Mulock_Hannah.txt topic ['13', '324', '378', '393']
CHAPTER I.
"A STRANGE, sad kind of letter," said Miss Thelluson fo
herself, as she refolded and replaced it in its envelope.
She had a habit of always putting things back into their
right places. "I suppose I ought to answer it at once.
And yet ^"
She stopped ; leaned her elbow on the table, her head
upon her hand, and pressed down her eyelids. They were
wet eyelids though she was not exactly weeping and
tired eyes; for it was late at night, and she had had a
hard day's work, of teaching first, and private study, in
order to teach, afterward; since, not being a brilliantly
clever woman, it cost her some pains to keep up to the level
of accomplishments required of a first-class governess in a
" high" family.
"High" though it was, an earPs, indeed and though
the little Ladies Mary, Georgina, and Blanche, now safely
asleep in their beds, were good, pleasant children, and very
fond of their governess still, as she sat in that homely
fiimisbed, dimly-lighted sitting-room, Hannah Thelluson
looked a lonely kind of woman not one of those likely
to make many friends, or keep up a large correspondence.
This letter, which seemed to affect her a good deal, was
the only one which she had received for days past, and the
servants had forgotten to bring it up until they brought
her supper. It did not matter, being only for the govem-
A2
esa Migfl Thelluson was scarcely sorry. It was best r
when sbe was alone. For it was from her brother-ii
the husband of her lately dead sister.
"Poor Rosa!" she sighed, as her eyes fell on the b^
upright, rather peculiar Jiandwriting which she had scar
ly seen since the time when she used to bring in Ros^
daily love-lettera " aod poor Mr. Rivera too !"
She had never learned to call him any thing but Mr,
Rivera ; for the marriage, which had all come about when
Rosa was on a visit, had been a sudden, frantic love-match
between a, rich young man and a lovely penniless girl;
and during their brief, bright year of wedded happiness
the elder sister had seen almost nothing of them beyond
a formal three-days' visit. But even that had been enough
to make Hannah not regret that her duties had stood in the
way of her pleasures, and caused her to feel by instinct that
a grave governess-sister was not likely to advance young
Mrs. Rivera's dignity in the eyes of Lady Rivers and the peo-
ple at the Moat House, who had looked very coldly on the
marriage. And when fate suddenly broke the tie, leaving
Mr. Rivers a sorrowing widower, with a little month-old
daughter instead of the longed-for son and heir, Hannah
bitterly felt that whoaover might grieve alter poor Rob^h
it would not be her husband's family. ^H
They merely communicated to her the fact of the deatjH
which, like the birth, had taken place abroad ; and exoeptiB
brief answer from the grandmother to a letter she wrote, in-
quiring after the baby, she had heard no mora She conld
not leave her duties ; she had to sit still and suffer silently,
as wovking-women must, and patiently, as women learn to
suffer who have been, to use that moat pathetic of phrases,
"acquainted with grief" She had put forward no claim
either for sympathy or consideration to her brother-in-law
or his relatives, and believed that henceforth the slight In-
tercourse she ever had with them was probably ended.
Therefore she was a good deal surprised to receive this let
ter, which entreated of her the very last thing she WOnT
have expected that she wonld assume s sister's placo i
HANNAH. 1 1
ward Mr. Rivers, and come and take charge of his house-
hold, and especially of her little motherless niece.
" How strange !" she kept thinking. " How can he
want me when he has sisters of his own ?" But then she
remembered that the Misses Rivers were young and lively
women, very much out in society, and probably not in-
clined to burden themselves with the care of a widower's
dreary house and a widower's forlorn infant, even for the
sake of their own flesh-and-blood brother. So he came for
help to his wife's sister who, though almost a stranger to
himself, could not but feel, he said, the strong tie of blood
which bound her to his child. He pleaded, for his child's
sake, that she would come.
Hannah could not help feeling pleased and touched. It
was a sort of compliment which, coming to her, a lonely
woman, and from a person of whom she knew so little,
was rather pleasant than not. She tried to recall all she
had ever noticed of her brother-in-law not very much,
except that, though he was young, handsome, and rather
excitable, there seemed a simplicity and affectionateness
about him which she had rather liked. Still, in their slight
intercourse, the only thing the sister had ever cared to find
out was that he loved Rosa and Rosa loved him. Satis-
fied of these two facts, she had left the young people to
their happiness, and gone back to her own quiet life, which
would have been a dreary life, had she herself been a less
self-dependent and unexacting woman.
And now the happiness which she might have envied,
had she seen more of it, was over and done. Bright, beau-
tiftil Rosa had lain six months in her grave ; and here was
Rosa's husband asking the solitary sister to fulfill toward
him and his child all the duties of a near and dear relative.
For he addressed her as " my dear sister ;" and in his let-
ter, which was impulsive, fragmentary, and evidently in
earnest, he seemed to fling himself upon her pity and help,
as if he had no one else to appeal to.
" I have been reading over again the letters you used
to send weekly to my poor Rosa," he wrote. " It is these
which have indnced me to make this request; for
convince me that you must be a good woman a w
fitted to give help and consolation to such a forlorn crei
tnre as I am. How forlorn, yon little know! A man who
has had a wife and lost her is the wretchedeBt creature on
earth infinitely more wretched than those who have nev-
er known that blessing. Every day, every hour, I miss my
darling. Contmually I hear, in a sort of ghostly way, her
step about the house, her voice outside in the garden ; till
Bometimea, in the excessive loneliness, I am actually fright-
ened ^not of her, but of myself lest I should be going
mad. Men do go mad with grief sometimes, especially
husbands who have lost their wives. I have read several
such cases in the newspapers lately : my eye seems to light
upon them, and my mind to retain them, with a horrible
pertinacity. But why trouble you with these personali-
ties? No more."
And then he began to describe his baby ; saying
was a dear little thing, but that he did not understand h
She seemed to be always crying, and nobody could man-
age her, though he saw a different woman almost every
time be came into the nursery.
When she first read this passage Hannah had started
np, her always pale face hot and warm. The weak point
in her nature rather a pathetic weakness in one whom
some people called, and she herself firmly believed to be,
a bom old maid was her love of children. Her heart had
yearned oftentimes over Hosa's motherless babe, but she
felt that she could not interfere with the grandmother and
father. Now the picture of it transferred from nurse to
nurse, neglected or ignored smote her with a sort of self-
reproach, as if her pride or her shyness, or both, had led
her weakly to desert her own flesh and blood her sister's
child.
