepare beds and comforts for 
 those just rescued from the cold embrace of the water. 
 There were only men on the bank when the exhausted 
 swimmers got back to the starting point. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Bertina Noel, when the shouts on the bank proclaimed 
 that the children were rescued, hurried home to her mother. 
 She knew that the day must have been long, dreary, and 
 anxious, to a woman who never, under any circumstances, 
 stirred beyond her own small territories. 
 
 The extraordinary emotion shown by the old soldier 
 when he first saw her, had made her unwilling to expose 
 him again to an attack of illness, after his recent exertions, 
 by another view of her face. Strange to say, her own feel¬ 
 ings had been almost equally excited; and, until he returned 
 
128 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 in safety, Bertina had found it impossible to tear herself 
 away. She tried to persuade herself that it was only his 
 brave effort to save the children that interested her; but 
 some mysterious sensation at her heart contradicted this 
 impression. 
 
 As the young girl pressed on through the wet brambles 
 and blackberry bushes, which fringed the narrow path 
 through the gorge, she suddenly overtook Fritz Langdale 
 and his sister, on their way to the station. 
 
 Had she come upon them less abruptly, just at a turn in 
 the path, Bertina would have waited for them to pass on; 
 but she was absorbed in thought, and Fritz and Gertrude, 
 hearing footsteps behind them, stood aside under the trees 
 to let her go by. Fritz had been one of the most active 
 assistants in rescuing people from their submerged cottages, 
 and saving some portion of their little property, and he had 
 contributed handsomely to the sum raised by subscrip¬ 
 tion : but he had not heard of the accident to the children, 
 nor seen the dangerous exploit crowned by their rescue, as 
 it had taken place lower down the river. 
 
 Gertrude held out her hand to the young woman who 
 curtseyed respectfully. “ How wet you are,” she said com¬ 
 passionately. “ I hope you have not far to go, before you 
 reach your home. My brother has been telling me how 
 pretty it is, and what a hospitable reception you afforded 
 him.” 
 
 Bertina mentioned briefly the peril of the children and 
 their parents’ terror. “ I did not even know that I was 
 wet,” she said, unfastening her shawl and shaking the rain 
 from its folds. 
 
 “ That is the best and the most becoming head-dress and 
 mantle combined, I ever saw,” said Fritz, taking the tartan 
 from her and placing it once more over her dark hair, as 
 
THE RUINED NOELS. 
 
 129 
 
 respectfully as if she had been a princess, or one of his own 
 fair sisters. “ An old soldier, you say, who came by train 
 from Hazeldon, rescued the children, I hope he will go 
 back with us. I should like to shake hands with him. Can 
 you tell me his name V 
 
 “ No,” said Bertina, “ but I heard the people on the bank 
 say that it was not the first brave deed he had done, nor 
 the first life he had saved. One man told me that his son 
 would have been dashed to pieces before his eyes, having 
 become giddy on a scaffolding, if this old soldier had not, at 
 great risk, rushed to his side, supported, and brought him 
 down the ladder.” 
 
 “ It must be the General!” exclaimed Fritz. “ He aided in 
 saving our own dear mother, when a child, from shipwreck; 
 and has been a pensioner of my father’s ever since. It ap¬ 
 pears that he has a passion for rescuing people from dan¬ 
 gers by flood and fell, and deserves the Victoria Cross, or 
 some insignia of merit. You ought to be interested in him, 
 Miss Noel,” he added, “ for he has taken up his abode and 
 redeemed from dilapidation a portion of the old Hall 
 belonging to your ancestors, near the head of Langdale.” 
 
 Bertina coloured deeply. u I did feel interested in him— 
 more so than even the sight of his brave action could ac¬ 
 count for,” she said with emotion. “ I wonder what made 
 him take up his abode at Noel Hall, and why he was agi¬ 
 tated at seeing me ? Can he have been an old servant in 
 the family, during better days ?” 
 
 “ Very possibly,” said Fritz. “ I do not at all know what 
 his position was when he won my father’s life-long grati¬ 
 tude, but he is poor enough now. I fancy he has known 
 fairer fortunes.” 
 
 “ Here I must say farewell,” said Bertina, at a spot where 
 the path separated into two. “ That is the way to the 
 
 Q 
 
130 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 station, and yonder to the right, among the trees, lies our 
 old house. Unless, indeed,” she added, simply, “ you and 
 your sister will condescend to rest there.” 
 
 “ Not to-day,” said Gertrude, shaking hands cordially. 
 “ We are all wet and weary, and Mrs. Noel must be anxi¬ 
 ously looking out for you. Fritz shall bring me another 
 time to see you.” 
 
 Bertina stood still on the spot where they parted, until 
 the two figures were lost in the woodland. 
 
 Mrs. Noel was standing at the gate, looking out anxiously 
 for her daughter, when Bertina came slowly up the path. 
 The lappets of her cap were thrown back, and there was an 
 angry flush on her face. 
 
 “ How late you are, child! With whom were you 
 talking on the high ground yonder ? I have heard voices 
 this half-hour.” 
 
 “ Nay, mother,” said the girl, quietly. “ I stayed only a 
 few moments speaking to Mr. Langdale and his sister. 
 They were visiting the family at Mill Hall, and came down 
 to see the cloth-making just before the great storm. I 
 think it must have been a water-spout that burst over Cal- 
 der Yale.” 
 
 “Never mind about the water-spout,” said Mrs. Noel, 
 stamping her small foot impatiently on the gravel pathway. 
 “ Bertina, why do you evade my question. What brought 
 Mr. Langdale to the Gorge again ? He does not come to 
 watch the cloth-making. Was it an excuse to see you 
 once more?” 
 
 “ He scarcely spoke to me,” said Bertina, colouring 
 deeply. “Mother, I have not deserved this from you. I 
 would not bear it from any one else. Have I ever be¬ 
 haved lightly, that you should question me so sharply?” 
 
 Mrs. Noel’s high spirit broke down: she burst into 
 
THE RUINED NOELS. 
 
 131 
 
 tears. Her daughter soothed her tenderly. Ci Forgive 
 me, mother; I did not mean to vex you; I only hope you 
 do not blame me.” 
 
 “No, it is I who am wrong and foolish. I never was 
 steady like you,” said the penitent woman. “ Bertina, it 
 was a gentleman like Mr. Langdale, one of the county gen¬ 
 try who saw me at work among the girls in that very room 
 where you sit, who turned my brain—my weak, silly head. 
 He followed me through the copse, just as that young gen¬ 
 tleman pursued you the other day, and admired my scarlet 
 shawl and black hair. It is grey enough now, but then it 
 was long and shining like yours. It all came back to me 
 to-day while I was waiting for you; and, when I heard your 
 voice, and his deep, low tones, such as one never hears at 
 the Mill. Oh, my darling, if you knew how I have learnt to 
 hate such courtly accents as once made music in my hearing ! 
 If you are good and virtuous, still such wooing unfits you 
 for your station; and if you yield to the temptation to lis¬ 
 ten, as too many poor girls have done, why, then God help 
 you ! See what a life of misery mine has been; and I 
 might, but for him , have been a humble, happy, wife and 
 mother in the station appointed for me.” 
 
 “Have no fear, mother,” said Bertina, proudly. “ What¬ 
 ever you have suffered, I am a Noel—poor enough, certainly, 
 but never likely, any more than yourself, to depart from a 
 virtuous path. Young Mr. Langdale was not thinking of 
 me;” she added, with a slight sigh. “ He was quite devoted 
 to a beautiful fair girl, his cousin, Miss Ellinor Langdale, 
 from the Hall. I believe she is a great heiress, and I dare¬ 
 say he wishes to marry her. I am quite sure she likes him. 
 His sister was very kind, and talked a great deal to me. 
 She has promised to come and see us. Mr. Langdale did 
 not even speak to me this morning, and, when we met 
 
 0—2 
 
132 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 among the trees above, he was only asking about poor 
 Hathaway’s children, who were saved from drowning by an 
 old soldier from Hazeldon.” 
 
 She told her mother of the brave deed, carefully ab¬ 
 staining from mentioning that the old man had shown any 
 particular emotion at sight of her ; or that he lived at the 
 old Hall belonging to the Noels. Her mother’s excitable 
 temper might have been roused by these circumstances 
 being mentioned. Any reference to the Noels brought back 
 the memory of sufferings which her undisciplined character 
 had lacked strength to endure. Her education had been 
 very faulty, and she had never striven to improve. 
 
 Even as it was, her daughter’s narrative accidentally lit 
 a spark which blazed up fiercely. 
 
 “Lie Mrs. Lang’s preserver from shipwreck!” she said, 
 indignantly, as Dr. Forsyth had done, when Mr. Lang 
 made a similar communication. “ Bertina, your old hero is 
 an audacious impostor. It was your poor father, Bertie 
 Noel, who swam out to the ship, when no one else would 
 venture, and brought back the poor little lady in his arms. 
 I have heard him tell the story a hundred times. There 
 was an aya, an Indian nurse, rescued. Perhaps this man 
 brought her to land, but he never laid a finger on Mrs. 
 Lang. And yet her own son told you this ! So much for 
 people’s gratitude !” 
 
 Bertina strove in vain to calm her mother’s indignation. 
 Mrs. Noel, a beautiful brunette of low birth, had captivated 
 the spendthrift heir of the Noels—the last of the old line. 
 He had carried her off from her companions at the Mill; 
 but her virtue was proof against temptation, although 
 passion and vanity aided her lover’s pleadings. It was said 
 that Cuthbert Noel was the victim of his own wiles; and 
 found himself, most unexpectedly, the husband, lawfully 
 
THE RUINED NOELS. 
 
 133 
 
 wedded, according to Scotch law, of the beautiful peasant 
 he had carried across the border. Both were lost sight 
 of for years, and the property went to wrack and ruin ; but 
 on her return to her native place with her child, Bertina’s 
 mother produced papers which gave her a right to the name 
 of Cuthbert Noel’s widow, and the remnant left of his pro¬ 
 perty, including the old house in Calder Dale. 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
PAET THE FOURTH. 
 
 THE VICTORY WON. 
 
 Set like a gem in the green valley’s breast, 
 Flecked by the gold of the burnished West, 
 Shadowed with russet, and purple, and pall, 
 Brightened with flash of the oars’ gentle fall ; 
 Warmly reflecting the sun’s latest blush, 
 
 Lies our lake i-n the Evening’s tremulous hush. 
 
 Bed and white roses on terrace and wall. 
 
 Stars of white jasmine illumine our Hall; 
 
 Old checker’d woodwork, cream white and dark brown ; 
 Moonlight o’erflooding the dough and the down, 
 
 Lights sparkling out on the hillside and crest: 
 
 Fountains at play, and all nature at rest. 
 
 B. M. Iv. 
 

 I 
 
 
 
 
 
 
CHAPTER I. 
 
 LORENCE LANGDALE, willingly or unwillingly, 
 and in spite of the positive refusal on the part of 
 her parents to accept any present advantages, was 
 acknowledged by the whole neighbourhood to be the heiress 
 of her cousin’s property. Miss Langdale mentioned on every 
 possible occasion the decision at which she had arrived; and 
 spoke of Frank Langdale’s young daughter as the future 
 possessor of the Hall, and of her large landed estates. 
 
 The only alteration which the owner of the Grange per¬ 
 mitted in the habits of his family, was that the abbreviation 
 of the name ceased to be insisted upon. Florence had 
 carried her point even in childhood, and it was impossible 
 to insist now upon her calling herself by any but the un¬ 
 altered family name belonging to the property which would 
 one day be her own. As this was the case, it seemed unfair 
 to her sisters that they should not share the same advan¬ 
 tages. Mr. Langdale had always allowed his son to use the 
 name, considering him to be the future Langdale of Lang¬ 
 dale. Now his prospects were altered, it was right that 
 no unnecessary difference should exist among the young 
 people. The great commercial house in which Mr. Lang¬ 
 dale had acted for several years as senior clerk, had recently 
 offered him a junior partnership, thus removing one some- 
 
138 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 what fanciful reason for the simple style he had adopted 
 on first settling in his native county. 
 
 Not even to her mother, since the day when she rejected 
 with horror the proposal that she should abandon her home, 
 had Florence mentioned ^lier feelings on the subject of Miss 
 Langdale’s adoption of herself as her heiress. She had be¬ 
 come very grave and silent, but all her duties were scrupu¬ 
 lously performed, and she attended diligently to her studies. 
 Mr. Langdale’s accession of income enabled him to afford 
 the means of improving the education of his daughters. The 
 best masters in various accomplishments now attended at 
 the Grange, and Florence applied herself diligently and con¬ 
 scientiously to her different tasks. She had a fine ear for 
 music, and a melodious voice, but no taste for drawing. 
 Frances and the twins continued to take long excursions, for 
 the purpose of sketching the lovely scenery of the West 
 Hiding. Gertrude cared most for acquiring foreign lan¬ 
 guages. Whatever might be her favourite pursuit, each of 
 the girls was now encouraged to prosecute it, and every ad¬ 
 vantage was afforded to bring it to perfection. 
 
 Little as she cared for worldly wealth, Ellinor Langdale 
 often found it a hard task to command her countenance, and 
 to silence the expression of her feelings, when her sister 
 spoke in her presence of the changes she had in contempla¬ 
 tion ; as though she were a totally indifferent person, unin¬ 
 terested in these arrangements. 
 
 Ignorant as she was of the tastes and wishes of the young 
 creature whom she had arbitrarily constituted her successor, 
 Maud constantly alluded to Florence’s supposed inclinations 
 and future plans, as though she could map out the whole of 
 her life. Whilst she disregarded entirely the feelings of the 
 sister who had spent her whole young life under her roof, 
 regarding Langdale Hall as her own fair inheritance ; Miss 
 
THE VICTORY WON. 
 
 139 
 
 Langdale studied every imaginary fancy of the almost un¬ 
 known cousin, who had so strangely captivated her fancy. 
 
 One of the few r traits of character which she had seen ex¬ 
 hibited by her future heiress, was Florence's intense admira¬ 
 tion for the antique carvings, and picturesque architecture, 
 of the old Hall on the hill overlooking the valley. On this 
 foundation Miss Langdale had raised a lofty structure, still 
 further embellished by the few inwardly clinging predilec¬ 
 tions and fancies of her own long past girlhood. 
 
 Mr. Haywarden shook his head doubtfully, when his rich 
 client consulted him as to the possibility of restoring to its 
 ancient style the ruined edifice, which of late had yielded 
 shelter to labourers, and even paupers. 
 
 “ ¥k>u want to restore Noel Hall !” he said. “ Far better 
 let it alone. It will take an enormous slice out of your 
 young favourite’s fortune ; and, after all, it is not an old 
 family property, like the one in Langdale. I never advised 
 you to buy it; but in that, as in most other matters, you 
 like your own way the best.” 
 
 Maud smiled gravely. Mr. Haywarden was a privileged 
 mortal. 
 
 “ I mean to have my own way now; and, depend upon it, 
 Florence will not grudge the outlay. The child is as liberal 
 as the day.” 
 
 “ She is not a child—you made her a woman long before 
 her time,” said the lawyer, gravely. “ People do not go 
 back into childhood. How can you answer for her libe¬ 
 rality, or for any part of her future character, after placing 
 her in a false position ] ” 
 
 “ Cultivation improves good plants,” said Miss Langdale. 
 “ W eeds grow rank, but the tender vine—the rich blossom— 
 needs good soil, and profits by fostering. I tell you Florence 
 Langdale would have pined and died in the arid ground at 
 
140 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 tlie Grange. Now, with hope and affluence in prospect, she 
 will flourish like a young palm tree. But never mind about 
 my responsibilities: I will take care of myself and of her. 
 What will it cost to repair Noel Hall V’ 
 
 “ I cannot possibly answer you without going fully into 
 the subject. We must have a builder’s estimate, and you 
 are sure to prefer the most expensive plan. Upon my word 
 I hope you will be advised, and give it up. If you wish to 
 leave this young lady a fortune, why spend thousands and 
 tens of thousands on an old place for which she cannot 
 really care very much, instead of embellishing Langdale 
 Hall V 
 
 u I do not mean to lay out a penny unnecessarily on 
 Langdale Hall,” said Maud with increasing obstinacy. 
 “ Florence is perfectly satisfied with it, and so am I. Get 
 me the estimates, plans,—whatever is desirable—and I will 
 find out what she likes best. There are always ways and 
 means of discovering what one really cares to know.” 
 
 “ I will have no hand in deceiving Frank Langdale and 
 his wife,” said the lawyer, pushing his papers away from be¬ 
 fore him, and confronting his client boldly across his writing- 
 table. “If you have any underhand dealings with their 
 daughter I will wash my hands of the whole affair.” 
 
 “ Nonsense, old friend,” said Miss Langdale, soothingly; 
 “ if I were about to enter into any unlawful traffic I should 
 not let you into my secrets. For once in my life, I have 
 changed my mind. To tell you the truth, it is for my own 
 pleasure principally that I wish to restore the old place on 
 the hill-top, where some of my happiest days were spent. 
 You need not remind me that it was in consequence of a 
 whim of my own that the place has been neglected. I can¬ 
 not bear to see paupers airing their rags on the once hospi¬ 
 table hearth-stone. When all is done that I contemplate, 
 
THE VICTORY WOK. 
 
 141 
 
 there will be enough for Florence. Why, in ten years—and 
 I mean to live as long—I could pay for it out of my income. 
 The first step is to give notice to quit to every one of its 
 present wretched occupants. How long will that take?” 
 
 “ You had best not meddle with the General,” said Mr. 
 Hay warden. “ Let him alone, I beseech you.” 
 
 “ On the contrary, he is the very person I wish to eject. 
 Let his be the first notice served,” said Maud, blazing up 
 with wrath. “ An insolent, ill-bred beggar ! I cannot think 
 why you allowed him to lodge there. We have spoken about 
 this before, and I yielded to your wish to give him proper 
 notice. I was even sorry for his lamentable condition. But, 
 if the rest are to go, why should he remain?” 
 
 “ Because he may give you trouble if you aggravate him. 
 At present he has done no harm—nay, he has served you 
 well. Neither you, nor Miss Florence, nor the clever archi¬ 
 tect who may execute your behests, will work harder, or 
 strive more lovingly, to do honour to and reclaim the old 
 house of the Noels, than this poor feeble creature. It is worth 
 your while, before you proceed further with your whim, to 
 view the Hall and inspect the Gateway Tower. With his 
 own hands he has laid stone to stone—mended the old 
 stained glass—in short, done wonders. It would be a 
 burning shame to eject the old veteran.” 
 
 “ I shall certainly not suffer him to remain,” said Maud, 
 icily. What can a lialf-senseless vagabond have effected 
 that will stand side by side with high art?” 
 
 “ Listen to me, Miss Langdale,” said Mr. Haywarden, ear¬ 
 nestly, “ and for once be ruled. I know very little about 
 high art, but I do understand law and common humanity; 
 and I tell you that, if you offend thus recklessly and cruelly 
 the honest occupant of the Gateway Tower, you will never 
 restore the Hall of the Noels.” 
 
142 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 “ This is some superstitious fancy; I am not to be fright¬ 
 ened* by any Meg Merrilies threats. Of course, all those 
 wretched creatures will cry out and threaten my roof-tree if 
 I meddle with theirs; but I am not like the weak Laird of 
 Ellangowan, neither is it my intention to act cruelly or 
 recklessly; you ought to know me better. I shall trust to 
 you to make proper and reasonable provision and compensa¬ 
 tion, to all who may suffer from my resolution to restore the 
 old house of the Noels. But it must be cleared of the foul 
 crew who are now housed in the ancient Hall. Let them 
 have cottages built for them, on any part of my property you 
 choose to point out as fitted for the purpose—all except the 
 man you call the General. Make him what compensation 
 you like—I will not have him as my tenant.” 
 
 “ He will lodge nowhere but in the Gateway Tower, and 
 he will take from you neither money nor favour. Let him 
 alone; I believe he was once in Bertie Noel’s service. At 
 all events, he loves the old place for his sake. Will that 
 appease you, Maud ?” 
 
 A very striking change passed over Miss Langdale’s face 
 as the lawyer, who had known her from a child, pronounced 
 the last words; but she hardened her heart against him. 
 
 “ No,” she said, deliberately; “I will not tolerate his pre¬ 
 sence there.” 
 
 “ Then you may as well give up your new scheme,” said 
 Mr. Haywarden, drily. “ I have hitherto abstained from 
 telling you my real reason for advising you to let this poor 
 fellow alone. If you do not disturb him he will not trouble 
 you; but, if you tread on him, he will, like any creature pro¬ 
 vided with a sting, use it in self-defence. This man main¬ 
 tains that Cuthbert Noel is not dead. With his usual way¬ 
 ward inconsistency, finding himself utterly ruined, and being 
 unwilling to bear the burden of his own follies and vices, he 
 
THE VICTORY WON. 
 
 143 
 
 determined to have done with the world, and with his few 
 still remaining friends. The woman whom he had .never 
 acknowledged as his wife, received, as his widow, some small 
 competence, and the old house in the Eagle’s Gorge, where 
 the widows of the Noels have always resided. The rest of 
 the property was sold, but, had the last of the Noels been 
 known to be living, this could not have taken place. The 
 title to Noel Hall would not hold good. There would be no 
 end of complication and trouble. There might have been 
 much difficulty sooner, for Bertie Noel’s death was never 
 legally proved; but few cared for him, living, sufficiently to 
 deny the story of his death in some far away nook of the 
 New World.” 
 
 There was a long silence. At last Mr. Haywarden’s words 
 had taken effect, but still Maud would not own that she was 
 conquered. She rose from her seat, leaning -with her hand 
 heavily on the table before she lifted from it her riding-whip. 
 “ Do nothing at present. I will see this man; I may not 
 find him so difficult to deal with as you anticipate.” Then, 
 after shaking hands with the lawyer, she hastily quitted the 
 office. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Noel Hall bore little trace of its once stately aspect, when 
 Maud Langdale rode more slowly than usual, up the long 
 ascent. Ragged children were playing and shouting in the 
 courtyard—long rows of coarse garments fluttered above the 
 battlements—and, niched in his sunny corner, wrapped in 
 his blue roquelaure, the General was basking in the warm 
 rays, and looking down over the valley. 
 
144 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 Maud drew in her rein sharply, and sat motionless in her 
 saddle, when she came in sight of the place. Thoughts 
 which she had kept down forcibly, now, whether she liked 
 it or not, rushed upon her; making the strong woman 
 tremble with emotion. Girlish vanities, to which she fan¬ 
 cied herself dead for ever—womanly feelings, which had 
 been outraged and crushed and repented of bitterly, turn¬ 
 ing the milk of human kindness to gall and wormwood— 
 re-awoke as she contemplated the ruinous structure. 
 
 Although she was too far off to see his features, Maud 
 fancied that the old veteran was gibing and mocking at her. 
 Brave as a lion usually, she trembled now with fear as well 
 as sorrow. Something in the man’s looks and bearing, 
 poverty-stricken as he was, daunted her haughty spirit. 
 
 Determined as she was not to endure his presence, Maud 
 felt as if she dared not tell him to depart. 
 
 Why had he chosen that spot of all others for his fa¬ 
 vourite station ? Other eyes had gazed upon her from that 
 place, as, in her proud fearless beauty, she rode up the hill 
 to Noel Hall. Other hands had lifted her from the saddle, 
 at whose touch every nerve vibrated then—the very 
 memory of their light yet tender clasp still set her pulses 
 beating—the only assistance she had ever cared to accept, 
 saving from one other who never proffered to her now, aid 
 or courtesy, had been extended, in greeting and welcome, 
 when she reached the Gateway Tower where the old pauper 
 had taken up his abode. 
 
 Miss Langdale noticed for the first time, as she rode on, 
 the glimmer of the stained glass in the high narrow window 
 of the room above the archway, and the careful training of 
 the ivy boughs. The place where the old soldier sat looking 
 down upon her was near the entrance into the courtyard. 
 
THE VICTORY WON. 
 
 145 
 
 She must pass close by him, and underneath the gateway 
 tower. 
 
 Her voice seemed to die away in her throat as she essayed 
 to speak; an unwonted faintness oppressed her. One of 
 the urchins playing in the courtyard ran forward on hearing 
 the horse-hoofs on the stone, and threw open one side of 
 the great gates—the other would not move. Maud rode 
 forward silently. 
 
 Mr. Haywarden had as yet said nothing of her intentions. 
 He hoped that for once Miss Langdale would give way. 
 The women who were busy hanging up their clothes, stood 
 still and curtseyed as she passed. An old crone, bolder 
 than the rest, came to meet her with a complaint. Maud 
 coldly referred her to the steward. The black cat, as she 
 lay basking in the sunshine, glowered at her, arching her 
 back and bristling all over as the lady disturbed her slum¬ 
 bers. Her mistress came to the door, and asked whether 
 Madam would please to get down and rest a bit. The 
 woman stood on. the very stone where, over and over 
 again in former days, Maud had been helped from her sad¬ 
 dle by that well-remembered firm clasp. Often as she had 
 since visited the old hall, she had never till now felt the 
 past return to her so vividly. 
 
 With a sharp touch of pain, which made her manner 
 haughtier than usual, Maud repulsed the offer; saying she 
 had ridden over to see if the repairs she had ordered had 
 been executed. She had not expected to be met with 
 fresh complaints, as had been the case the moment she passed 
 the gateway. If people were not satisfied, it would be 
 better for them to leave. She should certainly lay out no 
 more money on the place for their benefit. 
 
 Meg’s great green eyes dilated, as if she read in the lady’s 
 disdainful words threats of summary ejectment; but her 
 
 10 
 
146 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 mistress did not take tlie hint. She grumbled about the 
 workpeople not having finished their task properly; and 
 showed the lady where the new spout let the rain into the 
 building, instead of carrying it off*. Something was out of 
 order where the water-works and fountains used to play. 
 There were no end of grievances to be rectified, some real, 
 some fictitious. Maud listened with a frowning brow in 
 ominous silence. When the old dame had finished her sor¬ 
 rowful list of evils, from wind and water, smoke and damp, 
 Miss Langdale rode away from the door, without bidding 
 her good day. 
 
 A gloomy shadow crept over the busy group as she 
 passed. The children stopped playing, and huddled toge¬ 
 ther in a frightened group, as if anticipating chastisement : 
 a cold blast fluttered among the rags, the women stood still, 
 curtseying, but no one ventured to address her. The 
 General drew his cloak tightly round him, as if suddenly 
 chilled, and looked down upon her from his now gloomy 
 coign of vantage, without lifting his cap. 
 
 Maud’s courage rose at last, and she rode straight across 
 the yard, and accosted the man who had not deigned to 
 salute her. 
 
 “ Come down,” she said, without any attempt at courtesy; 
 
 “ I wish you to show me what alterations you have made in 
 your lodging in the Gateway Tower.” 
 
 The old man did not move. He beckoned to one of the 
 scared children, and leaning from the wall, whispered a 
 word in the lad’s ear. It was the curly-haired boy who had 
 held the rein of Miss Langdale’s mare on her previous visit. 
 He came close to the lady, and'pulling one of the fair locks 
 on his forehead, said, “ I be to show it you, he says, it 
 don’t suit he to move just now.” 
 
 Miss Langdale curbed her impatient temper with difficulty. 
 
THE VICTORY WON. 
 
 147 
 
 It was, perhaps unconsciously, a relief that her curiosity 
 might be gratified, without her being oppressed by the 
 presence of the object of her passionate dislike. Without 
 a second glance at the old man, she dismounted; and, 
 leaving Christobel in charge of the oldest of Ned’s com¬ 
 panions, she followed the boy across the courtyard. 
 
 A dark, steep stair led up to the room over the gateway; 
 winding round and round inside the thick walls, and lighted 
 only by narrow loopholes deeply set in the luxuriant ivy. 
 The boy stood back to let the lady enter the room above; 
 gathering in his sunburnt hands the folds of a heavy curtain 
 which was let down over the wide portal. As the lad stood, 
 with his fair curls relieved in light against the dark velvet 
 hangings, bending under their weight, the glow of the 
 painted glass above his head, and a bright smile on his face, 
 with the dark steps winding down in front of him, an 
 artist might have kept him there to make the foreground 
 for a picture ; but Maud did not even look at him. 
 
 Before her—seen dimly through the narrow shadowy open¬ 
 ing of dark Ypres velvet, seemed to lie the land of her 
 youth; the only scene where she had known a girl’s bright 
 dreams of love and happiness :—a very lofty chamber, 
 panelled and painted, with gleams of broken bars of burnished 
 gold, here and there lit up by rays of many coloured light 
 falling from above ;—strips and scraps of velvet pile carpet, 
 laid down, as if for votaries to kneel upon and worship, 
 beneath rare shrines and statues and relics from far-off 
 southern climes, full of surpassing beauty. On high, 
 wreathed with elaborate carvings, picked up among the 
 ruins by the workmen, and tendered to the old man in 
 gratitude; arranged in semblance of a frame, hung a picture 
 which made Miss Langdale’s breath come fast and short, 
 and her eyes fill with tears. To her, that proud woman had 
 
 10—2 
 
14S 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 been like a mother; the only tenderness her youth had 
 known had been shown her here,—where she now stood, a 
 lone woman, hard and cold, and blighted,—by Lady Barbara 
 Noel and her wild son, Cuthbert, Maud’s early lover. 
 
 The boy, who was peeping into the chamber, suddenly 
 felt the curtains snatched from his grasp, and let down 
 between him and the lady, as she harshly bade him go 
 away and wait for her below. He was too much frightened 
 to linger ; and not a soul credited his assertion that he heard 
 the lady sobbing and crying, as he ran down the' turret 
 stairs; or would have recognised, in the form prostrate 
 before the life-size portrait of the once haughty Mistress 
 of Noel Hall, the equally proud, equally feared, Lady of 
 Langdale. 
 
 Maud looked round timidly, as though fearing to be con¬ 
 fronted by spectres, after the first long sorrowful burst of 
 emotion. 
 
 The room was not large, though very lofty, and within it 
 seemed assembled all the best remembered tokens of the 
 vanished pride and taste of the Noels. Wliere had the old 
 pictures and cabinets been hidden ? Who had unearthed 
 those long slender glasses—the many curiously moulded 
 lolics of antiquity. Maud gazed round her wonderingly as 
 she recalled each token and memory of the past. 
 
 Miss Langdale started and shivered as she heard a heavy 
 footstep on the stair. She would have given the world to 
 be alone for one hour in that room—to hold in her hand, 
 and study lovingly, the various signs of a time for ever past; 
 
 -but it was not to be. In vain she strove to rally back her 
 pride, to recover her self-possession. It was with difficulty 
 that she stood erect, with her hand trembling as it rested 
 on a small ivoiy slab, fixed m the wall beneath the picture 
 of Bertie Noel’s lovely mother; when the tenant of the Gate- 
 
THE VICTORY WON. 
 
 149 
 
 way Tower entered the room in which she felt herself an 
 intruder. 
 
 There was a kind of dignity in the man’s air as he 
 advanced towards her, a sort of rude courtesy. He drew 
 forward an antique chair, with the crest of the Noels set in 
 dark carving and velvet, and motioned to her to be seated. 
 Miss Langclale even fancied there was a compassionate 
 glance in his eyes which angered her, but she had not 
 power to remain standing; her shaking limbs refused longer 
 to support her. 
 
 Her host—for she felt herself to be his guest—seated him¬ 
 self without craving permission. Through the painted glass 
 a soft light fell on the man’s figure, and on the dark lines of 
 drapery which he gathered round him—ennobling the form 
 of the old soldier, as he cast himself down among the relics 
 of the past, which, with so much toil and trouble, he had col¬ 
 lected. Maud felt inclined to view him more respectfully, 
 and the recollection returned to her mind of Mr. Haywarden’s 
 words, that it would be a shame to turn him out of the Gate¬ 
 way Tower; and that not even she herself could have done 
 more honour to the ruined family, whom perhaps he had 
 served and loved, than this forlorn wanderer. 
 
 “ You knew her?” she said, with an effort, pointing to the 
 large picture beneath which her strange companion had 
 seated himself. “ What was your connection with Lady 
 Barbara Noel and her son ? Were you once a servant in 
 this house 1 I do not remember ever to have seen you here, 
 and yet you must have known and loved this place, as I did, 
 formerly.” 
 
 “ Ladies like yourself, Miss Langdale, do not much notice 
 those who wait upon them, though we were to serve you on 
 our bended knees. I mind you well enough; you have seen 
 
150 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 me here often before,” said the old man quietly, without 
 looking at her. 
 
 u Indeed, I do not recollect it,” said Miss Langdale, in a 
 softer and kinder tone than usual. “ Had I guessed—if you 
 had told me that you were an old servant of the Noels, I 
 should have been interested about you.” 
 
 “ Nay, I never said I was a servant at Noel Hall. If I 
 had been, service is no inheritance, and what’s done is done 
 and ended. I have served my country, and I have served 
 ladies, but I never wore a livery. Of late I have lived in 
 free countries, where men are men, and not obliged to bend 
 their backs when great people go by. You don’t like such 
 manners ; but let me tell you, Miss Langdale, there are 
 those who think that your own might be altered with ad¬ 
 vantage.” 
 
 “ This insolence is not to be borne,” said Miss Langdale, 
 starting up, with her eyes full of fire. “By what right have 
 you ventured to make so many changes—and to gather 
 together things which belong to me—and then, when I speak 
 kindly, to insult me? My steward has instructions which I 
 shall not rescind—to give you notice to quit these premises.” 
 
 “Sit down—there are two words to go to that bargain,” 
 said the old man, without moving. “ By what right, do ye 
 say, did I pick all these family relics of the Noels out of the 
 dust-heap and cinder-pit where you had left them ? By what 
 right did I, with my own hands, mend and make and join 
 them together? Is that what you want to know, Maud 
 Langdale? By the right given to me by Bertie Noel, the 
 man who loved you once better than his own soul.” 
 
 Maud sank back into the chair she had quitted, covering 
 her eyes with her hands. “He is dead, then?” she said* 
 
 hoarsely. “ Was it his last wish that you should act as you 
 have done?” 
 
THE VICTORY WON. 
 
 151 
 
 “ Nay, I am not going to say whether he’s dead or living,” 
 said the old man, cautiously. He was not dead, leastways, 
 when we foregathered in the colonies, and he told me what 
 a wrack and ruin had been made of Noel Hall. That hurt him 
 sorely. I was coming back to the old country, and, as I had 
 a liking for this place, I promised to look it up, and see what 
 the rats and the owls had left fit for use. I saw him living 
 then, and it’s for you to prove he’s dead since; but it 
 was not his will, nor is it mine, to trouble you, Miss Lang- 
 dale, as long as you let me bide quietly in the Gateway 
 
 Tower.” 
 
 “ I believe you to be an impostor, said Miss Langdale, 
 rising haughtily; u but at present I shall not condescend to 
 argue and bandy words with you. You will hear what my 
 further intentions are, in due course of time, fiom my 
 
 steward, Mr. Haywarden.” 
 
 i 1 Have a care, Miss Langdale, have a care, said the old 
 man, drawing the curtain aside for her to pass. Don t 
 wake the sleeping lion. Best let me bide in the old 
 
 Tower.” 
 
 Maud stopped involuntarily. Something in the old man’s 
 voice once more brought back the thoughts of earlier days, 
 and softened her heart. “ You have seen Cuthbert Noel 
 since he left England—since he has been considered by all 
 his friends to be dead. Did he indeed give you a commis¬ 
 sion to restore order—to gather together—his scattered pos¬ 
 sessions She hesitated, and the colour rose to her haughty 
 brow. Did he—did Mr. Noel—send no word, no token, 
 
 to me 1 I would have respected his wishes. 
 
 “ Nay, that he did not do, most certainly lie sent no 
 word to you,” said the old man. “ Mr. Lang, as he chose to 
 -call himself—your cousin down to the Giange ho got a 
 message. He’ll bear witness I’ve told ye naught but tiut i. 
 
152 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 A very good man is Frank Lang—better than most ; ye can 
 ask him about "Cuthbert. He knows more about him and 
 me than any other living man.” 
 
 “ I have not spoken with Frank Langdale of the Grange 
 for twenty years. I do not care to do so now,” said Maud, 
 impatiently. “ I believe, however, that you are sj:)eaking 
 truth ; and that you have known Mr. Noel longer, and better 
 than your present position at first led me to suppose. I am 
 grateful to you for bringing back memories of the past which 
 will assist me in embellishing this place, and, on certain 
 conditions, I will even suffer you to remain in the Tower to 
 which you have so strangely attached yourself. Are you 
 willing to enter my service, and to act as porter here, assist¬ 
 ing the workmen in their operations T 
 
 “ No, I am not,” said the veteran, sturdily. “ I’ll bide 
 here as my own master, or not at all. Your servant I will 
 not be. I am a free man, and able to pay my way. I want 
 neither wages nor livery. For the rest, I’m right willing to 
 help the work-people, as I’ve done before, without your ask¬ 
 ing me, and without fee or reward. What I do will be not 
 for your sake, nor at your bidding, but for the sake of the 
 dead Noels who lived here before you bought the place.” 
 
 Maud Langdale remained irresolute. L T nder the shadow 
 of the curtain the man stood dark and firm, as though all 
 the pride and obstinacy of the wayward Noels were con¬ 
 centrated in his own person. A certain resj^ect for his in¬ 
 dependence rose within her, and for once she yielded up 
 her own haughty will. 
 
 “ Be it as you like,” she said, bending her head not uncour- 
 teously. “For the sake of Lady Barbara Noel and her son, 
 whom I so dearly loved, I accept, on your own terms, your 
 good offices on behalf of this place.” 
 
 A gleam of triumphant pleasure shot from the General’s- 
 
THE VICTORY WON. 
 
 153 
 
 dark eyes. “All right,” he said; “take them or leave 
 them as ye list. How soon will the work begin ?” 
 
 “ The moment we can get rid of the present occupants of 
 the Hall,” said Miss Langdale, “ almost immediately— 
 none of them deserve much consideration; Mr. Hay- 
 warden will see to their removal, and that they have 
 proper compensation and house room elsewhere. The sooner 
 the whole crew are off the premises the better I shall be 
 pleased.” 
 
 “ I’d rather have nought to do with their flitting,” said 
 the old man; “ they’re flesh and blood, though not of the 
 best sort, and the bairns will greet, and the women will 
 mourn over their bits of gardens and the big kitchens. But, 
 what must be, must. I suppose you think one place is as 
 good as another for the likes of them. It’s little you’ll 
 trouble about such varmint. Up on the hill-top or down in 
 the ditches and fens, will be good enough for the poor 
 devils. I can’t say they’ve been over well housed here, but 
 the foxes like the hill tarns, and birds of the air their nests. 
 The dame’s cat will not easily take to feeding at another 
 hearth; but they’ll come round, bless ye, in time, and if 
 they don’t, what’s the odds ? They’ve got to go, man and 
 maid, mother and son, cat and kitten; to go, or to bide and 
 starve. I reckon that’s about it, isn’t it, Miss Lang¬ 
 dale ? And when all’s said and done, what will ye do with 
 the old Hall of the Noels'? Are there any of the family 
 left-in England? I’ve heard say Cuthbert left a wife and 
 child.” 
 
 “Not one of Mr. Noel’s friends have ever acknowledged 
 the low-bred woman who calls herself his wife,” said Miss 
 Langdale, with bitter scorn. “ I certainly never will admit 
 the validity of the marriage; and I am astonished that the 
 trustees allow that woman to live at the Dower House in 
 
154 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF LANGE ALE HALL. 
 
 the Gorge. The girl works at the mills as her mother did 
 before her.” 
 
 “ It’s a pity Cuthbert did not get his living after the 
 same honest fashion. But there, now, Miss Langdale, I’ve 
 no mind to offend ye, and I do believe it was that connec¬ 
 tion and the dread of the woman’s claiming him that kept 
 Bertie Noel away, and made him pass himself off for dead. 
 It looks as if he felt she and the child—’twas a airl, wasn’t 
 it ?—had some sort of a right to claim him.” 
 
 “ I have no wish to argue the matter,” said Miss Lang¬ 
 dale, with returning haughtiness. “ Mr. Noel lost himself 
 by that ill-fated connection, but no one who knew him be¬ 
 lieved it to be a legal marriage. At Noel Hall these women 
 will knock in vain for admission. The place has passed 
 away from the race for ever, even if they could prove them¬ 
 selves to belong to it.” 
 
 “ Aye, aye—sure enough—you’re right there. The Noels 
 have neither stick nor stone belonging to them here, I sup¬ 
 pose,” said the old man, looking round mournfulty. “ Not 
 even my lady’s picture there, proud as she looks; a real 
 lady, every inch of her.” 
 
 Miss Langdale looked with wonder at the man who stood 
 with his head bent back gazing at the picture of the friend 
 —the almost mother—of her youth. Again a softer feeling 
 stole over her, as she noticed the marvellous care with which 
 the forlorn old soldier had repaired the ravages of time. 
 Never had she felt better satisfied with herself than now, 
 as she reflected that she had persuaded him to remain in 
 the renovated tower. 
 
 She bade him farewell kindly, but the man did not turn 
 his head—he hardly seemed to notice her departure. Chris- 
 toble was pawing the ground impatiently in the midst of 
 a group of half scared children. Ned held her rein cau- 
 
THE VICTORY WON. 
 
 155 
 
 tiously. This time Maud threw him a handsome gratuity. 
 She even recollected to thank the lad, and smiled upon him 
 kindly as he held open the heavy gate under the entrance 
 tower. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Mr. IIaywarden made no farther protest when Miss Lang- 
 dale signified to him, in writing, her wish that the present 
 inmates of Noel Hall should be served with notices to quit 
 the premises ; with the exception of the old American soldier 
 who occupied the Gateway Tower, and Meg’s mistress and 
 her grandson. 
 
 For the present these persons might remain, but, as soon 
 as possible, workmen were to be engaged, and plans sent in, 
 for the restoration of the Hall. As nearly as possible, she 
 wished it to resemble the place it had been in the days of 
 her youth. 
 
 Satisfied 'with having gained the point which he consi¬ 
 dered most important, the lawyer executed her behest with 
 alacrity and intelligence. He went over to Noel Hall, with 
 the plans furnished by different architects, and studied the 
 capabilities of the place, before submitting them to Miss 
 Langdale, in order to be able to give her his own advice on 
 the subject. 
 
 He did not disdain the suggestions of the General, who 
 stood at his elbow looking at the drawings, and studying 
 their comparative recommendations and merits. It was 
 wonderful how much the old soldier knew of architecture, 
 and how deeply his mind was imbued with reverence for 
 the traditional glories of the ancient Hall. Like many re- 
 
156 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 publicans when in the mother country, the General set great 
 store by old families, old houses, and old customs. It would 
 not be his fault if the house of Lady Barbara Noel was not, 
 in due time, once more what it had been in her day ; before 
 her thriftless son brought all under the hammer. 
 
 One advantage which arose from propitiating the veteran 
 was, that Florence Langdale’s taste was consulted. Ever 
 since her earliest childhood, the old Hall on the summit of 
 the hill had been a favourite object for a walk, and the 
 General was a privileged friend of all the children at the 
 Grange. Now that they were older they frequently visited 
 him, and were always welcome at the Gateway Tower. Mr. 
 Haywarden left the plans with him, on purpose that they 
 might be shown to Miss Langdale’s future heiress. 
 
 The news had spread far and wide that the old Hall, 
 formerly belonging to the Noels, was to be restored to its 
 ancient magnificence. Frances Langdale and the twins 
 came over several times to sketch the ruins, before they were 
 delivered over to the workpeople, and hidden by boards and 
 scaffolding. While her sisters were at work with their pen¬ 
 cils and brushes, Florence sat in the Tower turning over the 
 architectural drawings. Her taste was pure and noble, 
 though, practically, she was not an artist. 
 
 The elevation that pleased her most was one slightly 
 drawn, and less technically complete than the others, which 
 gave the ground plan of the house and a sketch of its future 
 aspect. Again and again Florence returned to this drawing, 
 which seemed to realise her own romantic dreams. Noel 
 Hall from her childhood had been a visionary paradise; and 
 she had seen the old man toiling away day after day, at the 
 partial restoration of the Gateway Tower, with the deepest 
 interest. 
 
 In the plan which she preferred, the same style prevailed 
 
THE VICTORY WON. 
 
 157 
 
 throughout the building ; a severe simplicity reigned every¬ 
 where ; less of ornament than in any other, but a sombre 
 grandeur, which suited equally well with the commanding 
 situation of the mansion, and the ruined fortunes of the 
 former possessors. 
 
 “ Let who will abide here, this place will always to my 
 fancy belong to the Noels,” said the girl, as she bent over 
 the drawing, while the old soldier stood behind her, contem¬ 
 plating it gravely and silently. “ If Miss Langdale thinks 
 as I do, she will follow this plan in restoring the Hall. All 
 the lavish decorations, the floral emblems, the classical 
 ornaments in the other drawings seem to me out of place. 
 I like the dark old English oak and ebony—the quaint 
 tapestry and purple tinted glass, with here and there a stain 
 of glowing crimson such as lights up Lady Barbara’s face at 
 this moment. Whoever made this drawing may not be a 
 practised architect, but he has the spirit of the ancient 
 English art to help him, and he will work out his purpose 
 well and truthfully. I hope Miss Langdale will choose this 
 plan.” 
 
 The General took up a lump of chalk which lay on the 
 table, and made a cross on the corner of the drawing. 
 
 “ I am glad you have chosen this one, Florence,” he said, 
 calling the young heiress by her name, as he had done from 
 the days of her childhood. “ It is mine. The others were 
 furnished by Mr. Haywarden. I do not like them.” 
 
 Florence looked at him with surprise. “ And yet I might 
 have guessed,” she said, reproaching herself for the doubt. 
 “No one understands and appreciates this place as you do. 
 I hope you will always stay here.” 
 
 “ That may depend on yourself some day, little lady,” 
 said the veteran. “ Miss Langdale is restoring this place to 
 please you—because you admire it—at present she has con- 
 
158 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 ceded not to turn me out. Hereafter it will be you who 
 will have to say to the old soldier, Go—or—Stay.” 
 
 The girl’s dark eyes filled with tears—“ Stay,”—she said, 
 softly, taking in her own the old man’s brown but well¬ 
 shaped hand. “ I should not recognise Noel Hall without 
 vou.” 
 
 The General pressed fondly the slender fingers. “ So 
 then, that is settled. And I regard it as decided that our 
 plan for the alterations will be adopted. Miss Langdale 
 will not go against your will and taste.” 
 
 “How kind she is,” said Florence, thoughtfully. “It 
 seems so hard never to be allowed to thank her for all she 
 has done or wished to do for me ; and now, in spite of all 
 our ungraciousness, she means to make me rich, and will, 
 you say, let me have my own way in this matter, which she 
 knows from a child I have had at heart. How well I 
 remember, when she found me here in the snow, and took 
 me home, her telling me about the Noels, and what a grand 
 place the Hall used to be. I cried at the change, and asked 
 her why she let these v r retched people live here; and wished 
 I could see it all as it used to be. And now she is going to 
 fulfil my childish prayer. It was very wrong to try to 
 deceive my parents, and tempt me to disobedience and 
 deception; but still I cannot help loving, and being grateful 
 to, Miss Langdale.” 
 
 “ Love her, by all means,” said the veteran, energetically. 
 “Maud Langdale has not won the love of many human 
 beings. And yet, if she had not been crossed in youth—if 
 the blight which has withered fairer flowers had not fallen 
 upon her, she might have been a noble woman. Love her, 
 child, if you can.” 
 
 “I never could help it,” said Florence, simply. From 
 the day when she took me up before her in the saddle, to 
 
THh VICTORY WON. 
 
 159 
 
 the present hour, I have loved and feared Miss Langdale. I 
 would not say this to any one but you. It is the only sub¬ 
 ject on which I ever had secrets hidden from my parents, 
 but I cannot help thinking that they are prejudiced against 
 one who would willingly, if they allowed it, be our friend.” 
 
 “Maud Langdale may be your friend, but she is not your 
 mother’s,” said the General. “ Trust me, little lady, they 
 are right to be on their guard—the velvet paw, like Meg’s, 
 yonder, has claws beneath. But they will not scratch your 
 tender skin. Love her, as I said before, if you can. Miss 
 Langdale deserves it of you, but do not let her detach you 
 from your best friends.” 
 
 He turned back to the drawings, explaining his views 
 about the different parts of the structure. Florence entered 
 into all he said with eager interest and delight. When she 
 made any suggestion, the General, unnoticed by her, wrote 
 it down with his chalk on a board, transferring the note, 
 after she was gone, to the margin of the drawing; on which 
 he also wrote in stiff characters, quite unlike those hastily 
 put down in the chalk, “ approved by Florence Langdale.” 
 
 On Mr. Haywarden’s next visit, the plans, neatly folded 
 in a sealed packet, were delivered up to him. Fie was on 
 his way to Langdale Park; and he did not open the parcel, 
 but delivered it to Miss Langdale’s servant; as she had 
 directed, should be done, if she happened to be from home. 
 The drawings were, therefore, left for her consideration. 
 The next day Mr. Haywarden received back the plans at 
 his office, with a letter, desiring him to carryout, as speedily 
 as possible, the one marked as approved by Miss Florence 
 Langdale. 
 
 Mr. Haywarden opened the packet with a good deal of 
 curiosity. The architectural ground plans and elevations 
 were all unmarked, and, consequently, he judged them to be 
 
160 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 rejected. The innermost of all was a very carefully but not 
 scientifically executed ground plan, and a bold drawing in 
 chalk, which, at the first glance, carried back the lawyer’s 
 thoughts to the time when Noel Hall was one of the show 
 places in the county. 
 
 He knew well that this sketch and plan were not 
 among those which he had intended to submit to Miss 
 Langdale, and he searched them closely for any indication 
 of the designer; but he could find neither name nor initials, 
 only the words, “ approved by Florence Langdale,” and a 
 few marginal notes, written in a stiff, business-like hand, 
 which he did not recognise. 
 
 When he inquired of the ‘ General’, who was the only per¬ 
 son who had seen the plans, the old man answered suc¬ 
 cinctly that he and Cuthbert Noel had drawn the plan and 
 sketch selected by Miss Langdale, in America. A time 
 would come, they both thought, when the old place would 
 be restored; and few people living remembered exactly what 
 it had been in its best days. Satisfied with this reply, Mr. 
 Haywarden put the plans at once into the hands of an ex¬ 
 perienced architect, to be worked out practically, in order 
 that an estimate might be drawn up of the cost. Miss 
 Langdale did not make the slightest objection to the sum 
 proposed, though it was very considerable. She was one 
 of those persons who seldom hesitate about expense in great 
 matters ; though she often made herself unpopular by hold¬ 
 ing back from some trifling, necessary, or at least desirable 
 outlay. All that she said when the completed plans and 
 estimates were submitted to her was, “Let the work be set 
 on foot immediately. Life is uncertain, and, before I die, I 
 •wish to see Noel Hall restored to the aspect it used to 
 wear when Lady Barbara and her son were its occupants.” 
 
THE VICTORY WON. 
 
 161 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Just as she had been haunted in childhood by visions of 
 Christobel and her rider, was Florence Langdale now pur¬ 
 sued by thoughts of the restoration of Noel Hall. Miss 
 Langdale could certainly have devised no better way of 
 keeping herself ever present in the romantic girl’s imagina¬ 
 tion. She felt intensely flattered when the General told 
 her that the plan of which she approved was the one 
 adopted, and that the suggestions she had made would also 
 be carried out. 
 
 From her childhood Florence had been fond of the old 
 soldier ; and, of all her father’s family, she was his especial 
 favourite. Often, in the days when she took long walks 
 with Meredith, had she asked leave to carry some article of 
 luxury or comfort to her father’s pensioner. The service 
 he had rendered them all, in saving their mother from ship¬ 
 wreck, was quite a family tradition. The young people, as 
 well as their father, thought that they could never show 
 sufficient gratitude, in return for the preservation of such a 
 valuable life. 
 
 The General was not entirely dependent upon their bounty. 
 He had a small income which passed through Mr. Lang- 
 dale’s hands, besides the interest of the sum which, in his 
 fallen fortune, Marina’s husband had insisted upon his ac¬ 
 cepting. He often said that what he received was more 
 than sufficient for his moderate wants, and that he should 
 one day leave a fortune to his benefactor’s children. 
 
 Sometimes, Florence came with her father to the Gateway 
 Tower; but, on these occasions, she was always very silent. 
 More often she accompanied her sisters in the long summer 
 
 11 
 
162 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF LANGE ALE HALL . 
 
 evenings, and then she would sit for hours with her old 
 friend, in his shadowy room, listening to his stories of travel 
 and adventure, or to family legends about the old Noels : 
 while Frances and the twins sketched the Hall from dif¬ 
 ferent points of view; with groups of children playing, 
 women drawing water from the deep well in the courtyard, 
 or men returning with horses and carts from their labour in 
 Miss Langdale’s fields. 
 
 Now all this was altered. Noel Hall, after the hours of 
 toil, was very quiet and solitary. The only figures to be 
 seen at eventide were those of the old dame, who, as a 
 mark of especial favour, was allowed for the present to re¬ 
 tain possession of the old dining-hall; as she sometimes 
 crossed the court with her scarlet shawl over her head; the 
 bright-faced, fair-haired boy and some chance companion 
 playing at marbles on the pavement; and the soldier, in his 
 dark blue officer’syloak, sunning himself on the wall. 
 
 For a certain number of hours, it was true, a busy crowd 
 of workmen took possession of the place; the air was full 
 of sound; the ring of the axe and hammer, the creak of 
 the saw, the boring of the chisel, went on monotonously, 
 and the outline of the large building was obscured by 
 scaffolding. At six o’clock work was over, and complete 
 silence fell upon the busy scene of a few hours before. 
 
 Miss Langdale, though she spared no expense, had not 
 visited the place again. It was whispered abroad that the 
 strong woman’s health was failing. She took much less ex¬ 
 ercise, and when she rode or walked, the pace at which she 
 moved was slower, and her manner was less impatient and 
 less energetic. 
 
 Often as Ellinor had winced at her sister’s roughness, and 
 rebelled in spirit against, if she dared not openly resist, her 
 arbitrary encroachments on her own liberty and inde- 
 
THE VICTORY WON. 
 
 163 
 
 pendence, it now grieved the affectionate girl to see a 
 sort of mournful apathy take the place of Miss Langdale’s 
 usually active, restless habits, and fiery temper. Many a 
 time had she wished and prayed that some softening influ¬ 
 ence might descend upon Maud, making her more humble, 
 more womanly, more tender of the feelings of herself and 
 others. Now the change seemed coming, the prayer on the 
 point of being granted, Ellinor regretted the change. 
 
 These listless moods, however, were only temporary. 
 Maud strove to shake them off, and rebelled fiercely against 
 such unaccustomed weakness of mind and body.i After 
 being shut up in the house for a few days, succumbing for 
 the first time in her life to atmospheric influences or indis- 
 position, Miss Langdale would rise up, like a lion or a 
 whirlwind; and rush about the place finding fault, and dis¬ 
 missing offenders who had relaxed in their diligence during 
 her temporary seclusion. She had never been herself, the 
 peopm about the Hall said, since her disappointment in not 
 getting the young lady at the Grange, to live with her. 
 
 “ I assure you, Mrs. Langdale, it was a shock to me, quite 
 a shock as well as a surprise, to hear that Miss Langdale 
 had sent twice to my house for me yesterday, in my absence. 
 Of course she was in a hurry, and as a matter of course, 
 too, no one knew where to find me,” r said Dr. Forsyth, as 
 he stopped to see his patient at Godley, after leaving the 
 Hall. 
 
 “ I never knew her to have so much as a head-ache before, 
 and now she is all unstrung—nervous, feverish, highly ex¬ 
 citable ; in short, I scarcely know what to think of the 
 case. I declare you might have knocked me down with a 
 feather, when I saw her sitting in the great library in her 
 riding-habit, grim and sombre, and, I believe, with her gold- 
 mounted whip close at hand; not such a thing as a foot- 
 
 11—2 
 
164 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 stool, or a couch, or an easy chair within a mile of her;—bolt 
 upright, in a stiff carved-ebony sort of cushionless throne, as 
 hard as herself, waiting for me. How am I to prescribe for 
 such a woman 1 I thought. Will she let me feel her pulse 2 
 Will she take my medicines ? What on earth am I to do 
 with her ? It was like attending a lioness : and the slight 
 delay, unavoidable as it was, made her glare at me. ‘ I 
 want you to give me something to make me well imme¬ 
 diately, Dr. Forsyth,’ she said ; ‘ I have no time to be ill; 
 none of your rose-coloured draughts that suit my sister 
 Ellinor : she is not half the woman that I am. I never had 
 a day’s illness in my life. What can be the matter with me V 
 
 “ ‘I do not know how that may be, Miss Langdale,’ I 
 said, ‘ but allow me to say you look very unwell now. I 
 advise you to go at once to bed; and I will send you some¬ 
 thing which I hope, in a little time, may restore you to your 
 usual state of excellent health.’ 
 
 “ Not a bit of it—she would not listen to me. ‘ Go to 
 bed yourself,’ was her polite reply; and she chafed, and 
 fumed, and pooh-poohed all my advice. I should not in the 
 least wonder if I found her in a raging fever to-morrow.” 
 
 “ It is so hard for a person who has never been accus¬ 
 tomed to it, to bear illness said Mrs. Langdale, with a 
 gentle sigh. “ I am very sorry for the poor lady, but, un¬ 
 fortunately, it is not in our power to be of any service to 
 her.” 
 
 “ Indeed ! you are quite mistaken,” said the kind doctor, 
 confidentially. “ That poor soul at the Hall is pining away 
 for a sight of her future heiress. Would it be against vour 
 principles to allow Miss Florence to go up with me to-mor¬ 
 row for half an hour, to see her % I promise to bring her 
 back safe. It would do Miss Langdale more good than any 
 medicine I can prescribe for her.” 
 
THE VICTORY WON ’. 
 
 165 
 
 Mrs. Langdale turned pale. “ I dare not ask my hus¬ 
 band to allow Florence to visit her cousin. Rightly or 
 wrongly, he entertains the greatest fear of her influence over 
 our child. I myself fear that it would unsettle her mind. 
 Miss Langdale has not deserved this sacrifice from us.” 
 
 “ Oh, well, just as you please,” said the doctor, buttoning 
 up his great coat. “ Miss Langdale has a constitution of 
 iron; to-morrow I may find her better. She is not used to 
 being thwarted, and she has set her heart on seeing Miss 
 Florence; but, if you don’t like it, she must get over the 
 fancy.” 
 
 Mrs. Langdale did not speak. 
 
 “ People must reconcile themselves to the inevitable,” 
 continued Dr. Forsyth, as he shook hands with her before 
 taking leave. “ Only it is harder for some than for others. 
 Upon my word I could not help feeling a little sorry for 
 her, though she is not usually a person to excite compassion. 
 But she seemed so sad and lonely amid all her grandeur,— 
 not a comfort near her; just the old family paintings and 
 tapestry,—and old saws on her lips; much good may they 
 avail her ! One loving kiss, the clasp of a kind hand, the 
 watchfulness which has been about you all through the long 
 years of your trial, what a world of good they would do 
 her! But I should like to know how a woman who has 
 lived without love all her life, and despised it as Maud 
 Langdale has done, caU expect to find it at the time when 
 the need of affection—the value of human care and kind¬ 
 ness—first comes upon her ? She must learn to die, as she 
 has chosen to live, without these things-■” 
 
 “ You do not think she will die 1 ?” said Mrs. Langdale awe¬ 
 stricken. “ I wish Frank were at home. I would ask him, 
 but I feel certain that he would not let his daughter go to 
 Langdale Park.” 
 
166 
 
 TIIE MISTRESS OF LANGE ALE HALL . 
 
 “ Best leave it alone—I am sorry I mentioned it,” said 
 the doctor, while all the time he rejoiced at having scattered 
 seeds abroad which he believed would ripen in the soft soil 
 of Mrs. Langdale’s heart. “ Take care of yourself, that is of 
 the most consequence. That poor unfortunate sinner at the 
 Hall must reap as she has sown. The rector called, but she 
 positively refused to see him.” 
 
 “Come here on your way to the Hall to-morrow,” said Mrs. 
 Langdale. “ I will prepare my husband, and you can ask 
 him. Bat if you meet Florence, do not, I entreat you, men¬ 
 tion the subject to her.” 
 
 “ Ho you think she does not know all about it ?” said the 
 doctor. “ Depend upon it, your good Mrs. Meredith, or 
 some of the allies of the great lady at the Hall, have been 
 paying court already to her successor. I will wager my 
 existence Miss Florence is watching my old mare at this 
 moment, and longing to go up and nurse that grim old virago. 
 Good day,—I can’t possibly stop another minute.” 
 
 He was as good as his word this time, though in general 
 the doctor’s adieus were as protracted as the close of his old 
 friend the rector’s sermons. No wonder that Miss Langdale’s 
 impatient temper chafed at their ministrations. 
 
 -•O*- 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 The invalid at the Grange, had enjoyed better health lately 
 than whence she first came into Yorkshire. Her malady, 
 though incurable, no longer caused her such acute suffering, 
 nor did it oblige her to keep entirely in her own rooms. 
 Some of the improvements of modern science had been 
 brought to bear upon this tedious case by her kind and 
 
THE VICTORY WON. 
 
 167 
 
 clever doctor, aided by tlie sudden impulses of affection, 
 and of maternal anxiety; which seemed, almost as if by a 
 miracle, to have lifted Mrs. Langdale from her sick couch, 
 and restored power to her feeble limbs, when she was first 
 made aware of the conspiracy on foot to deprive her of her 
 darling’s affection. 
 
 Fritz was at last working hard and steadily. Perhaps his 
 disinheritance was the best thing that could have befallen 
 him. He had quite got over his disappointment, and dis¬ 
 missed the thought of his former expectations from his mind. 
 Reason told him that Florence was not seriously to blame ; 
 and the little one, when he thought of the loved beings at 
 home, was as dear to him as the rest, excepting Gertrude, 
 who had always been his favourite. 
 
 The young German nobleman, Count Max von Berlingen, 
 the elder brother of Fritz’s favourite school comrade, was 
 now travelling in England; and at his request, Fritz obtained 
 a brief holiday, which the two friends agreed to spend at the 
 Grange; arriving there, after a brief notice, on the day of 
 Dr. Forsyth’s visit, and during Miss Langdale’s indisposi¬ 
 tion. The master of the Grange had gone himself to meet 
 the young men, and bring them home from the Station. 
 
 Mrs. Langdale was very much troubled by the Doctor’s 
 suggestion. Again and again the picture he had drawn rose 
 up before her; of the hard, cold, unsympatliising woman, un¬ 
 loving and unloved, ill and solitary; with one ungratified 
 wish at her heart. Even her joy at seeing her son was 
 overclouded by the remembrance of the promise she had 
 made to place the subject before her husband. She knew 
 that it would cause him grievous disturbance. 
 
 Fritz and his father were in such good spirits. The young 
 man was more respectful than formerly, yet with a healthy 
 independent manliness of aspect, Mr. Langdale grew 
 
168 THE MISTRESS.OF LANGDALE HALL . 
 
 younger in spirit as lie looked at liis son, and heard the 
 report of his proceedings. Gertrude, calm as she looked, 
 was more beautiful than ever, with a slight glow of subdued 
 excitement on her usually pale lair cheek, and a steady light 
 in her eyes, which the watchful mother had never before 
 seen gleaming out of their blue depths. Frances and the 
 twins were busy unpacking photographs, which the young 
 Count had brought from Germany, and listening to his 
 account of his travels. Florence alone was absent. 
 
 “ Where is Flo ? What has become of the little one V 
 said her brother. “ Did she not know that we were 
 coming ?” 
 
 “ I am not sure that she saw the letter,” said Gertrude. 
 “ The post was late; Florence had just left the .breakfast- 
 table and was gone on one of her long rambles. We ought 
 to have had your letter yesterday, Fritz, but it only reached 
 us this morning.” 
 
 “ Well, I suppose she will be back presently,” said her 
 brother with some annoyance. “I hope the old lady at the 
 Hall has not, like a wicked fairy, carried her off! I do not 
 think I told you Max, that, since you were here last, my 
 little sister has become an heiress.” 
 
 “ Miss Langdale is very ill,” said his mother, in a low 
 voice, unwilling to lose the opportunity thus afforded for 
 unburdening her mind in some degree. “Dr. Forsyth was 
 here an hour before you arrived, and drew quite a touching 
 jhcture of the poor lady, so sad and solitary, and chafing at 
 her own miserable weakness. All the luxuries she can 
 command impart no comfort, the only desire to which she 
 confesses is unluckily one which cannot be gratified.” 
 
 “ If niy cousin Maud has set her heart on anything, she 
 generally brings it to pass,” said Mr. Langdale gravely. 
 
 A hat is it, Marina, that she wishes h Did the Doctor 
 tell you?” 
 
THE VICTORY WON. 
 
 160 
 
 “ Yes, Dr. Forsyth mentioned it,” said Mrs. Langdale,. 
 nervously ; “I wish he would not talk so much about his 
 patients. After all, they might not like it; but he is a good 
 man and very tender hearted, and he has known Miss Lang¬ 
 dale from a child. Her great wish, he says, is to see Flo¬ 
 rence.” 
 
 Mr. Langdale’s brow clouded over. Fritz, too, looked 
 disturbed. In spite of his philosophy this allusion to the 
 change in favour of his young sister, in his prospects, brought 
 the future before him painfully. The moment the words had 
 passed her lips, Mrs. Langdcile regretted their utterance. No 
 further notice, at the moment, was taken of them, and the 
 party separated. The young people set off on an excursion 
 to Hazeldon woods, and Mr. Langdale, without a single ob¬ 
 servation even to his wife, went out of doors. She saw him 
 walking up and down alone in the orchard, thoughtful and 
 sad ; and she did not venture to interrupt, unbidden, her 
 husband’s meditations. 
 
 Dr. Forsyth had judged rightly that Florence would re¬ 
 ceive early intimation of the illness of the Lady of Langdale 
 Hall. She had gone out immediately after breakfast, with¬ 
 out hearing of her brother’s intended visit, and the first 
 person she met in the road towards the village, informed 
 her of the fact. 
 
 Florence turned back immediately. She forgot her inten¬ 
 tion of visiting a sick girl at a neighbouring cottage ; and, 
 hardly conscious whither she was going, walked slowly along 
 the field pathway to church, which passed in front of the 
 Hall and across the Park. The interdiction had long been 
 removed against using this mode of communication between 
 two parts of the village and the church ; and now, though 
 it was a week day, the gates stood open. The reapers were 
 busy gathering in the corn, and the gleaners were following 
 
170 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 the heavily laden wains picking up the ears of yellow 
 grain that lay in their track. Florence kept out of their way 
 under the high hedges, in which old trees were set. She 
 felt as if she could not go home, where no one would sympa¬ 
 thise with the sorrow which filled her heart. 
 
 All through her young life—ever since she could remember 
 anything—this haughty woman—who now lay, as she was 
 told, sick unto death, for the report which had reached her 
 was a very exaggerated one, as is usual among the poor in 
 cases of sudden illness,—had been the object of her young 
 cousin’s romantic idolatry. Florence had struggled with 
 herself against this passion, for it was nothing else, but it 
 was in vain ; opposition had fostered it, and it had grown in 
 silence, till it had obtained entire possession of her whole 
 being. Torrents of tears rolled down the girl’s cheeks, as she 
 cast herself down on the bank; in the middle of the fertile 
 fields, flushed with the harvest glow, which ere long might be 
 her own. 
 
 For the first time Florence realised this truth. It seemed 
 to flash upon her, as the sunrays flashed on the golden corn, 
 and lit up the windows of Langdale Hall—of the very room 
 where its mistress might be dying. Florence lifted herself 
 on her elbow, and looked, through streaming tears, at the 
 old house. 
 
 The park sloped down very steeply from the terraced 
 garden which lay on this side of the mansion. Here and 
 there a tall flower, a glowing lily, or dark red hollyhock, rose 
 above the grey walls which supported the banks of earth 
 of the flower garden. Miss Langdale had herself laid out 
 this stately pleasaunce, whiqjjr was not in character with the 
 black and white timbered front of the house—but in their 
 different ways both were beautiful. 
 
 On Florence’s uncritical imagination the effect was very 
 
THE VICTORY WON. 
 
 171 
 
 powerful. She loved and admired the grim, grey, smoke- 
 blackened walls which frowned above the green valley,— 
 the great baronial tower at the entrance—the heavy gates, 
 flung open so swiftly at the approach of Miss Langdale’s 
 carriage. In her childhood she had often stood still to watch 
 the lady enter her own domain. Now, with the summer 
 heat brooding over the hills and glades of the park,—with 
 the loaded wains and rustic groups scattered over the stubble 
 —though the blinds of the mansion were closed, the pros¬ 
 pect was unusually gay. 
 
 The girl lay looking at the darkened windows till a 
 strange dread stole over her. What if Miss Langdale were 
 dead ! Her fancy pictured the whole scene, forgetful that 
 the blinding sun-rays alone caused the blinds to be closed, 
 and that she had seen the same eclipse take place every 
 afternoon at that hour. 
 
 In all Florence Langdale’s dreams her own triumphant 
 entrance into the old Hall had borne a conspicuous part; 
 but she had never thought of it except in connection with 
 its present mistress. The old feud was to die away, and 
 through her agency all were to be made friends. She was to 
 be Miss Langdale’s honoured guest, and all sorts of dimly 
 guessed pleasures were to follow. Her own recognition as 
 Miss Langdale’s heiress had touched her feelings. Gratitude, 
 affection, were due for the generous gift. She longed to ac¬ 
 knowledge her deep sense of its magnitude. 
 
 Now it struck her as too painful a thought that, for all 
 this generous love, she might never be able to thank her 
 kind friend and benefactor. That at this very moment life 
 might be passing away—-*that she might never, never, be 
 able to pour out the treasures of her long pent up affection 
 and sorrow. 
 
 Florence dried her tears and started up. She went nearer 
 
172 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 to the high walls, and, as they interrupted her view, she 
 crossed the park into the cart road leading to the back of the 
 Hall, and slowly approached the entrance. Her intentions 
 were quite vague. She allowed herself to drift along as 
 circumstances might dictate. 
 
 One of Miss Langdale’s servants, followed by a cart bear¬ 
 ing refreshments for the reapers, was coming down the drive. 
 The old butler uncovered his grey head respectfully to the 
 young lady, pausing and drawing aside for her to pass him. 
 But Florence stopped suddenly. The man’s face was quite 
 familiar to her. She had often seen him at the head of the 
 long row of servants from the Hall, in church, and in her 
 walks, as a child, with Meredith. 
 
 “ Oh, do take me to your mistress,” she said; “ I must see 
 her. Is it true that she is dying T 
 
 u ^y, I hope not—God forbid,” said the trusted domes¬ 
 tic, to whom Maud Langdale had been a kind mistress. 
 “ She’s altered surely, and has not been herself of late ; but 
 she 11 be main glad to see you, I know. Come this way, my 
 dear young lady.” 
 
 Giving a brief direction to his subordinates, the old butler, 
 who was quite aware of Miss Langdale’s infatuated predilec¬ 
 tion for her young cousin, and of the long family feud; 
 turned back, and accompanied Florence along the road to 
 the Hall. In a sort of bewildered trance, dizzy with the 
 burning heat, faint from crying, she walked by his side like 
 one in a dream. 
 
 Not a thought of her father or mother, of Fritz, or of her 
 sisters, at this moment entered the young girl’s mind. She 
 seemed to herself to be under a spell, and she offered no 
 resistance. A gush of sweet scents almost overpowered her, 
 as, through a long dark arched tunnel, which passed under 
 the road, Miss Langdale’s private garden came into view. 
 
THE VICTORY WON. 
 
 173 
 
 She felt as if another world lay under her feet, as she stepped 
 from the gloom of the overhanging rock, through which the 
 passage was bored, into that bright region of scarlet blos¬ 
 soms and shadowy fern leaves, waving boughs, and glancing 
 cascades and fountains. 
 
 The old servant stood still for a moment, while Florence 
 stopped under a thicket of Alpine Rhododendron, just 
 tinged with the last remains of its crimson bloom : feeling 
 as though the dream of her whole life was at last fully rea¬ 
 lized. Through waving boughs of lime and acacia, glimpses 
 were visible of the jasmine-wreathed, chequered windows 
 of Langdale Hall. Around her, in the shadowy twilight of 
 the dusky trees, waters were flowing, ferns waving, birds 
 singing, and the gold and silver fish darted in and out, 
 through gloom and sunshine, across their rocky basins. 
 There was no point in the grounds where the Hall could be 
 seen to more advantage. 
 
 In front of the house was the bright parterre of which 
 Florence had caught glimpses from below. Now it lay before 
 her, gleaming in scarlet and gold, purple and crimson, in the 
 sunshine of the last days of August. Masses of geranium, 
 heliotrope, fuchsia, lobelia, and other numberless bright 
 flowers of the season, intersected with bordering leaves of 
 gold and silver, or dark brown stems and* leaves veined 
 with scarlet, domineered over by lilies of gorgeous hues or 
 spotless white, were guarded by stone walls, balustrades, 
 and statues. Across this flower garden, silent and darkened, 
 rose the Hall, every window open and shaded ; not a living 
 creature was to be seen. 
 
 Florence Langdale followed the old servant across the 
 grass that lay between the flower beds, and entered the 
 house under a jasmine-covered porch. A wide, dark pas¬ 
 sage passed right through to the great entrance, crossed by 
 
174 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 a similar gallery leading on the one side, to the principal 
 living rooms, on the other to the offices, a simple plan 
 adopted in most of the ancient Yorkshire mansions. 
 
 “ Miss Langdale is in the library,” said Florence’s com¬ 
 panion in a whisper. “ I think it will be best to take you 
 to my mistress at once. She is very impatient of anything 
 like preparation. I’m sure she’ll be main glad to see you.” 
 
 Florence felt surprised at the intimation. Expecting to 
 stand in a few moments at the side of a dying bed, the idea 
 of the library came upon her with a shock ; but it was too 
 late for retreat. Trembling from head to foot, she mounted 
 the winding staircase erected by Miss Langdale in that part 
 of the building, and called, in the establishment, the Library 
 Tower. 
 
 Lighted by loop-holes commanding a view of the lovely 
 winding valley of the Lang, and lined from floor to ceiling 
 with gravely bound books, the library was always dark and 
 somewhat gloomy. What little furniture it contained was 
 simple in character and sombre of hue. It was a place 
 sacred to study, yet Miss Langdale seldom opened a book. 
 
 Ponderous ledgers were piled on the leather-covered table, 
 under the largest of the high narrow windows. On a covered 
 ebony chair, in front of an old-fashioned desk, totally un¬ 
 occupied, in her usual cloth riding dress, and with her whip 
 across her knees, sat the mistress of Langdale Hall. The 
 expression on her face was one of profound sadness and 
 extreme lassitude. She was not looking at the beautiful 
 landscape far below, nor at the writings spread out before 
 her. Her face wore the leaden colouring of disease, and her 
 whole attitude bespoke extreme depression. 
 
 The door left open on account of the extreme heat re¬ 
 vealed to Florence the interior of the gloomy room, before 
 the quiet entrance of the old servant attracted his mistress’s 
 
THE VICTORY WON. 
 
 175 
 
 attention. The girl stood trembling on the threshold, awed 
 by her kinswoman's silent, stony abstraction. Then a 
 strangely soft compassionate feeling for the forlorn being 
 before her, took possession of all her faculties; and she glided 
 across the room, and cast herself on her knees beside her, 
 clasping her arms round her, before the domestic could 
 make any form of introduction. 
 
 “ It is I, Florence Langdale, to whom you have been 
 always so kind,” she said. “You wanted me, and I have 
 come to you.” 
 
 Miss Langdale looked at the young girl with astonish¬ 
 ment. Then with a wild cry of delight she returned 
 Florence’s embrace; and, laying her head on the girl’s shoul¬ 
 der, she burst into a flood of tears, which relieved lier over¬ 
 charged brain and heart. Not for years had such a refresh¬ 
 ing shower watered the arid ground of her affections. Flo¬ 
 rence did not speak, did not move. The servant respectfully 
 and discreetly withdrew. When Miss Langdale raised her 
 head, the leaden hue was gone from her cheeks, her eyes 
 sparkled brightly. “ Welcome,” she said, as she kissed her 
 young cousin, “ Welcome to Langdale Hall, now, and for 
 ever.” 
 
 
 CHAPTER YI. 
 
 Florence Langdale was not aware of the importance of 
 the step she had unadvisedly taken until she experienced 
 the difficulty of drawing back. It was very far from her 
 intention to remain at Langdale Hall, but, having once en¬ 
 tered the enchanter’s ground, she seemed to herself spell¬ 
 bound. 
 
176 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 It was a long time before it occurred to her family that 
 she was really missing, for her usual mode of life was soli¬ 
 tary and independent. Fritz’s suggestion that the young 
 heiress had been carried off to Langdale Hall did not alarm 
 her parents ; no one guessed that it might be near the 
 truth. 
 
 Even this jesting remark, followed by Mrs. Langdale’s 
 communication respecting his cousin’s illness, and desire to 
 see Florence, had, however, sorely disturbed her father; but 
 not the slightest suspicion crossed, his mind, that his young 
 daughter was at that very moment virtually cpiitting her 
 home for ever. 
 
 The mistress of the Hall, meanwhile, had resolved that 
 Florence should not leave her. She felt well and strong 
 in a moment, and her iron will re-awoke from the stupor of 
 indifference which had crept over, and for a time weakened 
 it. It was as though this fresh young life had entered into 
 her own, and refreshed the worn springs of her joyless 
 existence. 
 
 She said not a word that might alarm Florence, after her 
 first hasty ejaculations of welcome ; but busied herself in at 
 once placing the young girl in the position, which, hence¬ 
 forth, she meant her to occupy. Neither did she confess 
 that her own indisposition had, at least temporarily, va¬ 
 nished, but, with a tact and tenderness hitherto seldom 
 manifested, she seemed to rely upon Florence to sustain and 
 comfort her in her illness. 
 
 She herself conducted Florence to the beautiful room in¬ 
 tended for her, and showed her the preparations made for 
 her reception; confessing how bitter had been her subse¬ 
 quent disappointment. 
 
 Never had the daughter of Frank Langdale, the youngest 
 of a large, struggling family, even in her dreams, fancied her- 
 
THE VICTORY WON'. 
 
 177 
 
 self the occupant of such a splendid apartment. Miss 
 Langdale had arranged it for her when she altered the dis¬ 
 position of her property, and invited her young cousin to 
 take up her abode at Langdale Hall. After Mr. Langdale’s 
 rejection of her proposal, she had shut up the room designed 
 for the young heiress. 
 
 The half-hour passed in the old library, during which 
 Miss Langdale constantly solicited some slight help which 
 served to keep alive Florence’s sympathy, and made her 
 feel herself really useful; had sufficed for the additional pre¬ 
 parations judged necessary by the well-trained domestics : 
 fresh flowers in the vases ; the uncovering of the delicate 
 furniture; and the arrangement of the snowy toilette and 
 stores of fine linen, which might have suited the satin skin 
 of the princess in the fairy tale, whose royal lineage was 
 revealed by its susceptibility. 
 
 Miss Langdale mounted the staircase slowly, leaning on 
 Florence’s arm. Through the old house, beautiful and 
 venerable, full of tokens of care and taste, the two went 
 lovingly together; while, through the cool space and open 
 windows, the summer breeze entered freely; bringing with it 
 the scent of flowers, the hum of insects, and the song of 
 birds. 
 
 Florence looked round with artless admiration as she en¬ 
 tered the low but spacious room; with its carved ceiling 
 and panelled walls, old pictures, and some lighter, more 
 graceful, and commodious modern articles of furniture, an¬ 
 tique in style, and suited to the apartment, but not origi¬ 
 nally belonging to it; which Miss Langdale told her had 
 been introduced especially for her use. One of them was a 
 low couch, drawn close under the long window, around 
 which, outside, and peeping in at the casement, the jasmine 
 twined luxuriantly. 
 
 12 
 
178 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF LANGE ALE HALL. 
 
 u We will not talk any more at present,” said Miss Lang- 
 dale, affectionately kissing her. “ These are your own 
 rooms, my dear, this one and the next, whenever you like 
 to take possession, which I shall never enter without your 
 permission. You can make what additions you like to the 
 furniture. I shall leave you now to rest a little. When 
 it is cooler, and you are revived, come to me in the library.” 
 
 Florence blushed deeply. She said, hesitatingly, “ I will 
 come and see you before I go home, when it is cooler. I 
 do not think they will miss me at present. No one knows 
 where I am.” 
 
 “ Oh, I will send word. It would be a great pity for 
 Mr. and Mrs. Langdale to be alarmed,” said her hostess, 
 with a shade of coldness. “ Do not speak of leaving me, 
 Florence, when you are only just come here, and I am so 
 ill. If you like to change your dress, you will find all you 
 require in your wardrobe. I will settle every thing with 
 your parents. I am sure they will spare you, for a while, to 
 nurse me.” 
 
 Miss Langdale did not wait for an answer, but, shutting 
 the door gently, left her young heiress to amuse herself 
 with inspecting the various luxuries provided for her. 
 
 Maud sat for some time in the shadowy library with her 
 pen in her hand, and a sheet of note paper on her desk, be¬ 
 fore any words arranged themselves in her mind, by which 
 she could communicate to her cousin, Frank Langdale, the 
 news that she had robbed him of his child. When com¬ 
 pleted, her note was as follows :— 
 
 “ My Dear Cousin, 
 
 “Langdale Hall, 
 “ August 27. 
 
 “ Florence has come of her own will and wish to 
 Langdale Hall, hearing of my illness, and anxious to help 
 
THE VICTORY WON. 
 
 179 
 
 me to bear whatever may be God’s will. I do not know 
 whether my sickness is unto death, or no. I feel better 
 since the dear child has been with me, and I implore you 
 to leave her here for the present. Of course, you have 
 legally the power to separate us, though you could not pre¬ 
 vent my having bequeathed to her all that I possess. In 
 her name and in my own, I beg you not to use your legal 
 authority. 
 
 “Your affectionate cousin, 
 
 “ Matilda Langdale.” 
 
 Miss Langdale sealed her envelope with the large coat of 
 arms of the family, and rang the bell. 
 
 “ Send this letter down to the Grange when it grows 
 dusk ;—no sooner. Desire the messenger not to wait for an 
 answer.” 
 
 The old man bowed respectfully. “ Will the young lady 
 dine here to-day?” he said. “ Shall I lay a cover for her?” 
 
 “ Of course,” said his mistress with cheerful decision. 
 “ Let there be always a cover laid for Miss Florence Lang¬ 
 dale, opposite to my own.” 
 
 The butler hesitated. “ That is Miss Ellinor’s place, 
 madam; am I to change it ?” 
 
 “ Certainly. Miss Ellinor is a visitor here, and will sit 
 on my right hand. Miss Florence Langdale is at home: I 
 wish her to be treated as if she were my daughter. Let 
 the household understand this, Phillips. One day, perhaps 
 very soon, she will be your mistress here.” 
 
 “Nay, madam, I hope that day may be long deferred: I 
 never saw you looking better. The young lady’s coming 
 has already done you good. We shall all be glad to serve 
 you both. Shall you be well enough to dine at table 
 to-day ?” 
 
180 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 “Yes, Phillips, I am better, nearly well, I believe, but 
 you need not say so. Who knows what may happen? 
 Miss Florence must not leave us again. We will try to 
 make her so happy that she will not desire it.” 
 
 The old servant withdrew, gratified by his mistress’s 
 condescension. He soon spread the tidings that the young 
 lady was to remain ; and most of the household rejoiced in 
 the acquisition. Miss Ellinor Langclale’s former nurse, 
 now her personal attendant, was an almost solitary excep¬ 
 tion ; though Phillips was too discreet to mention Miss 
 Langdale’s directions about the dinner table. 
 
 “ The sooner my young lady is gone from here the better,” 
 she said, as she prepared to leave the room at the sound of 
 a bell. “ It is one thing to have your just inheritance 
 taken from you, and another to sit down every day at the 
 same table with the interloper. I hope that I am not 
 expected to wait upon her, until she gets a lady’s maid 
 of her own!” 
 
 “No, indeed,” said a pretty young woman, who had just 
 entered the servant’s hall. “I am to be Miss Florence 
 Langdale’s attendant; and I quite love her, she spoke so 
 sweetly about the new curtains and toilette-cover that gave 
 me such trouble in ironing; and was not too proud to praise 
 everything, and thank me for my pains. Such a sweet, 
 pretty young lady, the old place will be twice as lively. 
 Miss Langdale worships her, and will not allow her to be as 
 dull as we have often felt lately.” 
 
 Phillips departed to his own sphere, and, with his sub¬ 
 ordinates, speedily arranged the dinner table according to 
 Miss Langdale’s directions. Without asking further ques¬ 
 tions the family plate was produced and polished, and much 
 more attention paid to appearances than had been the case 
 for years. 
 
THE VICTORY WON. 
 
 1S1 
 
 A new era was about to commence,—there was to be no 
 more of the old regime. Miss Langdale, in spite of her 
 indisposition, was actually dressing for dinner; in one of 
 the dark handsome silks she usually wore on Sundays. 
 
 This was evidently not to be one of the hurried, comfort¬ 
 less, unceremonious repasts, of which she had so often par¬ 
 taken standing, and in her riding-habit, or kept waiting for 
 hours. The old house was to be swept and garnished, and 
 remodelled, for its fair young future mistress. 
 
PART THE FIFTH. 
 
 A WOMAN’S WILFUL WILL. 
 
 Soft winds of summer—whither away ?— 
 
 Twisting and twirling in frolicsome play ; 
 
 Leaves slightly curling of flowers on our way; 
 
 Cooling your brow as we merrily pass, 
 
 Flinging light shade on the green rippling grass ; 
 Softly expanding, above and below, 
 
 Till our circlets are lost in the hushed evening’s glow. 
 
 Waves of the mountain stream—whither so fast?— 
 Sinking and rising, rushing and gliding, 
 
 Steep rocks surprising, sunken shoals hiding ; 
 
 Inviting to bathe in some cool sheltered spot,. 
 
 Kissing the stones where the sunbeams come not: 
 Through sunshine and shadow, with rocks overhead, 
 
 Till we find rest and peace in the ocean’s broad bed. 
 
 Translated from Henriette Otteniieimer’s ‘ ‘ Woiiin 
 
 R. M. K. 
 

CHAPTER I. 
 
 NDER Hazeldon Crags the sunny hours of the sul¬ 
 try August afternoon wore away after a different 
 fashion. Neither Fritz nor his sisters felt the 
 slightest uneasiness respecting Florence, and the Count was 
 perfectly satisfied with his present companions. The heat 
 was tempered by the waving houghs and flowing water: 
 each cool recess in the rocky woodland offered temptation 
 to linger on the banks of the Hebdon. 
 
 Not one of the party remembered on this occasion the 
 day, when, sitting among the reeds and forget-me-nots, “ the 
 little one ” had first attracted the attention of the Lady of 
 Langdale. No one in the least anticipated that, even now, 
 the fine meshes of the web, of which the first was spun on that 
 bright fine holiday, six years ago, were, at this moment, 
 drawn close. Many a summer morning, many an autumn day, 
 had since that time been passed happily by the young people 
 in Hebdon valley. They were full of energy and cheerful¬ 
 ness now. 
 
 Through that bright vale the river ran, past rocks and 
 shoals of sand and gravel, swiftly on its course. The shal¬ 
 low waters, in some parts, rushed noisily and merrily round 
 sharp pointed masses of grey granite, or glided smoothly 
 round great mossy boulders, reflected in the glassy mirror. 
 
186 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 Shelving slabs of stone and slate sloped down into deeper 
 water, and rare ferns hung from the steep banks in almost 
 inaccessible places, like coy beauties, the best being always 
 the most difficult to win. Fritz and Count Max were 
 searching for the rarest specimens, whilst Frances and the 
 twins sat on the shady bank, sketching a bright, wide reach 
 of the river. 
 
 Gertrude alone was unoccupied. It was a real pleasure 
 to her to stray along the broken path, or to venture to step 
 from stone to stone, and look down into the water arched 
 over by cool green boughs, of which each stem and waving 
 leaf was reflected. She could not remember that she had 
 ever been a child; and, in her earliest girlhood, life had been 
 overcast, and her path encompassed with troubles. Mrs. 
 Langdale’s illness, and subsequent helplessness, had thrown 
 upon the eldest daughter of the family a mother’s duties ; 
 and Gertrude had adopted and discharged them cheerfully. 
 
 Now, almost for the first time, the weight was removed. 
 She no longer felt such a fearful load of responsibility. 
 Her sisters had all grown up : even “ the little one ” was 
 sixteen; and Mrs. Lang herself superintended Florence’s 
 studies. Gertrude, of late, had felt the nearest approach to 
 jealousy which her gentle, generous nature could experience. 
 Ever since Miss Langdale’s attempts to divide Florence from 
 her family had been discovered, their mother had clung to 
 her youngest born. 
 
 Eelieved of the charge of completing the education of her 
 young sisters, Gertrude had taken up her old habits of study. 
 She was particularly fond of the study of languages, and, 
 from her childhood, had been accustomed to speak, and to 
 read, French, German, and Italian. Her father’s improved 
 circumstances enabled her to increase her collection of foreign 
 books, and she had ample time now to profit by them. 
 
A WOMAN'S WILFUL WILL. 187 
 
 Many a wild German legend came into her thoughts as 
 she listened to the wild song of the waters—the murmurs 
 of the rustling reeds—the quiver of the boughs—and the 
 plaintive cooing of the wood-pigeons in the thicket. Quite 
 unconscious of observation, believing herself to be entirely 
 alone, she crossed the river ; leaping lightly over the wide 
 intervals between the stepping stones, and standing still to 
 look down, from time to time, into the shining stream. In 
 an arched recess on the opposite bank her quick eye detected 
 some graceful sprays of the beech fern, which she longed to 
 secure, before Fritz and Max came back from their quest; 
 but, when she reached the spot, they were high above her 
 head, quite beyond her^ reach. 
 