"I ought to have gone and seen it seen what they
were doing with it. I have as much right to it as any one
Stem all. Poor little baby I Rosa's very own babyl""""
jBie tears, which came so rarely and painfnily to
lali^^l
ian^(
HANNAH. 13
eyes, came now; and they did her good. It seemed to
open and warm her heart even to think of that little baby.
Gradually her thoughts took shape and purpose. Though
she seldom meditated much upon herself, still Miss Thellu-
son had not lived thirty years in this troublesome world
without knowing her own character pretty well. She was
quite aware of one great want in her nature the need to
be a mother to somebody or something. It came out even
toward the large white cat that lived in the school-room,
and loved the governess better than any creature in the
house. It had helped her to manage many a difficult pupil,
and stood her in good stead with her little Ladies Dacre,
who, before she came, had been rather disagreeable and
unmanageable children. Now they were very good, and
loved her with all their aristocratic little hearts as warm
as other hearts, though perhaps more suppressed. She
loved them also ; but it was rather a sad kind of affection,
as she knew it could be only temporary. They would drift
away from her, and marry earls and dukes ; and she would
be no more to them than " our old governess." It was
nearly the same with other little folks of her own rank
the children of her friends or school-fellows who gener-
ally called her Aunt Hannah, and were very fond of her
while she was with them ; but, of coui'se, soon forgot her
when she was away. All natural quite natural ; yet it
sometimes seemed rather sad.
Now here was a child to whom she had an actual right
of blood. Whether or not the Rivers family had liked
Rosa, or herself, they could not abolish the fact that she
was the child's aunt ; and, if the father desired it, its nat-
ural guardian. The first impulse of strangeness and
shrinking passed away, and as she read over again Mr.
Rivers's letter, and began clearly to comprehend what he
wished, there grew up a longing indescribable after that
duty which was set before her in such a sudden and un-
expected way ; yet which, the more she thought about it,
seemed the more distinct and plain.
She dried her eyes, and, late as it was, prepared to an-
8wer the letter, knowing she would not have leisure to do
it next morning before post-time. Beaides, she wished to
" sleep upon it," as people say ; and then read it over
again iu the calm light of day : Hannah Thelluson being
one of those people who dislike doing things in a hurry,
but who, having once put their hands to the plow, never
look back.
She was fully aware that if she acceded to her brother-
in-law's request she must not look back; however difficult
the position might be, it would be still more difficult to
quit it and return to her old calling as a governess. And
that iroviston for her old age, which she was year by year
slowly accumulating with the pathetic prudence of a
woman who knows well that only her own labor stands
between her and the work-house that too must be given
up. For Mr. Rivers would, of course, offer her no salary ;
and, if he did, how could she possibly accept it ? Was
she not coming to his house as a sister, with all the honors
and some few of the bondages of that relationship ? Her
common-sense told her that, pleasant as in some measure
her duties might be, they entailed considerable sacrifices
as well. But women like her, though they dislike taking
a leap in the dark, will often take a most difficult and dan-
gerous one with their eyes open, fully counting the cost.
" Yes, I will venture it," she said, after a long pause of
lUght. "The risk can not be much, and it is only my
I, after all."
she sat down to write her letter,
she does so, let us look at her, the solitary gov-
lom few ever looked at now.
Miss Thelluson could not have been handsome, even in
first youth, which was past now. Her face was long
id thin ; her eyes deep-set, though they were sweet eyes
in themselves, grave and tender, and of a soft gray. Her
hair was of no particular color in fact, she had no special
attraction of any kind, except a well-proportioned figure,
which in motion had a willowy grace, that some tall wom-
en ^not all possess. And her smile was very winning.
HANNAH. 15
though slightly sad, as if fate had meant her to be a
bright-natured woman, but had changed its mind, and left
her so long without happiness that she had at last learned
to do without it. In this, as in most other things ex-
ternal as well as internal she was utterly unlike her sister
Rosa. A certain family tone in their voices was the only
resemblance that was likely in any way to give the wid-
ower pain.
It was strange to write to him " My dear brother," she
who never had a brother but she thought she ought to
do it, and so she did it ; trying hard to feel as an affec-
tionate sister should toward a sorely-afflicted brother, unto
whom she was bound to show every possible tenderness.
Yet it was difficult, for she was a reserved woman, who
took a long time to know any body.
" And I really know almost nothing of him," she thought.
" No blood relationship no tie of old association ; and yet
one is expected to treat a strange man as one's brother,
just because one's sister has gone through the marriage
ceremony with him. If I had seen more of Mr. Rivers
if I had lived actually in the house with him But, no ;
that would not have done it; nothing ^Y^uld have pro-
duced what did not really exist. I can only hope the
right sisterly feeling will come in time, and I must get on
as well as I can till it does come."
So she pondered, and wrote a letter ; short, indeed, but
as affectionate as she could conscientiously make it ; sug-
gesting plainly that one of his own sisters would be a
much better housekeeper for him than herself; but that,
if he really wished for her, she would come. And she
signed herself, after a considerable struggle for the word,
which she had thought she should never say or write
more, cost her a gush of tears, " Your &ithful sister, Han-
nah Thelluson."
It was fully one in the morning before the letter was
done, and she had to be up at six, as usual. But she slept
between whiles soundly, not perplexing herself about the
future. Hers was an essentially peaceful nature; when
1 "
I ah
mem
le had done a thing, and done it for the beat, she nsnally
it alone, and did not "worry "about "it anymore. That
Ve&b, restlesB disposition, which, the moment a thing Is
done, begins to wish it undone, was happily not hera. It
had been Rosa's, even in the midst of her bright, pleasant,
loved, and loving life ; which, perhaps, accounted for the
Ider sister's habits being markedly the contrary.
Yet, when her mind was made up, and she put her let-
ter into the post-bag, it was not without a certain doubt,
almost a fear, whether she had done rightly no, tightly
she had little doubt of but wisely, as regarded herselG
Then came her usual consolatory thought " It can only-
harm myself" Still she felt it was a serious change, and
many times during the day her thoughts wandered pain-
fully from her duties in the school-raom to her brother-in-
law and his child.