 Gertrude was looking wistfully at the green tufts cropping 
 out of the dark damp stone, when a hand was stretched out 
 to gather them for her; and the shadow of the tall figure of 
 the young foreign nobleman was cast upon the bank, beside 
 her own. “ Why did you not call to us to help you in 
 crossing over 1 ?” he said, in German, the language in which 
 they always conversed when alone together. “ Your brother 
 and I were quite close at hand, but yet not in time to aid 
 you.” 
 
 “ Oh yes, you have helped me now. It would have been 
 too provoking to lose my prize,” said Gertrude, laughing 
 and blushing. “ I did not know that any one was looking 
 at me. It seemed all so still, so solitary; as if only wood and 
 water nymphs could be within hearing.” 
 
 “ That is exactly what we were saying, and your sudden 
 appearance did not disturb our theory,” said Max. Who 
 would imagine that so near one of your great manufacturing 
 cities, in busy, wealthy England, there could be found a 
 place so utterly wild and solitary as this. So beautiful, and 
 with scarcely a pathway to mar its tranquillity ! One might 
 
188 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 expect such scenes in the Saxon Switzerland, or the Konig- 
 See, or in the Schwarz Wald, but not on the borders of the 
 Black Country. The West Biding is not spoilt vet.” 
 
 Gertrude did not re-cross the stream unassisted, and the 
 transit was not by any means as rapidly performed as might 
 have been expected. The two light agile forms were re¬ 
 flected in the pools and ripples, pausing on each large 
 stone that broke the current; with the magic glamour of 
 the woodland whispering all around them, and the bright 
 waters gleaming underneath. 
 
 “It is six years since I first saw this place,” said the 
 German nobleman, during one of these brief halts. “ I 
 have never forgotten the September day, when I first visited 
 the Crags with you and your sisters, and Fritz. You said 
 it was your first holiday since your arrival in England. 
 Your sisters had been in Hebdon valley once before, but 
 we came here for the first time together. Have you for¬ 
 gotten that day ?” 
 
 “ No,” said Gertrude, turning her head away, “ I re¬ 
 member it quite well. I have not had many such bright 
 holidays in my life as that September afternoon, and to-day, 
 by the bright Hebdon waters.” 
 
 “ I am glad to hear you say so,” said Max. “ These 
 days are marked with a white stone in my calendar. Your 
 sisters have grown into women since then. You are no 
 longer the Haus-frau—the mother of the family. You are 
 younger than you were, six years ago—younger and brighter. 
 Is it not so V 
 
 “ It is cruel to remind me of my advancing years,” said 
 Gertrude, laughing. “ My tall sisters make me feel quite 
 old. Even Florence, ‘ the little one,’ as we used to call 
 her, is almost a woman.” 
 
 “ She looks older than you do,” said the Count; “ older 
 
A WOMAN’S WILFUL WILL. 
 
 189' 
 
 and grayer. You are so fair—you will be always young. 
 Twenty years hence, in my eyes, perhaps in those of others, 
 you will look just the same.” 
 
 “ That is a pleasant prophecy,” said Gertrude, taking his 
 offered hand to assist her as she sprang across the last run¬ 
 ning channel of water. “I certainly do not feel older than 
 when we were last at Hazeldon Crags. Sometimes I am in¬ 
 clined to fancy myself a child again, for I do my lessons, as 
 the twins used to say ; and I had no time for them when I 
 was a girl. My vocation is taken from me. Florence is now 
 my mother’s principal companion,* and I have no one to 
 teach, so I have gone to school again myself.” 
 
 “ Does not this prove that you’re free to accept another 
 destiny?” said the Count, drawing Gertrude’s arm within 
 his own after they reached the bank. “ Take care ; the 
 sward is slippery here ; let me help you, Gertrude. I tried 
 once before to persuade you that in our German Fatherland 
 there is a country house where your presence is needed. I ask 
 you now the question you prevented my uttering then. I have 
 not changed, but, with you, circumstances are altered. Is 
 this in my favour? Fritz can tell you all about me—my 
 home, my position in my own country, my young brothers, for 
 whom, as the head of the family, my house must always be a 
 home. Will you help me to make it a happy one for us all ?” 
 
 Miss Langdale had not this time interrupted her lover. 
 She did not speak. Max went on : 
 
 “You know me well yourself, Gertrude. We are not 
 strangers to each other, and you love my country. The Ger¬ 
 man tongue—the habits of our country are quite familiar to 
 you—we are of the same religion. AYhat should part us ? 
 Even when you suffered me not to address you. three years 
 ago, I did not think that you disliked me. I saw that you 
 were so necessary at home. I waited. I will wait seven years, 
 
190 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 like the patriarch, if you tell me that in time my patience 
 will be rewarded.” 
 
 Gertrude tried to speak but her voice failed her. The 
 hand that rested on the Count’s arm trembled, but it was not 
 removed. At last she said : “I believe you are right. There 
 will be home now without me at the Grange, and you,”— 
 she paused—“ you, Max, ever since you first came to our 
 house with Fritz,—I have loved you.” 
 
 “ Is anything the matter? What on earth are you about?” 
 were the words that startled the lovers from a very blissful 
 dream, as Fritz pushed his way through the bushes to join 
 them. “ The carriage is waiting, and the girls have finished 
 their sketches. I have been looking everywhere for you and 
 Gertrude.” 
 
 “And you have found us at last, together!” said the 
 foreigner, cheerfully. “ All right, my dear boy, that is just 
 as it should beFritz, I cannot keep a secret from you, 
 and you have long known the earnest wishes of my heart. 
 Give me joy, at last I have won my bride. The old Castle 
 is to have the mistress I have always wished to install there. 
 And you, dear Fritz, must look upon it as your German 
 home.” The young men clasped hands, and between them 
 Gertrude went her way, happily, through the valley. 
 
 Now and then the interrupted track, encumbered by rocks 
 and stones, forced the trio to separate; although they had 
 now emerged from the wilder, entirely pathless, portion of 
 the woods. On these occasions Fritz fell back; suffering with a 
 kind of wondering magnanimity, his friend to aid his sister. 
 It was with a severe pang, though he cordially rejoiced in 
 the success of his wooing, that Fritz recognized the indis¬ 
 putable fact, that henceforth, even with his favourite sister, 
 he must be satisfied to take the second place. 
 
 The drive through the woods—all gleaming with sunny 
 
A WOMAN'S WILFUL WILL. 
 
 191 
 
 light, while the red mountain-ash berries glowed scarlet in 
 the declining rays, and the water glittered and danced along 
 far down below the winding road—was a very silent one. 
 It may be conjectured, nevertheless, if the secret thoughts 
 of all could have been made manifest, that this was not 
 the least pleasant of the sunshiny afternoons spent in the 
 woods and under the crags by the Hebdon Water; before it 
 changes its character, and flows, dark and sombre, through 
 the gloomy moorland scenery beyond the Hazeldon rocks. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 % 
 
 Mrs. Langdale gave some necessary orders respecting the 
 accommodation of her son and his friend, in the absence of 
 her children, with a certain feeling of satisfaction. She 
 even, with the aid of her husband’s arm, travelled as far as 
 the greenhouse to see if the grapes were ripe enough to be 
 gathered for the late repast, which was to be laid out for 
 the young people on their return from the crags. 
 
 It was a pity the clusters were not quite ready to cut, the 
 gardener told them. Miss Florence had wanted a bunch 
 to take to Miss Forsyth, the Doctor’s invalid niece, her 
 only intimate friend in the neighbourhood. 
 
 This accidental piece of information quite relieved Mr. 
 and Mrs. Langdale’s mind of any uneasiness respecting their 
 absent daughter. Florence often spent a morning with her 
 friend, and, if the Doctor caught sight of his pretty favourite, 
 he was sure to make her stay to partake of the early dinner 
 at Langdale Cottage, and often drive her back, wdien he paid 
 liis round of country visits. 
 
 Dr. Forsyth had been a naval surgeon. After various 
 
192 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 wanderings, lie had taken out liis diploma, and settled down 
 near Langdale Park, in a cottage belonging to its last owner, 
 as Mr. Langdale’s medical attendant. As long as lie lived, 
 the doctor visited the Hall daily, and, after liis death, he 
 found himself in the enjoyment of a handsome annuity. 
 It was with difficulty, from long habit, that he and his old 
 mare could pass the gates without entering • and the lodge- 
 keepers, with whom, as with most of the country people, he 
 was a great favourite, were always ready, at the sound of 
 the black mare’s fast trot, to throw them open for him. 
 Hitherto Miss Langdale had not required medical attend¬ 
 ance, but he often visited the Hall as a friend, or if any of 
 the household were ill; and at all times he had leave to cross 
 the park in any direction. Langdale Cottage was at the 
 opposite end of the long straggling village, from the Grange ; 
 at about three miles distance by the road, but much nearer, 
 through the fields and park. 
 
 Satisfied that Florence was safe with her kind friends, the 
 husband and wife dined together, at an earlier hour than 
 usual; the excursionists not being expected back till night¬ 
 fall. For years they had not been alone at the dinner table. 
 The change, once in a way, was pleasant. Mr. Langdale 
 was always very attentive to his invalid wife, almost like a 
 lover. He enjoyed having Marina entirely to himself. 
 
 They did not mention the subject of Miss Langdale’s ill¬ 
 ness, and wish to see their daughter. Mrs. Langdale was satis¬ 
 fied that the doctor would keep his promise and bring Flo¬ 
 rence back safely, without communicating the circumstance. 
 She did not wish to disturb her husband’s serenity, and she 
 left it to his discretion how to act in any emergency that 
 might arise: fervently hoping that the invalid at the Hall 
 might soon be better, and that no formal proposition might 
 be made respecting Florence. < 
 
A WOMAN’S WILFUL WILL. 
 
 193 
 
 After sitting for some time together, while the intense 
 heat prevailed, Mr. and Mrs. Langdale rose from table, and 
 separated for the rest of the afternoon. Mrs. Langdale 
 went to her own room to lie down, while her husband set 
 off across the fields to the Doctor’s house; intending to bring 
 Florence home with him. 
 
 It was now delightfully cool: long shadows lay across 
 the fields and rural pathway. The reapers were still busy, 
 and all the gates stood open. After a momentary hesitation, 
 when he had crossed the last meadow, and an intervening 
 lane, Mr. Langdale entered his cousin’s park. 
 
 Though one of the private keys hung up in his study, 
 Frank Langdale had never, since his youth, crossed his kins¬ 
 woman’s domain. In general he would prefer to go any dis¬ 
 tance round to avoid the necessity; but, as the shadows 
 lengthened, a slight anxiety crept over his mind about the 
 little one, and this way was decidedly the shortest approach 
 to Langdale Cottage. 
 
 He walked quickly on under the old trees, which rustled 
 as the wind rose above his head. A thought which often 
 haunted him -which hitherto he had succeeded m banish¬ 
 ing—now kept its ground. How would it fare, with him 
 and his, if the lady at the Hall were gone, and Florence the 
 mistress of the land on which he was treading ? 
 
 Mr. Langdale was not a man for whom the idea of living 
 in his young daughter’s house was a pleasant prospect. He 
 was of a very firm independent character, and he had always 
 
 been entirely the master in his own home. Of late_ever 
 
 since his wife s illness indeed—something like sternness had 
 grown upon him. He knew that the little one feared as 
 well as loved him. 
 
 He stood still for a minute, under the aged chestnut trees, 
 trying to realise the altered position in which his child, the 
 
 13 
 
194 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 youngest born, liis little Flo, would stand towards him, 
 when she succeeded Miss Langdale at the Hall, but he could 
 not do it—again, but unsuccessfully he strove to put the 
 thought away from him. Supposing that even now,—he 
 thought, as he walked on quickly, and, through the branches 
 of the trees, Langdale Hall became visible at intervals—the 
 haughty woman whom he had long looked upon as an enemy 
 should be dying ! If he should hear from Dr. Forsyth, or 
 early in the morning, that the allotted time of her reign at 
 the old Hall was over; how would it affect himself and his 
 family 1 Must they leave the Grange and live at the Hall, 
 or could he expect Florence to continue submissive and con¬ 
 tent, in his humbler home, within sight of her own woods 
 and towers % 
 
 He was certain that Marina would never bear to part 
 with the little one voluntarily. Here was the vulnerable 
 point in the man’s pride. This touched him to the quick— 
 at any cost, at any sacrifice on his own part, he wished to 
 spare the feelings of his delicate, suffering wife. 
 
 It was getting to be dusk under the trees by this time : 
 the days were shortening. Just as Mr. Langdale reached 
 the farther gate of the park from his own house, a man rode 
 past him rapidly, and pulled up his horse at the Lodge— 
 a groom in the Langdale livery. As the gatekeeper threw 
 open the gate the servant said, touching his hat to Mr. Ln.ng- 
 dale, who came up at the same moment, that his mis cress 
 was much worse ; she had come down to dinner seemingly 
 better, but had fainted away, and been carried to her 
 chamber. He was going to fetch the Doctor. 
 
 The horse-hoofs clattered on the stony road and died away, 
 as the man rode on swiftly. Mr. Langdale followed him to 
 Dr. Forsyth’s cottage, which was about a mile beyond the 
 park gates. He felt very glad that he had come to bring 
 
A WOMAN’S WILFUL WILL. 
 
 195 
 
 liome his daughter. Her being with Dr. Forsyth might 
 cause unnecessary delay, and he should not have liked her 
 to go through the park without visiting its mistress, if, in¬ 
 deed, her last hour were nigh. 
 
 His thoughts took a softer turn during the last few mo¬ 
 ments of his walk. He would consult Dr. Forsyth, and 
 hear exactly what his cousin had said. If, indeed, her ill¬ 
 ness was of a dangerous nature, and she wished to see 
 Florence, he supposed he must consent: but he dreaded and 
 shrank from the necessity. 
 
 Dr. Forsyth was standing at his own door, talking to the 
 messenger from the Hall, when Mr. Langdale came up. 
 
 u This is bad, he said, “your cousin has had a serious 
 attack. I must go at once to the Hall. I think I had 
 better mount your horse, Robert, and let you walk home. 
 It would take some minutes to get either of the carriages, 
 even the gig, under way; and my old Bess has just come 
 back from a long round.” 
 
 Though the Doctor had two other carriages in his coach 
 house, he always preferred that now almost obsolete but con¬ 
 venient and pleasant equipage, the old-fashioned gig—or as 
 it used to be called—a tilbury. 
 
 “ Never mind about Florence: I will take care of her 
 home,” said her father. “I am very sorry to hear of Miss Lang- 
 dale’s increased illness. It certainly will be best not to lose 
 a moment. I suppose I shall find my little girl with your 
 niece V 
 
 Dr. Forsyth, who was already in the saddle, looked at his 
 friend with surprise. “We have seen nothing of Florence, 
 to-day,” he said. “ Did you expect to find her here ? A 
 friend, whom I met at Hazeldon, said he had seen all your 
 ‘young people at the Crags this afternoon.” 
 
 “ Well, do not let me stop you,” said Mr. Langdale, to 
 
 13—2 
 
196 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 whom the idea immediately occurred, that, perhaps, her bro¬ 
 ther and sister had encountered Florence in the village and 
 persuaded her to accompany them, “ I have had my walk 
 for nothing it appears. Good-night, I suppose I shall find 
 Flo at home when I get back. Let me know, to-morrow, how 
 you find Miss Langdale. I sincerely hope this attack may 
 not be a serious 'one ” 
 
 The Doctor shook his head. “ I don’t like the appearance 
 of it,” he said, looking after the servant, who, after surren¬ 
 dering his horse, had walked on homeward. “Now that 
 young fellow is out of hearing, I don’t mind saying that 
 I have my own very serious apprehensions about your 
 cousin’s life. Maud Langdale is not a woman given to faint¬ 
 ing, and now this is the second fit of insensibility ! Don’t 
 you think it would be right, if she wishes it, to let that 
 pretty little daughter of yours see her benefactress ? You 
 have your own way of looking at things, Frank, but I sup¬ 
 pose most people would consider her to be so.” 
 
 Dr. Forsyth was riding on, beside Mr. Langdale, who had 
 turned away from his door without entering; the road, 
 darkened by Miss Langdale’s trees, was too shadowy for the 
 two old friends to see each other’s faces. 
 
 “ Yes, I suppose it may be necessary,” said Mr. Langdale, 
 in a tone of suppressed emotion. We will talk about it to¬ 
 morrow. Let me know how Miss Langdale is, as soon as 
 possible. Now I will not detain you.” 
 
 The Doctor rode on across the park. Mr. Langdale took 
 the road through the village. He stopped at the door of 
 one or two cottages, where Florence was in the habit of 
 visiting, and asked if their inmates had seen her, but be 
 could gain no tidings of his daughter. 
 
 It must have been as Dr. Forsyth suggested. She had 
 gone with her sisters to the Crags ; although it was so little 
 
A WOMAN’S WILFUL WILL. 
 
 197 
 
 the custom with his daughters to leave their mother alone, 
 that her father could not but feel surprised at her doing so 
 on this occasion. Still, it seemed the most natural explana¬ 
 tion of her long absence. 
 
 As Mr. Langdale passed through the shadowy gateway of 
 the Grange, another servant of the Hall came out, and, touch¬ 
 ing his cap, said that he had been up to the house with a 
 note from the Hall. There was no answer expected. The 
 man passed on, and Mr. Langdale did not stop to question him. 
 His mind was in a state of perplexity and irritation, and he 
 hurried home. Probably the letter from the Hall was a 
 formal intimation of Miss Langdale’s illness. Possibly it 
 might contain the request he had nearly resolved to grant, 
 that Florence should visit her kinswoman. At the present 
 moment the chief anxiety in her father’s mind, was concern¬ 
 ing her absence; and he hurried up the long, dark avenue 
 in order to be at home ; to shield his delicate wife from some 
 dim, vaguely foreseen, long-dreaded, calamity. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 The lamps were not yet lighted in the large low hall, but 
 as Mr. Langdale entered his own house, his eyes were im¬ 
 mediately t attracted by the white outlines of the letter which 
 he knew awaited his reception. Had it been a serpent coiled 
 near his hearth, ready to spring upon his nearest and dearest, 
 the Master of the Grange could scarcely have regarded the 
 foul, dangerous reptile with more abhorrence. 
 
 Frank Langdale took up his cousin’s letter reluctantly, and 
 carried it into his study without in any manner making his 
 presence in the house known to its inmates. The hall door 
 
IDS 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF LANG DALE HALL. 
 
 always stood open till a very late hour, the young people 
 had not returned from the Crags, and Mrs. Langdale was 
 still in her own apartments. He had a quiet time for the 
 consideration of whatever might be the contents of the 
 missive. 
 
 Though he neartily wished the ordeal over, Mr. Langdale 
 did not open the letter quickly. He lighted his reading 
 lamp with calmness and deliberation, placing it near his own 
 favourite chair, and trimming the flame carefully. Then he 
 turned the letter over and over, looking at the hand-writing 
 which was less firm than usual, studying the coat of arms 
 though he knew it so well; at last he broke the seal. 
 
 Before he read a single word he knew that Florence was 
 at Langdale Hall. The conviction that his cousin had 
 triumphed over him at last, seized him as soon as he saw 
 that the direction was in Miss Langclale’s own writing. 
 Had the letter, as he at first surmised, contained merely the 
 formal notification of her serious indisposition, it would have 
 been written by,'another person. As he stood alone in the 
 half darkness, making his lingering preparation for reading 
 his cousin’s communication, Frank Langdale instinctively 
 guessed its purport. 
 
 What he was not in the least prepared for was Florence’s 
 apparent share in the deception practised upon him. He 
 had seen her, that very morning, in the midst of them all, 
 not manifesting the slightest emotion ; and yet, so at least it 
 
 seemed to the angry father, she must have laid her plans for 
 leaving them. 
 
 Miss Langdale’s expression that Florence had come of her 
 own will and wish to nurse her, and at the conclusion of the 
 letter, her pathetic entreaty that, for both their sakes, he 
 should not use for a time, at least, the authority to separate 
 them, which she did not dispute, had the exact effect in- 
 
A WOMAN’S WILFUL WILL. 
 
 199 
 
 tended. Mr. Langdale felt himself to be much more power¬ 
 less than if she had dared him to the contest. He covered 
 his face with his hands ; and, in the solitude, bowed his head 
 in an agony of pain and grief which seemed to harden his 
 heart into stone. For more than half an hour he sat with 
 the letter open before him, mute and motionless. A slight 
 sound behind him made Mr. Langdale suddenly turn round. 
 
 “ Marina,” he exclaimed, starting up and trying to put the 
 letter out of sight. “ How you startled me, love : I thought 
 you were lying down, up-stairs. Let us go into the drawing¬ 
 room. The young people will be home directly.” 
 
 “ Ho, Frank, let us stay here for a few minutes, I want to 
 talk to you,” said his wife, sitting down in the chair from 
 which he had risen. “ There is no need for disguise or 
 preparation. Before you saw me, I had read over your 
 shoulder the letter which I saw grieved you so sorely. You 
 are not angry with me ! Surely we are not at this late 
 hour of our lives beginning to keep secrets from each 
 other ?” 
 
 “ I scarcely understand the import of this letter myself, 
 as yet,” said Mr. Langdale, gravely. “ Had you any idea 
 that Florence was so much affected by my cousin’s illness ? 
 Did she hear of it from you.” 
 
 “I do not believe that she had heard of it at all this 
 morning,” said Mrs. Langdale, instinctively divining the 
 truth. “ Perhaps the suddenness of the intelligence over¬ 
 came her. From a child she has loved your cousin. 
 
 Mr. Langdale walked up and down the room in silent 
 discomposure for several minutes. His wife’s calm tone 
 made him more nearly angry than he had ever been, with 
 her, in his life. 
 
 Mrs. Langdale took up the letter and read it over again 
 composedly. “ Miss Langdale wishes you to suppose that 
 
200 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 Florence desires to remain at the Hall, but we are not bound 
 to trust her implicitly. At all events she is safe there for 
 the present; and I was beginning to be seriously uneasy. 
 To-morrow our child will come home and explain her own 
 conduct. Do not condemn her unheard.” 
 
 Mr. Langdale paused in front of his wife. “ Unfortu¬ 
 nately Florence has not your perfect candour. She is the 
 
 only one of her mother’s children whom I do not perfectly 
 trust.” 
 
 The invalid’s pale cheek flushed. “ Bely on me, then,” 
 she said, “ Florence is timid and reserved. You have not 
 always done her justice, but, one day, you will acknowledge 
 that I understood her character the best. After all, can we 
 blame her for entertaining very strong feelings of gratitude 
 and affection for one who, to her, has been most kind and 
 generous ? Whatever may be Miss Langdale’s faults, our 
 little one has seen only the bright side of her character. 
 She has only anticipated by a day the request I should 
 have proffered to-morrow, that, if your cousin was really and 
 seriously ill, Florence should visit her. Some impetuous 
 impulse has prompted her to go at once, fearing, perhaps, 
 that even another day might make it too late. Since we 
 cannot alter the circumstances—since Florence is, and must 
 be Miss Langdale’s heiress, and successor at the Hall—do 
 not let us deny to this poor lady, in her last moments, the 
 comfoit of expressing some natural desire, and bestowing 
 some token of affection, on one who will, perhaps before very 
 long,*be her representative at Langdale. Depend upon it, 
 Florence will not forget us. Leave her to act for herself.” 
 
 Mr. Langdale kissed his wife affectionately. “Be it as 
 you will for to-night,” he said; “ to-morrow I shall go to 
 the Hall, and bring Florence back with me. I cannot trust 
 my cousin to deal fairly by us.” 
 
A WOMAN’S WILFUL WILL. 
 
 201 
 
 The sound of the carriage-wheels on the gravel outside 
 interrupted the conversation. 
 
 “ Do not, I entreat, blame Florence before her brothers 
 and sisters,” said Mrs. Langdale hurriedly; “ she and Fritz 
 stand in a very awkward position towards each other, and 
 one careless word may set them at variance. Let it appear 
 as though Florence had gone to the Hall with our consent, 
 in consequence of Miss Langdale’s increased illness. Dr. 
 Forsyth implored me yesterday to let him take her there, 
 and I think he was right. At least wait till you have seen 
 her to-morrow, before contemning her conduct. Hear both 
 sides of the stoiy.” 
 
 Mrs. Langdale’s opinions had been so often proved to be 
 right, that her husband did not dispute the point. He gave 
 a silent acquiescence to her brief statement, that Florence had 
 gone to the Hall in consequence of its mistress’s serious ill¬ 
 ness, and no one enquired into the exact circumstances. 
 In truth, the thoughts of the whole party were preoccupied. 
 The young count and Gertrude were full of troubled, happy 
 perplexity, as to how best to disclose what, they felt, could 
 not long be kept secret. The younger sisters already sus¬ 
 pected the truth ; and Fritz, as yet their sole confidant, was 
 deeply interested in what so nearly affected his favourite 
 friend and sister. The cause of Florence’s absence was 
 heard in silence; with merely a momentary, unavoidable feel¬ 
 ing of bitterness, on the part of the young man who, until 
 lately, had regarded himself as the future Langdale of Lang¬ 
 dale. 
 
 Gertrude made her escape early, and went at once to her 
 mother’s room. Mrs. Langdale had retired there before 
 supper, and was sitting in her easy chair beside the window. 
 The room was lighted only by the moon, and the young 
 happy maiden did not observe her mother’s worn, anxious 
 
202 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF LANGE ALE HALL. 
 
 countenance. She drew close to her mother’s knee the low 
 chair which had been the property of the little one, and 
 crouched down upon it, laying her head on the soft black 
 draperies of the invalid. 
 
 “You are tired, my darling. Had you a pleasant day % 
 I have scarcely heard a word about your pic-nic said her 
 mother, trying to appear interested. “ I thought you all 
 seemed very silent. Did you not enjoy yourselves ?” 
 
 Gertrude pressed still more closely the thin fingers laid 
 caressingly upon her arm. “ I scarcely know—I forget what 
 we all did,” she said. “ Yes, we were happy—at least I was 
 —I was not much with the others.” 
 
 Mrs. Langdale’s curiosity was awakened. “ Something 
 is the matter—what is it Gertrude. I cannot bear suspense 
 to-night. What have you to tell me ?” 
 
 Brokenly, slowly, half smiling, half-weeping, the girl told 
 her simple love story • little dreaming how sharp a pang 
 rent the motherly breast against which she was leaning. 
 To lose them thus, her precious ones—for at that moment 
 Mrs. Langdale, confused and grieved, felt as if she were 
 parting with her two devoted attendants—was unspeakably 
 bitter, but she suffered in silence. She would not sadden 
 the innocent joy of her companion. 
 
 Gertrude, encouraged by her tender, sympathising caresses, 
 unfolded her whole heart to her mother. The love so Ions 
 cherished, so fully returned, so fittingly bestowed, was re¬ 
 vealed with modest pride; and Mrs. Langdale, fully ap¬ 
 proving of her choice, would not by a single doubt or appre¬ 
 hension, damp her quiet happiness. The young Count was 
 to speak to her father after the family had all retired to rest. 
 Gertrude believed him to be so great a favourite that his 
 appeal would be successful. In worldly circumstances the 
 match w r as a brilliant one, and the German nobleman was 
 
A WOMAN'S WILFUL WILL. 
 
 203 
 
 richly gifted in person and mind. The only drawback and 
 difficulty was that she must reside with him abroad. 
 
 Mrs. Langdale soothed the agitated girl, when she burst 
 into tears at the idea of a separation from her beloved family. 
 For herself the case was bitter almost beyond endurance— 
 far beyond tears—but she did not murmur. Even through 
 Gertrude’s wild weeping streamed rays of light, like sun¬ 
 shine in a thunderstorm. Her calmness was all broken up— 
 her passionate sensibilities for the first time were awakened. 
 The mother, in spite of her bleeding, half-broken heart, pro¬ 
 mised to mediate—to smooth away any possible hindrances ; 
 and, thus dismissed, Gertrude retired, composed and happy, 
 to her chamber. It was no novelty for herself to sit up far 
 into the night; and, afterwards, to lie sleepless on her couch, 
 full of pain and anxiety, waiting for her husband’s footstep. 
 
 It was much later than usual before he came to her room, 
 and her agitation was then beyond control. Tenderly he 
 soothed her grief and pain. When she was a little calmer 
 he told her, as of a great good which had befallen them, of 
 the suit of the young German for their good and beautiful 
 daughter, and of his own frank acceptance. “ If they all 
 leave us, Marina, wo shall still love each other. I cannot 
 be entirely bereaved if I have my wife,” and until dawn of 
 day they talked together, and, at last, were comforted. 
 
 -»o 
 
 CHAPTER IY. 
 
 The lights on the dinner table at Langdale Hall had grown 
 dim, suddenly, in the eyes of its mistress, just when she was 
 rejoicing in the success of the grand coup which she had 
 executed. The triumph complete, reaction set in, and she was 
 carried to her chamber in a state of insensibility. 
 
204 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF LANG DALE HALL. 
 
 Ellinor Langclale and her young rival watched all night 
 anxiously, by turns, beside that couch of sickness. Until 
 now they had not been on intimate terms with each other, 
 as might naturally be expected. The sudden alarm and 
 subsequent anxiety made them friends. 
 
 In her secret heart, Florence was wounded at no notice 
 having been taken of her absence from home. It seemed 
 already to her a long time since she quitted the Grange, 
 intending to return in an hour. Had no one, not even her 
 mother, missed her % 
 
 She knew, vaguely, that Miss Langdale had sent some 
 formal intimation of her safety, but her vivid imagination 
 had pourtrayed the violent indignation of her father, her 
 mother’s grief, the loneliness of all the household :—it was 
 mortifying to feel that her desertion was met by silent 
 acquiescence ! The girl’s proud heart swelled within her 
 as she sat in the large dreary room, beside Miss Langdale’s 
 couch, keeping watch alternately with Ellinor. She turned 
 her head towards the silent woman, who had not spoken 
 since she was laid down by her servants; wondering whether, 
 from henceforward, she was to be left to fulfil the part she 
 had rashly undertaken. Her childlike dreams all fled before 
 the cold, stern reality, and she felt what strangers they 
 were to each other. 
 
 Just then Miss Langdale stirred and spoke. Florence 
 could not catch the words until she bent over the invalid, 
 who repeated them feebly, putting her hand in the young 
 girl’s. “ Why are you left all alone, little girl ? Shall I take 
 you across the river V 
 
 The tall mare, the beautiful rider, the firm, kind clasp, 
 even the reeds and flowering rushes, wet with the flowing 
 water, on Calder’s banks, rose up before Florence’s imagina¬ 
 tion, just as they appeared to Maud in her feverish dream. 
 
A WOMAN’S WILFUL WILL. 
 
 205 
 
 Years rolled away. Florence was again “ the little one ”— 
 once more, deserted and afraid, she clung to the hand that 
 had then lifted her up from her seat amid the wild flowers, 
 and would now, if strength were restored, place her on so 
 high a pinnacle of worldly honour, and crown her life with 
 good gifts. 
 
 Dr. Forsyth expressed great satisfaction at finding Flo¬ 
 rence at Langdale Hall on his next visit. He had not seen 
 her the previous night; Ellinor was then attending upon her 
 sister, and he concluded that Mr. Langdale had sent his- 
 daughter to the Hall, in consequence of his representation 
 of the good that might accrue therefrom to its mistress. 
 
 “ This is all right—just as I wished—nothing could bo 
 better. We shall have our patient well in a week,” the 
 good Doctor said, in his low, friendly voice, as he approached 
 the bedside where Florence was sitting. Ellinor Langdale 
 had accompanied him into the room, but she drew back a 
 little whilst he greeted Florence. “ Your father fully ex¬ 
 pected to find you at my house last night. I am glad he 
 sent you to a better place. I am most truly delighted, my 
 dear young lady, to find you here. It will do my patient 
 more good than all my prescriptions.” 
 
 Having thus expressed his satisfaction at finding his young- 
 favourite where he had cordially wished to place her, Dr. 
 Forsyth, who was really a most clever physician, gave his 
 whole attention to the invalid. The attack for which he had 
 visited her the previous evening, he considered, had been 
 brought on by excitement of a pleasurable nature, and joy 
 was seldom lastingly injurious. He desired that Miss Lang¬ 
 dale, to whom he had administered a strong composing 
 draught the night before, should be kept extremely quiet. 
 “ When she wakes—for this trance is changing into slumber 
 —let my pretty little friend here be the first object that meets 
 
206 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 her eyes. Any shock or surprise might have very serious con¬ 
 sequences. Any change in surrounding objects should be 
 avoided. Let her be kept tranquil for a week, and her na¬ 
 turally strong constitution will enable her to rally. Shall I 
 go round by the Grange, my dear, and ask Mr. and Mrs. 
 Langdale to spare you ?” 
 
 Florence’s eyes filled with tears, but she was too proud to 
 allow them to fall. She acquiesced in the Doctor’s proposal 
 without adding a single word. In fact she felt as if it were 
 impossible to utter more than one monosyllable. 
 
 Ellinor kissed her affectionately. “ Tell Mrs. Langdale 
 that we will take the greatest care of her daughter. It is 
 very good of her to stay in this sad house.” 
 
 “ Oh,'we shall have you all well and bright in a few days, 
 now I have such a powerful auxiliary,” said the Doctor, as he 
 shook hands with her at the door of Miss Langdale’s room, 
 while Florence remained, sad and silent, by the bed side. 
 
 “ There is no accounting for these fancies unless we call 
 them monomania. I cannot say how I honour you, my dear, 
 for exhibiting no petty jealousy of that young creature. Yes, 
 I knew you were above that kind of thing. Forgive me, I 
 have known you all from children, and I must speak my 
 mind. In her present state we must humour your sister. It 
 might bring on brain fever to contradict or vex her. You 
 know better than most people, that she never could endure 
 it; and, in her present condition, it is not likely that she 
 should be reasonable. I shall speak strongly to Frank 
 Langdale. If he is as self-willed as I have seen him, he will 
 be the death of that poor lady.” 
 
 Professionally interested in his patient, all other considera¬ 
 tions sank into insignificance compared to Miss Langdale's 
 chance of recovery. Ellinor, pale and anxious, detained 
 him as he prepared to hurry away. 
 
A WOMAN’S WILFUL WILL. 
 
 207 
 
 “ Do you think that Maud is in danger 1 ? Ought we, 
 when she awakes from this strange stupor, in any measure 
 to prepare her ?” 
 
 “ No, no, leave her to me—or rather to Miss Florence’s 
 and your own kind ministrations,” said the Doctor, kindly. 
 “ I have no doubt we shall pull through this strait—though I 
 own that it is narrow and difficult—but I know her constitu¬ 
 tion is one of iron. Next week she will be riding Christobel, 
 provided in the mean time you carry out my system. Keep 
 the house quiet—surround her with pleasant objects. Let 
 her believe, at all events till I give you leave to contradict 
 the notion, that she has secured the prize which she has for 
 years been labouring to win. These fixed ideas make sad 
 havoc with our brains, and there are times when they can¬ 
 not be uprooted without risk of death, or even' of worse 
 consequences. There now—I particularly wished not to 
 frighten, and I have set you crying. Good bye. Don’t let 
 my patient see any one weeping; you must all preserve 
 cheerful countenances, if your hearts be breaking. I tell 
 you, in a week we shall see Miss Langdale quite herself 
 aerain, and mounted on Christobel.” 
 
 Ellin or smiled through her tears as she shook hands with 
 her old friend. Dr. Forsyth got into his gig, which was 
 waiting for him under the trees at a short distance from the 
 house, and drove on thoughtfully at a very unusually slow 
 pace towards Langdale Grange. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 It was still quite early in the morning. Dr. Forsyth had 
 been very uneasy respecting his patient' at the Hall; the 
 
208 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 very great strength of constitution of which he spoke, not 
 being altogether a guarantee, in similar cases, that the brain 
 might not be seriously and permanently affected. He now 
 felt more at ease, especially if the fancy, amounting to mo¬ 
 nomania, which attracted her towards Florence Langdale, 
 was not thwarted. 
 
 Hr. Forsyth knew better than most men that Frank 
 Langdale had no reason to love his cousin. Years of un¬ 
 kind neglect of one whom nature pointed out as a pro¬ 
 per object of kind consideration ; her own nearest kinsman, 
 and, eventually, whether she wished it or no, the heir to 
 the property, had caused bitter alienation. The insult to 
 his delicate wife, contained in Miss Langdale’s cold estrange¬ 
 ment, would have sufficed to make them foes. 
 
 Rumour ascribed to Miss Langdale’s avoidance of her 
 cousin's wife, a cause which has prompted many virulent 
 feminine animosities. Before his marriage, Frank Langdale 
 had been much at the Hall. In the life-time of Maud’s 
 father, he had been treated as one of the family, and his 
 authority was only second to that of the master of the 
 house. It was said that even Maud, then a wilful beauty, 
 never disputed with her cousin, or gainsaid his wishes. 
 At college Mr. Langdale had liberally assisted him, and his 
 vacations, in boyhood and early manhood, were sjmnt as 
 much at the Hall as at the old Grange, where his widowed 
 mother, and Marina, his future wife, resided. 
 
 For many years no one suspected that the young orphan, 
 rescued from shipwreck when a child, and Frank Langdale, 
 were attached to each other. They seemed like a brother 
 and sister—equally devoted to Frank’s invalid mother. The 
 young girl, who had been taken into the family at the death 
 of Lady Barbara Noel; for whom she had been a sort of 
 plaything, ever since her son rescued her from the sinking 
 
A WOMAN'S WILFUL WILL. 
 
 209 
 
 ship, lost upon the stormy north coast of Yorkshire, had 
 become quite like one of the family. 
 
 It was said that the surprise was greater to Maud Lang- 
 dale than to any one else, when, just before the death of 
 Dame Langdale, as she was called, Frank and Marina ac¬ 
 knowledged that they had long been engaged to each other. 
 The marriage took place immediately, by the side of Mrs. 
 Langdale's death-bed. Marina had no other home, and 
 Frank and his mother would not suffer her to go among 
 strangers. After the funeral, the young husband and wife 
 went abroad together. 
 
 From the day of his marriage, Miss Langdale, who had 
 just come into possession of the family property, utterly 
 ignored the existence of her cousin and his wife. Frank 
 Langdale and Maud had not seen each other, face to face, 
 since that time. 
 
 Dr. Forsyth pondered over these circumstances as he 
 drove along. Perhaps he knew, certain]y he suspected, 
 much more than was known to the general public. Be that 
 as it may, he was well aware that his present task would 
 not be an easy one. 
 
 Mr. Langdale was walking up and down, impatiently 
 waiting the summons to breakfast, when the Doctor stopped 
 at his door. 
 
 “You will be glad to hear that I have some hope my 
 patient at the Hall may get over this bout, but I assure you 
 last night I was so uneasy I could not sleep a wink. Your 
 little lady has done her all the good in the world. Lang¬ 
 dale you are an excellent fellow. I know this poor lady 
 has not behaved by you as she ought to have done, but she 
 is trying to make amends. She is positively infatuated 
 about Miss Florence. Leave her for awhile, till Miss 
 Langdale recovers, at the Hall.” 
 
 14 
 
210 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 “ Does Florence wish to stay T said Mr. Langdale, in a 
 cold hard voice. “ What message did she send to me, and 
 to her mother ?” 
 
 Dr. Forsyth hesitated. He was, in fact, entirely ignorant 
 of the mode of Florence’s transportation to the Hall, and 
 rather imagined it to be the result of his own eloquence, 
 He had driven straight to the Hall, after parting the night 
 before from Mr. Langdale. Ellinor alone had been visible, 
 Florence having shyly shrunk out of sight; and the doctor 
 supposed; that afterwards, in consequence of his representa¬ 
 tion of Miss Langdale’s extreme illness and passionate desire 
 to see Florence, her father had sent her to the Hall. 
 
 He ransacked his memory in vain, trying to recollect 
 what Florence had told him to say ; but, like most men, he 
 was not famous for the delivery of messages, and, in this 
 case, he had been entrusted with none. 
 
 “ Oh, her love, of course,” he said, “ and all that sort of 
 thing, and to say that she was quite comfortable. Miss 
 Ellinor is kindness itself, that I can certify.” 
 
 “Let her remain then,” said Mr. Langdale abruptly. 
 “ Once before Florence had the choice between the Grange 
 and the Hall. She then decided wisely to abide by her 
 parents. She has now taken a different course. By all 
 means tell her to pursue it.” 
 
 Dr. Forsyth looked at him with surprise. “ Come, come, 
 Langdale, you are not quite yourself this morning. I shall 
 not certainly be the bearer of that message to Florence.” 
 
 “Just as you please,” said Mr. Langdale, in the same dry 
 tone. “ Will you not come in ? My children are waiting 
 for me to begin breakfast. You are on your rounds early.” 
 
 “ No thank you,” said the doctor, in an offended tone. 
 “ Don’t wait for me. Miss Florence is all right at Lang¬ 
 dale, I can assure you. I called to tell you that it is, in my 
 
A WOMAN’S WILFUL WILL. 
 
 211 
 
 opinion, a question of life and death with Miss Langdale if 
 you remove your daughter abruptly. Having done my duty 
 professionally, I can go home, and leave you to act as you 
 think proper.” 
 
 Unconscious of the mischief he had done, the doctor gave 
 a sharper cut than he often bestowed with his whip, on the 
 shining flank of the black mare, and drove quickly to Lang¬ 
 dale Cottage. The master of the Grange breakfasted with 
 his children and the foreign Count, who was now recognised 
 as his future son-in-law. He did not mention Florence’s 
 name, and, the moment he was at liberty to leave the table, 
 he shut himself up in his study to write to her. 
 
 There were very few occasions during his married life, on 
 which Mr. Langdale had committed any important act with¬ 
 out consulting his wife, but, now, he could not trust Marina’s 
 judgment. Even as it was, he found it difficult, nay, im¬ 
 practicable, to address the little one. After beginning half a 
 dozen letters, and tearing them into fragments he resolved 
 to write, not to Florence, but to his cousin, Maud Lang¬ 
 dale. The letter he had received from her the night before, 
 lay on his table unanswered. He read it over again, with¬ 
 out the softening influence of his wife’s comments, and 
 detected in it a thousand painful meanings. Miss Langdale 
 affirmed in the first sentence that Florence had come volun¬ 
 tarily to the Hall. Her father had no reason to suppose 
 that any plot had been formed to entrap her. Of her own 
 wish and will, discontented probably with her own humble 
 home, Florence had gone to the house of his enemy. 
 
 Mr. Langdale had never thoroughly understood the pecu¬ 
 liar disposition of his youngest born. He had not conciliated 
 her in childhood, as had been the case with those who had 
 begun life in a brighter period of his existence. The failure 
 in his wife’s health, the first knowledge of her hopeless 
 
 14—2 
 
212 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 malady, had converted him into the austere being whom his 
 youngest daughter loved and feared. 
 
 He had been very severe respecting her childish faults, 
 and certainly, in respect of pride, wilfulness, and vanity, 
 Florence erred more frequently than her sisters. Shy and 
 sensitive, the little one shrank from his imperfectly under¬ 
 stood railleries, which, even in his brighter moods, were 
 sarcastic; and hid the secrets of her imaginative fancy, and 
 really loving heart, in a reserve, which, as years went on, be¬ 
 came as impenetrable as his own. Only her mother knew how 
 dearly Florence loved, even while she at times dreaded, her 
 grave, severe, yet often indulgent, father. The very effort 
 to deserve his affection made her less able to win it than 
 were the thoughtless fair-haired twins ; who came to him in 
 every difficulty, after their mother’s helplessness prevented 
 her assisting them, and scarcely ever found him unwilling to 
 lend an ear to any tale of childish distress. Florence, on 
 the contrary, would wait for hours rather than disturb him; 
 and often went away without uttering the petition which 
 it would have pleased him to grant. 
 
 A grave cause for dissension had arisen when Mr. Lang- 
 dale discovered that Florence had carried on, unknown to * 
 her parents, intercourse with his cousin. He had never en¬ 
 tirely forgiven this transgression of his orders, and the con¬ 
 cealments it involved. 
 
 As he read and re-read the letter from the Hall, the con¬ 
 viction, shaken for a moment, returned upon him, that a 
 long course of deceit had been practised. Each short 
 sentence bore a meaning at first unsuspected. Whilst 
 his legal power to separate them was undisputed, Miss 
 Lansxlale and Florence seemed to have cast their lots to- 
 gether, and the cry uttered by both their hearts, was “ Do 
 not separate us !” 
 
A WOMAN’S WILFUL WILL. 
 
 213 
 
 Had it been otherwise, lie argued, would not Florence 
 have sent some message by her kind old friend, Dr. Forsyth % 
 Would she not have mentioned some limit to her stay at the 
 Hall % Ought she not to have consulted himself and her 
 mother as to the propriety of her remaining there 1 Instead 
 of this she had sent a common place message of love—an as¬ 
 surance that she was well and happy—without the slightest 
 reference to their wishes, or to the sorrow and anxiety her 
 absence must have caused. 
 
 Each moment Frank Langdale grew more angry. At last 
 he caught up a pen, and hastily wrote a few lines to Miss 
 Langdale. If her cousin had realised the danger, which the 
 Doctor’s experience taught him to apprehend from Miss 
 Langdale’s sudden illness, he would have acted more cau¬ 
 tiously ; but, in the angry heat of the hour, he believed the 
 whole to be a plot in which Dr. Forsyth played a principal 
 part. Over and over again they had argued the subject 
 without altering one another’s conclusions : Dr. Forsyth 
 endeavouring to persuade his old friend to abandon early 
 prejudices, and allow his family, and especially Florence, 
 to profit by the present favourable intentions of the mistress 
 • of Langdale Hall, whilst Mr. Langdale inveighed against 
 the injustice of Fritz’s disinheritance, and refused to admit 
 that years had softened his cousin’s animosity. Her love 
 of Florence, he maintained, was only another mark of her 
 prejudice against himself. 
 
 Under this impression, and deeply wounded by Florence’s 
 apparent carelessness of his own and her mother’s feelings, 
 Mr. Langdale, without reading over again his angry letter, 
 or consulting liis wife, delivered it to a servant; directing 
 that it should be sent at once to the Hall. 
 
214 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 No power or persuasion could induce Maud Langdale to keep 
 her bed when she was able to rise from it. After Dr. 
 Forsyth’s early visit she insisted on getting up; and, after 
 dressing herself with difficulty, and being forced to accept 
 the unusual service of her attendant, in her customary dark 
 cloth close-fitting habit, with her short curls carelessly clus¬ 
 tering in her neck like a boy, she slowly crept into the 
 library, and sat grimly erect in her tall ebony chair. 
 
 There were unmistakable signs of illness and depression 
 in her appearance. The healthy complexion had suddenly 
 grown wan, and the well shaped hands, laid on the carved 
 arms of the high seat, were white and nerveless. Momen¬ 
 tarily the fingers would clutch the hard wood, as if for sup¬ 
 port, and, after a time, the head drooped languidly. Then, 
 as if provoked at the involuntary manifestation of weakness, 
 the invalid would stiffen herself afresh, and glance round to 
 see if any one was watching her. 
 
 The Doctor’s injunctions were carefully observed ; and, as 
 far as possible, Miss Langdale was surrounded by pleasant 
 objects. The household maintained its usual routine. Flo¬ 
 rence was standing at a table covered with freshly gathered 
 flowers, just where the mistress of the mansion could ob¬ 
 serve the graceful girl’s movements. Ellinor, who sat at 
 work in a cheerful corner of the room near the window, had 
 suggested the occupation. 
 
 More than once the little one bent her head over the 
 roses to conceal a tear. It seemed so strange to be so com¬ 
 pletely forgotten, and her flight ignored at her own home. 
 Each moment she had expected to receive some message or 
 
A WOMAN'S WILFUL WILL. 
 
 215 
 
 letter, in answer to Dr. Forsyth’s request that she might 
 remain a little longer. From dread of her father’s anger 
 to intense longing for his presence, Florence’s thoughts fit¬ 
 fully veered. It never once occurred to her that neither 
 Miss Langdale nor Dr. Forsyth had explained the man¬ 
 ner of her evasion. All seemed to have come to pass so 
 naturally, that she did not in the least realize how strange 
 and unnatural an appearance her conduct must wear in the 
 eyes of her parents. In spite of her illness, no one in the 
 house would have ventured, unbidden, to prevent the intru¬ 
 sion upon the invalid’s attention of any matter of business. 
 The old butler handed respectfully to his mistress, on a sil¬ 
 ver waiter, a letter, to which, he said, no answerwas required, 
 delivered by a servant at the Hall. Miss Langdale read it 
 in silence. 
 
 “ Come nearer to me, Florence,” she said, after some 
 moments’ deliberation. “ This is a letter from your father.’ 
 
 The roses slipped out of the trembling fingers that were 
 striving to arrange them, and Florence went close up to the 
 invalid. 
 
 “I am sorry he does not express himself more kindly, 
 she said. “ My cousin Frank used to regard me with more 
 indulgence, but time and trial alter us all. He fears that 
 association with me will render you unfit for the companion¬ 
 ship of your sisters. He calls upon you at once to leave 
 me, or else you are never to re-enter your early home. 
 
 Miss Langdale’s cheeks, pale before, assumed a ghastly 
 hue, and she pressed her right hand on her heart. The sud¬ 
 den shock was evidently more than, in her enfeebled state, 
 she was able to bear. Florence knelt down on the footstool 
 placed for Miss Langdale, but which she had not conde¬ 
 scended to use, and clasped the rigid, ice-cold hand, that 
 rested on the left arm of the chair. 
 
216 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 “ No—I cannot, I will not leave yon while you are so ill,” 
 she said. “ What harm can it do to me, or to any one, if I 
 remain here while you need love and care ? You have never 
 shown me anything but kindness.” 
 
 Miss Langdale’s fingers closed tightly on those of her 
 young cousin. She bent her usually haughty head low on 
 the young girl’s shoulder, and burst into tears. 
 
 “ You have saved me from death or madness, Florence,” 
 she said, after the unusual burst of emotion had subsided. 
 “My heart seemed | held in fetters, while my brain was on 
 fire. Now I am better. My love, I will not deceive you. 
 Read your father’s letter. I do not think that I have quite 
 deserved this from him.” 
 
 Florence read her father’s angry words with sorrowful 
 indignation. Her own fault, which previously she had 
 bitterly lamented, seemed to grow smaller as she felt her¬ 
 self treated unjustly; and she resented the injury done to the 
 feelings of her benefactress. Mr. Langdale did not address 
 Maud as his cousin; the brief, angry letter had in fact no 
 regular commencement or termination, excepting a formal 
 signature. 
 
 “ Since Florence wishes it—as she lias gone there of her 
 own free will—let her by all means remain at the Hall,” he 
 wrote. “ You have made her dissatisfied—you have taught 
 her to deceive—keep the fruits of the seed you have sown. 
 Neither her mother nor I care to claim the casket from 
 which the treasure has been stolen—the setting, out of which 
 the jewel is taken. Nevertheless, if Florence desires to 
 return, her home is at present ojien to her. Later—when 
 her taste for luxury has been fostered, and the natural 
 pride of her character has been turned into self-will—like 
 your own, Maud Langdale—I cannot promise to 
 her.” 
 
 receive 
 
A WOMAN’S WILFUL WILL. 
 
 217 
 
 “My father will think better of this,” Florence said, 
 timidly. “Iam sure he did not know how ill you were 
 when he wrote that letter. Be that as it may, since he 
 does not command me to return, I shall not leave you until 
 you are better.” 
 
 Miss Langdale pressed her to her heart. “You have 
 given me fresh life, my child,” she said. “ Remember that 
 you have always a home with me. Ring, Ellinor, and let 
 the servants help me to my bed. Perhaps I was unwise to 
 leave it. I did not know, till this blow struck me, how 
 weak I had become.” 
 
 She said no more ; and her two companions watched her 
 anxiously, after complying with her request. Dr. Forsyth, 
 as soon as he could be summoned, was at her side, and re¬ 
 mained during the rest of the day at the Hall. Miss Lang¬ 
 dale scarcely spoke, but her eyes followed every movement 
 of the young girl who had refused to leave her ; and, from 
 time to time, unwonted tears coursed down her pale cheeks. 
 Florence, during the whole day and night, watched patiently 
 in the sick woman’s chamber. 
 
 Dr. Forsyth, irritated by Mr. Langdale’s manner, did not 
 call at the Grange for some days. Communication between 
 the two mansions was never active; and the servant who 
 carried the letter to the Hall, brought back word that its 
 mistress was very much better, and sitting in the library. 
 
 Mrs. Langdale had learnt from her husband that Florence, 
 through the medium of the Doctor’s last visit, had sent a 
 careless message to the effect that she was well and happy, 
 and wished to remain at the Hall. Even her sweet temper 
 was ruffled; and, when two days had passed without 
 bringing back the fugitive, she acquiesced in his desire that 
 Florence’s books and wearing apparel should be sent after 
 her. 
 
218 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 Miss Langdale continued to receive two visits daily from 
 Doctor Forsytli, but still lier parents thought that Flo¬ 
 rence might have shown more regard and consideration for 
 their feelings ; whilst the poor young girl was mourning 
 over their neglect and severity. Time, as it slowly wore 
 on, widened the breach. An insurmountable dread of her 
 father’s anger, and of her mother’s tenderer reproaches, took 
 possession of Florence’s mind. The sunny fields, yellow 
 with the harvest, which she had crossed so easily on her 
 way to the Hall, now bristling arid stubble, seemed to stretch 
 away like the sands of the desert. She felt as completely 
 separated from her family, now she was at Langdale Hall, 
 as though she were in another hemisphere. 
 
 Between herself and the mistress of the Park, on the con¬ 
 trary, each day drew the bands of intimacy closer. Maud 
 Langdale treated her as a daughter; relying upon her for 
 such comfort and aid, in her weakness, as a loving child 
 might have bestowed. She had answered Mr. Langdale’s 
 letter by a few lines, which she had shown to Florence, in¬ 
 timating that as her father did not forbid her remaining at 
 the Hall, and Miss Langdale felt it inexpressibly bitter to 
 part with her, they should, for the present, continue together. 
 Should Mr. Langdale, on her recovery, think fit to reclaim 
 his daughter, Maud trusted that he would find her not 
 wholly contaminated by her society. 
 
 In this note Florence, with Miss Langdale’s full and free 
 permission, had enclosed a few trembling lines to her 
 mother, entreating her forgiveness for the past, and love 
 for the future. 
 
 Unfortunately she did not attempt to offer any explana¬ 
 tion of her conduct; as she had all along imagined that her 
 parents knew, and condemned, the impulsive action which 
 had placed her under Miss Langdale’s protection. Neither 
 
A WOMAN’S WILFUL WILL. 
 
 219 
 
 did she offer any limit to her proposed absence. The poor 
 young girl, bewildered by grief and anxiety, without a 
 friend to advise her, simply threw herself upon their mercy. 
 
 Mrs. Lancclale answered her daughter’s letter somewhat 
 coldly. She was under her husband’s influence now, and 
 they were both persuaded that Miss Langdale had laid a 
 deliberate plan to deprive them of their child. The differ¬ 
 ence in their opinion was, that Mr. Langdale thought Flo¬ 
 rence had been a party to the scheme, in which her mother 
 denied her complicity beforehand, but blamed her for ac¬ 
 ceding to it. Fritz and her sisters were silent; but their 
 strong love for their mother, and her keen sufferings, made 
 them, in their hearts, very angry with the absent cause of 
 so much pain and grief. 
 
 *■ -*o«- 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Contrary to all reasonable expectation, and in spite of the 
 fulfilment of her dearest wish, Maud Langdale did not rally 
 quickly. Long after the date Dr. Forsyth had named, 
 Christobel was grazing in the park, pricking up her ears at 
 the sound of an approaching footstep, and looking for her 
 mistress in vain. Miss Langdale had not once quitted the 
 house. 
 
 Air w T as the good Doctor’s great panacea, and Maud had 
 lived out of doors the greater part of her life. How could 
 she regain strength, shut up from morning till night in the 
 dreary walls of the library 1 
 
 Illness had softened wonderfully her arbitrary temper. 
 Ellinor scarcely knew her sister, and tears would gather in 
 her eyes as she watched her sitting by the writing table, 
 
220 THE MIST HESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 unoccupied, silent, uncomplaining; or sometimes at the 
 window of her own room, which commanded a wide pros¬ 
 pect, looking out, with eyes which pierced beyond them, at 
 her own fields and up the wooded dough. 
 
 Dr. Forsyth was seriously uneasy about liis patient. 
 This complete change in the habits of a lifetime boded no 
 good. He tried to rouse her by a thousand stratagems, 
 telling her that her farms were neglected, or her work¬ 
 people trespassing upon her indulgence, but she took no 
 heed of their shortcomings. 
 
 Only at Florence’s approach would the saddened eyes 
 brighten, and a more cheerful tone denote that her granted 
 wish had not proved a curse. Between them a very strong 
 affection was gaining strength, day by day • and it seemed as 
 though this tie alone kept the older woman from sinking 
 altogether. 
 
 Not one of Mr. Langdale’s family visited the Hall. 
 Florence was entirely cut off from her home, and, since her 
 sister’s illness, Ellinor had never left her. Excepting for 
 the Doctor’s frequent visits, the trio were quite isolated. 
 
 Meanwhile, the September sunshine streamed over the 
 land; lighting up the dark old Grange, illuminating the gay 
 terraced flower garden at the Hall, and sparkling on the 
 stained windows of the ancient house of the ruined Noels; 
 which was slowly regaining the aspect it had worn in days 
 long gone by. 
 
 “ So, she’s breaking fast,” said the General, as Mr. Hay- 
 warden stood by his side on the summit of the hill, watching 
 the progress of the work-people. “ Going the way we must 
 all go, sooner or later, whether she likes it or not. Seems 
 hard where folk have money and power, which is much the 
 same thing, I take it, that they can’t stop the wasting away. 
 Just like the rotten old wood work that has given the men 
 
A WOMAN’S WILFUL WILL. 221 
 
 yonder so much trouble, and it won’t hang together. Maud 
 Langdale’s failing fast.” 
 
 “ She has not been well, certainly,” said the lawyer; 
 “Miss Langdale has not been quite herself for some time, 
 but I hope her illness is not so serious as you fancy. If 
 wealth cannot stop decay, it can, at all events, command the 
 best means of repairing the havoc made by disease. Dr. 
 Forsyth now recommends her travelling abroad. I fancy 
 she will pass the winter in Italy.” 
 
 “ That won’t answer,” said the old man, doggedly. “ You 
 might just as well take up that old chestnut yonder and ex¬ 
 pect it to grow down by Langdale Tarn, when it’s had to 
 brave the winds on the top of this hill, as expect Maud Lang¬ 
 dale to flourish if you transplant her from Yorkshire to the 
 Bay of Naples, or Mentone. Both will die indhe attempt.” 
 
 “ Well, I don’t know,” said Mr. Haywarden, who, during 
 his frequent visits to the new buildings, had grown accus¬ 
 tomed to, and was often amused by, the quaint old veteran’s 
 familiarity. “ Miss Langdale has set her heart on pleasing 
 the young heiress, and Miss Florence wants to see Italy. I 
 dare say the change will do her good.” 
 
 “ She’s had her way in this matter, as she has in most 
 others. To be sure, what an obstinate woman can do if she 
 gives her mind to it,” said the old man, looking round him, 
 contemplatively. “ Who’d ever have fancied that Noel Hall 
 would be built up stone for stone, as it was, and we all 
 working to please her. Its getting as like as two peas to the 
 old place, and what a ramshackle forlorn rat hole it was last 
 year. Oh, Lord, if Cuthbert and his mother could only see 
 it ! But that’s what even Miss Langdale’s wilful will cannot 
 manage. She may till up the old waste places, and put 
 back the glass in the windows, and the turrets and towers 
 maybe set straight; but she won’t get the old faces, nor bring 
 
222 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 back the light hearts, nor hear the old voices, nor take the 
 brand of the burning away, from the temple where she once 
 worshipped in her pride.” 
 
 “ It seems a useless outlay. For my part I was very 
 much against it,” said the lawyer, apparently forgetful of 
 the distance in station between himself and his companion. 
 “ None of the old family are left unless you count the girl 
 down at the mills, and her mother, (Cuthbert’s widow), as be¬ 
 longing to them ; and Miss Langdale distinctly told me, she 
 would never acknowledge that marriage. When all these 
 great works are completed who is to benefit by them ?” 
 
 “ Most likely I shall!” said the old man, laughing, as he 
 sat down on his favourite corner of the court-yard wall. 
 “ She’s promised not to turn me out, that’s something. That 
 woman, and her daughter from the mill in the Eagle’s Gorge, 
 came one Saturday after work, to see the old Hall. I didn’t 
 trouble myself to shew it to them. She’s good and she’s 
 pretty too, though, is Bertina Noel. The young spark at 
 Langdale Grange, Master Fritz, if I am not mistaken, has a 
 liking for her; he was showing her and her mother about, 
 and handing the girl up the ladders. I’d half a mind to 
 pitch him off one of them, head foremost.” 
 
 “ It would have been a good thing for the poor mother, if 
 some kind friend had done as much for Cuthbert Noel; 
 before lie took her out of her own humble station, and yet 
 never had manliness enough to lift her into the sphere she 
 ought to have moved in. I have seen the papers, and there 
 is no possible loop out of which his friends can pull him. 
 The marriage was legal, though clandestine, and kept secret 
 till after his death. Bertina Noel, though she had a scoundrel 
 for a father, (whatever you may say about your old master), 
 is by birth a lady. Fritz Langdale might do worse than 
 marrying her.” 
 
A WOMAN’S WILFUL WILL. 
 
 223 
 
 “ Cuthbert Noel was no master of mine,” growled the 
 General, apparently in the worst of humours. “You forget 
 that I come from a country where freedom is the right of a 
 white man, and as precious as the breath of his nostrils. As 
 for Cuthbert Noel, you may as well hang a dog at once, if 
 you give him a bad name; and so he thought, and made away 
 with himself, I suppose, sooner than trouble his friends 
 longer. Mind, I don’t say he is dead. He was alive long after 
 the sale of Noel Hall. That I can vouch for.” 
 
 Mr. Hay warden looked at the old fellow sharply. “ It 
 will need more than your simple word to convince us of 
 that,” he said, gravely. “ My own firm belief is, that Bertie 
 Noel would never rest quiet as long as he has done, any¬ 
 where but in his grave; if, indeed, that would hold him. 
 Perhaps, if he were living now, he might think it worth 
 while to come forward. I have a proposal, at this moment, 
 in my pocket for building baths and villas, and a great 
 hotel, on that piece of ground near Filey, where Lady Bar¬ 
 bara used to go for sea-bathing. It may turn out a profit¬ 
 able speculation; and if so, Miss Bertina Noel will not need 
 to work at the mills as overlooker of the girls, in order to 
 eke out her mother’s scanty means.” 
 
 The General puffed away at his pipe, philosophically. 
 
 “ So you are going to start a ‘ Limited Liability Company ’ 
 watering-place, where Cuthbert did the only good deed of 
 his life on record, poor fellow. Don’t let it be forgotten. 
 Call the place Marina. It’s not a bad name in itself, and 
 it will hand down a tradition more creditable than some 
 that cling to the old name of Noel.” 
 
 The General drew his cloak round him, with the dignity 
 belonging to his martial rank; and, without any mark of 
 deference or courtesy, walked off, and joined the workmen, 
 who had just found a curious relic belonging to the former 
 
224 THE MISTRESS OF LANG DALE HALL. 
 
 \ 
 
 decorations of the Hall. Mr. Haywarden followed him 
 slowly, and found that he was listened to and obeyed like 
 an oracle. The painted wood-work proved to he, as he 
 declared, the bordering of the panels of the dining-room ; a 
 small portion being still extant in its right position, though 
 obscured by dirt and mildew. The pattern when closely 
 compared was exactly the same. 
 
 Mr. Haywarden mounted his horse and rode thoughtfully 
 down the long steep hill. He was revolving in his mind 
 the changes and chances, to some of his clients, which would 
 ensue, if there were any foundation for the old General’s ob¬ 
 stinate conviction, that Bertie Noel was still in the land 
 of the living. 
 
PAET THE SIXTH. 
 
 TOO LATE. 
 
 Deep clown in my heart—thro’ fast-coming years— 
 
 I look backward and forward with eyes dimmed by tears : 
 Far away, Southern landscapes are gleaming in gold, 
 
 But the North holds me fast with its ice-fetters cold. 
 
 Oh, the bonds are so narrow ! The world is so wide, 
 
 And the tide flows so swiftly,—so swiftly the tide. 
 
 I remember a clime, where, round Temples and Towers, 
 
 The vine trails its clusters, mid sunshine and flowers ; 
 Where the ocean-waves purple the bright sands they lave, 
 And the laurel wreath waits for the gifted and brave. 
 
 It beckons, it lures me—the banished one—home, 
 
 But I cannot draw nearer—I may not come. 
 
 II. M. K. 
 
 Translated from Schuman’s “ Sehnsucht,” (Home-sickness). 
 
 15 
 
CHAPTER I. 
 
 AUD LANGDALE bore the transplantation to a 
 Southern clime better than those who had known 
 her best and longest could have expected. The 
 woman s wilful will had conquered in the strife, and, now 
 that the prize was hers, the victory won, she would not 
 flag. She had, indeed, made the most of her illness, in the 
 hope of being ordered abroad, that she might carry Florence 
 out of reach of the man whom she regarded as her foe. 
 
 Mr. Langdale made no further effort to reclaim his 
 daughter, and Florence, bitterly offended, acquiesced in his 
 decision. Mutual misunderstanding had gone too far for 
 either party to retrace their steps. Nevertheless, it was 
 with a sorely aching heart that the young exile looked at 
 the wonders of art and nature, with which she was sur¬ 
 rounded. A fairer and more sunshiny landscape would 
 have revolted her sorrowing spirit, but Miss Langdale 
 made no long halt till they arrived at Rome, where they 
 settled for the winter. She judged rightly in thinking that 
 the ruined city, which had once been as a Queen among the 
 nations of the earth, must arrest the enthusiastic girl’s 
 wondering attention. 
 
 Her own mind expanded as they contemplated together 
 
 15—2 ' 
 
228 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF LANGE ALE HALL. 
 
 the marvellous relics of the past, and wandered among 
 tombs and palaces, each day choosing some fresh field for 
 interesting investigations. Florence understood the lan¬ 
 guage of modern Italy, the country of her birth, and Miss 
 Lanedale was an excellent Latin scholar. 
 
 Florence’s beautiful voice and musical talents, now culti¬ 
 vated to the utmost, and thoroughly appreciated, caused 
 her society to be sought in the most select circles. Miss 
 Langdale had brought good introductions, and no longer 
 avoided company. She yielded to her dearly loved com¬ 
 panion’s suggestions readily enough in trifles; and so far 
 altered her style of dress, though it continued to be peculiar 
 to herself, as to escape eccentricity. As a wealthy English¬ 
 woman she was privileged to be a little singular in her 
 tastes and habits. 
 
 Gradually, with nothing to remind her of her home, for 
 her sisters were not allowed to correspond with her, Florence 
 became acclimatised; and the dark-eyed, sparkling girl, with 
 her perfectly melodious voice and faultless accent, was more 
 than once mistaken for an Italian. 
 
 As she breathed the air of Rome, and visited its holy 
 and beautiful places, a love of art sprang up in the girl’s 
 mind. Miss Langdale humoured her in everything, and 
 every facility was afforded for her improvement. Florence 
 spent hours in the studios of artists, and emulated their 
 industry. Her talent for drawing, though not developed so 
 early as that of Frances, was very considerable. She often 
 sighed as she thought of the enjoyment her sister would 
 have found in sharing her studies, and in wandering among 
 the picturesque ruins of the ancient city; but she had too 
 much tact to mention the names of any of her family to 
 Miss Langdale. On this point alone they r were not in 
 unison, and Florence loved her too dearly to run the risk of 
 
TOO LATE. 
 
 229 
 
 offending her kind benefactress. Every indulgence money 
 could procure was at her command, and, as Miss Langdale’s 
 heiress, she was feted and caressed wherever they went 
 together. 
 
 The birthplace of Florence, that fair city on the banks 
 of the Arno, which she had often dreamed of beholding-, 
 was visited in summer, when the climate of Rome grew un¬ 
 healthy • but Miss Langdale took her young charge away 
 as soon as she perceived, by her pensive looks, that Florence 
 was thinking of her mother. A villa near Turin and within 
 the sweep of the cool breezes from the southern Alps, 
 formed a pleasant retreat where Florence quietly pursued 
 her studies. Her education was now nearly completed, 
 in the common acceptation of the term, and Miss Langdale 
 longed to introduce her beautiful adopted daughter into 
 society; but Florence shrank from notice, and begged to be 
 allowed to continue her researches into art and nature, and 
 to cultivate her talents for music and painting a little longer, 
 undisturbed. 
 
 Three years had passed since Miss Langdale and Florence 
 left England, and they were again spending the winter in 
 Rome. It was difficult to say which of the two was the 
 most altered. The stiff, haughty, Englishwoman, who had 
 spent most of her life, in her own country, on horseback, 
 roughly attired, short and abrupt in speech, old fashioned in 
 appearance, and utterly careless of all form and routine, 
 was now dressed suitably to her age and station, and moved 
 and spoke like a lady of high degree; while “ the little one 
 had acquired style and grace, and was as beautiful and elegant 
 a creature as ever basked in the warm sunshine of Italy. 
 
 It was Florence’s eighteenth birthday : and, when she de¬ 
 scended the staircase, and entered the beautiful room which 
 
230 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 was her own, the young girl found the table laden with 
 costly gifts from Miss Langdale, bouquets of flowers and 
 trifling jxresents, from her acquaintances, friends, and ad¬ 
 mirers. Florence sighed even as she took up the magnifi¬ 
 cent cameos, which, knowing her preference for objects of art, 
 Miss Langdale had presented to her; and touched lightly the 
 flowers which made the room full of perfume. What would 
 she have given for a bunch of violets from the lane at the 
 back of Godley Grange, such as the twins had often given 
 her on her birthday ; or for some little tender remembrance 
 of the day from her absent parents ; but no one had sent her 
 a jwesent from Godley. Perhaps they had not even re¬ 
 membered that it was the birthday of “ the little one.” 
 
 As Florence carelessly altered the arrangement of the table, 
 and took up a gay wreath of flowers that smelt even more 
 sweetly than the rest ; she saw, what had previously been 
 hidden under the leaves, an English letter awaiting her 
 perusal. It seemed to have been laid down and forgotten. 
 
 The jewels, the flowers, the adulatory foreign compliments, 
 vanished from the girl’s mind as she saw the handwriting. 
 This was no courtly scroll, no birthday token. Ill-written, 
 ill-spelt, badly folded, the letter had, nevertheless, the stamp 
 of home upon it. Florence had not received a line from 
 Godley Grange, before this morning, since she quitted 
 England. 
 
 Meredith’s handwriting and spelling were like that of 
 many worthy English servants, and she had apparently 
 guessed at the foreign address, and written it down from 
 hear-say. It was evident she had not dared to consult her 
 master or mistress, or the young ladies of the family. 
 
 Florence did not pause long over the outside of her letter, 
 although she felt a vague dread and reluctance to open it. 
 She knew that Miss Langdale would not disturb her. She 
 
TOO LATE. 
 
 231 
 
 was supposed to be absorbed in the contemplation of her 
 birthday gifts. It was very difficult to find time, Meredith 
 said, and writing was a trouble. Miss Florence might 
 recollect how she used to come to her, to answer her own 
 poor mother’s letters. Ah well, she had not forgotten that, 
 nor how good her darling child had always been to her. 
 No one else had written ; and she dared not say a word to 
 master, who was very stern now, at times, but she thought 
 it but right to let Miss Florence know what sad trouble 
 they were all in, at the Grange. The mistress had been very 
 poorly all the winter. Worse than people thought, for she 
 was never one to make much complaint, or give trouble. 
 They all hoped she would come round in the spring, as usual, 
 but, as the days lengthened, her pains grew worse than ever. 
 Then came a great blot, and an apology for an abrupt con¬ 
 clusion, but the writer was badly wanted. If Miss Flo wished 
 to see her mother alive, and receive her blessing, there was 
 no time to be lost. 
 
 Flo sank on her knees, beside the table covered with 
 flowers and bijouterie, and buried her head in her hands. 
 All her pride and fancied injuries vanished from her re¬ 
 collection. She remembered nothing but the tender 
 mother, whose death had perhaps been accelerated by her 
 desertion. A torrent of tears flowed over her trembling 
 fingers, and relieved her burning brain. Then she read 
 Meredith’s letter again; together with a postscript, which at 
 first escaped her notice. It was to the effect that “ Miss 
 Gertrude,”—which was scratched out and “ the Countess ” 
 substituted—had been sent for, from Germany ; and was 
 hourly expected at the Grange. 
 
 Florence carried the letter into the salon, where Miss 
 Langdale was sitting, waiting to receive her thanks for the 
 costly presents, and to hear her opinion of them. She looked 
 
232 THE MISTRESS OF LANG DALE HALL. 
 
 at the young girl’s pale, tear-stained face, with astonish¬ 
 ment. Florence held out the letter, saying with difficulty, 
 “ This is from England, from the Grange. My mother is 
 dying.” 
 
 A dark cloud gathered on the brow, which three years in 
 that softer clime had seemed to make fairer and younger. 
 Miss Langdale held poor Meredith’s unsightly epistle at some 
 distance from her eyes, and, taking up her double, gold- 
 mounted glasses, £>erused it slowly, wishing to give herself 
 time for consideration. 
 
 “ ^ is a pity that your father did not write himself to 
 summon you,” she said, coldly. “ Perhaps he did not think 
 the necessity so urgent as your poor old nurse does. Ser¬ 
 vants are excellent creatures, but in cases of illness they are 
 always terrorists, and Meredith is a type of her class. If 
 your mother is really so ill, you will hear by the next mail, 
 and on more trustworthy authority.” 
 
 “ I shall not wait a day, not an hour, more than is abso¬ 
 lutely necessary,” said Florence, with self-will equal to Miss 
 Langdale’s arbitrary temper. “I know, I feel that my 
 mother is dying. I ought never to have left her. Forgive 
 me, dear, kind, friend,” she added, as she saw by the expres¬ 
 sion of Maud’s face, how deeply she was wounded. “I 
 scarcely know what I am saying—I believe I am half mad. 
 I shall never, never, forgive myself, if my mother dies before 
 I can see her.” 
 
 “ If shall, at all events, not be my fault,” said Maud, em¬ 
 bracing the agitated girl. “ I will order horses immediately. 
 Go to your room at once, love, I will send your servant to 
 you instantly. In this, as in all things, I will do my best to 
 further your wishes.” 
 
 She was as good as her word, and in a very few hours 
 Miss Langdale and her adopted daughter were travelling, fast 
 
TOO LATE. 
 
 233 
 
 as money and strong will could carry them, back to their 
 native country. The season was favourable, and, although 
 the Alpine passes were not yet perforated by tunnels, the 
 journey was safely and rapidly accomplished. Miss Lang- 
 dale was thoughtful and considerate, taking every trouble 
 upon herself; Florence, wrapped up in sad thoughts, and 
 buried m impenetrable reserve, scarcely spoke. She started 
 
 when her companion, on their arrival in England, said to 
 her— 
 
 “ Have y° u considered, Florence, how it will be best to 
 ■announce your return to the Hall ? Your father is very 
 film. He may not wish to see you at the Grange.” 
 
 Florence looked at her with surprise. 
 
 Surely you do not think he will keep me from seeing 
 my poor mother—from asking her blessing and forgiveness. 
 He could not be so cruel.” 
 
 “ we hope not,” said Miss Langdale, “ though 
 you have been three years in my company. Remember, Flo, 
 how he deprecated such contamination. But I still hope 
 your mother may be better. In that case I should not like 
 you to be exposed to the rude rejection of your good offices.” 
 
 I must run the risk, said Florence gloomily, her old 
 fear of her father returning. “ Oh, how I wish the horses 
 
 would go more quickly. It seems to me years since we left 
 Rome.” 
 
 Miss Langdale had sent forward a messenger to make 
 enquiries respecting the health of Mrs. Langdale of the 
 Grange. She feared greatly, in Florence’s excited state, the 
 effect of any sudden shock. At the place where they were 
 to leave the train, she saw, on the platform, her own servant 
 a\\ aiting her. His face was gravely ominous. 
 
 She motioned hastily to the man to keep back, and hur- 
 lied Florence into the carriage sent from Langdale Hall to 
 
234 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 meet them. The luggage was rapidly transferred ; with 
 haste which satisfied even Florence’s impatience : the neces¬ 
 sary arrangements were completed, and Miss Langdale, after 
 a brief conversation with her messenger, got into the carriage. 
 
 “ Home,” she said at once and very decidedly. Then 
 throwing her arms round Florence, who began to persuade 
 her to allow her to stop at the entrance to Godley, she said, 
 vainly trying to repress her tears, “ You must come to the 
 Hall first , my child. It will not cause hurtful delay. I 
 entreat you, Florence, to be ruled by me this once.” 
 
 The sad solemnity of her manner and her tears, rare evi¬ 
 dences of emotion on her part, awed Florence into silence, 
 until the carriage drew,up at the gates of the Hall. “Now 
 let me go,” she said, springing out wildly, “ let me walk— 
 it will disturb them less—I want to go straight up to my 
 mother’s room.” 
 
 Something in Miss Langdale’s compassionate glance, in 
 the fond pressure of her arm, terrified Florence. She 
 stopped and looked up in her face. 
 
 “ I will not keep you in suspense,” Maud said, tenderly ; 
 “ all our haste, my darling, has been in vain; your mother 
 died before we left Italy. Come to my heart; you are 
 indeed my child now.” 
 
 Florence uttered a cry, and fell upon her neck. The 
 strong woman put aside the domestics with a sign, and, lift¬ 
 ing the slender girl in her arms, carried her to her room. 
 Old Phillips, who had known his mistress from a child, 
 thought that, mingled with her deep and genuine compassion, 
 there was a suppressed ring of triumph in her voice, as she 
 called Florence her own child. Marina, the waif and stray, 
 who had troubled the proud woman’s happiness, stood in 
 her path no longer. 
 
TOO LATE. 
 
 235 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 The old rooms at Godley Grange, though once more thrown 
 open to the light of day, were hushed in solemn silence; and 
 the light footsteps of the young girls were stayed as they 
 passed their mother’s door, as though a sound might still 
 disturb her. It was a long time before they realised the fact 
 that the object of so much tender care had been for ever 
 taken from them. 
 
 As often happens in cases of long, wearing illness, the end 
 at the last, though preceded by severe suffering, seemed to 
 come suddenly. Mrs. Langdale had so often rallied, after 
 alarming illnesses, that her children did not, till the last, give 
 up the hope of seeing her once more revive. 
 
 Her husband had been less hopeful. From the moment 
 when she was taken seriously ill Mr. Langdale despaired of 
 her recovery. She had been sinking, he said, slowly but 
 surely ever since “ the little one ” deserted her. That was 
 the beginning of the end. 
 
 The bereaved husband s heart seemed turned to stone by 
 this calamity, long as it had been expected. He went about, 
 alone and tearless, shunning the sympathy even of his chil¬ 
 dren. For the first time in their lives the pretty twin girls, 
 who had been the objects of his tender care and affection 
 since their infancy, felt afraid of their father ' his grief was 
 so stern and silent. 
 
 Gertrude had arrived in time to receive her mother’s 
 blessing for herself and her little son, whom she brought 
 with her from her usually happy German home. The Count 
 left her to comfort her sisters whilst he visited some rela¬ 
 tives in a distant county. 
 
23G 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 It was in vain that she strove to win back her father’s 
 entire confidence. In his heart of hearts he blamed her for 
 having quitted her suffering parent, although he had sanc¬ 
 tioned her marriage. He did not, however, view her con¬ 
 duct in the same light as Florence’s transgressions. Her 
 name was never mentioned at home in his presence, and, the 
 moment he heard from Dr. Forsyth that she had returned 
 to the Hall, he gave orders that she was not, on any pre¬ 
 tence to be admitted at the Grange. 
 
 Meredith tearfully confessed, after strict examination, 
 that she had written to Miss Florence ; and narrowly escaped 
 sentence of dismissal from the establishment. Nothing but 
 her devoted attention to the invalid saved her from this 
 punishment, though it should have borne with it its excuse. 
 Mr. Langdale on this point was peremptory. No inmate of 
 his house should hold any communication with the occu¬ 
 pants of the Hall. Florence had ceased to belong to the 
 family since Miss Langdale’s adoption of her. 
 
 Dr. Forsyth, always Florence’s friend, argued with the 
 angry father in vain. “A positive case of monomania, 
 madam,” he said to Miss Langdale, after visiting Florence, 
 who was confined to her bed by severe illness. “ Frank 
 Langdale is not sane, I assure you, if you approach him 
 from that direction. He idolised his poor wife. Even his 
 children were as nothing compared to her. That sweet 
 creature, the Countess, who sacrificed years of happiness 
 waiting upon her mother until her sisters grew up, is sadly 
 out of favour. She ought, I suppose, to have grown old, or 
 died, in harness. Mrs. Langdale was as well as usual until 
 the severe frost set in after Christmas. Miss Frances and 
 her twin sisters nursed her devotedly, with good Mrs. Mere¬ 
 dith’s experienced aid. But you may as well talk to a stone 
 as argue with Frank, when his mind is once made up. He was 
 
TOO LATE ; 
 
 237 
 
 always the most obstinate man of my acquaintance; and this 
 last affliction, instead of softening, seems to have made him 
 as hard as iron. Do not, on any account, suffer Miss Flo¬ 
 rence to visit the Grange against his orders. It is impossible 
 to say what cruel accusations he might bring against her. 
 
 “ Florence is at present too weak to go anywhere,” said 
 Miss Langdale, anxiously. “ I scarcely know what course 
 she will pursue, if health and strength return. 1 am afraid, 
 Doctor, she is a thorough Langdale, and has her full share of 
 the family wilfulness.” 
 
 “Well, she is safe, at all events, just now, and we must 
 try to keep her quiet. I am by no means sure that you will 
 not have to take her away again. Not so far as Rome. That 
 would revive disagreeable associations, and she is not strong 
 enough. How would it suit you to pay a visit to Miss Elli- 
 nor, at her place in the North Riding % That might revive 
 our patient, and she could be as retired and quiet as she 
 liked. Sea air would be the best tonic for her !” 
 
 Miss Langdale paused for a moment. “ I will tell you on 
 your next visit what I think of your plan. It is certainly 
 well worth consideration. Ellinor and Florence are great 
 
 O 
 
 friends, and her gentle disposition makes her a sympathetic 
 companion in sorrow. I am sometimes too abrupt, and, just 
 now Florence is, perhaps, less inclined to confide in me, as 
 she knows that I was not her mothers friend. Still, I am 
 sure she loves me, and I shall bide my time. That hard, 
 cold, domestic tyrant is playing my game for me.” 
 
 Dr. Forsyth took his leave and drove home thoughtfully. 
 He was sincerely attached to Florence. Her girlish confi¬ 
 dence had touched his heart, and he would have given the 
 world to reconcile her with her family; but, at the next at¬ 
 tempt he made to approach the subject, Mr. Langdale cut 
 him short abruptly, declining to hear a word he had to 
 
238 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 say. “ Florence has chosen her own lot; let her abide by 
 it. It is too late to repair the wrong she has done me 
 and my children. Let me hear no more about her unavailing, 
 tardy, sorrow.” 
 
 Even Meredith dared not approach her darling, though 
 she sent many a stealthy message through the keeper’s wife. 
 Weak in health, half broken-hearted, Florence was compelled 
 to yield to the sentence of exclusion passed against her. 
 Exaggerated reports, if indeed such could be, of her father’s 
 anger, reawakened her fear of his severity. When she be¬ 
 came well enough to leave the house, she shrank from en¬ 
 countering him; and confined her walks entirely to Miss 
 Langdale’s grounds, where there was no danger of meeting 
 any inmate of the Grange. In her nervous misery Florence 
 fancied that all were leagued against her, and that her sor¬ 
 rowing sisters, as well as her indignant father, reproached 
 her as being the cause of their beloved mother’s last illness. 
 
 In the absence of family affection, and tortured by re¬ 
 morse, Florence turned to Miss Langdale for comfort. The 
 slight coldness which had existed since their return, van¬ 
 ished in a moment when the forlorn girl appealed to Maud 
 for sympathy. The flood-gates of strong passion at once 
 gave way, and the proud woman’s earnest love was poured 
 out like a torrent. Her very nature seemed changed, and 
 no mother could have been more gentle in her ministrations 
 than Maud Langdale became, as the sick and sorrowful 
 outcast threw herself upon her compassionate affection. 
 
 Ho one who had known Miss Langdale in her unloving, 
 unloved state, would have recognised her now. Her very 
 features seemed altered by the new, -womanly expression 
 which beamed from them. Ho longer selfish nor exacting : 
 she consulted Florence on all subjects, and strove to interest 
 her in all her pursuits and employments. On no occasion 
 
239 
 
 TOO LATE. 
 
 did she allow a wish of her own to interfere with her young 
 favourite’s happiness and welfare. She would even have 
 conciliated Frank Langdale, had it been possible, when she 
 saw that, do what she would, Florence’s bright smiles were 
 gone, and her health impaired; but the Master of the 
 Grange sternly repulsed her overtures of friendship. 
 
 The seeds he had sown must be reaped; and its fruit was 
 bitterness, even to herself, though she had won the battle 
 As she saw the low-spirited, pale girl musing languidly on 
 the terrace, or among the dark old Langdale trees, never 
 quitting the precincts of the mansion, dearly as she loved 
 her, Maud would have given the world to see her once more 
 at play by the lake side with her white frocked sisters or 
 buried among reeds and flags ; with her bright shy eyes up¬ 
 lifted in wonder at the solitary kinswoman who was trying 
 to beguile her away. & 
 
 Maud wrote to Ellinor, who was now residing on her own 
 property on the sea coast, proposing a visit from herself and 
 L orence, and received a most warm and kindly response. 
 Ellinor had defended Florence warmly at the Grange when 
 as Gertrude’s bridesmaid, she had been staying with the 
 amdy, after Miss Langdale’s departure. She was, however 
 too imperfectly acquainted with the exact mode of Florence’s 
 introduction at the Hall, to explain the circumstance satis¬ 
 factorily. Phillips had obeyed his mistress’s orders, and never 
 
 lvulged the story of his conducting the young heiress to 
 Miss Langdale. 
 
 Ellinor warmly entreated her sister to come at once to 
 her house, where she promised Florence, for the present, 
 pei feet retirement. It was even possible that a meeting 
 might be arranged, later, between her and Gertrude; as 
 the young countess had promised to visit her before 
 leaving England, and Mr. Langdale’s restrictions might not 
 
240 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 affect the proceedings of his married daughter, when not 
 under his roof. 
 
 Comforted by this prospect, Florence readily accepted 
 Ellinor’s invitation. They had been excellent friends 
 during Miss Langdale’s illness ; and any change must be a 
 relief from a place, where at every turn she was re¬ 
 minded that she was an exile from home—where she dared 
 not visit her mother’s grave, nor pray in the same church 
 with her sisters, for the fear of meeting her father’s reproach¬ 
 ful glance. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 The young Countess had formed a strong friendship for, 
 and never ceased to take an interest in, Bertina Noel, since 
 their first meeting ; and one of the first times of leaving the 
 house, after her mother’s death, and the ensuing period of 
 strict seclusion, Gertrude asked her brother to accompany 
 her to the Eagle’s Gorge. 
 
 Fritz accepted his sister’s proposal gladly. Much as he 
 loved his suffering mother, he was very weary of inaction, 
 and of solitary rambles in a district which he had always 
 disliked. There were also reasons, which he confessed to no 
 one, which made Gertrude’s suggestion peculiarly accepta¬ 
 ble. 
 
 The great Mill was at work, but, nevertheless, the 
 brother and sister were doomed to be disappointed. Miss 
 Noel, they were informed, had temporarily given up her 
 situation on account of her mother’s illness. She was, and 
 had been for some time, living at home. 
 
 The warm sympathies of her visitors were still further 
 
TOO LATE. 
 
 241 
 
 enlisted in Bertina’s behalf by the knowledge that she was 
 likely soon to suffer the bereavement they had just sus¬ 
 tained. Mrs. Noel s sudden illness, they were informed, was 
 of a nature that admitted no hope of recovery. 
 
 It was the same lovely season as when Fritz had first 
 visited the beautiful Gorge. He did not tell his sister how 
 often, during his visits to the Grange, he had trodden that 
 narrow pathway, since then, on every conceivable pretext. 
 The stone house, with its square courtyard and dial, with 
 the clustering hawthorn bushes and dogwood, was basking 
 in the sunshine, innumerable violets sent up perfume from 
 then hidden beds among dark leaves, pale primroses strewed 
 the grass, and the pigeons flew in and out of the dove-cot, 
 but no light foot trod the path before him. He had fancied 
 as he walked along, that Bertina’s bright scarlet shawl and 
 black skirt must be visible at the next turn. 
 
 Gertrude went in softly at the open house door, leaving 
 her brother in the courtyard. She was afraid to ring, for 
 fear of disturbing the invalid, and yet she could not bear to 
 go away without making some enquiry. An elderly woman 
 servant came out of the offices on hearing her footstep, and 
 said she would go up and sit with Mrs. Noel, while her 
 daughter came down to the visitors. 
 
 |3;-A silence, as of death, lay on the little sunny room look¬ 
 ing into the courtyard. Gertrude felt oppressed with the 
 stillness, which reminded her of her own home, when the 
 deep shadow lay upon it which was gathering here. She 
 went to the window and set it open, calling softly to her 
 brother, dliey were talking together in low tones at the 
 casement when Bertina came down. 
 