Nobody noticed her preoccupation, for it was one of the
essential and familiar facts of the governess's life that she
might be sick or sorry, troubled or glad, without any
lody's observing it. Not that she ever met with the least
ikindness, indeed her position in this family was a very
(appy one ; she had every thing her own way, and was
reated by the countess with that stately consideration
LWhich 80 perfectly well-bred a w(^an could not fail to
ihow to the meanest member of her household. But, nec-
jily, Miss Thelluson'a life was one of complete isola-
so that but for her pupils, their naughtinesses and
lesses, she would have ceased to recognize herself
! of the great human brotherhood, and felt like a soli-
tary nomad, of no use and no pleasure to any body. A
sensation which, morbid and foolish as it may be, is not
rare to women who are neither old nor young who, on
the vei^e of middle age, find tnemselves without kith or
kin, husband or child, and are forced continnally to re-
member that the kindest of friends love them only with a
ider benevolence, as adjuncts, but not essentials, c *'
They are useful to many necessary to none^i
sooner they recognize this, the better.
y with a
B, Oflw^l
HANNAH. 17
As Miss Thelluson kissed the little Ladies Dacre in their
beds where, somewhat in defiance of the grand nurse, she
insisted npon going to them every night- the thought of
that helpless baby, her own baby for was not Rosa's child
her very flesh and blood ? came across her in a flash of sun-
shiny delight, that warmed her heart through and through.
She began to plan and to dream, until at the end of that
solitary evening walk through the park, which she seldom
missed it was sad and soothing after the cares of the day
she began to fancy she had not half appreciated Mr. Riv-
ers's proposal, or responded to it half warmly enough ; and
to fear, with an almost ridiculous apprehension, that he
might change his mind, or that something might happen
to prevent the scheme from being carried out. And she
waited with a nervous anxiety, for which she laughed at
herself, the return post by which she had requested him
to write his final decision.
It came in six lines :
"I shall expect you as soon as you can make it practi-
cable. You will be like her lost mother to my poor little
girl ; and, as for me, my wife's sister shall be to me exactly
as my own."
Hannah wondered a little how much his own sisters were
to him ; whether it was the close affectionate bond so
free yet so strong which had always been her unknown
ideal of fraternal love, or the careless tie, less of sympathy
than of habit and familiarity, such as she often saw it in the
world for she had seen a good deal of the world, more or
less, since she had been a governess. Also, just a little, she
wondered whether, with the best intentions, it was possible
to create an artificial bond where the real one did not ex-
ist, and how soon she should learn to feel at ease with Mr.
Rivers, as much as if he had been her born brother.
But these speculations were idle ; time would decide all
things. Her only present thought need be that the die
was cast ; there was no drawing back now. She had, as
speedily as possible, to arrange her own affairs, and first
to give" warning" as servants say to Lady Dunsmore.
w
Tliis was not exactly a pleasant task, for the countess
and her goverooBS had always got on together remarkably
veil ; the one lady recognizing calmly, and witliout either
e pride or false shame, that though a lady, she was also
B governess a paid servant, discharging her duties lilce tlie
est ; the other lady receiving and appreciating those serv-
9 as a lady should. Therefore nothing was lost, and
mch gained on both sides. Miss Thelluson had been two
^ars in the family, and it seemed tacitly understood that
t was to remain until the yonng ladies' education was
P finished. Thus suddenly to desert her post looked almost
I like ingratitude a vice abhorrent in all shapes to Hannah
^Thelluson.
It was with a hesitating step, and a heart beating much
teter than its wont this poor heart, strangely stilled
from its youth fill impulsiveness that she
Rocked at the door of the morning-room where her pu-
' mother, young and beautiful, happy and beloved,
^nt the forenoon in the elegant employments that she
ialled duties, and which befitted her lot in life a tot as
different from that of her governess as it is possible to
conceiva The two women wei-e wide apart as the poles
in character, circumstances, destiny ; yet, both being
good women, they had a respect, and even liking, for one
another. Hannah admired the countess excessively, and
Lady Dunamore always had for her governess a smile as
pleasant as that she bestowed on the best "society."
" Good-moniiiig, Miss Thelluson 1 Pray ait down. I
hope nothing is amiss in the school-room? Mary Bcems
iWorking more diligently of late. Gcorgy and Blanche are
tot more troublesome to you than usual ?"
" Indeed, I have no fault to find with either Lady Blanche
V Lady Georgina, and Lady Mary is as good a girl as she
D be," returned Hannah, warmly, half amused at herself
r noticing what a week ago she would have accepted as
natural a fact to be observed at all that it never oc-
inrred to her pnpils' mamma to suppose she could have
toy other interest beyond Lady Mary, Lady Geoi^ina,
HANNAH. 19
and Lady Blanche. That their governess should have a
separate existence of her own, or any personal affairs to
communicate, seemed quite impossible. " Have you ten
minutes to throw away, Lady Dunsmore ?" continued she.
" May I have a word with you about myself and my own
concerns?"
" Certainly ; nothing could give me greater pleasure ;"
and then with that sweet, courteous grace she had it
might be only outside good-breeding, and yet, as it never
failed her, and all outside things do fail sometimes, I think
it must rather have been from her kindly heart the count-
ess settled herself to listen. But first she cast a slight side-
long glance of observation and inquiry. Was it possible
that Miss Thelluson was going to be married ?
But no love-story was indicated by the grave, quiet,
dignified manner of the governess.
" You are aware, I think," she said, " that my only sis-
ter died six months ago."
"Ah, I was so sorry to hear it ! Was she married ?"
" Yes."
" Of course ! I remember now. She died at her confine-
ment, and the dear little baby also ?"
" No," returned Hannah, shortly, and then was vexed at
herself for being so foolishly sensitive. What possible
impression could Rosa's sad story have made, beyond the
passing moment, on this beautiful and. brilliant woman,
whose interests were so wide, who had such myriads of
acquaintances and friends ? To expect from her more than
mere kindliness, the polite kindliness which her manner
showed, as, evidently annoyed at her own mistake, she
cudgeled her memory to recall the circumstances, was ex-
acting from Lady Dunsmore too much, more than human
nature was capable of. Hannah recognized this, and saved
herself and the countess by plunging at once in medias res.
" No ; the baby happily did not die. It is alive still, and
my brother-in-law wishes me to come and take charge of
it, and of his household."
" Permanently ?"
40
B "I hope BO."
"Then you come to tell me that you wish to relinquish
yonr pOBition here. Oh, Miss Thelluson, I am so sorry I
At the commencemeut of the Beason, too. How shall I
ever find, time to get a new goveraesa ?"