 She looked taller and slighter than when Fritz first fol¬ 
 lowed her through the gorge, and her face bore marks of 
 
 16 
 
242 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 care and watching, but a bright blush banished them as she 
 welcomed the brother and sister. 
 
 Fritz must come in, she said, and rest. For the present 
 she was quite at liberty and very glad to see them. 
 Mrs. Noel knew that they were below ; and, with her usual 
 hospitality and housewifely care, had ordered refreshments 
 for them. Presently she would like to see the Countess, if 
 she would not mind going upstairs. 
 
 Gertrude acceded cheerfully, and an hour passed during 
 which the young people partially forgot their sorrows, and 
 Bertina learnt what a happy, though far distant home, her 
 friend possessed. There were wonderful things to be re¬ 
 lated of little Count Fritz who was said to be the ima^e of 
 his uncle; some day the proud young mother promised to 
 bring him over to see Bertina, or else she must visit them 
 at the Grange. 
 
 After they had partaken of a simple rural repast, Gertrude 
 was summoned upstairs. Bertina and Fritz went out among 
 the hawthorn trees, and gathered violets for the Countess to 
 take home with her. Nowhere was there such a profusion 
 of wild flowers as grew round the old-fashioned Dower-house 
 in the Eagle’s Gorge. 
 
 Mrs. Noel was sitting up in bed, propped by pillows, look¬ 
 ing anxiously towards the door, when Gertrude entered. 
 She signed to her to sit down by the side of the bed, and 
 took her hand silently but gratefully. Gertrude asked 
 some kind questions about her state of health, but the sick 
 woman waved them off impatiently. 
 
 “ No matter about that,” she said, at last; “ I know that 
 I am dying. Bertina does not believe it, but I feel that my 
 hour is very near at hand. Ah me, I did not think that I 
 should take it quietly. I was impatient enough once, and 
 full of activity, but that is all over.” 
 
TOO LATE. 
 
 243 
 
 She sighed, as though the loss of strength were worse 
 than death itself. Gertrude strove to comfort her. 
 
 “ Yes, that is all quite right, Madam. It is what my 
 good child says to me and the clergyman, but I like to hear 
 it from you. Never mind me, I am not worth thinking 
 about. It is Bertina I want to speak of. Anxieties trouble 
 me which I dare not confide to her, though she is my right 
 hand, my mainstay. May I speak of them to you V ' 
 
 Her eyes, still beautiful, brightened, and the hectic colour 
 flooded her cheeks. Mrs. Noel was still very handsome; 
 and the delicate attention paid to her invalid costume and 
 surroundings, embellished her transparent complexion, and 
 regular, though wasted, features. The room, like all in the 
 old house, was very picturesque, with flowers creeping in at 
 the low casements, carved ceiling, and ancient furniture of 
 dark oak. In the softened light the dying woman looked 
 younger and fairer than of yore. 
 
 “ I must speak,” she said impetuously, when Gertrude, 
 alarmed at her agitation, strove to quiet her. “ I have never 
 told Bertina what a shock I got one day, when she was work¬ 
 ing at the Mill. I believe it brought on my illness. A 
 man came to the door and enquired for Bertina, and after 
 those poor children who were nearly drowned in the flood, 
 after the waterspout. I am not brave like Bertina, though 
 I used to be rash enough—but my nerves are shattered. I 
 did not go to the door myself. I let the servant speak to 
 him, and after a bit he went away.” 
 
 She turned nervously on her pillows. “ You’ll excuse me, 
 Madam, I am not a lady born, like my poor child. She is 
 a Noel all over, all but their badness. I don’t know how 
 to tell my story—Bertina would make you understand. I 
 did not go out; but I looked from my little window over the 
 porch, to see the stranger go away. This is a lonesome 
 
 16—2 
 
244 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 place, and I am always afraid of strangers lurking about ; 
 especially when Bertina is away. The man looked like an 
 old soldier. He was wrapped in a cloak, for the day was 
 cold and stormy. As I stood at the window he stopped and 
 turned round, looking hack at the house ; and I believe he 
 saw me. Such a glare of hatred shone in his eyes as I never 
 saw in any human face before, but one—I should say. I 
 shrank back, and, when the man was gone, I bolted and made 
 fast every door and window. 
 
 “ When Bertina came home and found the house shut up, 
 and me still scared and pale, she asked the reason, and I 
 said a strange man had been peering about, asking after 
 her and the children. I did not like to say more than that 
 I disliked his appearance; and, indeed, the likeness I had 
 traced seemed, when I thought about it, mere fancy. My 
 daughter said it was a strange old man who had risked his 
 life to bring back those poor babes, over the Calder, to their 
 mother. But, when she added that he came from Noel 
 Hall, my heart died away within me. 
 
 “ I went to the place, but I saw nothing of him; and after 
 all I began to think it was all nonsense, when one day Mr. 
 Haywarden, the lawyer from Hazeldon, rode over to see me. 
 He does call sometimes, and it was owing to his friendship 
 and honesty that I got my rights, as Cuthbert’s lawful wife 
 and widow.” 
 
 As Mrs. Noel pronounced the name of her husband, the 
 light faded in her dark eyes, and the colour left her cheek. 
 Gertrude hastily poured out from a bottle on the table some 
 stimulating cordial, which revived her. Presently she went 
 on speaking. 
 
 “ The good lawyer talked at first, as usual, about anything 
 that came to hand, admiring this old place as he always 
 does. From that he went on to tell me what sums Mrs. 
 
TOO LATE. 
 
 245 
 
 Langdale was laying out at Noel Hall. Then he asked me 
 some sly questions. My heart misgave me sadly, when I 
 saw that he was trying to find out whether, since the date 
 of his supposed death, I had heard any tidings of my hus¬ 
 band. 
 
 “ The old man at the Hall, he said, professed to have 
 seen him in the Colonies, among the gold-diggers, and such 
 like scum of the earth and God-forgetting sinners. There 
 was some link between them, but he believed the old soldier 
 was wrong in his head, at times, from fits, and not to be 
 trusted as to memory. 
 
 Mr. Haywarden looked hard at me, but I never spoke a 
 word. If my husband were still living, he went on, it 
 would raise a question about the sale of Noel Hall, and 
 many other matters relating to the property. Surely if he 
 were still above ground, the person whom he would com¬ 
 municate with first, would be his wife ? 
 
 “ That angered me, and I spoke out. Bertina vmuld have 
 quieted me, but she was not present; and I have never told 
 her one word about the lawyer’s visit, except that he paid 
 me my money as usual. I said that the last person Cutli- 
 bert ever consulted or considered was his wife, and that, 
 living or dead, I never wished to hear his name again 
 After that Mr. Haywarden went away. 
 
 “ Of course I said nothing of my silly fright about the 
 old soldier at the Hall, and the look that scared me—just 
 like the one my bad husband cast at me, when he said he 
 hated my fatal beauty :—it had been his ruin. It was a 
 notice, a warning of coming evil. The man had seen Cutli- 
 bert, and knew how he hated me. I did not for one mo¬ 
 ment imagine that old vagrant was my handsome, extrava¬ 
 gant husband, Cuthbert Noel, but he came as his emissary 
 to spy upon me.” 
 
246 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 “Indeed you are altogether mistaken,” said Gertrude. 
 “ The old General at the Hall, as he is called, is quite well 
 known to me. He was very kind always to me and to my 
 sisters. I do not think that anyone bears him ill-will. Even 
 Miss Langdale, who once entertained a strong prejudice 
 against him, now suffers him to be her tenant. He is a 
 great favourite with my father.” 
 
 “I am not afraid of him” said Mrs. Noel, in a feebler 
 tone. “It is her father, whose influence I dread over 
 Bertina. She has always loved him, and refused to believe 
 that he was as worthless as I, to my cost, knew him to be. 
 This is the only point on which we ever disagreed.” 
 
 “ Surely you would not wish your child to think ill of 
 her father,” said Gertrude. “ He may be much changed, if 
 he still lives. Death settles all scores, and sanctifies even 
 the erring. Leave all in God’s hand. Your husband may 
 yet be your daughter’s best protector.” 
 
 “ You know not what you say,” said Mrs. Noel, gloomily. 
 “ Where is Bertina ? I am never easy when she is out of 
 my sight.” 
 
 “I left her-with my brother,” said Gertrude. “He is 
 walking with her in the copse. I can see them plainly.” 
 
 “ Go to them at once,” said the mother. “ Don’t stay 
 never mind me. It was just so—just such as he is, that 
 blighted all my happiness in my mad youth. It is true 
 Bertina is a lady, a Noel, but that will only increase her 
 unhappiness. I was nothing better than a poor mill girl 
 when Cuthbert’s roving eye lighted on me, and I have more 
 reason than he ever had to curse my fatal beauty. Your 
 brother is, perhaps, not like him; you at least do not think 
 so, but I can tell you Cuthbert was lovable enough then— 
 to my endless misfortune. Tell your good father to look 
 
TOO LATE. 
 
 247 
 
 after my poor lassie when I am in the grave. It will not 
 be long ere his care is needed.” 
 
 Gertrude solemnly promised to bespeak Mr. Langdale’s 
 protection for the forlorn girl, who would, indeed, she fore¬ 
 saw, soon be, like herself, motherless. Mrs. Noel pressed 
 her hand silently, and she departed. Bertina with a flushed 
 cheek was waiting for her at the house-door ; Fritz in the 
 court-yard. Bertina after a hurried leave-taking, ran up 
 stairs at once to her mother’s room. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Cuthbert Noel’s unacknowledged wife, and reputed widow, 
 was more honoured in death than in life. A long proces¬ 
 sion wound through the Eagle’s Gorge, on the day of the 
 funeral, and her weeping daughter was supported on the 
 arm of the proprietor of the great Mill where she had held 
 a responsible position. Bertina was universally respected, 
 and, though all the assistants at the mournful ceremony 
 were on foot, she felt herself comforted by the sympathy 
 of the young girls whose labour she had superintended; and 
 by the respectful attendance of so many of her own people 
 durincr the solemn hour at her mother’s funeral. 
 
 O 
 
 Once only she looked up, and put back her crape veil, as 
 a response, loudly and fervently uttered, struck her ear. 
 The accent was different to that of the worthy Yorkshire 
 folk, and instinctively moved her, but the crowd closed up 
 thickly between her and the speaker; tears filled her eyes, 
 and she heard and saw nothing but the sad paraphernalia 
 of death. 
 
 By her own wish, Bertina returned alone to the old 
 
248 THE MISTRESS OF LANGE ALE HALL. 
 
 Dower House, refusing the companionship and hospitality 
 proffered by many of her friends. She let herself in, quite 
 calmly, and, with the aid of the old servant who had nursed 
 her mother, set everything in order. It was true that the 
 small stone house looked sadly desolate, but it was home , 
 and Bertina had resolved to stay there. 
 
 She fed the,pigeons and poultry, her mother’s favourites, 
 but of late her own especial charge. As she stood thus 
 occupied, in front of the lonely building, she saw a man 
 earnestly regarding her, from the depth of the thicket. 
 Bertina was not timid like her mother, but, at the present 
 moment, she shrank from observation; and was about to 
 re-enter the house, when she heard her own name slowly 
 pronounced in the same deep tones that had attracted her 
 notice in the churchyard. 
 
 “Bertina Noel,” said the man, aj)proaching her, while 
 she involuntarily trembled and stood still. “ Will you give 
 a crust of bread, and a glass of water, to one who asks for 
 them in your father’s name.” 
 
 “Assuredly,” • said the girl, while the tears which lay 
 near the surface welled up again. “ Come in if you like it, 
 and take some refreshment, or shall I bring it to you in the 
 courtyard ?” 
 
 She signed to the wayfarer to sit down on an old stone 
 bench near the house; and, going indoors, quickly, drew 
 him a jug of sparkling water, and brought it out with half 
 a loaf of home-made bread. 
 
 “ I have taken you at your word, you see, master, but 
 you shall have better fare if you like,” the girl said through 
 her tears. “ No one shall be sent away from our gate to- 
 day; especially one who came from far like you, to see my 
 poor mother laid in her grave. I heard your voice in the 
 churchyard, and it was you who saved the lives of those 
 
TOO LATE. 
 
 249 
 
 poor little children. Tell me, did you know my mother? 
 You spoke but now of my father. What is your name?” 
 
 The man took the jug from her, and drank a deep draught 
 of the sparkling water; then he broke the bread in half, 
 and sitting down on the stone bench, eat his crusty con¬ 
 tentedly. “There’s no liquor I like better than water now, 
 young mistress, though I did not always think so,” he said, 
 answering her first question. “ They’ve not spoilt your 
 well, either, with their milling and cloth dye, like the beck 
 that runs past Noel Hall. I saw ye there not long ago. 
 What did ye think of the old place?” 
 
 Bertina’s eyes again filled with tears. 
 
 “ I would rather not talk about it to-day. Though I have 
 nothing to do with Noel Hall, my father, and grand¬ 
 father, and their parents before them, dwelt there. It is 
 very sad to see it in the hands of strangers.” 
 
 “ Yes, yes, and all because your father never could re¬ 
 member the value of money. Why, when we were at the 
 diggings together, it slipped through his fingers like water. 
 Cuthbert was the most unthrifty among us.” 
 
 “ I would rather not hear anything against my father,” 
 said Bertina, while the proud spirit of the Noels flashed 
 in her dark eyes. “I am his only child, and no one, not 
 even my mother, who was quick-tempered, and had suffered 
 sorely, ever blamed him to me.” 
 
 “ That’s right, my girl, don’t be afraid. I won’t go 
 against you,” said the General. “ I’m a great upholder of 
 discipline in all states of life, and especially in families. 
 Cuthbert and I were good friends out yonder, and he often 
 thought of his little daughter, I can tell you. Y r our poor 
 mother had some reason to consider herself aggrieved, but 
 then again, Cuthbert lost caste by marrying her. They 
 were both sufferers.” 
 
250 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 Bertina’s countenance had resumed its usually gentle ex¬ 
 pression. “You seem to know more than others about my 
 father,” she said. “Why did you not tell me this sooner? 
 I am glad he thought of me sometimes.” 
 
 “I did come to the gate once, but you were not at 
 home, and, by the blink of the mistress’s eyes, bonnie as 
 they were once, I guessed I should get an unpleasant re¬ 
 ception. So I bided my time. Still I wished to pay respect 
 to the mortal remains of Cutlibert’s wife, so I stood in a 
 corner of the churchyard, and said my amen to the prayers. 
 That couldn’t harm her. And now, young mistress, re¬ 
 member, if you want a friend in need, there’s one near you.” 
 
 He rose to depart. Bertina felt a sort of shy reluctance 
 to lose his company. “You are not rested,” she said. 
 “ Shall I fetch you any more refreshment?” 
 
 “No, no, I’ll not trespass on your kindness,” the man 
 said, touching reverentially the hand she held out to him. 
 “ You’ve not soiled and seamed your pretty fingers, young 
 mistress, with hard work, though I’ve heard you main¬ 
 tained your poor mother. Well, honest labour is no defile¬ 
 ment, even for a Noel. Good day. God bless you.” 
 
 Bertina watched him cross the courtyard with wistful 
 eyes. His presence seemed a kind of protection to the 
 lonely girl, and she remembered with pleasure during the 
 long solitary evening, his promise to befriend her if she 
 needed assistance. Should such necessity arise, she resolved 
 that she would go over, and enlist in her behalf the services 
 of her father’s friend, the occupant of the Gateway Tower 
 at Noel Hall. 
 
 There were indeed reasons why the solitary girl, dwelling 
 at the old stone house in the Gorge, might reasonably rejoice 
 in having found an honest, though humble, protector. Ber- 
 
TOO LATE. 
 
 251 
 
 tina had many admirers; some among the rough hands at 
 the Mill, and others higher in station. Hitherto her sedate 
 conduct, and her mother’s watchful guardianship, had kept 
 them all at a distance; but it was a difficult matter for a 
 young girl to live entirely alone, without giving occasion for 
 scandal. 
 
 There were, too, other perils, of which Bertina was 
 vaguely conscious; but scarcely admitted as yet even to 
 her own heart. Ever 'since their first meeting, when he 
 had followed her through the Eagle’s Gorge, Fritz Lang- 
 dale had awakened an interest for himself in the girl’s pre¬ 
 viously untouched heart. No word of love had been spoken, 
 but every flower he had gathered for her on his last visit, 
 each kind word spoken, were treasured in her faithful heart. 
 
 Her mother’s last words had contained a warning against 
 listening to the love-pleadings of men above her present 
 station—a warning founded on bitter experience;—and Ber¬ 
 tina, though she knew her mother’s failings in judgment 
 and temper, dearly loved her expiring parent. 
 
 Mrs. Noel had endeavoured to persuade her daughter to 
 look with favour on a young man in the neighbourhood, 
 whose honest, industrious habits had placed him in a po¬ 
 sition to maintain a wife, and who earnestly sought Ber- 
 tina’s favour, but the girl’s soul revolted against the match. 
 Though not proud, Bertina had the spirit of an ancient 
 race. She was a thorough lady, and she could not tolerate 
 unrefined tastes and habits. While occupying the position 
 of superintendent of the labour of the girls at the Mill, she 
 had always been kind and gracious; but she kept herself 
 aloof from all society, thus maintaining authority, and win¬ 
 ning respect from all classes. No one called her anything 
 but Miss Noel; and, in Mr. Langdale’s family, where she oc¬ 
 casionally visited, after Gertrude became interested in her, 
 
252 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 Bertina was treated as a lady. It did not follow from this, 
 however, that the overlooker at the Mill would be welcomed 
 into the family as a daughter. 
 
 Neither was it certain, if she trusted to her mother’s 
 experience, that Fritz’s admiration was more than a passing 
 feeling. It was rumoured that an attachment, if not an 
 engagement, existed between him and his cousin, Miss 
 Ellin or Langdale, in whose company Bertina had once seen 
 him. On that day, she could not forget it, Fritz had paid 
 her no attention, and the young lady from the Hall had not 
 thought proper to notice her. 
 
 It had been the same when, on a subsequent occasion, 
 Bertina had met the younger Miss Langdale at the Grange. 
 Ellinor scarcely spoke to her, and evidently considered her 
 as belonging to an inferior class. She always felt humiliated 
 after any intercourse with her rival. 
 
 Ellinor’s sympathies, though gentle and womanly, had 
 always been narrow. Gertrude’s interest in the beautiful 
 girl whom they had seen at the Mill, was quite incompre¬ 
 hensible to her friend. Neither did Fritz’s wandering 
 attention, and furtive glances, dispose her to overlook 
 Bertina’s inferiority of station. She felt somewhat offended 
 
 by her being invited to the Grange, when she herself was 
 staying there. 
 
 Any rustic beauty would have been more kindly regarded 
 by Ellinor Langdale. She hated trade and its associations— 
 the mills and machinery which defaced the hills and dales, 
 and discoloured the glancing waters of her lovely native 
 county ; the loud-voiced mill girls, and the prosperous 
 owners of the great works in the neighbourhood. 
 
 Neither Miss Langdale nor her sister, who had been 
 brought to regard many of her prejudices as sacred, acknow¬ 
 ledged the validity of Cuthbert Noel’s secret marriage. 
 
TOO LATE. 
 
 253 
 
 Bertina was regarded as an intruder, even upon the outskirts 
 of the aristocracy of the county. Ellinor Langdale never 
 once called Miss Noel by her ancient name. 
 
 Instinct taught her that, in spite of her contempt, Bertina 
 was a very dangerous rival. Mr. Langdale and Mr. Hay- 
 warden had always, on good legal grounds, treated Mrs. 
 Noel as Cuthbert’s widow; and her daughter received at 
 their hands tokens of marked respect. Nothing pleased the 
 master of the Grange better than to notice the friendship 
 springing up between his own daughters and the only child 
 of his ill-starred friend. 
 
 Fritz was very little at home, and studiously cautious in 
 his behaviour; only the eyes of a loving, jealous woman 
 detected his partiality for the beautiful daughter of the 
 ruined Noels—he did not own it even to himself. 
 
 At Gertrude's marriage, Bertina had been invited to be 
 one of the bridesmaids, but she modestly and firmly de¬ 
 clined the honour; and was not even present at the ceremony, 
 saying that it would cause jealousy, and interfere with her 
 duties. If she had accepted the invitation, very probably 
 Ellinor Langdale would have found some excuse for refusing 
 to be present at the wedding. 
 
 Bertina’s reluctance to put herself forward in any manner, 
 increased the respect and admiration entertained for her by 
 Mr. Langdale and his family. Instead of her present 
 voluntary isolation she might, had she so willed it, have 
 gone away from the dull empty house to the Grange, as 
 soon as she was released from the care of attending upon 
 her mother. 
 
254 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Without consulting Florence, Miss Langclale bent her 
 proud spirit to make an effort to appease her cousin, before 
 she took his daughter away from the neighbourhood. 
 Frances, now the active managing mistress of her father’s 
 house, was surprised, in the midst of her domestic avoca¬ 
 tions, one morning, by a message from the Lady of the Hall, 
 who wished to speak with her. 
 
 Frances was sorely perplexed by this request. To 
 admit as a visitor, and without her father’s permission, the 
 proud relation who had never vouchsafed to pay the slightest 
 courtesy to her dead mother; was more than she dared to 
 do. After a moment’s consideration, Frances sent word 
 that she would come down to the gate and speak to Miss 
 Langdale. She ascertained previously that her sister, with 
 whom all communication was positively forbidden, was not 
 in the carriage. 
 
 Miss Langdale was too impatient to remain seated. 
 Frances found her walking up and down the old Roman 
 road into which the avenue, leading from Godley Grange, 
 opened. A very cold salutation was exchanged; the fair 
 Saxon complexion of the young girl flushed proudly. 
 
 Frances was, of course, attired in the deepest mourning. 
 Miss Langdale also wore black, unrelieved by colour. She 
 did so from the first moment after her arrival at home, in 
 compliment to Florence. Her costume, though somewhat 
 stiff in fashion, became her well; and her manner was softer 
 than formerly. 
 
 The old Langdale trees threw their shadow over the hand¬ 
 some carriage and spirited horses. They seemed chafing at 
 the unwonted delay at an unusual halting place, tossing 
 
TOO LATE. 
 
 255 
 
 their manes and champing their bits, and throwing foam on 
 the embossed harness. Miss Langdale, who was very care¬ 
 ful of her beautiful Neapolitan greys, desired the coachman, 
 who was also imported from southern Italy, to drive them 
 up and down. 
 
 “ You are,” she said, “ my cousin’s eldest unmarried 
 daughter. I should like to congratulate him on having so 
 fair a mistress at the old Grange.” 
 
 The blue eyes of the young girl filled with tears. “ My 
 father,” she said gravely, “ would ill bear congratulation at 
 this time, on any subject. We have so lately lost our dear 
 mother, that strangers cannot be admitted to our house of 
 mourning.” 
 
 She laid a strong emphasis on the word strangers. Miss 
 Langdale coloured. 
 
 “It is scarcely courteous to use that term to a relative, 
 though circumstances have kept us apart. I would have it 
 otherwise now.” 
 
 “ Pardon me, Madam,” said Frances, with grave dignity • 
 “ it is impossible that those who did not think our sweet 
 mother’s friendship worth enjoying, should be the friends 
 of her daughter. If this is all, suffer me to leave you.” 
 
 “ Not yet—not yet,” said Maud, impatiently. “ If I 
 could see your father, I would convince him how much I am 
 in earnest. We were good friends formerly.” 
 
 “ That must have been a long time ago,” said Frances, 
 while the waving boughs threw flickering shadows over her 
 fair, calm brow ; “ long before my recollection. Since we 
 settled at Godley Grange, we have never seen any sign of 
 kindly recollection on the part of the Lady of Langdale 
 Hall.” 
 
 “ Foolish child,” exclaimed Maud. “ It ought to be 
 enough when I, who am old enough to be your mother, tell 
 
256 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF LANG DALE HALL. 
 
 you that I regret the past—'that I would willingly allow it 
 to he cancelled—forgotten—nay, more, that I am sorry to 
 have offended you? What more would you have? Talk 
 of the Langdale pride and temper—truly you have enough 
 of both.” 
 
 “ I have at least sufficient self-respect to decline listening 
 further,” said Frances, stepping within the gate. “ Miss 
 Langdale, it is of no use to make overtures to my father 
 through us. We are our mother’s daughters, and cannot 
 plead the cause of one who slighted her.” 
 
 “ Fight, Frances,” said a voice behind her, in stern, quick 
 accents. “ Marina’s girls know how to keep in honour her 
 blessed memory—all hut one—and she is no longer my 
 daughter. Suffer me to remind you, Madam, that you forget 
 yourself, in thus lowering your dignity to me and mine. It 
 is too late to renew our ancient friendship.” 
 
 Miss Langdale had turned as pale as death at sight of her 
 cousin. For more than twenty years she had not spoken 
 with him—years of unkindness and neglect—her voice failed 
 her now. She remembered Frank Langdale as ’her friend 
 in youth, as her father’s favourite nephew—other scenes, 
 other thoughts, arose within her at the sound of his voice, 
 at sight of his dark frowning brow. 
 
 “ Cannot you forgive an angry woman? Does nothing 
 plead for me in your heart ?” she said, while tears rushed 
 to her proud eyes, and streamed down her cheeks. I am 
 much altered, and behind, around you, I see forms which I 
 shall never behold in life again. My dead father and mother 
 —others, friends of both—long dead but not forgotten. I 
 own I have been wrong. . Will you not forgive me ?” 
 
 “ No,” said Mr. Langdale. “At your side I see another 
 vision, my dear, lost wife, whom you persecuted into her 
 grave. She had one pet lamb, you saw and coveted it, and 
 
TOO LATE! 
 
 never rested till it strayed away from the flock. The mo¬ 
 ther never recovered from the shock. I saw it strike her_I 
 
 knew it was a death blow.—Marina never confessed it. She 
 would advocate forgiveness if she lived now—but she is dead, 
 and, with her, the softest part of my nature perished. I will 
 pray to God to forgive you—at present, I cannot.” 
 
 He took his daughter’s hand and turned away. Miss 
 Langdale’s servant, standing at some distance, beyond ear¬ 
 shot, at a sign from his mistress went to the coachman, 
 who had stopped his horses under the trees. Frances was 
 weeping. Her feelings were touched more than her father’s 
 by Miss Langdale’s confession of error. 
 
 u was for the sake of Florence that I came here-” 
 
 said Miss Langdale. “ If you cannot and will not pardon me, 
 forgive your innocent daughter. She is very tender hearted, 
 not such a stony hearted creature as I have been—you once 
 knew me tar otherwise—but, no matter :—Florence cannot 
 endure your displeasure.” 
 
 “ Then she should have shunned to awaken it,” said Mr. 
 Langdale, pausing and confronting his enemy. “ Florence is 
 like many another woman, too great a coward to bear the 
 storm she has herself provoked. She knew the risk she ran, 
 and willingly incurred it. Florence chose her own lot, and 
 must abide by it.” 
 
 He walked on, drawing his daughter’s arm within his 
 own; while Maud, utterly defeated and shamed, got into the 
 carriage in silence, and drove away. Frances said softly, 
 after her departure, “ Father, shall you be angry with me if 
 I say that I think Miss Langdale was really penitent, and 
 that I fancy our darling mother would have asked you to 
 forgive your cousin,”—she hesitated, then added, “ and 
 Florence.” 
 
 “Possibly,” said her father, drily. “ Your mother was 
 
 17 
 
258 THE MISTRESS OF LANG DALE HALL. 
 
 and is, an angel ! Scarcely more so in my thoughts now, 
 than while she dwelt with us here; hut I, Frances, am a 
 man, and till earth’s shadows and lights begin to fade, and 
 all its glories here grow dim, I cannot forgive Maud Lang- 
 dale. You know not what you ask, when you entreat me, in 
 your mother’s name, to pardon her murderess. That woman 
 as surely killed her, when she stole away her child as if 
 she had struck a dagger to her heart.” 
 
 Mr. Langdale turned away from his daughter and entered 
 the house alone. He went straight to his study, the gloomy 
 room looking towards the avenue, where Mr. Haywarden 
 had first made known Miss Langdale’s views regarding 
 Florence, and shut himself up there for the rest of the day. 
 
 
 CHAPTER YI. 
 
 Fritz Langdale, though he had been very severe at first, 
 had long since forgiven “ the little one.” He often said 
 that the destruction of his hopes of the inheritance of Miss 
 Langdale had made a man of him at once, and been the best 
 thing that could possibly have happened to him. 
 
 He no longer felt angry even with Miss Langdale, and, 
 when Frances repeated to him and Gertrude what had 
 passed at the gate of the Grange, Fritz boldly declared that, 
 in his opinion, liis father carried resentment much too far. 
 
 Gertrude was inclined to take the same view with her 
 brother, and her heart yearned towards Florence. Home 
 influences and prejudices had less weight with them both than 
 with their younger sisters. Frances, the home-bred, liome- 
 loving girl, stood up bravely for her father. It mattered 
 little perhaps now, she said, to the absent ones, whether or 
 
TOO LATE! 
 
 259 
 
 not the mistress of Langdale Hall had deigned to notice 
 them hitherto, but, for herself and the twins, it had been, and 
 still was, a serious disadvantage. She agreed with her 
 father, that these tardy overtures, made so soon after then- 
 mother’s death, added insult to injury. 
 
 It was the first time since Florence’s transgression that 
 there had been any serious disagreement in the family : 
 Fritz and Gertrude steadily maintaining, that the mistress 
 of Langdale Hall had a perfect right to dispose as she 
 liked of the life interest in her property, and that, since 
 she had done so in favour of their own sister, ill will should 
 not be kept up ; also that Florence had been sufficiently 
 punished and ought now to be forgiven : whilst Mr. Lang- 
 dale’s three younger daughters considered, as he did, that the 
 offences against him, and their mother’s memory, could not 
 be overlooked. 
 
 Mr. Langdale took no part whatever in the discussion. 
 The subject was not even named in his presence; and, during 
 the remainder of their stay at Godley Grange, his eldest son 
 and daughter respected his authority and wishes too much 
 to act contrary to either. Neither did he oppose Gertrude’s 
 desire to visit Ellinor Langdale, or enquire whether she had 
 other guests. So long as no inmate of the Grange held 
 any communication \vith the inmates of the Hall, he appeared 
 to be satisfied. Day by day he became more immersed in 
 business ; or, when at home, the master of the house with¬ 
 drew into greater seclusion; not only hardening himself, 
 against those whom he regarded as his and Marina’s enemies, 
 but shutting himself up from the love of those who shared 
 his every feeling. 
 
 Perhaps, in his heart of hearts, the man, angry as he was, 
 sympathised more with those who were about to transgress 
 his orders, than with those who obeyed them most scrupu- 
 
 17—2 
 
260 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 lously. Though he would not for the world have sanctioned 
 the proceeding;—though he carefully avoided the utterance 
 of one word of kindness, for which Gertrude’s soft eyes 
 pleaded when she bade him farewell,—Mr. Langdale knew 
 perfectly that she would soon be under the same roof with 
 her sister ; and, over and over again, after she left him, he 
 saw in imagination, involuntarily, the meeting between her 
 and the little one. 
 
 It would have taken an almost unbearable load off his 
 heart to have said, “ Let all be forgotten and forgiven,” but 
 he would not. The time was not yet come. It seemed to 
 him an outrage to the memory of his dead wife, to forgive 
 those whom he persisted in believing to be her mortal foes :—- 
 and yet, his loved Marina, he well knew, had never ceased 
 to plead for them. Even her loving Christian charity, like 
 the other good qualities on which he ceaselessly pondered, 
 increased the mourning husband’s bitterness against all who 
 had not valued, as he did, this lost angel. Yet still, ever 
 and anon, sorely against his will, there flitted past the 
 shadowy couch, by which he watched in his dreams, the pale, 
 pensive, slender, face and form of the little one. 
 
 This phantom-like vision of the night was not the rebel¬ 
 lious child, Florence, but a grave maiden, with sad, reproach¬ 
 ful, tender glances, which he dared scarcely meet. Out of 
 those dark orbs seemed to gleam the soft loving soul which 
 had lighted up her mother’s sweet countenance. Never 
 before had he seen any likeness between the little daughter 
 born in Italy, and his fair wife ; but now the vision which 
 haunted his sick brain, partook of the characteristic features 
 of Marina and her youngest born. 
 
 Annie and May no longer dared to go to their father, as 
 of yore, in all their troubles. A dark inscrutable woe 
 seemed to have drunk up all the loving kindness of his 
 
TOO LATE! 
 
 261 
 
 nature. Now, for the first time, these young girls, who had 
 been long debarred from a mother’s care, felt themselves in¬ 
 deed motherless. Frances, with the duties of mistress of 
 the establishment freshly laid upon her, seemed suddenly to 
 become a grave woman, raised out of their sphere. They 
 missed, inexpressibly, the twilight hour, when, returning 
 from their walks, they gathered round the bright fire in the 
 invalid’s apartment; her participation in all their joys and 
 sorrows, her keen sense of humour, and ready never failing 
 sympathy. Full of love, brimming over with regret, the 
 twins no longer ventured to go to their once kind father, 
 and weep out their sorrow in his arms. 
 
 Mr. Langdale had never courted society, and, at this time 
 of sorrowful seclusion, none of his family had the heart to 
 seek for any companionship outside the Grange; but still, 
 after the young Countess had left them, and Fritz had been 
 summoned away to his professional duties at Sheffield, the 
 three girls found the old mansion, for the first time in their 
 young lives, inexpressibly dreary. They had no intimate 
 friends in the neighbourhood, who might, even at this sad 
 season, have drawn them away from their own thoughts. 
 
 Dr. Forsyth and Mr. Haywarden were now received coldly 
 by Mr. Langdale, who regarded them both as partisans of 
 Miss Langdale and Florence. Dissatisfied with himself, 
 and morbidly sensitive, the master of the Grange believed 
 that every one blamed his conduct; and, indeed, the good 
 doctor and lawyer, had tried more than once to bring their 
 old friend into a more rational and kindly state of mind. 
 The consequence had been, that they both felt themselves 
 to be no longer welcome visitors at the Grange. 
 
 For his care of Mrs. Langdale’s health, her husband could 
 not fail to be grateful to her skilful and attentive physician, 
 but the family no longer needed his care professionally; and, 
 
262 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 to say the truth, with its invalid mistress and Florence, Dr. 
 Forsyth’s attractions to the Grange had flown. He had 
 never been cordial with its master since the failure of his 
 first attempt to bring back the outcast, and he considered 
 Mr. Langdale prejudiced and vindictive. 
 
 Perhaps the greatest alleviation of the dulness of the 
 old Grange, was when Bertina Noel was a visitor there. 
 Gertrude had faithfully performed the dying mother’s com¬ 
 mission, and Mr. Langdale, whom she had appointed, by 
 will, guardian to her daughter, scrupulously performed that 
 duty. Though Bertina still resided in the old Dower House, 
 she had relinquished her post at the Mill, and spent much 
 of her time with the motherless girls at Godley Grange. 
 
 Her own similar bereavement, and deep mourning, set her, 
 in a peculiar manner, in a position to sympathise with and 
 comfort these mourners. The entire seclusion of the place 
 suited her well, and she was able, in some measure, to en¬ 
 liven the old house. Mr. Langdale’s stern face would soften 
 a little, at sight of his erring friend Cuthbert Noel’s beauti¬ 
 ful daughter; and Bertina knew and felt, deep in her 
 heart’s core, that he, of all men living, had thought and 
 spoken most kindly about her unknown parent. 
 
 No one at Godley Grange doubted the fact, that her 
 mother, though of lowly birth, was Cuthbert Noel’s widowed 
 wife. Mr. Langdale said so, and his will was law—his 
 word never disputed,—except by one rebellious daughter. 
 His liberal ideas on all subjects prevented Bertina’s honest, 
 active industry, exerted in support of her widowed mother, 
 from being regarded as a reproach. She was always treated 
 at Godley Grange with as much respect as any daughter of 
 the once haughty Noels would have desired. 
 
 Bertina’s society was all the more welcome to her guardian 
 because it awakened no associations with, or remembrance 
 
TOO LATE! 
 
 263 
 
 of, his absent daughter. Florence had left the Grange 
 before Miss Noel’s first visit there, and, although Gertrude 
 had often spoken of her youngest sister, and Fritz had con¬ 
 fided to her his sentiments, Bertina knew that the subject 
 was prohibited in Mr. Langdale’s presence. The clever, dark¬ 
 haired, representative of the Noels seemed, in some way, to 
 take the place of the little one in her old home. 
 
 Annie and May, affectionate, loving girls of nineteen, 
 were not talented or accomplished. Frances, absorbed in 
 household duties, gave every leisure moment to her easel, 
 finding in her studio the nearest approach to happiness. 
 Bertina was always ready to assist her host, to look over 
 accounts and write letters, foreign or English, for the often 
 overworked man of business. Oppressed by morbid thoughts, 
 Mr. Langdale often felt the powers of his mind on the verge 
 of failing him; at such times the clear sense, and strong 
 young faculties, of one who had been accustomed, from earliest 
 girlhood, to business habits were peculiarly useful. 
 
 One day when they were sitting alone in Mr. Langdale’s 
 study, after Bertina had looked over some complicated state¬ 
 ments, the master of the Grange laid his hand kindly on 
 hers, and said :— 
 
 “ Ah, my dear, if your father had possessed such a head 
 for accounts as you have, what a different position you might 
 occupy now. If ever, as I have reason to believe may be 
 the case, the family affairs of the Noels are re-established, 
 they will be better managed than formerly.” 
 
 Bertina’s eyes filled with tears. “ Would that my dear 
 father were alive to benefit by whatever talents God has 
 given me,” she said; “ of what use is it to me, that the 
 fortunes of our race should change, when there is only one 
 solitary girl to be enriched.” 
 
 An unwonted smile softened her host’s austere features. 
 
264 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 “ A time may come, Bertina, when you will feel less indif¬ 
 ferent in this matter. Meanwhile, remember, your presence 
 is very welcome in this mournful house. On your account, 
 as well as because you are my old friend’s daughter, I rejoice 
 in seeing you here.” 
 
 “ Children, when they are happily married, do not belong 
 to the home,” said Bertina, blushing. “Madame la Comtesse, 
 our darling Gertrude, is gone back to her German family. 
 \ our son will soon take to himself a wife, and make another 
 nest. When that is done, let me be a daughter to you. I 
 do think that I ranees, May, and Annie, love to see me here.” 
 
 “ Who told you that Fritz was going to be married T said 
 his father, sharply. “ I do not believe it. I have never seen 
 him pay attention to any lady except his sisters.” 
 
 “ I heard the report long ago, when I first knew your 
 son, ’ said Bertina, re-arranging the papers, nervously. “ But, 
 if it has not reached you, it may be untrue. I would rather 
 not say more.” 
 
 “No, no, let it die away,” said Mr. Langdale, impatiently. 
 “ I do not believe a word of it. Fritz would have told me, 
 it there had been on his part any serious intentions. I 
 know to whom you allude, and I believe if Fritz brought 
 forward any pretentions they would be favourably viewed; 
 but I am sure he has never thought of proposing in that quar¬ 
 ter. It would grieve me inexpressibly. I have quite other 
 jwospects in view, which would not be distasteful, I am cer¬ 
 tain, to my son.” 
 
 Bertina, having satisfied herself, apparently, that the par¬ 
 cels of papers were safely secured, laid them down again, and 
 rose to leave the room. 
 
 As she did so Mr. Langdale also rose; and, with old-fashioned 
 courtesy, opened the door for the young descendant of the 
 ruined Noels to pass through. 
 
 “ Do not give ear to idle gossip,” he said; “ Fritz is either 
 
TOO LATE! 
 
 265 
 
 heart-free, as he would phrase it in his German idiom, or he 
 has placed his affections in keeping which would suit me 
 better than even a half-sister of Maud Langdale’s. And 
 now I release you, and I thank you for helping me. Depend 
 upon it, happen wdiat may, since you can hear the desolation 
 of Godley Grange, you shall always have the place of a 
 tenderly-loved daughter and sister beside its hearth. Come 
 here, as often as you can, to cheer us.” 
 
 Bertina did not look up in his face; but, as she left the 
 dark room, a ray of sunshine, such as seldom lighted up its 
 depths, seemed to pass from it with her presence. 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
PART THE SEVENTH. 
 
 MARINA. 
 
 A chain is passed from heart to heart, 
 
 Wrought of bright but treacherous things, 
 
 For the red gold and jewels’ dazzling light 
 Hides from us how fast it clings ! 
 
 As we merrily fling it from hand to hand, 
 
 Each part is so finely moulded, 
 
 That we guess not how heavily falls the weight 
 Of those bright links all unfolded. 
 
 The flowers we gathered by copse and brook, 
 When summer and life were young, 
 
 And soft words said on a moonlight eve— 
 
 Of these the first links were strung :— 
 
 But the fairy-like texture grew firm and strong 
 As a deeper tint, and a twisted thread, 
 Showed where jealousy mingled its tangled yarn 
 But fled from the strife discomfited. 
 
 B. M. K. 
 
■ s 
 
 CHAPTER L 
 
 HE contrast between Ellinor’s sea-beaten property 
 in the North Riding, and the wooded houghs and 
 doughs of Langdale was very striking. Florence 
 derived benefit in health from the change, wandering at will 
 on the sandy beach, and looking out at the waves rolling 
 madly into the bay; or, even in the calmest weather, at the 
 long line of. silvery foam, marking the dangerous breakers, 
 where the thin, black ridge of rock, called Filey Brig, ran out 
 far into the water. 
 
 Often and often, Florence would watch the struggles of 
 the fishing smacks, or northern traders, and collier brigs, 
 striving to round the point; and think of the day, long 
 past, when the mother, for whom she now was mourning, 
 had been cast a helpless child on that cruel reef. 
 
 Mrs. Langdale’s father, an Indian officer, had, on his 
 deathbed, sent his little daughter to England. Her 
 mother had not survived her birth; and the distant rela¬ 
 tives, to whose charge the orphan was committed, gladly 
 made over their responsibility to Lady Barbara Noel, who 
 had taken a fancy to the child rescued by her son from a 
 watery grave. 
 
 The name of Marina, bestowed while the infant was quite 
 unknown to them, had superseded her baptismal appellation. 
 
270 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 and the little maiden grew up, in the stately abode of the 
 Noels, happily enough, until the death of Lady Barbara, and 
 the utter ruin of her extravagant son, threw the adopted 
 one, once more, on the mercy of strangers. Marina’s sweet 
 disposition, had, fortunately, won friends for her, and, in 
 the protection and care of Mrs. Langdale, of Godley Grange, 
 she remained until her death. The discovery of a mutual 
 attachment between Frank Langdale and Marina estab¬ 
 lished her in a home of her own ;—migratory, indeed, as 
 she accompanied him to Germany •—where he acted as com¬ 
 missioner for the house of business in which he was now a 
 partner ; travelling, in the interests of the firm, over most 
 parts of Northern Europe. 
 
 Northward, on the far side of Filey Brig, a dark line on 
 the cliff commemorated Cuthbert Noel’s gallant deed. 
 Florence burst into tears when she heard that the build¬ 
 ings, just visible from her favourite post of observation, 
 were named Marina. These were all new. Not as at Scar¬ 
 borough and Filey, divided into old and young. The little 
 cottage, or pavilion, where Lady Barbara formerly passed 
 a week, occasionally, in summer—and where she hap¬ 
 pened to be staying, with her son, when a sudden tempest 
 wrecked the Lubeck trading vessel—had been washed away 
 in one of the incursions often made by the sea upon that coast. 
 
 Marina, the new Watering-Place, consisted of a great 
 hotel and a few shops now in progress ; with sites for a 
 Church, and several detached villas. On paper it presented 
 a flourishing appearance; and, at a distance, the unfinished 
 buildings on the cliff were not unpicturesque ; though, as 
 yet, all was incomplete. It was said that the prospects of 
 the new Bathing-place were most promising, and that the 
 speculation was likely to be very successful. 
 
 Mr. Haywarden, who had always befriended Mrs. Noel, 
 
MARINA. 
 
 271 
 
 now watched over the interests of her daughter. This de¬ 
 tached portion of Cuthbert Noel’s property, as well as the 
 old house in the Eagle’s Gorge, had not been sold. At the 
 time of the dismemberment of the possessions of the family, 
 the little strip on the coast was regarded as valueless : now it 
 was possible that it might yield a large return for the money 
 expended upon it. 
 
 For persons desiring more retirement than might be 
 found at Scarborough, Marina possessed attractions; and 
 the taste with which the winding roads and embryo planta¬ 
 tions and gardens were arranged, on this wild coast, was 
 very remarkable. Already, dots and streaks ot verdure 
 enlivened the cliff, marking the sites of the intended build¬ 
 ings. The soil was found to be very productive ; and water, 
 excellent and abundant, was supplied from a spring high up 
 in the cliff, and gathered in a reservoir, which was to supply 
 the houses. Valuable trees and shrubs had been planted, in 
 expectation of the villas and terraces, which, ere long, they 
 would embellish. 
 
 Ellinor Langdale’s house was situated in a hollow of the 
 moor, with yet higher ground behind the mansion, which 
 commanded a view of the whole sweep of Filey Bay. The 
 new town was not seen from the windows; but a knoll in 
 the grounds, where a flag-staff had been erected by her 
 grandfather, an old naval officer, afforded a prospect of the 
 rising walls and shrubberies of Marina. Florence often 
 went there. The very name of the place endeared it to 
 her, and she sometimes thought that she would rather live 
 on that wild sea-washed coast, and spend her life in rescuing 
 shipwrecked mariners, than be the Mistress of Langdale 
 Hall. 
 
 All the youthful romance which had hung over the park, 
 into which she dared not penetrate—the Hall at whose dark 
 
272 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 tower and frowning battlements she had gazed through 
 childish tears, wistfully—had long since vanished. The 
 lowly Grange, whence she was for ever banished—her own 
 old nursery and pets—her angry father and her alienated 
 sisters—were -now objects of Florence’s brooding, morbid, 
 fancies and desires. And yet the girl’s nature was not en¬ 
 vious or discontented. She had been warped from her 
 natural duties and affections; and, now, those she had wil¬ 
 fully assumed sat heavily on her shoulders. Only the deep 
 and true attachment, nourished by a thousand favours and 
 instances of kind consideration, on the part of Miss Lang- 
 dale, which bound Florence to her benefactress, prevented 
 her going back, at all risks and hazards, to her own early 
 home, and craving forgiveness. 
 
 Perhaps had she done so in the first moments of soften¬ 
 ing grief, after Mrs. Langdale’s death, all might have been 
 condoned; but, if there was such an hour, it had gone by 
 before Florence’s return to England. Mr. Langdale’s heart 
 turned to stone against her, when he arose from the first 
 terrible prostration of grief which laid even him, the strong 
 man, low in the dust; as he gazed on the form, soon to be 
 taken from him, of the meek sufferer whom he had adored 
 and tended. The time passed on, bringing no more soft 
 moments. 
 
 Miss Langdale said very little to Florence of her recep¬ 
 tion at the Grange; but the girl knew that she had lowered 
 her pride for her sake, and that the humiliation had been 
 of no avail. She did not again propose to seek for pardon. 
 The insult to her kind benefactress wounded her deeply. 
 She knew well that nothing but Maud’s deep love, and un¬ 
 willingness to see her suffer, had induced her to make this 
 unsuccessful attempt to pave the way for a reconciliation 
 with her family. 
 
MARINA. 
 
 273 
 
 Henceforward she determined to consider herself the 
 daughter of the Lady of Langdale Hall. Florence told 
 Maud, with streaming tears, that she had no other parent, 
 she belonged entirely to her, and the acknowledgment was 
 repaid by the most fervent gratitude ; but the ties of nature 
 were too strong to be broken even by the rude strain laid 
 upon them. Though banished, almost heart-broken, Flo¬ 
 rence Langdale, the Heiress of the Hall, was her father’s 
 daughter still; and her heart turned back yearningly to her 
 sisters, and her forsaken home. 
 
 Around Ellinor’s mansion were thick coverts, carefully 
 screened from the north and east winds, and intersected with 
 sheltered walks. Miss Langdale, in another person’s house, 
 was not arbitrary, and the last few years had softened her 
 temper and enlarged her views. She took great interest in 
 Ellinor’s new home, and, while Florence wandered on the 
 shore, the two sisters might be seen walking together affec¬ 
 tionately, about the farm and gardens. Everything was in 
 admirable order. Ellinor was a gentle but judicious mis¬ 
 tress ; her servants loved her and served her well, though 
 her will was not absolute law. To the poor fishermen, in 
 stormy winters, she was a generous benefactress j and all the 
 neighbourhood had reason to rejoice that the pleasant house 
 under the moor was inhabited by its lawful mistress. Every 
 day the associations with Langdale became weaker, while 
 the ties which bound her to her own home and people 
 acquired greater force. 
 
 18 
 
274 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 I 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 On the shore of the German ocean the long parted sisters 
 met, as though in another hemisphere. By common consent, 
 not a word was said on the subject of Florence’s departure 
 from the Grange ; little Fritz was a medium for all sorts of 
 caresses and interchanges of affection, and the new scenery 
 and circumstances around them, as well as the description 
 of Gertrude’s happy home, afforded inexhaustible subjects for 
 conversation. 
 
 It seemed to the young Countess almost as if she were in 
 a dream, when she found herself actually dwelling 'in the 
 same house with Miss Langdale, the formidable mistress of 
 the Hal], that gloomy shadow which had clouded her child¬ 
 hood. The real woman was an agreeable, nay, even a lov¬ 
 able person, when seen in company with her adopted daugh¬ 
 ter and the gentle mistress of the mansion on the borders 
 of the moor 
 
 Fritz Langdale had been invited to accompany his sister 
 and nephew, but he was detained on business for a week 
 at Sheffield, surveying a new line of railway. Gertrude 
 and Florence had resumed their old habits of sisterly 
 affection, when he found time to join them. A few days 
 only were to elapse before he escorted Gertrude and her 
 little son, to the port whence they were to embark for 
 Germany. 
 
 Ellin or Langdale was less tranquil than usual, on the 
 morning when the young civil engineer had written to say 
 that he could get leave of absence. She half repented hav¬ 
 ing given the invitation, though, in truth, it could scarcely, 
 without absolute discourtesy, have been avoided. The pre- 
 
MARINA. 
 
 275 
 
 sence of Miss Langdale, and of Frank’s sisters, removed any 
 objection as to the propriety of her receiving her cousin 
 under her roof. It was, nevertheless, to herself more than 
 doubtful whether this exercise of hospitality was in all re¬ 
 spects judicious. When the note, accepting his proffered 
 visit, was past recovery, she would have given the world to 
 recall it. 
 
 The deed being done and past revocation, Ellinor’s spirits 
 gradually regained their usual tone. She received Fritz 
 with graceful, though not entirely unembarrassed, courtesy; 
 and strove in every way to make the house pleasant to him. 
 Fritz did not seem at all to mind having no male companions. 
 He had always liked his fair cousin, and he admired her 
 more than ever in her own home. 
 
 He got on very well with Miss Langdale, though they 
 both felt rather awkward at first meeting each other. The 
 little episode in the aisle of Langdale church, when the 
 great lady had swept past him so disdainfully, had long 
 been forgotten and forgiven ; and Fritz had never put him¬ 
 self in her way again. Her preference of Florence was not 
 regarded with rancour, now that life was full of interests and 
 occupations which led his thoughts far beyond local pride 
 and prejudices. 
 
 Fritz had just accepted a flattering offer of an opportunity 
 for studying on the continent a new system of engineering. 
 He had great abilities, which promised to lead to honour¬ 
 able distinction. The world lay before him, and his path 
 was chosen ; one that would carry him to many of its plea¬ 
 santest places, and even now made him perfectly indepen¬ 
 dent. 
 
 All his plans and projects were frankly and freely dis¬ 
 cussed. Fritz made little or no distinction between his 
 sisters and his cousins. Miss Lan^dale’s strong common 
 
 O o 
 
 18—2 
 
276 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 sense made her conversation peculiarly agreeable to her 
 young relative, and day by day she showed for him a more 
 strongly marked partiality. 
 
 Perhaps, in this small coterie of ladies, it would have been 
 unnatural not to find some web of fancy spun for the future ; 
 but, if it were so, no one was rash enough to speak of it. 
 More than once Miss Langdale turned aside in her customary 
 walk through the park, leaving her half-sister to do the 
 honours of the grounds to her last arrived visitor. Ger¬ 
 trude and Florence were only too glad to find an excuse for 
 long tete-a-tete walks on the beach. 
 
 Inland a wild wide waste of rolling upland, flushed purple 
 by the summer sun, stretched miles and miles away. The 
 heath was all a-glow, clothing, what at another time of the 
 year was dark of hue and desolate enough, with wonder¬ 
 ful beauty. Fritz loved the moor even better than the 
 sea ; and often persuaded his fair hostess to leave the shel¬ 
 tered wood walks, for the tracks among gorse and heather 
 which wound upward, from the grounds to the summit of 
 the adjacent heights. 
 
 More than once, when they encountered some rustic neigh¬ 
 bour, the fervency of the blessing uttered would make 
 Ellinor blush and even tremble; but Fritz understood little 
 of the Yorkshire dialect, and, insouciant by nature, enjoyed 
 these lonely romantic rambles with his fair cousin, without 
 troubling himself, in the smallest degree, respecting the com¬ 
 ments they might call forth. 
 
 He regarded Ellinor almost in the light of a sister, only 
 that it was more pleasant to be with her, than even with 
 Gertrude ; whom, as well as himself, she closely resembled 
 in person and feature. As for the little one, he often said 
 jestingly, with her foreign eyes and complexion and man¬ 
 ners, since she had revisited the land of her birth, she was 
 
MARINA. 
 
 277 
 
 the greatest stranger of the party. More than the appointed 
 week slipped away, before any one of the party assembled 
 at Moriscombe thought it necessary to broach the subject of- 
 their approaching separation. No one seemed disposed to 
 break up that pleasant reunion. 
 
 One summer evening, after a party of Ellinor’s country 
 neighbours had dispersed, the young mistress of Moriscombe 
 and Fritz Langdale strolled out through the small gate that 
 opened right upon the moorland, and ascended the hill 
 behind the house. The sun was setting over the down, 
 but its rays were thrown afar, across the waves, as though 
 the light lingered more lovingly there than on the land. 
 The wide sweep of coast from Flamborough Head to the 
 heights crowned by Scarborough Castle, was distinctly visi¬ 
 ble ;—a quivering ridge of foam, tipped with fire, half hid 
 the narrow file of rocks, running out near the little town 
 that takes its name from that sharp dangerous ridge, which 
 on the inner side forms a natural breakwater, within whose 
 shelter a little fleet of coasting vessels lay snugly at anchor. 
 The lighthouse on the point, where the warning beacon was 
 just kindled, sending down its own red reflection into the 
 water, stood out boldly—a tower of strength—against a 
 white bank of fog, which lay curled up like some monster of 
 the deep. The capricious rays of declining light darted 
 from headland to headland of the wave-washed cliffs giving 
 yet more eccentric forms to the excavations rent in those 
 mighty natural sea walls, by that turbulent encroaching 
 ocean. Entranced by the beautiful sunset, Ellinor and 
 Fritz walked on and on; intending to return by a path across 
 the moor, which wound down into the combe. They were 
 talking pleasantly on various matters, and time passed 
 quickly. At last Ellinor stopped, in some perplexity. 
 
 “ I am sadly afraid I have taken the wrong path,” she 
 
278 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 said ; “ how strangely dark it has become, since we turned 
 our backs on the sea. It must be later than I fancied.” 
 
 Fritz looked at his watch. “ Who would have supposed 
 that we parted with your friends two hours ago?” he said, 
 laughing; u but so it is, and though I should be sorry to be 
 rude to your guests, I must own time seems to have flown 
 much more rapidly, since we lost their company. Do you 
 really think we have lost our way ? That would be a 
 charming adventure.” 
 
 Ellinor looked grave. They were no longer on the cliff, 
 but in a vast tract of undulating heath, intersected by tiny 
 sheep-tracks, and without any striking landmarks,—one 
 heathery hillock painfully resembling another. Fritz had 
 relied implicitly on his companion’s professed knowledge 
 of the road, and had wandered on, since they quitted the 
 regular path, trusting entirely to her guidance. 
 
 “ Sta y here, while I run up to the top of that ridge of 
 ground. I shall be able to make out our bearings, perhaps, 
 better from thence,” said Fritz ; “ you are tired, let me find 
 a seat for you.” 
 
 “ N°, no,” said Ellinor, nervously, “ I entreat you not to 
 leave me. Let us at any rate keep together.” 
 
 Her voice shook, and she silently accepted his arm. They 
 walked on for a short distance, until the false track they 
 had pursued ended in a morass, over which damp, white fog- 
 wreaths were hovering-. 
 
 Weary and terrified, Ellinor burst into tears. Fritz felt 
 a little impatient, dhe situation was becoming, to say the 
 least of it, unpleasant, and his companion did not appear 
 inclined to make the best of it. His sisters would have 
 made a joke of the dilemma. He was half inclined to wish 
 that he had Miss Langdale leaning on his arm; or any 
 stronger minded female than the pretty mistress of the 
 sunny mansion under the moor. 
 
MARINA. 
 
 279 
 
 “We have nothing to do but to retrace our steps,” lie 
 said, ignoring the tears, and feeling excessively embarrassed. 
 “ You will have along, toilsome walk home, I am afraid, but 
 there seems no help for it. I do not suppose there is any 
 other place of shelter.” 
 
 Ellinor tried to regain her composure. Something in the 
 dry tone of her cousin’s voice made her guess that he was 
 displeased. “It is entirely my own fault,” she said, gently. 
 “ I misled you, and quite forgot that I had only taken this 
 long round once before in broad daylight. I am almost a 
 stranger myself in this country, and, until you came, I 
 seldom ventured far.” 
 
 Her soft voice and candid admission appeased Fritz, and 
 he devoted himself to taking care of her, and enlivening 
 the way by conversation. Unluckily the topic chosen was 
 not altogether fortunate, nor could he have explained to 
 himself or his companion, the mysterious connection of 
 ideas which had suggested the subject to his mind, when at 
 a loss how to reassure and entertain her. 
 
 “ Miss Noel is staying with my young sisters at Godley,” 
 he said, abruptly. “ Frances tells me that she is in great 
 favour with my father, and that they are all fond of her. 
 I am glad the poor girls have a little pleasant society.” 
 
 “ Miss Noel T said Ellinor, coldly, removing her arm that 
 she might wrap her plaid round her. “ Do you mean the 
 young person with whom your sister became acquainted, 
 at the Mill in the Eagle’s Gorge ? The overlooker of the 
 girls, in the room where there was such a bewildering noise 
 of machinery, that I could go no farther than the door ? Does 
 she really persist in calling herself Noel 1 Is she staying at 
 Godley with your sisters ?” 
 
 Fritz walked on sturdily by her side without again 
 offering his arm. 
 
280 THE MISTRESS OF LANG DALE HALL. 
 
 “Yes, I mean Cuthbert Noel’s daughter : a far better 
 woman than her father was a man, and more of a lady than 
 he was a gentleman. Miss Bertina Noel is an intimate 
 friend of my sisters. My father is her guardian. Did you 
 not know it % I thought you had met at the Grange.” 
 
 “ Once only,” said Ellinor, recovering from her vexation 
 and surprise, and speaking more in her natural tone. “ I 
 liked best to visit your sisters when they were alone. It 
 was quite by chance that I met the young lady in question. 
 I am not sure that I even heard her name. None of Mr. 
 Noel’s family acknowledged his low marriage. I did not 
 know that its validity had been proved.” 
 
 “My father and Mr. Haywarden never entertained a 
 doubt about it; after Mrs. Noel returned to Hazeldon, and 
 produced the legal documents connected with the marriage 
 ceremony, performed privately between herself and Cuthbert 
 Noel. I believe he sent them to her in a tardy fit of death¬ 
 bed repentance. They were, at all events, sufficient to estab¬ 
 lish the claims of his widow to some small remnant of his 
 wrecked fortunes, and Bertina inherits her mother’s rights.” 
 
 “ That is very fortunate for her,” said Ellinor, icily. “ I 
 hope that she will be able to give up her very disagreeable 
 employment. It was certainly difficult to recognise a daughter 
 of the Noels, among those loud-voiced vulgar girls at the 
 Mill—her companions, before your kind sisters noticed her.” 
 
 “ I cannot take your view of this matter,” said Fritz, un¬ 
 ceremoniously. “My father is a working man, I myself 
 have entered an arduous profession, which I mean to follow 
 assiduously. No honest employment is in our eyes deroga¬ 
 tory. Miss Noel, I trust, may be relieved from the necessity 
 of pursuing a toil, which, to a person of her sense and refine¬ 
 ment, must often have been highly distasteful; but, in our 
 estimation, she is none the less honourable and admirable 
 
MARINA. 
 
 281 
 
 for having trod steadfastly the thorny path of filial duty, to 
 the end.” 
 
 A sharp cry of Ellinor’s cut short Fritz’s declamation. In 
 the increasing darkness she had stumbled over an obtrusive 
 root of heath, and nearly fallen. Fritz drew her arm kindly, 
 but firmly, within his own. 
 
 “ Do not let us quarrel over these social questions,” he 
 said. “It is like the old story of the shield, respecting 
 which two knights fought to the death, instead of trying to 
 look at it fairly, and from the same direction. We have 
 been brought up differently, you, in the midst of our haughty, 
 English landed gentry—I, among German democrats. I 
 am a child of the people—you are a born aristocrat.” 
 
 “You are just as much a Langdale as I am,” said Ellinor. 
 “ Are we not cousins, and only once removed from the first 
 degree.” 
 
 “I am proud of that honour,” said Fritz, kindly, but not 
 tenderly, pressing the small white hand that trembled in his 
 own. “ But now, how are we to get out of the scrape we 
 are in. All these hillocks seem like twin brothers, and that 
 fog from the Marsh is following us up fast. You must let 
 me leave you, to see if there is any outlet from our present 
 difficulties.” 
 
 Ellinor released his arm, and Fritz, after bidding her re¬ 
 main perfectly still, sprang up an elevation which promised 
 a somewhat wider view than the perplexing hillocks. But 
 the prospect only commanded -wave upon wave of appa¬ 
 rently endless undulations of heather, from which the crim¬ 
 son glow had quite departed. Dark and sad lay the lonely 
 moorland, under a gloomy canopy of cloud, between which 
 and the earth the fog hung out its threatening banners. 
 Fritz hurried back to his companion, in considerable alarm 
 and perplexity. 
 
282 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 Ellinoi had not moved since he left her. She stood pale 
 and cold, a statue on the stony waste. During the few 
 minutes which elapsed she passed through a crisis of her 
 woman s life. She felt that the accident which had placed 
 her and the man she loved, in peril together on the wild 
 moorland, had not drawn their hearts nearer. They were 
 cousins, fiiends it might be, but, on his part, nothing more. 
 
 Never in her whole life had she felt so bitterly alone, as 
 while she stood waiting for him and yet Fritz’s rapid re¬ 
 turn gave Ellinor little comfort. She heard his voice 
 calling to her, but she could not answer. Better for him to 
 leave her to die here of cold and weariness, she thought to 
 herself, than come back with a light laugh on his lips. 
 
 Fritz, however, was in no jesting humour. No doubt he 
 could easily enough have found his way to some shelter, 
 but with Miss Langdale it was different. Ellinor was not 
 at all accustomed to long, rough walks; she was already 
 wearied; and, in the increasing gloom, he dared not go far 
 away from her in search of a wider prospect. They might, 
 foi aught he, a perfect stranger, knew, be miles away from 
 her home; and he was by no means certain that, under her 
 guidance, they had taken the right direction. 
 
 “ Go on >” Ellinor said, almost pettishly, after they had 
 walked some distance nearly in silence. “ Leave me, I can¬ 
 not keep up with you. You will come to some road or cot¬ 
 tage, or meet some wayfarer who will instruct you as to the 
 
 way back to Moriscombe. My sister will send the carriage 
 for me.” 
 
 Fritz slackened his pace considerately. “ Come weal or 
 w°e ? my sweet cousin, we will share it together. Hark ! 
 surely I hear voices in the distance.” 
 
MARINA. 
 
 283 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 The travellers belated on the moor were, like Fritz and El- 
 linor, male and female. Through the driving mist the 
 voices sounded muffled and unreal, the approaching forms 
 loomed large and indistinct,—a tall man wrapped in a 
 large cloak, and a woman’s figure similarly shrouded, the 
 face shadowed by a hat and closely veiled. 
 
 Fritz hailed them as they drew near. He was growing 
 very anxious to have his pale, shivering companion safely 
 housed. “ Can you tell us the way to Moriscombe. We are 
 lost in the fog.” 
 
 “ Yes, yes, I’ll set you right,” was the reply, in loud, 
 hearty accents. “ Lucky for you to have met me. Man 
 and boy, rain or shine, I know every step of these moors.” 
 
 “ This must be the Spirit of the Waste,” Fritz whispered 
 to Ellinor; but she was too much terrified to smile, as his 
 sisters would have done. Her heart was dying within 
 her, of weariness, disappointment, and regret. She could 
 scarcely restrain her tears. Even the sight of these confident 
 strangers, so calmly threading their way through the mist, 
 failed to re-assure her. She looked at the veiled and now 
 silent woman, half inclined to believe that she was indeed 
 something weird and unearthly. Fritz, on the contrary, was 
 attracted towards her. Feminine sympathy, he thought, 
 might rouse his drooping companion. If the truth must be 
 told, the young man was somewhat weary of unavailing at¬ 
 tempts to cheer her. 
 
 “ This lady,” he said, turning towards the silent figure, 
 now close beside him in the pathway, “ is almost as much a 
 stranger in these wilds as myself. And yet I fancy we are 
 not very far from her home at Moriscombe,” 
 
284 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 No answer whatever was vouchsafed him. Perhaps the 
 lady had lost her voice in the fog, for she said a very few 
 words, in the lowest possible whisper, to her cavalier. 
 
 u Right—to be sure—you think of every one but yourself, 
 my darling,” he replied cheerfully, in the same mellow, 
 cordial voice, which already had cheered the hearts of the 
 desolate wanderers. “ My daughter reminds me that our 
 carriage is following us. She, and I too, prefer trusting to 
 our own limbs and eyes in this fog; but our friend, a lawyer, 
 by the way, who thinks what is paid for should be useful, 
 has stuck to the carriage. If the lady is fatigued, we shall 
 be happy to accommodate her with a seat in the barouche 
 as far as the gates of Moriscombe. Nay, no thanks, it is 
 light in our way. AVe passed the Lodge in coming from 
 the Grand Hotel at Filey.” 
 
 The offer was too kind to be rejected. Ellinor roused 
 herself to thank the strangers, but the lady still remained 
 perfectly silent. She rejected Fritz’s outstretched hand, 
 when some impediment in the rugged path made him invo¬ 
 luntarily proffer assistance. Erect and unaided, the girl— 
 he was certain she was young and beautiful—went proudly 
 and securely on her way. 
 
 A faint rumble of wheels now announced the approach of 
 the vehicle. The driver was proceeding with great caution, 
 and the solitary inmate of the carriage had fallen asleep. 
 Only a few words were uttered, as the tall gentleman in the 
 cloak assisted Ellinor to mount the rattling step of the 
 somewhat crazy fly, and the startled occupant of the 
 barouche, scarcely awake, made room for her, silently, but 
 politely. 
 
 The slender female form still went on along the track • 
 a mute gesture having satisfied her companion that she, 
 like himself, preferred walking. Fritz continued with them. 
 
MARINA. 
 
 285 
 
 but, though the way was dark and intricate, he was not suf¬ 
 fered to be of the smallest assistance to the lady. If need¬ 
 ful, she took her father’s hand or arm ; and he evidently 
 understood and humoured the will, on her part, not to im¬ 
 prove this chance acquaintance. In spite of her tacit inci¬ 
 vility, perhaps provoked by it, Fritz felt irresistibly at¬ 
 tracted. He would have given worlds to see that veiled 
 face, to touch the gloved hand, to support the slight, graceful 
 form, on the rugged pathway. The words of her com¬ 
 panion sounded indistinctly, as of one speaking in a dream, 
 —of what like would be her voice, her words, if he could 
 but persuade her to break silence. 
 
 All sorts of possible and impossible plans floated through 
 his brain, for the future. He must see her by daylight, 
 force her to speak to him, dispel the strange dislike and dis¬ 
 trust, which he had most unintentionally inspired. Mean¬ 
 while, mile after mile was trodden in darkness until the 
 trees of Moriscombe, almost the only verdant spot in the 
 district, now dripping with moisture, hung above them. 
 
 Fritz shook hands with the gentleman who had helped 
 him so cordially out of his difficulties, and longed to do the 
 same with the lady; but he dared not. A silent, stately 
 bow was all that was vouchsafed him, before she turned 
 from the gate to the spot at a little distance, where the car¬ 
 riage had drawn up, at the turn in the road leading to 
 Filey. Miss Ellinor, the woman at the Lodge said, had 
 gone home sadly tired : and Fritz, who felt himself to be ig- 
 nominiously dismissed, had no choice but to follow her. 
 
 Ellinor Langdale, naturally diffident, felt much embar¬ 
 rassed at intruding upon the slumbers of the stranger in the 
 carriage. His manner, when roused thus suddenly, was 
 kind and gentlemanlike, and he strove to assist her as well 
 
286 THE MISTRESS OF LANG DALE HALL. 
 
 as the thick darkness permitted, removing the damp plaid 
 she had worn about her shoulders, and substituting a 
 macintosh of his own. When she began to thank him, he 
 exclaimed, “Why, good gracious, whom have we here? 
 Miss Ellinor Langdale. Don’t you recollect your father’s 
 old friend, Mark Hay warden ?” 
 
 It was now Ellinor’s turn to be surprised, and she scolded 
 her neighbour at Langdale for not coming to see her. 
 
 “ Oh? business, business, my dear young lady. These are 
 clients of mine. Came to look after this new watering- 
 place. Investments. Ah, ah, you never had a head for 
 moneymaking. Miss Langdale, your good sister, ought to 
 take shares in our model Hotel, and Baths. I assure you it 
 is a most jiromising speculation. Marina will be the glory 
 ol this fine coast. Capital air and water. In fact, every¬ 
 thing that persons in health or sickness, could desire. That 
 gentleman expects to make his fortune. And his daughter 
 will be an heiress. Did you see her—no— well, that is a 
 pity. She is very handsome.” 
 
 A keen pang of jealousy shot through Ellinor’s wounded 
 heart; but she was too proud to show it, or to ask questions 
 about one whom she divined instinctively would be a rival. 
 And yet could he be so frivolous, so lightly caught. A 
 mere glimpse of a mysteriously shrouded form could not 
 suffice to fetter him. She hated the veiled lady more than 
 Bertina Noel. Not one of Fritz’s attempted courtesies to 
 the strangei had escaped Ellinor s notice. Jealous by 
 nature, mortified by his coldness, she had seen the attraction 
 exercised over her cousin by the silent girl who stepjied so 
 proudly along the path, scorning the aid she coveted. 
 
 Mr. Haywarden did not notice the weary girl’s dejec¬ 
 tion. He thought that she was tired ; and, after a few kind 
 sentences, the family lawyer fell back upon his investments 
 
MARINA. 
 
 287 
 
 and the flourishing prospects of his new client to amuse 
 himself with, in recollection ; perhaps he took another nap, 
 while his companion looked out into the mist, and wondered 
 how far behind them the walking party might be. When, 
 after a time which seemed interminable, the carriage stopped 
 at her own gate, Ellinor roused herself to be politely hos¬ 
 pitable ; and, in return for the great favour conferred upon 
 herself, begged that Mr. Haywarden would bring his friend 
 to Moriscombe; but he declined her offer of hospitality. 
 His clients were only at Filey for a day or two, and he him¬ 
 self must return to Hazeldon at an early hour the next 
 morning. 
 
 Ellinor retired at once to her own room, leaving Fritz to 
 explain the cause of their detention, and her friends to place 
 what interpretation they liked on her tearful aspect. She 
 dismissed her attendant as soon as she was relieved of her 
 dripping garments; and sat down by the fire, which in spite 
 of the season was welcome at that moment, with her long 
 light hair flowing loosely round her pale face, and her 
 thoughts in troubled confusion. Never, till the moment 
 when he proposed to leave her on the heath, had she realised 
 how dear Fritz was to her; and, now, the sorrowful conviction 
 forced itself upon her that this love, the first and last she 
 should ever entertain, was disregarded. The vainest woman 
 on earth could not, after the adventure of that evening, 
 believe herself the object of hritz Langdale’s affection. 
 They were cousins, nothing more. 
 
 Whilst sorrowfully occupied with her own thoughts, Ellinor 
 heard the door softly open ; and Miss Langdale entered 
 tae room. A visit from her, at that hour, was so totally 
 unexpected, that Ellinor had not even thought of prohibiting 
 the intended act of sisterly kindness. She rose up to greet 
 her, hastily, and in confusion. 
 
288 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 “ Do not disturb yourself, Ellinor,” said Maud, taking a 
 seat by the fire. “You look better now; but indeed, at 
 first, I felt very anxious about you. Mr. Langdale, however, 
 seems rather to have enjoyed the adventure. He is quite 
 excited, and seems wonderfully happy.” 
 
 Maud cast a penetrating glance at her young sister, but 
 Ellinor’s eyes refused to meet hers. They were fixed on the 
 leaping flames and cracking logs, piled on the hearth. 
 
 “You are not used to hearing me retract my words, 
 Ellinor,” she continued gravely, “but I wish to unsay much 
 that I have uttered. Fritz Langdale has won my heart : 
 I hope he has succeeded in gaining yours. I cannot help 
 thinking from your manner and his, to-night, that he has 
 done so. If this is the case, my warmest wishes will be 
 realised.” 
 
 Ellinor turned quickly towards her. “ This is indeed an 
 unexpected change, Maud. Why did you, some years ago, 
 set your face against my marrying any one ? I should have 
 fancied Mr. Langdale would have been the suitor most 
 hostile to your wishes.” 
 
 “ It might have been so,” said Maud thoughtfully. “ But 
 all that has passed away. My love for Florence has ex¬ 
 tinguished many bitter feelings, many long standing pre¬ 
 judices. I love her brother for her sake, and also for 
 his own. He is a fine manly fellow. Ellinor, are you too 
 proud to bid me love him for your sake also 1 You cannot, 
 after your emotion to-night, deny that you are very dear to 
 each other.” 
 
 “ I can, and I do deny it,” said Ellinor, flushing crimson. 
 “ Mr. Langdale and I are nothing to each other. He thinks 
 more of a girl he met upon the heath, than of me. He is a 
 foolish, frivolous boy. Let us say no more about him.” 
 
 Miss Langdale looked at her sister with astonishment. 
 
MARINA. 
 
 289 
 
 “You are not yourself, to-night, Ellinor; I am sorry I have 
 intruded upon you, but my motive was a good one. Florence 
 will never be happy until this unfortunate misunderstanding 
 with her family is at an end. It makes me miserable to see 
 her wretched. Now it strikes me that, through your and 
 her brother’s attachment, a way may be opening for me to 
 retrieve the mischief I have done. Frank Langdale will not 
 accept any peace offering; but Fritz is less wilful. If my 
 present arrangement of the succession to the Langdale pro¬ 
 perty makes us all miserable, the sooner it is altered the 
 better. As your husband, Fritz will be my natural heir.” 
 
 Ellinor stamped her foot as impatiently as Maud, in her 
 haughtiest mood, had ever done, “ You will drive me wild,” 
 she said, impetuously. “ There is no question of love or 
 marriage between me and our cousin Frank Langdale’s son. 
 There never was—there never will be, such a connexion. Is 
 not that sufficient 'l Ah, Maud, it is much easier to do 
 fatal mischief than to remedy the evil. I am rich and inde¬ 
 pendent. Most probably I shall never marry, though I 
 would not, four years ago, bind myself to remain single 
 for the sake of an inheritance. Leave your property to whom 
 you like, so that it be not to me. I love this place. I wish 
 for no other home. I shall never leave Moriscombe.” 
 
 Miss Langdale rose, and bade her sister good night some¬ 
 what stiffly. Ellinor went as far as the door of the chamber 
 with her, and suddenly threw herself on her sister’s neck, 
 weeping. 
 
 “ Do not let us part in anger, Maud,” she said. “ I 
 scarcely know myself, to-night. I am sure you mean kindly 
 towards us all. I am worn out, and weary almost to death. 
 Never let us allude to the subject on which you have spoken 
 to me, again.” 
 
 Maud Langdale returned her embrace warmly. She did 
 
 19 
 
290 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 not return to the drawing room; where she heard Fritz 
 laughing and talking with his sisters, evidently in high 
 spirits. Every one in the establishment thought, like Miss 
 Langdale, that he had wooed and won the heiress during 
 the long, damp evening spent alone together, on the Moor. 
 Ellin or’s tears and Fritz’s exuberant spirits led to the same 
 conclusion; and he alone was utterly unconscious of the part, 
 by common consent, assigned to him—that of a successful 
 lover. 
 
 -M- 
 
 CHAPTER IY. 
 
 Ellinor did not make her appearance at breakfast the next 
 morning. She had not recovered from her fatigue, Miss 
 Langdale informed her sister’s guests, as she took her place 
 at the head of the table, and poured out the tea, while Fritz, 
 as usual, presided over the coffee. No one seemed to feel dis¬ 
 posed to prolong what was usually the pleasantest repast at 
 Moriscombe. Soon after ten o’clock the whole party had 
 dispersed themselves abroad, each taking a different direc¬ 
 tion. 
 
 Fritz Langdale had an irresistible inclination, which he 
 confided to no one, to walk to the wateling-place on the 
 coast, called Filey; which, as yet, he had only seen from a 
 distance. It was one of those crisp, lovely mornings which 
 often, by the seaside, follows a night laden with mists and 
 vapours. Sky and sea, cliffs and pebbles, all seemed to 
 have been washed clear of every stain. The air, brisk yet 
 balmy, blew refreshingly in his face, straight across the 
 ocean. 
 
 A rugged stair, in the face of the high down capping the 
 
MARINA. 
 
 291 
 
 cliffs, afforded an opportunity of which Fritz availed him¬ 
 self, for scrambling down to the beach, strewn with immense 
 boulders, against which the incoming tide was breaking 
 fiercely. After a walk of four or five miles, a vale, which 
 almost looked as if, in some previous age of the world, it 
 might have been an estuary, opened up into the heart of the 
 moor, with the scattered cottages and square-towered church 
 of old Filey near its entrance. Further south a broad ter¬ 
 race, faced with granite, against which, in stormy weather, 
 the sea dashed furiously, one or two colcl-lookmg rows of 
 handsome stone houses, and a pretentious hotel, constituted 
 the modern watering-place. 
 
 An archaeologist would certainly have made his way to 
 the ancient church ; and a lover of sea-weeds and fossils 
 might have found curious specimens of the wonders of the 
 coast in the quaint shops, belonging to the old regime, be¬ 
 hind whose shabby, green glass windows, a very miscellaneous 
 collection of treasures was exhibited. Fritz, however, turned 
 his steps in the direction of the new town. 
 
 As he walked along, he pondered over what steps he 
 should next pursue. He had not recognised Mr. Haywarden, 
 and Ellinor, absorbed in her own feelings, had not men¬ 
 tioned the name of her companion in the carriage. Fritz 
 indeed, had scarcely seen her since they parted in the fog. 
 
 He was entirely ignorant respecting the name of the father 
 and daughter, but he knew that the carriage belonged to the 
 principal hotel at Filey * and, swayed by various motives, he 
 had peisuaded himself that it would be only common courtesy 
 to thank these strangers, for the timely help they had afforded 
 to himself and his weary companion. It was true that he had 
 done this over and over again already, but still Fritz was of 
 opinion that he ought to repeat his devoirs to the veiled 
 lady and her father. 
 
 19—2 
 
292 THE MISTRESS OF LANGE ALE HALL . 
 
 A waiter, belonging to the Royal Hotel, was rubbing bis 
 hands on the steps, looking after the omnibus which had 
 just dejoarted, when Fritz approached, and, by way of opening 
 the conversation, asked for sherry and soda water. The man 
 brought the desired refreshment to the coffee room, which 
 happened to be empty, and, after the manner of liis class, 
 was quite ready to be communicative. Yes, they had heard 
 how thick the fog was the night before,—one of their drivers 
 had nearly lost his way on the moor, though a native of the 
 district. A party staying in the house hired the carriage for 
 the day :—“ The gentleman, sir, just gone off to the station 
 in the omnibus,” he concluded, with a gracious wave of his 
 hand in the direction of the vehicle just turning the corner 
 of the street. 
 
 “ The gentleman,” Fritz repeated, mechanically. “ What 
 has become of the young lady l Is she here still V’ 
 
 The waiter looked significant, especially when Fritz com¬ 
 pensated him liberally for his trouble, and for the sherry 
 and soda water. 
 
 “ The lady—oh yes, sir, the young lady is with us still. 
 She and her papa think of remaining some days. Most 
 people are pleased with Filey at this season. The old 
 gentleman—the party from the West Riding—professional, I 
 fancy—much pleased too, but called away on business— 
 perhaps coming back to spend Sunday with his friends. 
 Two services—excellent preacher—curious monuments in the 
 Church, sir. I don’t know if you are a stranger—a great 
 deal that is well worth seeing in our town and neighbour¬ 
 hood.” 
 
 Fritz thanked him for his information; and, in return,com¬ 
 municated the fact that the party stopping at the inn had 
 conferred a favour upon himself, and the lady at whose house 
 
MARINA. 
 
 293 
 
 lie was staying, for which he desired to express his grati¬ 
 tude. Could he see the gentleman ? 
 
 Enquiries were immediately made as to the exact where¬ 
 abouts of the occupants of No. 6, and it was ascertained 
 that the lady and her father had walked out in the direction 
 of the Beef. The waiter adding, blandly, that it was the 
 most interesting point of view along the coast. 
 
 There was tolerably good walking ground on the inner 
 side of the long spit, or file, of sandstone capped with clay, 
 worked into all sorts of fantastic shapes by the action of the 
 water. Formerly, it was said, the cliff ran out to the end 
 of the reef, warranting the name given to the place by 
 Ptolemy, “The deep-havened Bay.” Now, only this thin ridge 
 of rock was left; against which, as he leant for a moment, 
 Fritz could feel the throb and shudder of the land, as the 
 mighty waves threw themselves against it. The clay had 
 almost all been washed away, excepting the coating on the 
 summit; only the horny tongue of sandstone remained,— 
 barring the fury of the North Sea. 
 
 As he walked along, the young man involuntarily pictured 
 to himself the tall slight figure, that had glided through the 
 mist by his side the evening before, lightly surmounting the 
 impediments of the stony track; springing from stone to stone, 
 or mirrored in the deep pellucid pools lying under the rocky 
 wall, safe from the encroachments of the tide, into which 
 he was sorely tempted to plunge, for a salt-water bath. 
 
 Then again, after the fashion of day dreams, the vision 
 slightly altered its shape, and it was Bertina Noel’s slender 
 form, her black dress and scarlet shawl, that he was follow¬ 
 ing through the Eagle’s Gorge. Fritz started, when at a 
 sudden turn, a sort of rustic grotto or alcove, partly natural, 
 partly artificial, and open to the sea in front while the rock 
 towered high at the back, came in view; tenanted by one 
 solitary female figure. 
 
294 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 The waves rolled in, clear as crystal, to the margin of 
 yellow sand, which as yet had never been overflowed. Just 
 where they stopped, three or four boulders of rock had 
 fallen irom above, and marked the line which the mighty 
 waters were bound, by a perpetual decree, to respect. On 
 the largest of these stones a lady was sitting, reading. Her 
 face was turned toward the sea and the light, away from 
 Fritz, but he recognised the slight, tall figure of his com¬ 
 panion in the mist. A violet-coloured veil fluttered in the 
 wind, thrown back from her face, and the cloak had fallen 
 unclasped from her small throat and falling shoulders. 
 
 Fritz took a few hasty steps forward ; he was afraid the 
 fail creature before him, if warned, would reassume her dis¬ 
 guises ; but the lady was so absorbed in her book, that she 
 did not hear his footstep. The sea-weed strewn over the 
 sand deadened the sound. Through the arch, seaward, the 
 light fell full on her features, which were soft, regular, and 
 beautiful,—on the dark hair, smoothly banded, and crossed 
 over her brow with a narrow line of velvet of the same tint 
 as the veil—the whole of the rest of her costume was black. 
 
 “ Bertina !” exclaimed Fritz in amazement, while a deep 
 throb of joy ran through his whole frame. “ Is it possible 
 that you were my companion in the mist, last night % And 
 yet, I knew, I felt that it was so.” 
 
 The lady started at his voice, and seemed half inclined to 
 resume her disguise ; but it was too late for concealment. 
 She said coldly,— 
 
 1 ^ ou ^ iac ^ another companion yesterday evening, Mr. 
 Langdale. Ours was but a chance meeting.” 
 
 “ No, I cannot accept your expression, Bertina,” said the 
 young man. Nothing happens by chance \ and your name 
 was on my lips, a moment or two before I saw you.” 
 
 Miss Noel flushed angrily. “I would rather not be 
 
MARINA. 
 
 295 
 
 named before Miss Ellinor Langdale,” she said, haughtily. 
 “ Pardon me if I leave you. I have been here too long 
 already. My friends will be expecting me.” 
 
 Fritz knelt on the low rock near her. “ Do not leave me 
 till you have told me why you are here ?—with whom ? May 
 I not bring Gertrude to see you T 
 
 “ I would rather you did not mention to anyone that you 
 have seen me,” said Bertina, uneasily. “ There are circum¬ 
 stances which I cannot explain, which matter nothing to 
 anyone,” she said bitterly. “ It is sufficient that your father, 
 my guardian, approves of my proceedings. No one else”— 
 she hesitated, then added—“ Few others, have any right to 
 question me.” 
 
 Fritz drew back offended. A recollection of the tall 
 man in the cloak, whose aid had been accepted when his 
 own had been avoided, the night before, came back to him, 
 unpleasantly. “Forgive me,” he said, rising; “I did not 
 mean to intrude upon your confidence. If there is any 
 secret in the matter I shall respect it, only do not let us part 
 in anger. Next week I leave England.” 
 
 Bertina turned towards him quickly. 
 
 “ Why should you go f ’ she said. “ Would it not favour 
 your present happy prospects better, to remain in this 
 neighbourhood T 
 
 Fritz looked at her with surprise. “ To remain here” he 
 said. “ Until within these last few minutes, I cannot say that 
 this barren sea-board, swept by keen north-easters, appeared 
 as tempting to me as to the Sea Kings, our progenitors. 
 No, Bertina—Miss Noel, I ought to say—I have other pros¬ 
 pects—at this moment they do not look very brilliant, but 
 I trust they may mend—an ardent pursuit of my profes¬ 
 sional duties, a busy life, will, at all events, suit me better 
 than loitering on the sea coast of the North Biding. I 
 never care to see it again.” 
 
296 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 Bertina brightened visibly. 
 
 “ You are right,” she said, softly, “and I am glad you 
 do not despise an industrious career. Now I must leave 
 you, and return to”—again she hesitated—“ to the Hotel.” 
 
 “ Ma Y 1 not S° back with you 1 The beach affords but 
 rough walking. Would you not like first to ascend this 
 rocky wall—I know there are steps to the summit here¬ 
 abouts and see this bold coast, on which you wish me to 
 build a hermitage, from headland to headland. The view 
 must be splendid V 
 
 “ Provided you ask me no more questions,” said Bertina, 
 smiling for the first time. Fritz swore to be discreet, and 
 was permitted, as a reward, to assist his fair companion over 
 the stones, and up the rugged ladder cut in the rock, which 
 led to the top of the reef. Below them thundered the 
 waves of the N orth Sea, and the wind was so fierce, when 
 they rose above shelter, that, but for Fritz’s aid, Bertina 
 could not have kept her footing on the narrow ledge. Dizzy 
 with the whirling eddy of the waves, half blinded with 
 their spray, the young girl, nevertheless, felt happier as she 
 stood silent, supported by his friendly arm, than when she 
 sat alone in the sheltered cove under the lee of the rocks. 
 
 There was no crimson flush now on land or sea. The 
 morning sun, in bare reality, shone over a wild heap of 
 leaving waters, and showed the fine bold cliffs, from the 
 N orth Landing at Flamborough Castle to Scarborough. Ex¬ 
 cept [one wooded dell, in which Moriscombe lay shrouded, 
 scarcely a tree was to be seen; the wooded ravine behind 
 old Filey Town, ran up inland out of their view. Bare 
 
 bluffs and moors, with a turbulent ocean, made up the pic¬ 
 ture before them. ^ 
 
 Bertina turned away from it without reluctance. “ Like 
 yourself/ she said, dwelling upon the words which had 
 
MARINA . 
 
 297 
 
 given her pleasure; “I do not care to behold that cruel- 
 looking coast often. It is grand, but forbidding. Let us go 
 back to the beach.” 
 
 Fritz accepted the implied permission to escort her ; and 
 aided Bertina in the descent of the rocky stair, and along 
 the weed-strewn strip under the reef. As they went along, 
 he told her that he had joined his sisters at Moriscombe, in 
 order to escort the Countess on her journey ; and of his own 
 and Gertrude’s happy reconciliation with Florence. He 
 hoped that his father, also, in time would be appeased. 
 
 Some happy instinct prevented his mentioning Ellin or’s 
 name, but he said how unexceptionably agreeable Miss 
 Langdale made herself, and how entirely she seemed to have 
 laid aside former prejudices and animosities. Bertina lis¬ 
 tened with interest. When he paused, she said. “ Your 
 father may, eventually, be willing to forget and forgive the 
 past; but the time is not come yet. He thinks that Miss 
 Langdale’s enmity was against the wife he has lost, whose 
 image is ever present to his memory. You must wait.” 
 