The oountess'e regret was unmistakable, though it took
the personal lone which perhaps was not unnatural in one
for whom the wheels of life liad always turned so smooth-
ly, that when there was the leaat jar she looked quite sur-
prised.
" I am very sorry, too, on many accounts," said Miss
Thelluson. "I love my pupils dearly, I should like to
have remained until they grew np, to have dressed Lady
Mary for her first drawing-room, as she always said I muet,
. and watched how people admired Lady Blanche's beanty
i and Lady Georgina's magnificent voice. They are three
dear little girls," continued the governess, not nnmoved,
I for she loved and was proud of her pupils. " My heart is
' Bore to leave them. But this baby, my poor little niece, la
my own flesh and blood."
" Of course 1 Pray do not imagine I blame you, or think
you have used me ill," said the countess, gently. " Ton
are only doing what is natural under the circumstances,
and I shall eaaUy replace you I mean I shall easily find
' Another govemeaa ; it will be more difficult to get a Bec-
ond Miss Thelluson."
Miss Thelluson acknowledged, but did not attempt to
deny, the delicate compliment. She knew she bad done
her duty, and that under many difficulties far more than
the GountesB suspected. For hapless countesses, wlio are
the centre of brilliant societies, have only too few hours
to spend in their nurseries and school-rooms ; and these
[ three little ladies owed much, more than tbeir mother
guessed, to their govemeas. It had sometimes been a
comfort to Miss Thelluson in her dull life to hope that the
' seed she sowed might spring up again years hence in the
hearts of these young aristocrats, who would have so much
I in their power for good or for evil. She had tried her best
HANNAH. 21
to make them really " noble " women, and it was pleasant
to have her labor appreciated.
" And how soon do you wish to go ?" asked Lady Duns-
more, rather lugubriously, for she had had endless changes
of governesses before Miss Thelluson's time, and she fore-
saw the same thing over again or worse.
" Do not say I ' wish ' to go. But my brother-in-law
requires me much, he says, and would like to have me as
soon as you could spare me. Not a day sooner, though,
than you find convenient. I could not bear that. You
have been so kind ; I have been so happy here."
"As I trust you will be everywhere," replied Lady
Dunsmore, cordially. "Tour brother's home I forget
exactly where it is."
" Easterham. He is the Reverend Bernard Rivers, the
vicar there."
" Son to Sir Austin Rivers, of Easterham Moat House,
who married one of the Protheroes ?"
"I really don't know Lady Rivers's antecedents I
never can remember pedigrees," replied Hannah, smiling.
**But his father is certainly Sir Austin, and they live at
tbe Moat House."
" Then I know all about them. Why did you not tell
me before ? I must have met your brother-in-law. He is
the eldest no, I am forgetting again the second son, but
takes the place of the eldest, who is of weak intellect, is he
not ?"
" I believe so, unfortunately. He has epileptic fits."
"And is not likely to marry. All the better for the
clergyman. I am sure I have seen him a tall, bearded,
handsome young man."
" Rosa used to think him handsome. As to his youth,
I fiuQcy he was about five years her senior. That would
niake him just my age ; but men are quite young still at
thirty."
" Women, too, I hope," said the countess, smiling with
a pleasant consciousness that if Debrett had not betrayed
it^ no one would ever have imagined that she was herself
22 HANNAH.
fully that age. Then, as if struck with a sudden thought,
she eyed Miss Thelluson keenly one of those acute, pene-
trating looks of hers, a mixture of the shrewd woman of
the world with the single-minded, warm-hearted woman
that she undoubtedly was, also.
" I am going to take a great liberty with you, Miss
Thelluson," she continued, after a pause ; " but I am a can-
did person may I say a few candid words ?"
" Certainly. And I should thank you for saying them.**
" Well, then, you are still a young woman."
" Oh no ; not young."
The countess put out her pretty hand with imperative
gesture, and repeated
" Yes ; a young unmarried woman, and I am a matron
and a mother. May I ask, have you well considered in
every point of view the step you are about to take ?"
" I think I have. That there are many difficulties, I
know ; and I am prepared for them."
" What sort of difficulties ?"
Hannah hesitated ; but the frank, kind eyes seemed to
compel an answer. She was so unused to sympathy that
when it did come she could not resist it
" First I know I may speak confidentially. Lady Duns-
more first, there is the Moat House. The Rivers family
did not quite like my poor Rosa; at least, they wished their
son to have married higher. They may not like me either,
and they may naturally feel offended at his choosing his
wife's sister to live with him, instead of one of his own."
" He had better have chosen one of his own."
'^ I think so too, and I told him this ; but he makes no
answer, and therefore I conclude he has good reasons for
not wishing it, and for wishing me instead. Then I shall
hold a most responsible position in his household, have
much parish work to do, as much as if I were the clergy-
man's wife."
" He should take a wife as soon as he can."
Hannah winced a moment. "It is only six monthn
since her death ; and yet and yet Yes ! I feel, with
HANNAH. 23
yon, that the sooner he takes a wife the better ; his need
of help, he tells me, is very great ; but in the mean time I
mast help him all I can.''
** I am sure you will ; you are made to help people," said
the countess, cordially. " But none of these are the diffi-
culties I was foreseeing."
" About my poor little niece, perhaps ? You think an
old maid can not bring up a baby, or manage a house,
with a man at the head of it ^men being so peculiar ? But
Rosa always said her husband was* the sweetest temper ii^
the world."
"He looked so. Not gifted with overmuch strength,
either mentally or bodily ; but of a wonderfully amiable
and affectionate nature. At least, so he struck me in the
few times I saw him. I only wish I had seen more of him,
that I now might judge better."
" On my account ?" said Hannah, half amused, half
pleased at the unexpected kindliness.
The countess took her hand. " Will you forgive me ?
Will you believe that I speak purely out of my interest in
you, and my conviction that, though you may be a much
better woman than I, I am a wiser woman than you at
least, in worldly wisdom. Are you aware, my dear Miss
Thelluson, that this is the only country in the world in
which a lady of your age and position could take the step
you are contemplating ?"
" Why not ? what possible reason "
"I am sorry I have put the idea into your head, since it
evidently has never come there. No ! I am not sorry.
Whatever you do ought to be done with your eyes open.
Has it never occurred to you that your brother-in-law is
really no brother, no blood relation at all to you ; and that
in every country, except England, a man may marry his
wife's sister ?"
Hannah drew back ; a faint color rose in her cheek ; but
it soon died out. The idea of her marrying any body
seemed so supremely, ridiculously impossible of her mar-
rying Rosa's husband painfully so.
f 4 UANNAH.
"It certainly did not occur to me," she answered, gently,
"and if it had, it would have made no diffet'ence in my de-
'ohion. Such marriages being unlawful hero, of couree ho
is simply my brother, and nothing more."
" He 19 not your brother," persisted Lady Dunemore.
" Ko force of law can make him so, or make you feel as il'
he wei-e. And I assure you, I who have gone about the
world much more than you have, that I have seen many
lad instances in which "
^ But the expression of diatress, and even repulsion, on
[ the govemeBs's face made the other lady pause.
" Well, well," slie said ; " you must have thought the mat-
^ ter well over, and it is, after all, purely youv own affair."
B my own affair," replied Hannah, still gently, but
in a way that would have closed the subject, had not the
ooantesB, with her infinite tact and good-breeding, dis-
missed it at once herself, and begun consulting with Miss
I Thelluson on the best way of I'eplacing her, and the quick-
' est, that she might the sooner be free " to go to that poor
little baby,"
"And remember," she added, " that on this point you
need have no qualms. My old nurse used to say thai any
sensible woman, with a heart in her bosom, could manage
a baby."
Hannah smiled, and her happy feeling returned, so that
she was able to listen with interest, and even amusement,
to a vivid description which the clever countess gave of
baby's grandmother and aunts, whom she had met in Lon-
don that season,
"All Easterham is lerra incoffnita to me. Lady Duns-
more ; but I shall try not to be afraid of any thing or any
body, and to do my best, whatever happens a very com-
luonplace sentiment ; but, you see, I was always a com-
monplace pei-Bon," added Hannah, smiling.
"In which case you would never have found it out," re-
Vplied the countess, who had hitherto had few opportunities
f any long talk with her governess on other topics than
^be children. Now, having both an aptitude and a lov
=J
HANNAH. 25
for the study of character, she found herself interested un-
awares in that grave, still, refined-looking woman, who,
though perhaps, as she said, a little commonplace when in
repose, was, when she talked, capable of so much and such
varied expression, both of feature and gesture for there
is a language of motion quite as plain a.s the language of
form, and of the two perhaps it is the most attractive.
She said to herself, this brilliant little lady, who had seen
so much of life of aristocratic life especially, and of the ter-
rible human passions that seethe and boil under the smooth
surface of elegant idleness she said to herself, " That face
has a story in it."
Yes, Miss Thelluson had had her story, early told and
quickly ended ; but it had colored her whole life, for all
that.
She had no brothers ; but she had an orphan cousin, of
whom she was very fond. As childish playfellows, the two
always said they would marry one another, which every
body laughed at as an excellent joke, until it grew into
earnest. Then Hannah's father, an eminent physician, in-
terfered. There was consumption in the family, and the
young man had already shown ominous symptoms of it.
His marrying any body was unwise ; his marrying a first
cousin absolute insanity. Dr. Thelluson, much as he blamed
himself for allowing the young people every chance of fall-
ing in love, when it was most imprudent for them to marry,
was yet too good a man frantically to shut the stable door
afler the steed was stolen, and to overstrain parental au-
thority to cruelty. He did not forbid the marriage, but
he remonstrated against it, both as a father and a physi-
cian, in the strongest manner, and worked so much upon
Hannah's feelings, that she consented to be separated en-
tirely from her cousin for three years, until she came of age.
Her reason told her that was no unfair test of so youthful
an attachment. Her father's secret hope was that the test
might fail, the afiection wear away, and the union, which,
though sanctioned by law and custom, he believed nature
totally disapproved of, might never come about.
B
26 HANNAH.
It never did. Long before the three years were ended,
young Thelluson died at Madeira of the family disease.
Hannah restored her betrothal-ring to her finger, saying
calmly, " I am married now," and seemed to bear her sor-
row quietly enough at first. But the quietness grew into
a stupor of despair, ending in that state of mind almost akin
to madness, in which one dwells hopelessly and agonizingly
upon what might have been ; for some people were cruel
enough to hint that a wife's care might have lengthened
her lover's life, and that his grief for Hannah's loss accel-
erated his fatal disease. Many a time when her father
looked at her he almost wished he had let the hapless
cousins marry running all risks for themselves or their
possible children. But all his life the physician had held
the doctrine that hereditary taint, physical or moral, con-
stitutes a stronger hindrance to marriage than any social
bar. He had acted according to his faith, and he was not
shaken from it because he had so keenly suffered for it.
After a time Hannah's sorrow wore itself out, or was
blotted out by others following her father's death, and
the dispersion of the family. There was no mother liv-
ing ; but there were three sisters at first, then two, then
only one her quiet, solitary self. For her great grief had
left upon her an ineffaceable impression not exactly of
melancholy, but of exceeding quietness and settled loneli-
ness of heart. She said to herself, " I never can suffer more
than I have suffered ;" and thenceforward all vicissitudes
of fate became level to her at least she thought so then.
Such was her story. It had never been very public, and
nobody ever talked of it or knew it now. Lady Dunsmore
had not the least idea of it, or she would not have ended
their conversation as she did.
" Good-by now, and remember you have my best wishes
ay, even if you marry your brother-in-law. It is not
nearly so bad as marrying your cousin. But I beg your
pardon ; my tongue runs away with me. All I mean to
say, seriously, is that, my husband being one of those who
uphold the bill for legalizing such marriages, I am well up
HANNAH. 27
I
on the subject, and we both earnestly hope they will be le-
galized in time."
" Whether or not, it can not concern me," said Miss
Thelluson, gently.
" The remedying of a wrong concerns every body a little
at least I think so. How society can forbid a man's marry-
ing his wife's sister, who is no blood-relation at all, and yet
allow him to marry his cousin a proceeding generally un-
wise, and sometimes absolutely wicked ^I can not imagine.
But forgive me again; I speak earnestly, for I feel earnestly."
" I am sure of it," said Miss Thelluson.
She was a little paler than usual ; but that was all ; and
when she had parted, quite affectionately, from her pupils'
mother^ she went and sat in her own little room as quiet
as ever, except that she once or twice turaed round on her
third finger its familiar ring, the great red carbuncle, like
a drop of blood, which had belonged to her cousin Arthur.