 “ Well, I must bide my time,” said Fritz, meaningly. 
 “ That will be my motto for many a long day, I suspect. 
 Never mind, patience conquers many difficulties. If only 
 there is the faintest glimmer of hope, I can wait.” 
 
 He held out his hand to take leave. They had reached the 
 steps leading up the sea wall which protected the terrace. 
 No one was in sight, but the ordinary frequenters of the 
 beach. 
 
 Bertina gave him her hand, “ Patience and Perseverance,” 
 she said. ‘‘I have a right to recommend them, for I have 
 practised both : and, in the end, in most cases, if not in ours, 
 they lead to prosperous fortune.” 
 
 She turned quickly away, but Fritz stood still, watching 
 her as she ascended the steps; and his eyes followed her tall 
 
298 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 graceful form, till she entered the Hotel. It was a satisfac¬ 
 tion to him to perceive that no one came to meet her. As 
 long as she remained in sight Bertina was quite alone. 
 
 hiitz strode along quickly on his homeward way, ponder¬ 
 ing ovei the mystery. Who could Bertina’s travelling com¬ 
 panion be, for he knew another person was in the carriage ? 
 In age, in manner, in speech, the tall man in the dark cloak, 
 dimly seen through the mist, might be, as he had averred, 
 hei father ; but Bertina had no living parent. Fritz stood 
 still, unconsciously, in the pathway, trying to come to the 
 conclusion of these agitating doubts ; but it was in vain that 
 he tiied to account for her presence with these, to him, un¬ 
 known companions, at Filey. 
 
 The only satisfaction in the matter was, that he had per¬ 
 fect tiust in Bertina; and her last words held out encourage¬ 
 ment for perseverance, and hope in the future. His father 
 approved of her conduct, and Fritz knew well that Mr. 
 Langclale felt the deepest interest in his old friend^ daughter. 
 
 I eihaps some companion of the ruined exile had returned, 
 gifted with paternal authority, to England; and, to such a 
 peison, the desolate girl might naturally cling with almost 
 filial affection. Fritz recalled with pleasure the cordial tone 
 and clasp of the hand, warm even to friendliness, with 
 which Bertina's new protector had parted from him, the 
 previous evening. 
 
 , CHAPTER V. 
 
 Maud Langdale was sorely disappointed by the failure of 
 tue only attempt at match-making she had ever commenced. 
 Iiitzs merry laugh and unsentimental demeanour were as 
 discoura^m g as Ellinor’s tears and indignation. 
 
MARINA. 
 
 299 
 
 She wandered about in the plantations the next morning, 
 after breakfast; feeling, like most strong-minded people, 
 peculiarly discomfited when her will was thus baffled and 
 set at nought; even Florence’s society was distasteful to her 
 for the moment, now that her latest scheme for restoring 
 her tranquillity, had failed. 
 
 In the course of her aimless walk, Maud at last found 
 herself in the knoll overlooking the coast, where a flag-staff 
 had been erected, and a seat placed, commanding an ex¬ 
 tensive prospect. Tired of herself and of everything around 
 her, Miss Langdale, remembering the circumstance, turned 
 into the narrow winding walk, through hardy shrubs which 
 led up to this post of observation, intending to rest there 
 awhile before returning to the mansion. 
 
 All Maud’s pride was up in arms, when, on turning the 
 corner of the walk, she saw a stranger, quietly established 
 in this private part of her sister’s grounds. On the bench 
 lay a large cloak, apparently just thrown off; while the in¬ 
 dividual to whom it belonged, was standing surveying the 
 buildings on the cliff, through a glass which he had un¬ 
 strapped from his shoulders. 
 
 Maud’s step on the gravel announced her approach, and 
 the gentleman turned round and confronted her. As she 
 met his gaze, the angry address which the Lady of Langdale 
 was about to utter, died unspoken on her lips. The strong 
 woman stood still, and trembled. 
 
 The stranger took off his hat, courteously, and apologised 
 for his intrusion. He had been told by a rustic, that the 
 best view of the new Watering Place was to be obtained 
 from that point; and, the hour being early, he had hoped 
 to make his inspection without disturbing the family. 
 
 Maud listened as one in a dream. That voice sent her 
 thoughts back many years, and yet it seemed to her as if its 
 
300 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 mellow tones had rung in her ear not long since. She 
 dared not rebuke the stranger. The same strange dread 
 which had cowed her haughty spirit, when she strove to 
 beard in his den the vagrant who had presumed to shelter 
 himself at Noel Hall, again took possession other faculties. 
 She was forced to seat herself silently on the beach. 
 
 “ Are you interested in yonder, fair white houses on the 
 cliff T said the stranger, politely offering his glass, which 
 Miss Langdale declined with a gesture. “ Suffer me to 
 alter the focus: your eyes are younger than mine,” he 
 added, moving the slide of the telescope. “ Perhaps you 
 do not require it ? To me it is always delightful to see 
 tokens of human habitation in a wild scene like this. 
 Marina is a capital name.” 
 
 Miss Langdale, who detested the new bathing place, did 
 not speak. 
 
 “ You landed proprietors like to keep the jdeasant 
 places on God’s earth to yourselves, I fancy,” said the 
 stranger, smiling. “ I am of a different way of thinking ; 
 perhaps because, for a long time, I have been a wanderer, 
 without an acre of land I could honestly claim. This is no 
 longer the case now. I have the interest of a proprietor in 
 these rising villas—in that embryo church tower. I am 
 particularly glad that the new town, in which I am so 
 much interested, forms so pretty an object from these 
 grounds.” 
 
 Miss Langdale forced herself to speak. 
 
 “ This place is not mine; but, if its mistress is of my 
 opinion, she will plant out yonder eyesore. New build¬ 
 ings are seldom an improvement to a property.” 
 
 “ Cliacun a son gout” said the stranger. “ Perhaps the 
 name, which seems to me well-chosen, does not strike you 
 as suitable. You would not have called the new town 
 Marina ?” 
 
MARINA. 
 
 301 
 
 “No,” said Maud, “I hate the name. It has to me 
 very painful associations.” 
 
 “ That is unlucky,” responded her tormentor. “ I am fond 
 of the sea, and I like to hear of a bold deed being kept in 
 memory. I have heard that a child, named after the incident, 
 Marina, was saved on this coast from drowning. Is my 
 local tradition correct T 
 
 “ Yes,” replied Miss Langdale, unwillingly, her words 
 seeming to be dragged [from her by force. “ I have reason 
 to remember that shipwreck. All the misfortunes of my 
 life come from that source.” 
 
 “ Ah,” said the stranger, drawing a deep breath, “ I have 
 touched unwittingly on a tender chord—forgive me !—my 
 best friend in the world, Frank Langdale, on the contrary, 
 has told me a thousand times that his life’s happiness 
 dates from that event.” 
 
 Miss Langdale, whose eyes had been riveted to the ground, 
 suddenly raised Ahem. “ You are a'friend of Mr. Lang¬ 
 dale of Godley Grange V she said, more courteously. 
 “ Why did you not mention it sooner'?” 
 
 “ Because I was not sure that it would be a passport to 
 your favour,” said the unknown, fixing his dark eyes upon 
 her. “ If you so bitterly dislike the name of yon white- 
 walled town, because it reminds you that Cuthbert Noel 
 there did the one good deed of his bad life, in rescuing Frank 
 Langdale’s fair wife from an untimely grave, under those 
 turbulent waters, I can scarcely reckon you among the num¬ 
 ber of her devoted husband’s friends.” 
 
 “ Mr. Langdale is my first cousin,” said Maud, haughtily. 
 u Circumstances have caused temporary estrangement, but 
 I respect him sincerely. I trust we may soon be on better 
 terms. Meanwhile, as his friend, I am certain that Miss 
 Ellinor Langdale, to whom this quarrel has not extended, 
 
302 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 will bid you welcome, if you wish to extend your walk as 
 far as her house.” 
 
 Her stately courtesy seemed not lost on the stranger. 
 He thanked her warmly, but declined the invitation to the 
 Hall, which was but at a short distance. All he had wished 
 was to study the site of the new buildings from this 
 elevated point. 
 
 “ Time will reconcile you alike to the name and the 
 place,” he said. “ Time does everything except alter one 
 feature of your face. I wish I could say as much.” 
 
 He turned to leave the knoll. 
 
 “ Wait!” said Maud, in a trembling tone. “ Have I seen 
 and heard you speak before 1 Every word brings back the 
 past. When, and where, have we met V 
 
 “Nay, there are many reminiscences of our past lives 
 which even a stranger can evoke;—like my careless men¬ 
 tion of the name of yonder towm,” said the stranger. “I may 
 have seen a picture of you in your gay youth, or even heard 
 you described. I knew those who have loved you well, and 
 are now themselves forgotten. And yet you are changed. 
 Something is gone from you, Maud Langdale ; what is it ? 
 I miss something that I fancied never would drop from you. 
 What have you done with your pride % What has made 
 you so womanly T 
 
 “ Love,” said Maud, still speaking under the same strange 
 feeling of compulsion. “ A little child laid her hand on my 
 arm trustingly, and I never could shake off the touch. A 
 voice carolled words in my ear, and the wind blowing past 
 me brings them back. If this had happened to me sooner, 
 I might not be going to my grave unloving and unloved, as 
 I am now.” 
 
 “ That is utterly false ; no woman has been more loved, 
 more wildly worshipped,” said the stranger, drawing nearer 
 
MARINA. 
 
 303 - 
 
 to the now weeping woman. “ But for a fatal tie—a most 
 unhappy entanglement, which was his ruin—Cuthbert Noel 
 would have won you for his wife. Children of your own 
 would have laid clasping hands about your neck, little voices, 
 in language sweeter than songs, would have called you, 
 mother. But it was otherwise decreed. The death of 
 Cuthbert Noel’s low-born wife—for she was his wife—came 
 too late to set him free. Had his sons lived, he might have 
 acknowledged their mother sooner; but he never cared 
 seriously for any woman but one. You best know, Maud 
 Langdale, of what like she was, whom Cuthbert Noel loved 
 to the last.” 
 
 “ Who are you ?” said Maud suddenly, uncovering her 
 face, and lifting tearful eyes to meet the stranger’s. “ If the 
 grave had not years ago closed over Cuthbert Noel, I should 
 think I heard his voice now. Are you a Noel ?” 
 
 “ I once was one of that ill-fated race ■ now I have no 
 name, no family. Maud, you have seen, have spoken with 
 me before, that is why the tone of my voice sounds fami¬ 
 liarly. In Cuthbert’s name, I asked you to let me shelter 
 myself at Noel Hall, and you granted the permission kindly. 
 Under my superintendence, the place has risen from its 
 ruins. It is almost what it used to be in the life-time of 
 Lady Barbara, only your smile has not shone upon it. Now 
 do you recognize me T 
 
 Maud sprang from her seat, her eyes flashed angrily with 
 her wonted pride. “ This insolence is not to be borne,” 
 she exclaimed, “do you dare to tell me that you are the 
 forlorn vagrant, whom I tried in vain to eject from Noel Hall ? 
 Frank Langdale’s insolent prot^gb ! This is too much !” 
 
 All her recently acquired womanliness was gone. Maud 
 was once more, Miss Langdale, of Langdale Hall. Never¬ 
 theless, the bright blush became her, and her dark eyes 
 
THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 304 
 
 flashed with the fire of her youth. The stranger gazed long 
 and steadfastly at her. 
 
 “ You are a wonderful creature,” he said at last, “ I am 
 glad you have not altogether laid down your pride; it makes 
 you look like a handsome fury. Marina, poor Frank’s lost 
 angel, never was fit to he compared with you for beauty.” 
 
 He turned round as he spoke, and strode away from the 
 knoll. Maud watched his tall form with a sort of fascina¬ 
 tion ; and, when the turn in the path hid it from her view, 
 she changed her position that she might see it again. All 
 the pride departed from her face ; she bent her head low, 
 till it rested on the hands clasped upon her knee, and wept 
 bitterly. 
 
 Presently she started up, and going to the edge of the 
 knoll, watched to see a tall form emerge from the Moris- 
 combe trees, and cross the path, far down below her. “ Did 
 he think I had forgotten him 1 ?” she said softly, “ who, but 
 Cuthbert Noel himself, would have dared to look me in the 
 face, and call me beautiful, after that degrading confession ?” 
 
 She went back to the bench, when the man’s figure was 
 lost to sight, and sat down thoughtfully. Perhaps, of the 
 whole strange scene just passed, her memory was most busy 
 with the thought that the lover of her youth preferred her 
 to Marina. A warm blush again suffused her regular fea¬ 
 tures, and the head, slightly bent -to one side, the wistful 
 eyes, strangely resembled the picture hanging in the Hall 
 at Langdale ; only the abundant brown hair was no longer 
 cropped short, like a boy’s, and the stiff cloth habit had 
 been long since, to please Florence, replaced by soft lustrous 
 silk and costly lace. 
 
PAET THE EIGHTH. 
 
 DARKEST BEFORE THE DAWN. 
 
 In starry mansions, in realms of light, 
 
 Where seraph harps are ringing ; 
 
 Those visions fair that we lost on earth 
 Glad hymns of joy are singing : 
 
 Their voices float on the cool night air, 
 
 Their forms in the moonbeam hover, 
 
 And a brighter light on the earth is shed 
 As they pass its surface over. 
 
 The grass is withered, the flowers lie dead, 
 
 In that garden once so fair,— 
 
 But the pine boughs cross in the lowering sky, 
 The yew casts its shadow there ; 
 
 The graves of those whom I loved and lost 
 Still hallow that holy ground ;— 
 
 And there —if they linger yet on earth— 
 
 May youth’s bright hopes be found. 
 
 R. M. K. 
 
 20 
 
CHAPTER I. 
 
 It. LANGDALE was always an early riser, and, of 
 late, sleep had only for a few hours deadened 
 affliction. Since his wife’s death, the master of 
 the Grange occupied the dressing-room, facing eastward 
 up the long avenue, and above his own study. 
 
 Curtains and window blinds were drawn aside that he 
 might welcome the first ray of morning, which often broke 
 upon a weary vigil. When inaction became intolerable, 
 Mr. Langdale would rise and dress himself, and devote the 
 early hours of summer daylight to study. 
 
 Tne sun shone so brightly one fine September morning, 
 that he was tempted—contrary to his usual custom—out of 
 doors ; and his steps involuntarily led him in the direction 
 of Langdale churchyard. Marina was not buried in the 
 chancel; by her own wish she had been interred under a 
 group of trees, close to the pathway leading from the gate 
 nearest to the Grange. Her husband and children passed 
 the spot on their way to the sacred edifice. 
 
 It was still so early that the sunrays fell in long lines 
 athwart the sward, and the ground beneath the ancient yews 
 was in deep shadow. A few scarlet berries gleamed amidst 
 their dark foliage, and the low sunbeams lit up a wreath of 
 
 20—2 
 
308 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 delicate white flowers, freshly hung on the cross at the head 
 of Mrs. Langdale’s grave. 
 
 Her husband’s grief was of too stern and reserved a na¬ 
 ture to display itself in floral decorations, but Frances and 
 the twins loved to twine the' emblems of summer, as they 
 had done those of spring, round the insensible marble. 
 Even Mr. Langdale would pause and pluck off a dead leaf, 
 or an unsightly stem, and gaze with satisfaction on those 
 mute tokens of regard and filial affection. 
 
 The flowers were always removed before they faded, and 
 a fresh garland placed in their stead the following Sunday 
 morning. It must, indeed, have been an inclement season 
 which prevented the young girls at the Grange from adorn¬ 
 ing the simple marble cross with its usual tribute of love. 
 
 On the previous evening, when, as usual, at the quiet sun¬ 
 set hour he visited the churchyard, Mr. Langdale had 
 noticed that there were no flowers on the grave. Now, as 
 he approached, athwart the green mound, he saw the shadow 
 of a female form, kneeling to affix a fresh wreath. 
 
 Frank Langdale stopped short under the yew trees, 
 breathing quickly. Across his mind, with the lightning 
 quickness with which affection paints such pictures, came 
 the recollection of his youngest daughter, whom he had not 
 seen for years, as she had looked, when he came to tell Ma¬ 
 rina of Miss Langdale’s proposal, and found Florence lying 
 on the couch beside her. Could it, indeed, be “the little one” 
 whom he saw bending lowly over her mother’s grave ? 
 
 Miss Langdale’s absence from the Hall with her adopted 
 daughter, had not prepared him for this sight. He believed 
 them to be miles away, and yet, that slender black-robed 
 form, now prostrate in bitter grief, humbly kissing the 
 daisy-enamelled sod ; could be—was—none other than 
 Florence Langdale. 
 
DARKEST BEFORE THE DA WN. 309 
 
 The humility of the mourner’s attitude touched Mr. 
 Lan"dale’s hardened heart. Not a sob disturbed the solemn 
 
 O 
 
 silence of the morning—the mournful tranquillity of that 
 sacred place. The slight girlish figure lay prostrate on the 
 turf, like a flower so rudely pulled that the stem had lost its 
 strength. 
 
 Over the father’s heart—like sweet refreshing waters— 
 rushed a tide of memories connected with the wife he had 
 lost, and her child. At that moment he scarcely recollected 
 that Florence was his own daughter, nor her offence against 
 himself. She was “ the little one ’’—Marina’s darling—once 
 more. 
 
 He saw them in the invalid’s room at the Grange. Flo¬ 
 rence still a child, low at her mother’s knee, reading or 
 listening; then again, he remembered her devoted attention 
 to her suffering parent after she had rejected Miss Lang- 
 dale’s first overtures, and elected to remain at home. Words 
 of love, spoken by his angel wife, floated in the air, were 
 written on the grass—painted by the sunbeams, as they 
 flickered through the boughs, and fell in bright waving 
 lines and patches of radiance on Marina’s grave. 
 
 Florence had lifted her head, but she had not risen from 
 her knees. She was again busy with the garland on the 
 cross, lovingly bending the wire, so as to encircle it closely. 
 Among the rarer flowers of Ellinor’s hothouse, were tufts of 
 heath from the moor, which Florence had gathered on her 
 last evening at Moriscombe, and brought home in the Ger¬ 
 man basket, the only relic in her possession of her dead 
 mother. It had contained her gifts to the cottager who had 
 told her of Miss Langclale’s illness, on that day when she 
 first entered Langdale Hall. 
 
 Even this trifling emblem of the dead, at this moment of 
 reawakened feeling, was not lost upon Mr. Langdale. He 
 
310 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 . remembered the little one’s delight when she found her 
 mother’s basket, which she had carelessly left behind her on 
 the grass at the river’s brink, safe on the hall table, full of 
 beautiful fruits ; the proud generosity with which she distri¬ 
 buted its contents, and the care lavished on the few choice 
 fern leaves and flowers which alone she appropriated. From 
 her earliest childhood, Flo was as generous as a princess. 
 
 Once more, bending lowly in prayer beside her mother’s 
 grave, he saw Marina’s little one • despondent, fragile, 
 broken-spirited, kneeling on the dewy grass, alone, an out¬ 
 cast from family affection. Only at that untimely hour dared 
 she approach that hallowed spot !—only when her sorrow, 
 her repentance, could not disturb the privileged grief of her 
 father and sisters ; of those who had shared the last vigils, 
 and watched beside the dead form, of the mother who had 
 loved her best of all. 
 
 Mrs. Langdale’s fatal illness had been brief, but, at the 
 last, she had bitterly regretted Florence’s absence. Her 
 blessing and forgiveness had been transmitted; but no 
 one, save her husband, knew how warm the love and compas¬ 
 sion had been with which, when she realised the approach 
 of death, she had mourned and moaned for the little one. 
 At the time this had increased his anger. Now, like clouds 
 before sunshine, the darkness rolled away;—the heart of 
 stone melted in the man’s bosom, and became warm living 
 
 ' o 
 
 flesh. All real, all imaginary offences vanished, as he 
 watched his child kneeling in tears beside Marina’s tomb, 
 and he came suddenly out of the shadow of the yew trees 
 towards her. 
 
 Florence trembled and started up. “ Do not be angry 
 with me, father. These are Ellinor’s flowers,” she said, 
 pointing out a label on which her name was written. “ She 
 asked me to hang the wreath on the cross, for her.” 
 
DARKEST BEFORE THE DA WN. 311 
 
 Mr. Langdale’s heart reproached him when he saw how • 
 much she was terrified. He came close up to her, and took 
 her hand. “Let it be a peace-offering, he said, gently. 
 
 • Henceforward I recognise you as 'the little one.’” 
 
 Florence threw herself into his arms. “ Indeed, indeed, 
 
 I never meant to leave you and mamma. I was told, quite 
 suddenly, that Miss Langdale was dying, and I wanted to 
 thank her for her great goodness to me, that was all. I 
 meant to come home immediately—but then I was afraid. I 
 thought you were so angry with me and with our cousin, and 
 she was so ill and lonely. I can’t think how it happened— 
 but indeed, indeed, I did not willingly forsake my mother. 
 Never, never, can I forgive myself for grieving her.” 
 
 “ Marina knew you better than I did,” said her father. 
 
 “ She always took your part. I did not; even now I can¬ 
 not quite forgive you for making her suffer—but we will not 
 speak of it again. Here, at all events, let there be peace 
 between us. Come here as often as you like.” 
 
 Florence thanked him warmly. “ I shall not feel quite 
 an outcast from home, if I may sometimes visit this spot 
 unchidden. I came early that I might not intrude upon 
 your grief. I will not trouble you longer.” 
 
 She dried her tears and took up her basket, preparing to 
 depart. Mr. Langdale lingered for a moment. “ Are you 
 happy, child f he said at last. “ Is Miss Langdale kind to 
 you, still 1 If she changes, come back to us.” 
 
 “Miss Langdale has been like a mother to me since I 
 lost my own,” said Florence, eagerly. “ There has not been 
 the shadow of an alteration. I believe it would kill her to 
 part from me.” 
 
 “ Neither do I wish it,” said Mr. Langdale, gravely. “It 
 is too late. I have other children who have always been 
 dutiful to me and to their angel mother ; but I did not mean 
 
312 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 to reproach you. Say nothing to my Cousin Maud of what 
 has passed this morning,” he added, in a harsher tone. I do 
 not desire to make any outward difference, but, remember, 
 there is peace here , at your mother’s grave, and in my heart, • 
 towards you. Let this suffice for the present.” 
 
 He turned quickly away, and left the churchyard. Stern 
 grief and pride were busy at his heart. He could not for¬ 
 give Maud Langdale, as he had done his daughter. 
 
 -K>«- 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Autumn had settled prematurely, as is the case in all 
 manufacturing districts, on the winding valley of the Lang. 
 The leaves, withered into a dull, dark brown, already car¬ 
 peted the soil under the old trees; save when at sunset the 
 last beams shone warmly on the woods, gilding them with 
 a glory not their own. It was a dull foggy season, and the 
 wind, when it shifted its course, only altered the direction 
 from whence the mist and smoke wreaths swooped over 
 the low lands near the river. 
 
 The old rooms at the Hall looked dark and dreary in the 
 scanty daylight, which penetrated with difficulty through 
 the small-paned mullioned casements. Florence wandered 
 disconsolately from one sombre apartment to another, try¬ 
 ing to find a painting light by which to complete the 
 paintings and sketches begun in Italy. Tears filled her 
 eyes when she first took them out of her portfolio. 
 
 It seemed to the forlorn girl as though she had left her 
 life’s happiness behind her in sunny, southern Europe. 
 Since the day when the tidings of her mother’s illness had 
 reached her, Florence had known nothing but sorrow, re¬ 
 lieved only, for a brief space, by her reconciliation with 
 
DARKEST BEFORE THE DA WxV. 
 
 313 
 
 Gertrude and Fritz, at Moriscombe. From the moment of 
 their departure, impatience recommenced. It was in accord¬ 
 ance with her adopted daughter’s wishes, that Miss Lang- 
 • dale returned home. 
 
 Now that she was once more at the Hall, settled there 
 apparently for life, Florence longed to be away from the 
 place. The one brief interview beside her mother’s grave 
 with her surviving parent, did not tranquillise her. Mr. 
 Langdale’s cold permission that she should revisit that 
 sacred spot, was far from satisfying the girl’s yearning for 
 affection. She still felt herself to be unloved, and she 
 knew that her kind adopted mother, was still unforgiven. 
 
 If Mr. Langdale sometimes started when a shadow fell 
 athwart the grass, or a footstep sounded on the gravel, he 
 was speedily undeceived. A waving bough swayed by the 
 strong wind across Marina’s grave, or one of the school- 
 children crossing the churchyard, was the cause of the slight 
 disturbance of his melancholy m usings. Florence, if she 
 came there at all, took care not to encounter her father. 
 
 Though he would not have owned that he was disap¬ 
 pointed, Mr. Langdale often wondered that the child, as he 
 still considered her, did not avail herself of his permission 
 to visit her mother’s grave. He treasured up this omission 
 among her other offences. The little one, after all, had for¬ 
 gotten her mother. No fresh wreath, instead of the one 
 with which he desired them not to interfere too soon, was 
 placed on the cross; until, when it was quite faded, the 
 twins tenderly removed Ellinor’s garland, and substituted 
 fresh, late-blooming, flowers. It did not occur to any one 
 but her father, that Florence should have renewed the offer¬ 
 ing, nor to think that she dared not do it. Behind the 
 crimson curtains, which used to be put back completely, now 
 only partially withdrawn, of Miss Langdale’s large pew in 
 
314 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 the chancel, her sisters fancied that Florence must often he 
 sitting; but, if so, she waited till every member of her 
 family had left the church, before she moved. 
 
 Perhaps if these affectionate girls had seen the tall, slight, 
 form that timidly followed them down the aisle, with a tread 
 so unlike the hounding footsteps of the little one, they 
 would have waited for her, and, even in defiance of parental 
 authority, have found some mode of communication; but 
 Florence shrank from the eyes of her sisters, almost as much 
 as from meeting her father. She leant, heavily for one so 
 young, on Miss Langdale’s arm; and got into the carriage, 
 which waited for them at the churchyard gate, without 
 casting a glance either to the right or left. 
 
 There were not many Sundays, during that damp in¬ 
 clement autumn, when Florence could venture to church. Dr. 
 Forsyth shook his head when he saw her growing thinner 
 and thinner, paler and paler, week by week. He suggested 
 to Miss Langdale that they should spend the approaching 
 winter in Italy, but Florence refused to leave England. 
 
 Maud watched her with a mother’s anxiety. Every pos¬ 
 sible means of giving her pleasure, and benefiting her deli¬ 
 cate health was tried, and all in succession failed. Florence 
 was too weak to walk, too nervous to ride, even the luxu¬ 
 rious, well hung carriage, shook and fatigued her. She 
 spent days and weeks without leaving the house. 
 
 One afternoon, when the sun shone warmly overhead, 
 the mistress of Langdale proposed that they should visit 
 Noel Hall. Florence assented with some animation, and 
 they drove together to the summit of the hill. Far above, 
 and out of the reach of the smoke, the large trees near the 
 old Hall had not lost their leaves. A warm glowing hue 
 pervaded their foliage, making the picturesque group on the 
 hill top, look yet more massive. Over the walls of the man- 
 
315 
 
 DARKEST BEFORE THE DA IVN. 
 
 sion a scarlet-berried creeper stretched its vigorous growth, 
 and, in the corner of the courtyard, were richly-glowing 
 chrysanthemums and hollyhocks. There were no unruly 
 children, no unlicensed curs, at play on the flag-stones, no 
 women and girls drawing water at the well. All was soli¬ 
 tary, well ordered, stateliness. 
 
 Over the portal were the deep cut letters, freshly pointed 
 and cleared from weeds and lichens, of the presumptuous, 
 motto of the reckless, haughty Noels. Gleams of light shot 
 from the painted windows, glooms of deep shadow fell over 
 the pavement from dark stone statues of knights in armour 
 at the angles of the walls, or ponderous bears and lions, 
 carved in imitation of nature, grim and forbidding. 
 
 The curly-headed boy ran out at the sound of carriage- 
 wheels. Miss Langdale and Florence alighted, passing- 
 under the arched gateway. Maud looked round ; but there 
 was no one sitting in the sunny corner of the courtyard, 
 which had been the General’s favourite station. 
 
 The old dame had shifted her quarters from the ban¬ 
 queting hall,—now restored to its ancient splendour, hung 
 with arras and old family pictures,—and invited the ladies 
 into a small oak-panelled room, where a cozy fire was burn- 
 ing, v ith Meg, the black cat, stretched on the rug j tired pro¬ 
 bably of her nightly maraudings, in Miss Langdale’s game 
 preserves. 
 
 “ There, sit ye down, and I’ll make ye some tea, Miss 
 Florence—ye do look bad surely,” she said, as the pale girl 
 entered. “ Ye’ll excuse me, madam, but she do look as if 
 she ought to be attended to first, and ye see Fve known 
 Miss Flo from a baby.” 
 
 She bustled about, and soon poured out, from an old- 
 fashioned tea-pot, a refreshing cup for the delicate girl. 
 Miss Langdale said quietly,— 
 
316 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 “ Autumn is a trying season—Miss Florence will be better 
 when we have clear frosty weather. The air here is purer 
 than in the valley. If you like the change, Flo, we will 
 come to Noel Hall for a little while.” 
 
 “It be fresh enoo’up here, to be sure,” said the dame. 
 “ It do blow of a night, I can tell ye, but the slates don’t 
 rattle off now same as they used to. All’s right and tight. 
 But it be mortal lonely, since all the folks be gone.” 
 
 Meg yawned and got up, arching her back and bristling 
 up her coat; but when Florence gently stroked her, the 
 black cat purred, and rubbed herself against the young lady’s 
 soft mourning dress. 
 
 “What has become of the person who lodged in the 
 Gateway Tower?” said Miss Langdale, breaking silence 
 with an effort. 
 
 “ Oh aye—the old General. He’s cleared off at last,” said 
 the dame. “ He’s been gone a month or more. I don’t 
 think the place suited him so well, after it was put in order. 
 He just liked picking up bits and pieces, and making the 
 old things fit, in his own ramshackle way. When the work¬ 
 men began at the Gateway Tower, he said it was^high time 
 he should flit; and there was no one cared to hinder him.” 
 
 Florence looked bitterly vexed. “ I thought I should 
 have found my old friend here,” she said ; “ but every thing 
 and every one I loved as a child, seems to shun me. I 
 would rather not go up the staircase of the Gateway Tower, 
 if the General is not there to welcome me.” 
 
 Maud acquiesced, as she did in all Florence’s most wayward 
 whims. “We will do just as you like best, my love. Perhaps 
 the air on the liill-top is too keen for you. Did the man say 
 nothing about returning T she said, addressing the dame. 
 “ He told me that he did not ever wish to leave this place.” 
 
 “ He’d be back some time when he was least expected— 
 
DARKEST BEFORE THE DA WN. 
 
 317 
 
 may be Christmas,” replied the dame. “ Just at present 
 he was going on a visit to his daughter, down in Calder 
 Yale. That’s about all he said, Mistress Langdale ; and I 
 mind it, because it puzzled me to hear he had kith and kin 
 near at hand. He always seemed strange-like. Ned will go 
 with ye if ye want the doors stirred, they are terrible hard 
 to open, sometimes ; but the little chap, though he’s small, is 
 uncommon handy.” 
 
 Miss Langdale, however, declined the lad’s attendance. 
 Her own spirits seemed to be as much damped as were 
 those of Florence, and the short daylight of the autumn 
 afternoon was closing in. It would not have flattered the 
 clever architect, who had put forth his best abilities to 
 restore Noel Hall, if he had seen how carelessly his work 
 was scanned by the eyes he had intended to gratify. 
 
 After this drive Miss Langdale’s Neapolitan horses re¬ 
 mained in the stable. The Italian coachman was left to 
 exhale his wrath against the climate of the foggy north, 
 and perhaps the caprices of English ladies. Florence 
 shrank from the keen winds on the hills, and the damp 
 mist in the valley; even when the sunshine was bright and 
 clear she did not care to leave the house. 
 
 Once or twice only, she stole through the grounds by 
 the private path, to the Church, watching before she 
 emerged from the trees to see that the place was quite 
 solitary. The last of these visits was paid on a gloomy 
 November evening, with rain falling and the sward 
 thoroughly wetted. Miss Langdale missed her young favour¬ 
 ite, when the dark, short day came to a close j and, in 
 great alarm, instituted a search which ended in the rural 
 Church-yard. Florence was discovered by Maud herself, 
 totally insensible, lying on the damp grass, under the drip¬ 
 ping trees, beside Marina’s grave. 
 
318 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 » 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 One of those lovely, summer-like days of late autumn 
 shone over the land, which often gild the declining year. 
 The mist, like a filmy veil over a beautiful face, increased 
 the delicacy of the tints on the foliage that fringed the 
 sides of the dough, through which the Lang found its way. 
 The Yorkshire hills, seen through the glowing mirage, 
 seemed mountainous ; the sunrays streaming down, across 
 dark soft piles of grey and purple clouds, into the rich 
 masses of woodland. Here and there, sharp lights caught 
 the scarped ravines where stone had been quarried, or 
 glittered in the stream; but, generally, the radiance was 
 sobered and saddened by the same transparent atmosphere 
 which hung above the beautiful valley. 
 
 From the Hall Terrace, the view was especially lovely. 
 Florence had yielded to persuasion, and lay on a sofa en¬ 
 joying the soft sunshine. Maud Langdale, too impatient to 
 sit still, walked up and down; stopping frequently to speak 
 to the languid girl, or to order a domestic to make some 
 fresh anangement for her comfort. That very morning 
 Hr. Forsyth had told her that, unless Florence could be 
 roused to take interest in life, he had the very worst appre¬ 
 hensions respecting her health. 
 
 Maud remembered the day when, with similar impatience, 
 she had awaited Mr. Haywarden’s communications, and 
 rebelled in spirit against her cousin’s decision. Now, her 
 gianted wish had turned to a curse. Withered prema¬ 
 turely, pale, inanimate, she feared dying, lay the once fair, 
 now faded, broken-stalked lily she had culled; stealing the 
 tender blossom ruthlessly away from the humble home of 
 
DARKEST BEFORE l 1 HE DA WX. 
 
 319 
 
 Frank and his Marina, that high peaked grey-roofed old 
 house, just visible through the trees of the Park. 
 
 One of the few, sharp dazzling rays of light, which 
 seemed to come direct from Heaven, uncontaminated by 
 the mist and smoke wreaths that hung over the valley, 
 struck upon a high window set deep in one of the peaked 
 gables of Godley Grange, making the old house seem 
 strangely near. In summer the building was not visible 
 from Miss Langdale’s terrace, though a portion of the 
 garden, sloping towards the lake, was always plainly seen 
 —that old fashioned parterre where Ellinor had watched, 
 through tears, the little white frocked girls at work and play. 
 
 Now, the glass shone like a star through an opening in 
 the nearly leafless trees : Florence’s eyes were fixed upon it, 
 with a sad, weary, longing expression. She had not spoken 
 the last time Maud stopped by her side. Her old habit 
 of reserve had crept upon her of late, and the sick girl’s 
 thoughts were away—it might be, in her old nursery, where 
 that golden radiance glimmered on the diamond-paned 
 lattice—or in the world of spirits, with her gentle mother. 
 
 Miss Langdale crossed the grass suddenly, and coming 
 close to Florence, stood still, gazing out over the valley. 
 This time the young girl looked up in her face affection¬ 
 ately, saying, “We did not see any view more beautiful 
 than this, in all our wanderings.” 
 
 Maud stooped down, and kissed her. “None that had 
 the same charm she said. “ After all those were strange 
 lands. Here all we look on is our own.” 
 
 A shade crossed Florence’s face. 
 
 “I am not sure that I enjoy it more on that account,” 
 she said, mournfully. “ Langdale Hall was like Paradise 
 when its gates seemed for ever shut against me. Now 
 that you say it is to be mine some day, I have discovered 
 
320 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF LA NO DALE HALL. 
 
 that property and riches bear with them a heavy 
 penalty. 
 
 “ Would you be happier, Florence, if the will were re¬ 
 voked that makes you my heiress?’' said Miss Langdale, 
 trembling. “ Must I, after all, give you up ? Can you find 
 happiness and health nowhere but under those high-peaked 
 gables, where yonder star of light seems beckoning ? Have 
 I read your dream rightly?” 
 
 Florence burst into tears, and threw her arms round 
 Maud’s neck, 
 
 “No, I do not wish to leave you. I have no mother but 
 yourself,” she said. “ I do not think I should be happy now 
 at the old Grange. My place is filled up.” 
 
 Miss Langdale warmly returned her embrace. “I am 
 glad you do not wish to leave me, Florence. Let us take 
 that star as an emblem of hope. See how it lights up the 
 old Grange. Perhaps it has penetrated within its walls, 
 and brightened the darkness. Tell me, my darling, what 
 it is you wish me to do ? ” 
 
 “ There is nothing to be done,” said Florence, gloomily. 
 “ When I am dead, tell my father, or let him be told, for I 
 do not wish you to encounter fresh humiliation on my ac¬ 
 count—that I was glad to be taken out of the way. And. 
 oh, let Fritz be, as we used to call him in jest, the heir of 
 Langdale !” 
 
 The sunset light had faded from the windows of the 
 Grange, but the evening star shone down through the 
 Langdale trees, and cast glimmering light over the paved 
 Roman road leading to Godley Grange, as a tall female, 
 wrapped in a cloak, passed through the gate, and walked 
 with a quick, firm step down the long avenue. 
 
 There was a light in a window on the ground-floor, 
 usually at this hour. Mr. Langdale, of late, had given up 
 
DARKEST BEFORE THE DA WN. 
 
 321 
 
 spending the evening with his daughters; when tea was 
 over, he retired to his study, where he often sat up, reading 
 or writing, until after midnight. 
 
 The woman paused for a moment, and stood looking at 
 this lighted window; then she pulled the bell at the en¬ 
 trance, not loudly but decidedly. A servant answered the 
 appeal immediately, and went, at the request of the stranger, 
 to enquire if Mr. Langdale would object to speaking with 
 the person who waited outside, on urgent business. It was 
 a matter, the woman directed the servant to tell her master, 
 of life and death. 
 
 Mr. Langdale did not keep the petitioner waiting. He 
 concluded that one of the not unfrequent accidents at the 
 neighbouring coal-pits had occurred, and that the mother or 
 sister of some sufferer, needed aid; and his heart, in cases 
 of distress, was warm and soft. Nevertheless, when the 
 servant introduced the tall female, who stood still and silent 
 until the door was again closed, a sort of angry suspicion 
 stole upon him. 
 
 “What is your business with mef he said, somewhat 
 coldly. “Do I know you, or any of your family? What 
 is it you want?” 
 
 The woman stepped into the lamplight, threw up her 
 veil, and dropped the heavy cloak. “ You knew me once, 
 Frank,” she said. “ I am your cousin Maud, and I have come 
 to ask a favour. You hold life, and death, in your hands.” 
 
 Mr. Langdale turned deadly pale. 
 
 In the still handsome, haughty face, on which the lamp¬ 
 light shone fully, tumultuous emotions were betrayed, but 
 Miss Langdale’s voice was firm. He was the most agitated 
 of the two. 
 
 “ My cousin,” she said, “ I have come to you as a sup¬ 
 pliant. ' We have both erred, but mine was the greatest 
 
 21 
 
• 322 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF LANGE ALE HALL. 
 
 transgression; and now, my punishment is more than I can 
 bear. Grant me your forgiveness. Perhaps, if you do this, 
 God also may pardon my sin, and not take the child, Flo¬ 
 rence, from us.” 
 
 Mr. Langdale started. “ What is it you say,” he ex¬ 
 claimed. “ Is Florence really, dangerously, ill V 
 
 “ I do not believe that she will ever recover unless you for¬ 
 give us—her and me,” said Maud, simply and sadly. “Her 
 loving heart is almost broken, and she will not sever her lot 
 from mine. Frank, you must'forgive me, as well as the child.” 
 
 She stood with her hands clasped, as though ready to sink 
 down on her knees before him. “ Florence is no longer my 
 heiress. At her request, I have destroyed the will which 
 made her heiress of Langdale; my savings are all she will 
 consent to receive from me, but she loves me dearly, in spite 
 of all my wickedness.” 
 
 Mr. Langdale was much affected. “ Did the child ask you 
 to come to me, Maud ?” he said, “ or is this act of your own 
 prompting. Florence should have had my pardon long ago, 
 if she had pleaded for it half as humbly as you have done.” 
 
 “ Florence knows nothing of my visit to you to-night,” 
 said Miss Langdale. “ I cannot see her waste away before 
 my eyes, without an effort to save her. I would have died 
 to give her pleasure, but she never asked me a favour, 
 until this evening ; and then it was coupled with the con¬ 
 viction that she would not live. She begged me to make 
 Fritz the heir of Langdale, and I have done it. May we 
 not be friends ?” 
 
 Mr. Langdale took her offered hand. “Would that you 
 had shown yourself in your true colours sooner, my cousin,” 
 he said, with a sigh. “ Why have we been foes so long?” 
 
 “ Because you wounded my pride more sorely than I have 
 humiliated myself now, once before, when I was ill able to 
 
DARKEST BEFORE THE DA WN. 323 
 
 bear it,” said Maud, fire flashing from her eyes. “ Did it 
 never strike you, Frank Langdale, that I was not a woman 
 to forgive being slighted—having another preferred before 
 me 1 If you did not guess it—if, blinded by your love for a 
 fair girl, you did not even perceive it—learn my life-secret 
 now—it is in some sort a palliation for my sin towards you 
 and your wife. I cared more for you than I ever did for Cuth- 
 bert Noel, the unworthy lover of my girlhood. You rescued 
 me from bitter shame. You pointed out to me that I was 
 fitted for better things than to be the bride of a spendthrift, 
 a ne’er-do-weel, like the last of the Noels; and I took your 
 advice, and, in so doing, ran into a more destructive peril. 
 I loved him with a girl’s blindfold idolatry —You I wor¬ 
 shipped, as women worship heroes, and with my eyes 
 open, saw in you all that was most calculated to make a 
 wife happy. You won my heart, and then you married 
 another woman. Is it a marvel that I hated her ?” 
 
 The blood rushed to Mr. Langdale’s brow. “ Do not 
 name her ! he said, sternly. “I cannot bear it from your lips. 
 And you call this an excuse. To me it seems an as^ra- 
 vation of your crime. But I do not believe it. Love works 
 no evil to its object. You have blighted my whole life.” 
 
 u Love turned to hatred, works woe,” said Miss Langdale. 
 “ Woe, to the breast it enters, first of all! Frank, I am 
 humbled now. I ask your forgiveness for myself, and for 
 your innocent child, on my knees. It was I who lured her 
 to Langdale * or rather, her own sweet impulse of womanly 
 compassion and gratitude first led her there, and I drew the 
 net tight, and kept her my prisoner. I loved her with a 
 wild passion which disclaimed rules and regulations. I won 
 her affection and pity, and I wound myself into her tender 
 heart. The child cannot be happy, she says, unless you 
 forgive me also.” 
 
 21—2 
 
324 
 
 THE MIST BESS OF LANG DALE HALL. 
 
 Mr. Langdale prevented the gesture with which the pas¬ 
 sionate woman strove to humble herself yet more before 
 him; and, sadly and sorrowfully, took her hand in his own. 
 “ It is enough, Maud,” he said. “ Take me at once to the 
 little one.” 
 
 CHAPTER TV. 
 
 * 
 
 Florence had gone from the terrace to her own apartments, 
 fatigued with the slight exertion which she had made to 
 please Miss Langdale. The evening star shone down upon 
 the tops of the trees in the dough, and glittered in the 
 distance on the waters of the lake. 
 
 As she lay on the couch beneath the window, the young 
 girl thought sadly of her old home, hidden among the trees 
 of the valley. What was the meaning of this increasing 
 weakness %—of the utter incapability which she had lately 
 experienced to rouse herself to the slightest exertion—of 
 the indifference to life’s pleasures creeping fast upon her. 
 Was it Death that was approaching 1 She shuddered at the 
 dreary prospect. 
 
 And yet, if this isolation were protracted, what was life 
 worth 1 With the impatience of youth—the fretfulness of 
 ill-health—Florence tried to persuade herself that she was 
 ready to leave a world which had disappointed her so sadly. 
 Death to the very young seems nearer—is scarcely so terri¬ 
 ble when vaguely apprehended, as in the active career of 
 middle age; but, now, when for the first time Flo tried to 
 face the dark menacing spectre, tears of self-pity filled her 
 eyes at her own early doom. 
 
 Her attendant had been forbidden to light candles, or to 
 close the window. Excepting that faint ray, quivering 
 
DARKEST BEFORE THE DA WN. 
 
 325 
 
 over the trees and water, all was darkly, solemnly still. 
 Florence shivered as the evening air stole in through the 
 casement. She tried to draw it close, but her weak hand 
 failed her; so she lay quiet, half crying, longing for light, for 
 some human companionship—wishing that loving arms were 
 round her—thinking of her home. 
 