" What a fancy of the countess's to call me ' young,' and
suggest my marrying !" thought she, with a faint sad smile.
** No, I shall never marry any body ; and therefore it is
kind of Heaven thus to make a home for me, and above
all, to send me a child. A child of my very own almost ;
for she will never remember any mother but me. How I
wish she might call me mother ! However, that would not
do, perhaps. I must be content with ' auntie.' But I shall
have her all to myself, nevertheless, and perhaps Mr. Rivera
may marry again, and then I would ask him to give her up
wholly to me. Only to think, me with a child ! a little
thing trotting after me and laughing in my face a big
girl growing up beside me, a grown-up daughter to com-
fort my old age oh, what a happy woman I should be !"
So pondered she this lonely governess, this "old
maid," whose love-dreams were long ago vanished ; and
began unawares to let the fact slip behind her and look
forward to the future; to build and freight with new
hopes that tiny ship she that had never thought to put
to sea again ; to set her empty heart, with all its capacity
of loving, upon what? A baby six months old!
28 HANNAH.
CHAPTER IL
A HOUSE on a hill. It has its advantages, and its dis-
advantages. It is hard to climb to, and harder to descend
from. Everywhere round about you may see from it;
but then every body round about can see you. It is like
the city set on a hill, it can not be hid. Its light shines
far; but then the blacker is its darkness. However, one
need not carry out the metaphor, which speaks for it-
self.
Hannah Thelluson's ideal of a house had always been a
house on a hill. She had a curious dislike to living, either
physically or morally, upon low ground. She wanted
plenty of breathing -room: space around her and over
her: freedom to look abroad on the earth and up to the
sky. And, though her nature was neither ambitious nor
overbearing, she experienced even yet a childish delight
in getting to the top of things, in surmounting and looking
down upon difficulties, and in feeling that there was noth-
ing beyond her nothing unconquered between herself and
the sky. At least, that is the nearest description of a sen-
timent that was quite indescribable, and yet as real as in-
tangible fancies often are.
Therefore it had given her a certain sensation of pleasure
to hear that Mr. Rivers had removed from his house in the
village, the associations of which he found it impossible to
bear, to another, on the top of Easterham Hill, or Down,
as it was generally called, being a high open space, breezy,
and bright. On it he was building a few cottages a cot-
tage convalescent hospital he meant it to be in memory
of his late wife.
" I had planned a marble monument," he wrote to Han-
nah, " a recumbent figure of herself, life-size, with two an-
gels watching at head and foot. But I found this would
HANNAH. 29
cost nearly as much as the cottage, and it struck me that
Kosa would have liked something that was not only a me-
morial of the dead, but a blessing to the living."
Hannah agreed with him, and that little circumstance
gave her a favorable impression of her brother-in-law. She
was also touched by the minute arrangements he made for
her journey, a rather long one, and her reception at its end.
Some of his plans failed he was not able to meet her him-
self, being sent for suddenly to the Moat House but the
thoughtful kindness remained, and Miss Thelluson was
grateful.
She wound slowly up the hill in her brother-in-law's com-
fortable carriage, and descended at his door, the door of a
much grander house than she expected till she remem-
bered that since Rosa's death Mr. Rivers's income had been
doubled by succeeding to the fortune of a maternal uncle.
With him wealth accumulated upon wealth, as it seems to
do with some people ; perhaps, alas ! as a balance- weight
against happiness.
Miss Thelluson asked herself this question, in a sad kind
of way, when she entered the handsome modern house
very modern it seemed to her, who had been living in old
castles these three years, and very luxurious too. She won-
dered much whether she should feel at home here ; able to
be happy herself, or make the widower happy the forlorn
man, who had every blessing in life except the crowning one
of all, a good wife: the "gift that cometh from the Lord."
Was this worse or better for him? He had had it, and it
had been taken away, Hannah thought, with a compas-
sion for the living that almost lessened her grief for the
dead, how desolate he must often feel, sitting down to his
solitary meals, wandering through his empty garden Rosa
had so loved a garden and back again to his silent room.
How be must miss his wife at every step, in every thing
about him. A loss sharper even than that one the sharp-
ness of which she knew so well. But then, she and Arthur
had never been married.
"I must try and help him as much as I can my poor
30 HANNAH.
brother-in-law !" thought she to herself as she came into the
dreary house ; all the more dreary because it was such a
handsome house ; and then she thought no more either of
it or its master. For did it not contain what was infinite-
ly more interesting to her the baby ?
Some people will smile at what I am going to say ; and
yet it is truth a truth always solemn, sometimes rather
sad likewise. There are women in whom mother-love is
less an instinct or an affection than an actual passion as
strong as, sometimes even stronger than, the passion of love
itself; to whom the mere thought of little hands and little
feet especially " my little hands, my little feet," in that
fond appropriation with which one poet-mother puts it
gives a thrill of ecstasy as keen as any love-dreams. This,
whether or not they have children of their own; often, poor
women ! when they are lonely old maids. And such a one
was Hannah Thelluson.
As she entered the house (I feel the confession is more
pathetic than ridiculous) she actually trembled with the
delight of thinking that in a minute more she would have
her little niece in her arms ; and her first question was,
" Where is the baby ?"
Apparently a question quite unexpected from any visitor
in this house; for the footman, much surprised, passed it to
the butler, and the butler circulated it somewhere in the
inferior regions ) whence presently there appeared a slat-
ternly female servant.
" I am Miss Thelluson, baby's aunt. I want to see my
little niece."
Upon this the slatternly girl led the way up a steep
stair to the nursery. It was a long, low, gloomy room,
which struck chilly on entering, even in full summer, for
its only window looked northeast, and was shaded by an
overhanging tree. It had in perfection the close nursery
atmosphere of the old school, whose chiefest horror seemed
to be fresh air. Sunless, smothery, dull, and cold, it was
the last place in the world for any young life to grow up
in. It cast a weight even upon the grown woman, who
HANNAH. 31
loved light and air, and would never, either physically or
mentally, willingly walk in gloom.
Miss Thelluson contemplated sadly that small pale ef-
figy of a child, which lay in the little crib, with the last
evening light slanting across it through a carelessly-drawn
curtain. It lay, not in the lovely attitudes that sleeping
children often assume, but flat upon its back, its arms
stretched out cruciform, and its tiny feet extended straight
out, almost like a dead child. There was neither round-
ness nor coloring in the face, and very little beauty. Only
a certain pathetic peace, not unlike the peace of death.
" Don't touch her," whispered Miss Thelluson, as the
nurse was proceeding roughly to take up her charge.
" Never disturb a sleeping child. I will wait* till to-mor-
row."
And she stood and looked at it this sole relic of poor
Rosa ; this tiny creature, which was all that was left of the
Thelluson race, notable and honorable in its day, though
long dwindled down into poverty and obscurity.
As she looked there came into Hannah's heart that some-
thing mothers say they feel it at the instant when God
makes them living mothers of a living babe ; and perhaps
He puts it into the hearts of other women, not mothers at
all, in solemn, exceptional cases, and for holy ends that
passionate instinct of protection, tenderness, patience, self-
denial of giving every thing and expecting nothing back,
which constitutes the true ideal of maternity. She did not
lift the child; she would not allow herself even to kiss its
little curled-up fingers, for fear of waking it ; but she con-
secrated herself to it from that moment as only women
and mothers can, and do.
Nurse, who disliked her authority being set aside, ap-
proached again. "Never mind touching it, miss; we
often do. It only cries a bit, and goes off to sleep again."
But Hannah held her arm. " No, no !" she said, rather
sharply ; " I will not have the child disturbed. I can wait.
It is my child."
And she sat down on the rocking-chair by the crib side
w^
32 HANNAH.
with the air of one who knew her own rights, and was de-
termined to liave them. All her nervous doubt of hereelf,
her hesitation and timidity, vanished together; the sight
before her aeemed to make her Btrong strong as the weak-
est creatures are when the maternal instinct
them. At tho moment, and forever henceforth, Haniij
felt that she could have fought like any wild heast for
sake of that little helpless babe.
She sat along while beside it; long enough to take'
pretty clearly tho aspect of things around her. Though
she was an old maid, or considered herself so, she had had
a good deal of experience of family life in the various nurs-
eries of friends and employers ; upon which her strong com-
moQ-sense and quick observation had made many internal
comments. She detected at once here that mournful lack
of the mother's eye and hand ; the mother's care and de-
hght in making all things orderly and beautiful for the
opening intelligence of her darling. It was quite enough
to look around the room to feel sure that the little sleeper
before her was nobody's darling. Cared for, of course, up
to a certain extent, in a stupid, mechanical way ; but there
was nobody to take up, with fiill heart, tho bui'dcn of
motherhood, and do the utmost for the little human being
*ho, physiologists say, bears, in body and soul, the impress
of its fii'st two years of life with it to the grave.
"And this duty falls to me ; God has given it to me,"
said Hannah Thelluson to herself. And without a mo-
ment's questioning, or considering how far the labor might
|i outweigh the reward, or indeed whether the reward would
^^Kver come at all, she added solemnly, " Thank God I"
^^H. "I shall be here again before bedtime," said she aloud
^HKd the nurse as she rose.
^^ "Tou can't, miss," returned the woman, evidently bent
I on resistance ; " I always goes to bed early, and I locks roy
nursery door after I've gone to bed."
" That will not do," said Miss Thelluson. " I am baby's
pt, as you know, and her father has given her into my
The nursery must never bo locked against me,
into
ugh I
HANNAH. 33
day or night. Where is the key ?" She took it out of the
door and put it into her pocket, the nurse looking too ut-
terly astonished to say a word. " I shall be back here
again punctually at half-past nine."
" My first battle !" she thought, sighing, as she went
away to her own room. She was not fond of battles ; still,
she could fight when there was something worth fight-
ing for ; and even her first half hour in the widower's house-
hold was sufficient to show her that the mistress of it would
require to have eyes like Argus, and a heart as firm as a
rock. This was natural ; like every thing else, quite nat-
ural : but it was not the less hard, and it did not make her
home-coming to the house on the hill more cheerful.
It was a new house comparatively, and every thing
about it was new. Nothing could be more different from
the old-fashioned stateliness in which she had lived at Lord
Dunsmore's. But then there she was a stranger ; this was
home. She glanced through the house in passing, and tried
to admire it, for it was her brother-in-law's own property,
only lately bought. Not that he liked it he had told her
mournfully that he neither liked nor disliked any thing
much now but it was the most suitable house he could
find.
She went out into the garden, and wept out a heartful
of tears in the last gleam of the twilight, then she came
back and dressed for the seven o'clock dinner, for which
the maid, who appeared at the door, saying she had been
specially ordered to attend on Miss Thelluson, told her
Mr. Rivers was sure to return,
"The first time master ever has returned, miss, to a
regular late dinner, since the poor mistress died."
This, too, was a trial. As Hannah descended, attired
with her usual neatness, but in the thorough middle-aged
costume that she had already assumed, there flashed across
her a vision of poor Rosa, the last time, though they little
knew it was the last, that she ran into her sister's room
just before dinner ; all in white, her round rosy arms and
neck gleaming under the thin muslin, so happy herself,
B2
34 HANNAH.
and brightening all around her with her loving, lovesome
ways. And now, a mile distant, Rosa slept under the dai-
sies. How did her husband endure the thought ?
With one great sob Hannah smothered down these re-
membrances. They would make the approaching meet-
ing more than painful intolerable. She felt as if the
first minute she looked into her brother-in-law's face and
grasped his hand, both would assuredlly break down, al-
though over both had grown the outside composure of a
six-months-old sorrow.
He himself seemed in dread of a " scene," and watchful
to avoid it, for instead of meeting her in the drawing-
room, she found him waiting for her at the stair-foot, under
the safe shelter of all the servants' eyes.
" I am late," he said. " I must apologize."
Then they shook hands. Mr. Rivers's hand was trem-
bling, and very cold, but that was all. He said nothing
more, and led her at once into the dining-room.
In such circumstances how dreadful sometimes are little
things the little things that unconsciously crop up, sting-
ing like poisoned arrows. There was one Hannah re-
called it long afterward, and so did others dwelling ma-
lignly upon the innocent, publicly uttered, kindly words.
The table had been laid for two persons, master and
mistress, and the butler held for Miss Thelluson the mi^
tress's chair. Struck with a sudden pang, she hesitated
glanced toward Mr. Rivers.
" Take it," he said, in a smothered kind of voice ; " it is
your place now. I hope you will keep it always."