 It was a relief when at last the door was gently opened 
 though only by a servant—the pretty maiden who had 
 waited upon Florence since her arrival at Langdale now 
 bustled about the room, lighting it up cheerfully, closing the 
 casement, and kindling the wood fire piled upon dogs in the 
 large open grate. The flames lit up the emblazoned quar- 
 terings of the shields containing the coats of arms of the 
 Langdales, and of families with whom they had intermarried, 
 which were set in the dark stone above the fire-place. 
 
 When the maid-servant had arranged Florence’s sitting 
 room for the evening, she came close to her young mistress, 
 and told her that there was some one below—two persons in 
 fact—who wanted to see her ; the soldier who used to lodge 
 in the Gateway Tower at Noel Hall, and his daughter. 
 
 Florence looked up joyfully. Her eyes sparkled with un¬ 
 wonted animation. She desired Sibella to show her visitors 
 at once upstairs; and prepared, with revived spirits, for their 
 reception. 
 
 A strange sort of shy wonder overcame Florence’s sensa¬ 
 tions of pleasure, when the door opened, and a tall man 
 entered the boudoir appropriated to the young Lady of 
 Langdale, with a slender, beautiful, dark-eyed girl leaning 
 on his arm. She looked at him fixedly, and recognised, 
 with difficulty, her old friend the General. He was the same, 
 yet different,—and, on his part, Florence’s changed aspect 
 made him gaze at her with wonder. 
 
 “ What is the matter with you, little one V he said, re- 
 
326 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 proachfully, taking in his own her thin, trembling hand. “I 
 heard that you had been to look for me at Noel Hall, and 
 that you were vexed to find that the old owl had flown off his 
 perch. But, tell me, what makes you look so pale and ill ?” 
 
 Florence burst into tears. “It is all so changed,” she said, 
 at intervals. “ Home is not home. Langdale is not Lang- 
 dale. Even you are altered, and who is that grand young 
 lady? I never heard you had a daughter.” 
 
 “ I have one who is not ashamed of her old father,” said 
 the General. “ Come nearer, Bertina, and kiss the little one. 
 She looks as if she sorely needed affection.” 
 
 The two girls looked at each other for a moment. Then 
 Florence’s reserve gave way, and, with a sob, she embraced 
 Bertina. 
 
 “ That’s right,” said the General. “ Marina Langdale’s 
 child, and Bertie Noel’s, should be friends. Florence, I am 
 that spendthrift, that vagrant,—or, rather, I was the man who 
 squandered his inheritance and then returned to the old 
 Hall, glad to sit by the old crone’s hearth whom Maud 
 Langdale had thought fit to place under the roof-tree of the 
 Noels,—thankful for food which, in my reckless profusion, 
 I once thought fit only for swine to eat.—I am Bertie Noel 
 and this is my dear child, Bertina.” 
 
 Florence pressed the young girl to her heart. They were 
 friends at once. She did not exactly understand the drift 
 of the General’s harangue, but she was rejoiced that he was 
 about to assume, or resume , a more befitting 1 , station. The 
 ruined Noels had always excited her romantic imagination. 
 
 “ You are Bertie Noel,” she exclaimed, “ and we have 
 fitted up the Hall for you,—that is just as it should be,— 
 and your daughter will keep house for you, and take care 
 that you do not spend too much money. For, remember, you 
 must never leave Noel Hall again.” 
 
DARKEST BEFORE THE DA WN. 
 
 327 
 
 “ Nay, nay, I have left it now. My home is in the little 
 stone house in Calder Dale, with Bertina,” said the General. 
 “ That home has never ceased to he ours, and I have learnt 
 to be thankful for honest independence.” 
 
 “ I tell you Noel Hall is just as much yours as ever it 
 was,” said Florence, doggedly. “I heard Mr. Haywarden 
 tell Miss Langdale, while the old place was under repair, 
 that it was so much money thrown away if Cuthbert Noel 
 was alive ; and that, as I was to be her heiress, I should be 
 the sufferer; and we both agreed, when he walked away in 
 a passion, that we only hoped Cuthbert Noel might come 
 back and enjoy his own again.” 
 
 At that moment the door softly opened, and Miss Lang¬ 
 dale came in. She did not look at Florence’s visitors, but 
 went straight up to her sofa. 
 
 “ What has changed you, my darling?” she said, astonished 
 at her flushed cheek and excited manner. “ I have not seen 
 a smile like that upon your face, for months.” 
 
 “ Cousin Maud,—look at him. It is Bertie Noel!” ex¬ 
 claimed Florence. “ And he wants to go away again, and 
 spend all his money, and be a vagrant and an outcast. Only 
 he has got one tie to respectability. This dear girl,—whom 
 I love, who is going to be a sister to me since I have lost my 
 own,—is his child, his only daughter, Bertina Noel. Must 
 they not live at the Hall, now that we have fitted it up 
 for them ? She is just like the picture of her grandmother, 
 Lady Barbara.” 
 
 Maud looked full at the young girl, who had risen and 
 stood confronting her with modest dignity. The tall, 
 graceful figure, the dark eyes, and stately bearing, indeed 
 resembled, though in a softened manner, those of Cuthbert’s 
 beautiful, haughty mother. 
 
 .“ The child is right,” Miss Langdale said, holding out her 
 hand. “ You are a Noel, every inch of you! Cuthbert, 
 
328 THE MISTRESS OF LANGE ALE HALL . 
 
 I knew you when we stood on the knoll, looking at the 
 white buildings on the cliff; Noel Hall is ready for you. I 
 looked to find you there last week. And now Flo,” she 
 continued in an altered softer tone, “ are you able to bear a 
 yet greater, pleasanter surprise ? Your father is below. 
 He is waiting to forgive, and embrace you.” 
 
 Florence threw herself on her neck. “ Has he forgiven 
 you ?” she said. “ Nothing can part us now.” 
 
 Miss Langdale kissed her fondly. “ Yes,” she said; “For 
 your dear sake, even I, sinner as I have been, am pardoned. 
 Let me bring him to you T 
 
 Mr. Langdale gravely and tenderly returned his weeping 
 daughter’s caresses. The change in Florence’s appearance 
 since he last saw her in the churchyard, alarmed him 
 seriously. He controlled his own emotion in order to sub¬ 
 due her agitation, which was each moment increasing. 
 Cuthbert Noel’s disguise had been penetrated by him long 
 ago, and Bertina had for some months been like one of his 
 own children. 
 
 “ Listen to me,” said Miss Langdale, to her cousin, while 
 a flood of blushes overspread her aristocratic lineaments. 
 “Noel Hall is no longer mine. It belongs to Cuthbert; 
 but he may, if he likes, repay the sum I have laid out on 
 the place, by instalments, to Florence ; who will inherit 
 my savings and private fortune. This night, I burnt, with 
 my own hands, before I ventured to enter Godley Grange, 
 the iniquitous will, which has given us all such heartburn¬ 
 ings. Lou and Fritz are heirs of Langdale, but you must 
 not take the little one away from me. She is all I have 
 left to live for. You both have other treasures.” 
 
 Florence let go her father’s hand, without opposition on his 
 part, and came and knelt at Miss Langdale’s feet. “ I will 
 never, never, leave you,” she said. “ You have won me to 
 your side now, for ever. 
 
CONCLUSION. 
 
 The times are changed, and o’er the land 
 New men and measures move ; 
 
 Labour and wealth go hand in hand, 
 
 With God’s bright skies above. 
 
 The grass lies soft before thy door, 
 
 The sunshine gilds the dale, 
 
 The swallows dart across the moor, 
 
 Though man’s proud boasts may fail. 
 
 And still there are Halls in the old West Hiding, 
 
 Where warm hearts, high hopes, and Christ’s love are abiding. 
 
 Maud Langdale’s straightforward proposition was at once 
 accepted, and, without any suit-at-law, Cuthbert Noel, and 
 his beautiful daughter, took quiet possession of the old Hall. 
 The sale of the larger portion of the family property had 
 long since satisfied his clamorous creditors; and the last of 
 the Noels was free from debt and difficulty, while the 
 fortune which the General had jestingly promised Mr. 
 Langdale should one day be the portion of the little one, 
 was accumulating year by year. 
 
 There was no pomp and show when Bertina and her 
 father came to dwell in the home of their ancestors. Meg 
 and her mistress, and curly-haired Ned, continued to occupy 
 the sunny rooms near the portal, although a suitable estab¬ 
 lishment was set on foot. Florence’s advice, that Bertina 
 
.330 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 should regulate the household was adopted, and the virtues 
 learnt in adversity were practised on a larger scale. When 
 Christmas came the mansion glowed with warmth and 
 comfort—the poor were relieved at the gate, and hospitality 
 was the rule of the hour; hut the reckless extravagance 
 of the Noels, under Bertina’s gentle sway, ceased to he a 
 common saying. After all, the wilful woman at the Hall 
 carried her point. Florence remained with the Mistress of 
 Langdale; hut, no longer estranged from her family, the 
 young girl speedily recovered her health, and was gayer than 
 she had ever heen before. She and Bertina were intimate 
 friends, and constant intercourse was kept up between the 
 Halls at the upper and lower ends of the valley, and the 
 Grange. It was even reported thatCuthbert Noel renewed 
 his suit to the Mistress of Langdale Hall; hut, if so, his 
 wooing was unsuccessful, Maud remained unmarried. 
 
 Dr. Forsyth and Mr. Hay warden rejoiced in the reconci¬ 
 liation between the two families, as well as in the return of 
 Cuthbert Noel to his own home and station. Both were 
 in the habit of declaring that they had all along recognised 
 him; and neither of them would ever admit that he had 
 been deceived longer than the other. 
 
 Meredith, now that all her young mistresses were quite 
 grown up, and her long, faithful term of nursing was over, 
 expressed a wish to leave her situation, at the Grange, and 
 to live with Miss Langdale and Florence, at the Hall. The 
 little one had always been her favourite, and she had a great 
 respect for the head of the family. Affection for Florence 
 was a sure passport to Maud’s favour; and Meredith was 
 warmly welcomed, and enjoyed a comfortable, easy existence, 
 with charge of the linen and charitable distributions at the 
 Hall. Florence’s pretty young handmaiden was not dis¬ 
 possessed, but her old nurse had the privilege of seeing her 
 
CONCLUSION. 
 
 331 
 
 constantly, and of superintending lier wardrobe. The little 
 one never forgot that Meredith had been her mother’s de¬ 
 voted attendant; nor that she had striven, though ineffectu¬ 
 ally, to save her from the bitter pang of being absent at her 
 last hour. 
 
 The time of singing birds had come round, and showers 
 of white blossoms decked the hawthorn trees in Calder 
 Dale. From the Dower-House of the Noels a column of 
 white smoke ascended; the garden was gay with flowers, 
 and the pigeons cooed and strutted on the walks, and on the 
 walls and roof. The casements were set open, and the 
 streaming tassels of laburnum gleamed golden in sunshine, 
 alternating with lilacs, and sweet-scented syringa and sweet- 
 briar. 
 
 Bertina came frequently to her mother’s old home, where 
 the old servant took care of the pigeons and poultry. Es¬ 
 pecially in the spring, the girl loved this secluded place, and 
 this week, which included the anniversary of the death of 
 her mother, she chose to spend in solitude. Now she was 
 preparing to return to Noel Hall, but she lingered reluc¬ 
 tantly. Nowhere were the spring flowers, the gleaming 
 waters, so lovely as in Calder Dale. 
 
 Mechanically, the young girl had thrown over her head 
 and shoulders, for the wind was still keen, the Bob-Roy 
 plaid which hung in the passage; and pinned it under her 
 chin with the Cairn-Gorm brooch which had been Bertie 
 Noel’s gift to her mother. Her dress was black, and her 
 features wore an expression of deep sadness, when, having 
 finished feeding her pets, she sat down on the stone bench 
 in the courtyard, where the old soldier had rested on the 
 day of Mrs. Noel’s funeral. 
 
 Since that time many changes had occurred. Cuthbert 
 
332 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 Noels fortunes had brightened, and his daughter was no 
 longer required to pursue an industrious calling.—yet there 
 were moments like the present, when, oppressed by the 
 gladness of rejoicing nature, while “the voice of the turtle 
 is heard in the land,” Bertina wished herself back into the 
 past, when, with a girl’s blithe spirit and light footstep, she 
 came back, after the hours of labour were over, through the 
 flowery thickets that filled the Eagle’s Gorge, to the sunny 
 homestead. 
 
 Past the banks where the primroses had faded, and 
 the fragrant spring violets were succeeded by the scentless 
 ones of early summer, a man, bronzed and bearded, a travel¬ 
 ler to all appearance, came towards the old house. Young 
 and of fair complexion, but somewhat weather-beaten of as¬ 
 pect, as though much exposure to the rough play of the 
 elements had been the custom of the hour, with one whom 
 nature had cast in her fairest mould. And, yet, that 
 manly growth of beard and moustache—the shadow 
 thrown by southern suns on the boyish complexion—the 
 breadth of chest and shoulders—the firm tread—well re¬ 
 placed the slenderness and bloom of earlier youth. 
 
 Bertina started, as footsteps approached the gate. Her 
 face flushed, but she did not move even when the latch was 
 lifted softly. Had she forgotten that she had given direc¬ 
 tions to the attendant that no visitor should be admitted ? 
 
 The traveller came straight up to the bench where the 
 young girl was sitting. 
 
 u Bertina, are you still true to your motto — 4 Patience and 
 perseverance ?’ ” said Fritz, stopping in front of her. “ I 
 have struggled, I have persevered, I have at last conquered in 
 the strife: not through fear or favour, but by honest industry, 
 I have earned a position. I am looked up to in my pro¬ 
 fession ; I can offer you a home, even if Miss Langdale 
 
CONCL USION. 
 
 333 
 
 ehooses to shut the gates of the Hall against us for our 
 mortal life. May I claim my reward ?” 
 
 Bertina did not reply. It is to he supposed that in simi¬ 
 lar cases, silence lends encouragement. At all events, Fritz 
 felt sufficiently emboldened to take the vacant place be¬ 
 side her. “ What made you dress yourself like a Mill-girl, 
 to-day ?” he said laughing, as he took her hand, “ it is as 
 though I had followed you, but an hour ago, through the 
 Eagle’s Gorge.” 
 
 Bertina blushed excessively. “ There are times,” she 
 said, “ when old customs exercise a sort of tyranny over us. 
 I have been fancying all the morning that I was coming 
 home through the hawthorn bushes, from my post at the 
 Mills.” 
 
 She stopped in confusion. “ Did you recall one particu¬ 
 lar afternoon, when a boy was bold enough to follow you ? 
 a boy who has a man’s heart now, Bertina, which beats for 
 you alone. Must I spend manhood, as well as youth, in 
 pursuit of the slight form, which ever since has been before 
 me on my path 'l or will you generously wait for me, and 
 tread the world’s high road, be it rough or smooth, by my 
 side V’ 
 
 The girl unfastened tremulously the Scottish brooch, and 
 let the shawl drop away from her flushed face. “ Are you 
 sure;” she said archly, “ that it is really the Mill-girl you 
 have been pursuing all this time, in imagination. The last 
 time we fell in with each other, you were playing the knight 
 errant to a lady of high degree ?” 
 
 It was Fritz’s turn to blush now ; which he did very visi¬ 
 bly, in spite of his bronzed complexion. Man though he 
 was, and very much in earnest, his conscience gave him a 
 sharp pang, as memory recalled some passages of his career. 
 
 “ Oh, that was nothing, mere idle nonsense,” he said, 
 
334 THE MISTRESS OF LANGE ALE HALL. 
 
 after a momentary pause, “ Miss Ellinor Langdale and I 
 are cousins, nothing more. The moment I saw you on the 
 North-Riding Moors, veiled, hooded, disguised as you were, 
 I followed you. I tracked you to the cavern under Filey 
 Brig, I discovered your retreat, and I fancied—do not pu¬ 
 nish me too severely, Bertina, if it was a folly—that you 
 gave me to understand that, in time, patience and perseve¬ 
 rance conquer all obstacles. Was I right, and if so, may 
 I draw my own conclusions V 
 
 “ At all events, you shall not perish of starvation,” said 
 the girl, starting up, and avoiding his embrace, though she 
 did not withdraw the hand he had taken. “ The old house 
 in (Adder Dale has not lost its claim to be considered a hos¬ 
 pitable shelter, because I am its mistress. You see,” 'she 
 added, tenderly turning towards her lover, “ I, too, have a 
 home, Fritz, my father says this house belongs to the wo¬ 
 men of our family. He has made it over in perpetuity to 
 me: so, even if Noel Hall as well as Langdale Park are too 
 grand for us, we shall still have a home in the old Dower 
 House in the Eagle’s Gorge.” 
 
 Ellinor Langdale did not hear without a pang, of the 
 happiness of her rival: but she strove, with all the might 
 which was consistent with her gentle nature, to surmount 
 the jealousy which also was a part of her constitution. She 
 did not revisit Langdale until so many changes had occurred 
 there, that the romance of her girlhood assumed a lighter 
 form; but even then, she was never entirely cordial with 
 Bertina. 
 
 Though she had resisted her sister’s will, Ellinor did not 
 marry. Moriscombe continued to be her home, and there 
 Miss Langdale and Florence frequently visited her. The 
 new Watering Place continued to flourish, and the white- 
 
CONCLUSION. 
 
 335 
 
 walled town on the cliff assumed larger dimensions ; but, as 
 the trees, planted where its first foundations were laid, grew 
 in proportion with the buildings ; Marina was no eye-sore 
 from the Knoll. 
 
 Ellinor and Florence Langdale often went there together, 
 and Maud was sometimes found sitting there alone, con¬ 
 templating the surging sea and the indented headland. 
 Florence’s last wish, in which, as usual, her adopted mother 
 indulged her to the utmost, has been, to give a life boat to 
 that dangerous sea-board. Under the black reef on which her 
 mother was shipwrecked, the boat, which is to preserve 
 many a human life when the heavens are black with tem¬ 
 pest, is housed. A hardy crew are kept in readiness to go 
 out into that tempestuous ocean in moments of peril; and 
 they are true to their duty. 
 
 When the minute-gun flashes out in darkness, and the 
 storm-wind sobs and sighs through the rent sails and cordage 
 of a ship tossed about by the mountainous waves—when 
 hope dies out in the bravest bosoms, and the lightning’s 
 jagged ribands tear along the foaming crests of the black 
 waters,—a bold, manly cheer rings out, and Marina’s name 
 peals over the billows. 
 
 The life-boat named after Frank Langdale’s beloved wife, 
 in memory of her rescue from shipwreck on that terrible 
 reef, is launched. Her bold and practised crew know well 
 how to handle her in the storm ; and, through the troughs 
 of the waves of the North Sea, which Cuthbert Noel 
 breasted to save the drowning child, the life-boat named 
 after the infant, dashes to the rescue of many a perishing 
 mariner. 
 
 May God be with her and her gallant crew, bearing them 
 unscathed through the raging waters to the sinking ship; 
 and encouraging to endure to the last, those whose hearts. 
 
336 THE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL. 
 
 in that dread darkness and conflict of the elements, were 
 sinking with affright. 
 
 Hurrah ! The cry rings out faintly over the waters. 
 The life-boat has reached the point where aid can be af¬ 
 forded, and on shore, in the white house under the Moor, 
 is comfort, warmth, and shelter, for those whom “Marina,” 
 has rescued. 
 
 Often and often, during autumn and winter tempests 
 are such scenes enacted; when the dark ocean and the 
 gloomy sky are black with rain and wind, and, save the 
 distant light-tower near Flamborough Head, there is no 
 guide past those dread rocks, over the heaving deep, for the 
 brave mariners. 
 
 At such moments, over land and water, Marina’s name 
 gives cheering hope; and those who tremble, and think them¬ 
 selves about to perish, hearing the glad sound, rise up as 
 though they were her children, and call her blessed. 
 
 Florence has never ceased to love the coast of the North 
 Riding, and her gentle cousin Ellin or Langdale; but still 
 the little one’s heart remains true to its early instincts, and 
 no after affection will ever displace from her throne, the 
 mother of her adoption—Maud Langdale, the Mistress 
 of the Hall. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 BILLING, PRINTER, GUILDFORD, SURREY. 
 
EMAY, 1873. 
 
 SAMUEL TINSLEY’S 
 
 ITIEW 
 
 PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 I 
 
 SAMUEL TINSLEY, Publisher 
 10, SOUTHAMPTON STREET, STRAND, W.C. 
 
 Totally distinct from any other firm of Publishers . 
 

 
 
 
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 promise in the author.”— Graphic. 
 
 “ There is no little novelty and a large fund of amusement in 1 The 
 Sedgeborough World.’ ”—Illustrated London Neivs. 
 
 gONS OF DIYES. 
 
 2 vols., 21s. 
 
 “The novel has merit, and is very readable.”— Echo. 
 
 “A well-principled and natural story.”— Athenaeum. 
 
 “ A fair, readable, business-like, well-ending love story. . . , . 
 
 The volumes bear no author’s name, but that does not interfere 
 with the interest of them ."—Illustrated London Neivs. 
 
 “ A pleasant and readable little story. . . . The incidents are 
 
 natural, and the plot, though slight, is well-contrived and well 
 worked out, so that they may be fairly left to the reader’s own quiet 
 investigation and judgment.”— Standard. 
 
 I 
 
 Samuel Tinsley, 10, Southampton Street, Strand. 
 
7 
 
 Samuel Tinsley’s Publications. 
 
 T HE SURGEON’S SECRET. By Sydney Mostyn. 
 
 Crown 8vo, 10s. 6d. 
 
 “A most exciting novel—the best on our list. It may be fairly 
 recommended as a very extraordinary book .”—John Bull. 
 
 rniMOTHY CRIPPLE; or, “ LIFE’S A FEAST.” By 
 -L Thomas Aukiol Robinson. 2 vols., 21s. J 
 
 rriHE TRUE STORY OF HUGH NOBLE’S FLIGHT. 
 
 -L By the Authoress of “ What Her Face Said.” 10s. 6d. 
 
 “ A pleasant story, with touches of exquisite pathos, well told by 
 one who is master of an excellent and sprightly style.”— Standard. 
 
 + A w Un l reten ? mg ’ yet ve . r y P athetic story. . . . We can con- 
 gratuiate the author on having achieved a signal success.”_ Graphic. 
 
 l^TAGES : a Story in Three Books. 3 vols., 31s. 6d. 
 
 “ A work of 
 Times. 
 
 no commonplace or ordinary character.” —Sunday 
 
 W EIMAR S TRUST. By Mrs. Edward Christian. 
 3 vols., 31s. 6d. 
 
 W ILL SHE BEAR IT 1 A Tale of the Weald. 
 
 31s. 6d. 
 
 3 vols., 
 
 . . Thls 1S a . clever story, easily and naturally told, and the reader’s 
 
 interest sustained throughout.A pleasant, readable book, 
 
 such as we can heartily recommend as likely to do good service in the 
 dull and foggy days before us.”—Spectator. 
 
 Written with simplicity, good feeling, and good sense, and marked 
 throughout by a high moral tone, which is all the more powerful from 
 never being obtrusive.The interest is kept up with increas¬ 
 
 ing power to the last.”— Standard. 
 
 The story is a love tale, and the interest is almost entirely confined 
 o the heroine, who is certainly a good girl, bearing unmerited sorrow 
 with patience and resignation. The heroine’s young friend is also 
 
 attractive . As for the seventh commandment, its breach is not 
 
 even alluded to. — Athenceum. 
 
 There * s abundance of individuality in the story, the characters are 
 all genuine, and the atmosphere of the novel is agreeable. It is really 
 interesting. On the whole, it may be recommended for general 
 perusal. —Sunday Times. 
 
 A story of English country life in the early part of this century, 
 thoroughly clever and interesting, and pleasantly and naturally told. 
 
 : H every way we entertain a very high opinion of this 
 
 book. — Gi'aphic. 
 
 Samuel Tinsley, 10, Southampton Street, Strand. 
 
8 
 
 Samuel Tinsley’s Publications. 
 
 THE INSIDIOUS THIEF: 
 
 A TALE FOR HUMBLE FOLKS. 
 
 BY ONE OF THEMSELVES. 
 
 Crown 8vo, 5s. Second Edition. 
 
 “Ought to be in the hands of every temperance lecturer and 
 missionary in the kingdom, and in every Mechanics’ Institute library, 
 for it is an able, interesting, and persuasive volume on the evils of strong 
 drink, that cannot fail to do much good.”— Court Circular. 
 
 “ Have we here a new writer or a practised hand turned to a new 
 subject? In either case we congratulate ourselves upon our good 
 fortune. We do not hesitate to characterise ‘ The Insidious Thief’ as 
 a most original and powerful book.The only disappoint¬ 
 
 ment felt on concluding the perusal of the last chapter was that a 
 story so humorous and pathetic, so powerful and absorbing, had come 
 to an end.”— The Templar. 
 
 “ Few will take it up without going right through it with avidity, and 
 without being converted to teetotalism—feeling a deeper hatred to that 
 frightful and damnable vice which works such terrible results. . . 
 
 Our temperance readers ought to get this book and lend it to all their 
 friends.”— Literary World. 
 
 “ The power with which this story is wrought out is very remarkable, 
 and its pages literally sparkle with home truths and loving sympathies. 
 From the first chapter to the last the interest of the reader is unflag- 
 gingly sustained. The characters are full of life, energy, and reality. 
 We take to our hearts, as it were, the eccentric old sailor, Uncle Wood. 
 
 . . . . We heartily recommend ‘ The Insidious Thief ’ to all who 
 
 wish to do battle with the iniquitous and evil-propagating drinking 
 customs of our age. It will arm them with many a keen and trenchant 
 weapon for the battle that must be fought.”— English Good Templar. 
 
 “‘The Insidious Thief’ is a protest against the prevalent abuse of # 
 strong drinks. We see on the title page that it is a ‘Tale for Humble 
 Folks, written by One of Themselves ; ’ and, we think, the simple 
 earnestness of the style will bring its advice home to its readers among 
 the lower classes. The author does not fall into the common error of 
 condemning every man who drinks a glass of beer—that wholesale 
 condemnation does a great deal more harm than good. There are some 
 humorous touches in it, and the character of Uncle Wood, the sailor, 
 is excellently drawn. . . . We recommend this volume warmly to 
 
 our readers. It is excellently printed and elegantly bound.”— Lloyd's 
 Weekly Newspaper. 
 
 “ We are bound to say that it is in some respects very powerful, and 
 in no sense the ‘ ordinary temperance tale ’—if by that is meant a hash 
 of weak and unnaturally overdrawn portraits and long inconsequent 
 sermonisings. This story is carefully written, and clearly by a practised 
 
 Samuel Tinsley, 10, Southampton Street, Strand. 
 
Samuel Tinsley’s Publications. 
 
 9 
 
 hand, who knows low life well, both in its worst and best aspects, and 
 who can artistically select and condense, and thus gain forcible dramatic 
 effects, not unrelieved occasionally by a self-controlled humour, which 
 would be sardonic now and then, were it not that it is purified by the 
 unmistakable presence of a certain patient wisdom which waits for 
 results. Here and there this writer, when dealing with certain types, 
 reminds us, in his recurring sudden quaintness of touch, of Mr. Henry 
 Holbeach ; and again, in his power of deepening an impression by a 
 subtle representation of detail, of Mr. Farjeon. . . • • 00 " ? 
 
 this sort should be tested by the whole impression produced ; and m 
 this respect it stands the test well—better than any other temperance 
 story we remember to have read. It is, in truth, valuable also for 
 practical hints ; and, in the best form, sets forth lessons which most ot 
 us would be better to remember, with regard to adverse influences at 
 work among the struggling classes.’ Nonconformist. 
 
 “ Here is an excellent temperance tale from the pen of a ready and 
 powerful writer, issued by a publisher not connected with the tempei ance 
 movement. The tale is one of great interest, and deserves the hearty 
 patronage of the temperance public.”— The Temperance Record. 
 
 “ The thief here pourtrayed is that very insidious one, drink—or the 
 habit of drinking—which, in truth, robs a man of everything. V\ ntten 
 for humble folks, by one of themselves, the story cannot fail to have a 
 good and wholesome influence among the class for whom it is intended. 
 One good feature in it, as distinguished from temperance stories 
 generally, is that, though it paints the drunkard’s fate as black as 
 possible, it restores him repentant to his friends and to his position m 
 
 society.”— Standard. . , . 
 
 “ A very remarkable tale concerning a man who, being m a respectable 
 
 situation, lost it, and brought himself and his family to rum by 
 drunkenness ; and afterwards recovered himself by total abstinence. 
 
 The author displays considerable power of narration, and 
 carries the reader along with unflagging interest to the end. . . . . 
 
 We should be glad to see a new and cheaper edition obtaining (what it 
 well deserves) a large circulation. The graphic faculty of the author 
 as displayed in mere than one character and scene, should be cultivated 
 and encouraged, and particularly when it is exercised in a good cause. 
 
 —The Watchman. . 
 
 “ This is described on the title page as ‘ A Tale for Humble Folks by 
 One of Themselves,’ but it may be read with interest by all conditions of 
 people, and with advantage to some of them. The tale is told with 
 genuine feeling always, and occasionally with a quaint humour which 
 readers will admire. There are some admirably drawn characters 
 introduced.”— The News of the World. 
 
 “ This is a temperance tale of more than ordinary ability. . . • • 
 
 He (the author) writes with an earnestness and vigour which cannot 
 fail to make a profound impression on his readers. _ . • • • Many 
 
 of the characters are well drawn, and much humour is developed in the 
 sketch of Uncle Wood—a second edition, on a small scale, ot me 
 
 inimitable Captain Cuttle.”— The Leeds Mercury. 
 
 “ In plain and simple language, without the least attempt at literary 
 
 Samuel Tinsley, 10, Southampton Street, Strand. 
 
10 
 
 Samuel Tinsley’s Publications. 
 
 art or adornment, the author of this brief story tells the history of a 
 family of which he was the eldest son. The story is that of a clerk in 
 humble circumstances, whose home consists of two rooms in the heart of 
 the city of London. Here, with his young wife and two children, he enjoys 
 much true domestic happiness, until he becomes acquainted with the 
 < insidious thief.’ .... He falls ; and the chapters in which this 
 part of the story is told lead us to expect something much more care¬ 
 fully worked out, fuller in detail, and abounding in dramatic writing, 
 
 from the pen of this author at a future day.The book is 
 
 right in tone, and sufficiently entertaining to make readers desire a 
 further acquaintance wuth its writer. Temperance people ought to 
 have their attention called to the Insidious Thief , which will form an 
 excellent addition to the stock of tales advocating their principles.’’— 
 The Derby Mercury. 
 
 “The style is homely but graphic; the characters are clearly 
 drawn : one of them, Uncle Wood, is decidedly an original. 
 
 The interest of the tale is well sustained, and the lesson taught will, 
 no doubt, make it as useful as it is entertaining.”— The Alliance News. 
 
 “ ‘ The Insidious Thief’ is a well-told temperance story—not much 
 as a tale, and failing of poetical justice ; but excellently and skil¬ 
 fully pointing a moral. It is evidently written by one well acquainted 
 with life, and possessing considerable literary skill. We should 
 rejoice for it to find its way to the home of every working man, 
 and of many who, like the hero, move in a higher sphere of social 
 life.”— British Quarterly Revieiv. 
 
 “ That a second edition of a book, written by an unknown pen, has 
 been called for in the course of a very few months—nay, of not many 
 weeks, is a circumstance to provoke curiosity, if not to induce 
 respect. 
 
 “ Natural, graphic, with an imploring pathos, and a naive, human- 
 hearted inspiration, the story is on the whole excellent. It can 
 
 hardly fail to do good; it cannot by any possibility do ill. 
 
 The great, the engrossing character, is the presiding good genius of 
 the scene, Uncle Wood, an old ‘ salt.’ He has a strong resemblance 
 to the redoubted ‘ Captain Cuttle,’ is every whit as outre, and has, 
 every throb, as kind a heart. 
 
 “ An acquaintance with this novel no one can regret, whatever his 
 principles, whatever his position.”— The Stirling Journal and Advertiser. 
 
 Samuel Tinsley 10, Southampton Street, Strand. 
 
Samuel Tinsley’s Publications. 
 
 11 
 
 PUTTYPUT’S PROTEGEE; 
 
 OB, 
 
 ROAD, RAIL, AND RIVER: 
 
 A HUMOROUS STORY IN THREE BOOKS. 
 
 BY HENRY GEORGE CHURCHILL. 
 
 1 Vol. Crown 8vo (uniform with “The Mistress of Langdale Hall”), with 
 14 Illustrations by Wallis Mackay. Post free, 4s. Second Edition. 
 
 THE FOURTEEN FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 1. The Voyage of Discovery (Frontispiece). 
 
 2. The Escape from Bortonbrook Ayslum (Vignette). 
 
 3. In a Garret near the Sky. 
 
 4. The Happy Family, 
 
 5. The Road ! Hunted Down ! Gone Away. 
 
 6. The Lucky Number. 
 
 7. Bob Bembrow’s Party. 
 
 8. Bob and Dollops. 
 
 9. The Devonsherry Brothers. 
 
 10. A Waif from the Ocean. 
 
 11. Slitherem thinks Half a Loaf better than no Bread. 
 
 12. The Dissolution of Partnership. 
 
 13. The Particular Purpose. 
 
 14. The River ! All’s Well that Ends Well. 
 
 “ It is a lengthened and diversified farce, full of screaming fun and 
 comic delineation—a reflection of Dickens, Mrs. Malaprop, and Mr. 
 Boucicault, and dealing with various descriptions of social life. We 
 have read and laughed, pooh-poohed, and read again, ashamed of our 
 interest, but our interest has been too strong for our shame. Readers 
 may do worse than surrender themselves to its melo-dramatic enjoy¬ 
 ment. From title-page to colophon, only Dominie Sampson’s epithet 
 can describe it—it is ‘ prodigious.’ ”— British Quarterly Review. 
 
 “ It is impossible to read ‘Puttyput’s Protdgde’ without being reminded 
 at every turn of the contemporary stage, and the impression it leaves on 
 the mind is very similar to that produced by witnessing a whole 
 evening’s entertainment at one of our popular theatres.”— Echo. 
 
 Samuel Tinsley, 10, Southampton Street, Strand. 
 
12 
 
 Samuel Tinsley’s Publications. 
 
 NOTICE. 
 
 Just published, in one handsome volume, with Fi’ontispiece and 
 Vignette by Percival Skelton. Price Four Shillings, post free. 
 
 THE 
 
 MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL: 
 
 A ROMANCE OP THE WEST RIDING. 
 
 BY EOSA MACKENZIE KETTLE, 
 
 Author of “ Smugglers and Foresters,” u Fabian’s Tower,” etc. 
 
 {From THE SATURDAY REVIEW.) 
 
 Generally speaking, in criticising a novel we confine our observations 
 to the merits of the author. In this case we must make an exception, 
 and say something as to the publisher. The Mistress of Langdale Hall 
 does not come before us in the stereotyped three-volume shape, with 
 rambling type, ample margins, and nominally a guinea and a half to 
 pay. On the contrary, this new aspirant to public admiration appears 
 in the modest guise of a single graceful volume, and we confess that 
 we are disposed to give a kindly welcome to the author, because we 
 may flatter ourselves that she is in some measure a protegee of our own. 
 A few w r eeks ago an article appeared in our columns censuring the 
 prevailing fashion of publishing novels at nominal and fancy prices. 
 Necessarily, we dealt a good deal in commonplaces, the absurdity of the 
 fashion being so obvious. We explained, what is well known to every 
 one interested in the matter, that the regulation price is purely illusory. 
 The publisher in reality has to drive his own bargain with the libraries, 
 who naturally beat him down. The author suffers, the trade suffers, 
 and the libraries do not gain. Arguing that a palpable absurdity must 
 be exploded some day unless all the world is qualified for Bedlam, we 
 
 Samuel Tinsley, 10, Southampton Street, Strand. 
 
Samuel Tinsley’s Publications. 
 
 13 
 
 felt ourselves on tolerably safe ground when we ventured to predict an 
 approaching revolution. Judging from the preface to this book, we 
 may conjecture that it was partly on our hint that Mr. Tinsley has 
 published. As all prophets must welcome events that tend to the 
 speedy accomplishment of their predictions, we confess ourselves grati¬ 
 fied by the promptitude with which Mr, Tinsley has acted, and we 
 heartily wish his venture success. He recognises that a reformation so 
 radical must be a work of time, and at first may possibly seem to defeat 
 its object. For it is plain that the public must first be converted to a 
 proper regard for its own interests ; and, by changing the borrowing 
 for the buying system, must come in to bear the publisher out. He 
 must look, moreover, to the support and imitation of his brethren of 
 the trade. We doubt not he has made the venture after all due deli¬ 
 beration, and that we may rely on his determination seconding his 
 enterprise. All prospectuses of new undertakings tend naturally to 
 exaggeration, but success will be well worth the waiting for, should it 
 be only the shadow of that on which Mr. Tinsley reckons. He gives 
 some surprising figures ; he states some startling facts; and, as a 
 practical man, he draws some practical conclusions. He quotes a state¬ 
 ment of Mr. Charles Reade’s, to the effect that three publishers in the 
 United States had disposed of no less than 370,000 copies of Mr. Reade’s 
 latest novel. He estimates that the profits on that sale—the book being 
 published at a dollar—must amount to £25,000. Mr. Reade, of course, 
 has a name, and we can conceive that his faults and blemishes may 
 positively recommend themselves to American taste. But Mr. Tinsley 
 remarks that if a publisher could sell 70,000 copies in any case, there 
 would still be £5£00 of clear gain ; and, even if the new system had a 
 much more moderate success than that, all parties would still profit 
 amazingly. For Mr. Tinsley calculates the profits of a sale of 2,000 
 copies of a three volume edition at £1,000, and we should fancy the 
 experience of most authors would lead them to believe he overstates it. 
 It will be seen that at all events the new speculation promises bril¬ 
 liantly, and reason and common sense conspire to tell us that the 
 reward must come to him who has patience to wait. Palmam qui 
 meruit ferat, and may he have his share of the profits too. Meanwhile, 
 here we have the first volume of Mr. Tinsley’s new series in most legible 
 type, in portable form, and with a sufficiently attractive exterior. The 
 price is four shillings, and, the customary trade deduction being made 
 to circulating libraries, it leaves them without excuse should they deny 
 it to the order of their customers. 
 
 Samuel Tinsley, 10, Southampton Street, Strand. 
 
14 
 
 Samuel Tinsley’s Publications. 
 
 We should apologise to Miss Kettle for keeping her waiting while wo 
 discuss business matters with her publisher. But she knows, no doubt, 
 that there are times when business must take precedence of pleasure 
 and conscientious readers are bound to dispose of the preface before 
 proceeding to the book. For we may say at once that we have found 
 pleasure in reading her story. In the first place, it has a strong and 
 natural local colouring, and we always like anything that gives a book 
 individuality. In the next, there is a feminine grace about her pictures 
 of nature and delineations of female character, and that always makes a 
 story attractive. Finally, there is a certain interest that carries us 
 along, although the story is loosely put together, and the demands on 
 our credulity are somewhat incessant and importunate. The scene is 
 laid in the West Riding of Yorkshire ; nor did it need the dedication of 
 the book to tell us that the author was an old resident in the county. 
 With considerable artistic subtlety she lays her scenes in the very con¬ 
 fines of busy life. Cockneys and professional foreign tourists are much 
 
 in the way of believing that the manufacturing districts are severed 
 
 ' 
 
 from the genuinely rural ones by a hard-and-fast line ; that the demons 
 of cotton, coal, and wool blight everything within the scope of their 
 baleful influence. There can be no greater blunder ; native intelligence 
 might tell us that mills naturally follow water power, and that a broad 
 stream and a good fall generally imply wooded banks and sequestered 
 ravines, swirling pools, and rushing rapids. Miss Kettle, as a dweller in 
 the populous and flourishing West Riding, has learned all that of course. 
 She is aware besides of the power of contrast; that peace and solitude 
 are never so much appreciated as when you have just quitted the bustle 
 of life, and hear its hum mellowed by the distance. Romance is never 
 so romantic as when it rubs shoulders with the practical, and sensation 
 “ piles itself up ” when it is evolved in the centre of commonplace 
 life. 
 
 Although, however, the story unquestionably often loses in interest 
 by the very efforts made to excite it, still it is interesting, and very 
 pleasantly written, and for the sake of both author and publisher we 
 cordially wish it the reception it deserves. 
 
 “ The most careful mother need not hesitate to place it at once in 
 the hands of the most unsophisticated daughter. As regards the 
 publisher, we can honestly say that the type is clear and the book well 
 got up in every way. M — Athenaeum. 
 
 “ There is a naturalness in this novel, published in accordance with 
 
 Samuel Tinsley, 10, Southampton Street, Strand. 
 
Samuel Tinsley’s Publications. 
 
 15 
 
 Mr. Tinsley’s very wholesome one-volumed system, which will attract 
 many quiet readers. We will just express our satisfaction at the 
 portable and readable size of the book.”— Spectator. 
 
 The Mistress of Langdale Hall” is a bright and attractive story, 
 which can be read from beginning to end with pleasure.”— Daily News . 
 
 “A charming ‘Romance of the West Riding,’ full of grace and 
 pleasing incident. Miss Kettle s language is smooth without being 
 forcible, and is quiet and sparkling, in character with the nature of her 
 novel.”— Public Opinion. 
 
 The story itself is really well told, and some of the characters are 
 delineated with great vividness and force. The tone of the book is 
 
 high. The writer shows considerable mastery of her art.”—Noncon¬ 
 formist. 
 
 “It is a good story, with abundant interest, and a purity of thought 
 and language which is much rarer in novels than it ought to be. The 
 volume is handsomely got up, and contains a well-drawn vignette and 
 frontispiece. ’ ’— Scotsman. 
 
 “ Not only is it written with good taste and good feeling, it is never 
 dull, while at the same time it is quite devoid of sensationalism or 
 extravagance. It deals with life in the West Riding, and the descriptions 
 of the authoress show a real affection for the rich woodlands and wild 
 hills, and still more for the quaint old mansions of Yorkshire.”_ Globe. 
 
 The book is admirably got up, and contains an introductory circular 
 by the publisher.’’— Civil Service Gazette. 
 
 “The book is a model of what a cheap novel should be.”_ Pub - 
 
 Ushers' Circular. 
 
 “A circular from the publisher precedes the opening of the novel, 
 wherein the existing conditions of novel-publishing are concisely set 
 forth. It is ably and smartly written, and forms by no means the 
 least interesting portion of the contents of the volume. We strongly 
 recommend its perusal to novel readers generally.”— Welshman . 
 
 “ Few will take up this entertaining volume without feeling compelled 
 to go through with it. We cannot entertain a doubt as to the success 
 of this novel, and the remarks made by the publisher in his prefatory 
 circular are of the most sensible and practical kind.”— Hull Packet. 
 
 “For this district the ‘Mistress of Langdale Hall’ has a peculiar 
 interest.”— Leeds Mercury. 
 
 Samuel Tinsley, 10, Southampton Street, Strand. 
 
16 
 
 Samuel Tinsley’s Publications. 
 
 NOTICE-SECOND EDITION OF “ANOTHER WORLD.” 
 
 In 1 vol. Post 8vo, price 12s. 
 
 ANOTHER WORLD; 
 
 OR, 
 
 FRAGMENTS FROM THE STAR CITY OF MONTALLUYAH. 
 
 BY HERMES. 
 
 “ A very curious book, very clearly written.Likely to 
 
 contain hints on a vast number of subjects of interest to mankind.”—• 
 Saturday Review. 
 
 “ Hermes is a really practical philosopher, and utters many truths 
 that must be as useful to this sublunary sphere as to those of another 
 world. ... Of his powers of narrative and expression there can 
 be no doubt.”— Morning Post. 
 
 « a romance of science. . . . Few volumes that have ever come 
 
 under our hands are more entertaining to read or more difficult to 
 criticise.”— Sunday Times. 
 
 “ We can recommend ‘ Another World ’ as decidedly clever and 
 original.”— Literary World. 
 
 “ Whether one reads for information or for amusement, ‘ Another 
 World ’ will attract and retain the attention. It reminds one some¬ 
 what of Swift’s ‘ Gulliver,’ without the grossness and the ill-nature.”— 
 Standard. 
 
 “ ‘ Another World ’ can be safely recommended as sure to afford 
 amusement, combined with no little instruction. — Echo. 
 
 11 ‘ Hermes ’ is to be congratulated upon having written with much 
 ingenuity and descriptive power. The book will doubtless attract, 
 as, indeed, it deserves, a good deal of attention.”— Court Circular. 
 
 u m t , We might quote much more, and fill many columns 
 from this curious work, but we have, probably, said enough to 
 stimulate the curiosity of our readers, who will, we have no doubt, 
 speedily procure it, and pursue for themselves the fanciful and 
 elaborate descriptions of the author. Many amusing and clever 
 suggestions are embodied in its pages, and we cannot help suspecting 
 that some of the ingenious speculations regarding the Star Worlds 
 are intended by the author as good-humoured satires upon thq 
 familiar institutions of this hum-drum every-day life of ours.”— Era. 
 
 Samuel Tinsley, 10, Southampton Street, Strand. 
 


 
 

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