So she sat down in Rosa's seat; with Rosa's husband
opposite. How terrible for him to see another face in the
room of that dear, lovely one, over which the coffin-lid had
closed ! It was her duty, and she went through it ; but
she felt all dinner-time as if sitting upon thorns.
During the safe formalities of the meal she had leisure
to take some observation of her brother-in-law. He was
greatly altered. There had passed over him that great
blow the first grief of a lifetime ; and it had struck him
HANNAH. 35
down as a man of naturally buoyant temperament usually
is struck by any severe shock sinking under it utterly.
Even as sometimes those whom in full health disease has
smitten die quicker than those who have been long inured
to sickness and suffering.
His sister-in-law observed him compassionately but
sharply; more sharply than she had ever done before.
The marriage having been all settled without her, she had
not to criticise but to accept him as Rosa's choice, and had
actually only seen him twice on the wedding-day, and
the one brief visit afterward. She had noticed him little,
until now. But now, when they were to live together as
brother and sister ; when he expected her to be his friend
and companion, daily and hourly ; to soothe him and sym-
pathize with him, put up with all his moods and humors,
consult him on all domestic matters, and, in short, stand
to him in the closest relation that any woman can stand
to any man, unless she is his mother or his wife, the case
was altered. It behooved her to find out, as speedily as
possible, what sort of man Mr. Rivers was.
He had a handsome face, and yet this " yet " is not so
nnfair as it seems it was likewise a good face; full of
feeling and expression. A little feminine, perhaps he
was like his mother, the first Lady Rivers, who had been
a very beautiful woman ; and once Hannah had thought
it boyishly bright too bright to interest her much, but it
was not so now. The sunshine had all gone out of it, yet
it had not attained the composed dignity of grief. Irri-
table, restless, gloomy, morbid, he seemed in that condi-
tion into which a naturally good-tempered man is prone
to fall when some great shock has overset his balance,
and made him the exact opposite of what he once was
hating every thing and every body about him, and him-
self most of all.
Hannah sighed as she listened, though trying not to
listen, to his fault-finding with the servants, sometimes
sotto voce^ sometimes barely restrained by his lingering
sense of right from breaking out into actual anger he
who was, Rosa used to assert, the Bweetest-tempered man,
the most perfect gentleman in all the world. Tet even
hia crossness was pathetic like the naughtiness of a sick
child, who does not know what is the matter with him.
Hannah felt so sorry for him ! She longed to make eiccuBe
for those domestic delinquencies, and tell him she would
goon put all right; as she knew she could, having been her
father's housekeeper ever since she was a girl of Bixteen.
She was bold enough faintly to hint this, when tliey got
into the drawing-room, where some trivial neglect had an-
noyed him excGHsively, much more than it deserved; and
she offered to rectify it.
" Will you really ? Will you take all those common
household cares upon yourself?"
"It is a woman's bosiness ; and I like it."
" So she used to say. She used constantly to be longing
for you, and telling me how comfortable every thing was
when her sister was housekeeper at home. She she "
It was the first time the desolate man liad ventured off
the safe track of commonplace convereation, and though
he only spoke of Rosa as "she" it seemed impossible to
him to call her by her name the mere reference to hia
dead wife was more than he could bear. All the flood-
gates of his grief burst open.
"Isn't this a change! a terrible, terrible change!" he
cried, looking up to Ilannah with anguish in Ms eyes. A
child's anguish could not have been more appealing, more
utterly undisguised. And, sitting down, he covered hia
face with his hands, and wept also like a child.
Hannah wept too, not with such a passionate abandon-
ment ; it was against her nature, woman though she was.
Her own long-past sorrow, which, she fancied, most resem-
bled his, and had first drawn her to him with a strange
eympatby, had been a grief totally silent. From the day
of Arthur's death she never mentioned her cousin's name.
Consolation she had never asked or received from any
human being this sort of afiliction could not be comfort-
ed. Therefore she scarcely understood, at first, bow Ber-
I
HANNAH. 37
nard Rivers, when the seal was once broken, poured out
the whole story of his. loss in a continuous stream. For
an hour or more he sat beside her, talking of Rosa's ill-
ness and death, and all he had suffered ; and then going
over and over again, with a morbid intensity, his brief,
happy married life ; apparently finding in this overflow of
heart the utmost relief, and even alleviation,
Hannah listened, somewhat surpnsed, but still she list-
ened. The man and the woman were as unlike as they
well could be ; yet, thus thrown together bound togeth-
er, as it were, by the link of a common grief, their very
dissimilarity, and the necessity it involved of each making
allowances for, and striving heartily not to misjudge the
other, produced a certain mutual interest, which made
even their first sad evening not quite so sad as it might
have been.
After a while Hannah tried to lure Mr. Rivers out of his
absorbing and pitiably self-absorbed grief into a few prac-
tical matters ; for she was anxious to get as clear an idea
as she could of her own duties in the household and the
parish. Her duties only ; her position, and her rights ^if
she had any would, she knew, fall into their fitting places
by-and-by.
"Yes, I have a large income," said Mr, Rivers, sighing.
"Far too large for me and that poor little baby. She
would have enjoyed it, and spent it wisely and well. You
shall spend it instead. You shall have as much money as
you want, weekly or monthly ; just as she had. Oh, how
clever she was ! how she used to bring me her books to
reckon over, and make such fun out of them, and fall into
Buch pretty despair if they were the least bit wrong I My
own Rosa ! My merry, happy wife ! yes, I know I made
her happy ! She told me so almost her last words."
"Thank God for that!"
" I do."
Hannah tried to put into the heart-stricken man the be-
lief essentially a woman's that a perfect love, even
when lost, is still an eternal possession a pain so sacred
you th
that its deep poace often grows into absolute content.
But he did not Beem to understand this at slL His pres-
ent loaa the continually aching want the daily craving
for iove and help and sympathy those were all he felt,
and felt with a keenness iiidescribable. How could tlie
one ever be filled up and the other supplied ?
Hannah could not tell. She grew frightened at the re-
sponsibility she had undertaken, A kind of bopeleasness
came over her ; she almost wished herself safe back again
in the quiet school-room with her little Ladies Dacre.
There, at least, she knew all her duties, and could fulfill
them ; hero thfey already seemed so complicated that how
she should first get them clear, and then perform them, was
more than she knew. However, it was not her way to
meet evils beforehand, or to try and put more than the
day's work into the day. She was old enough to have
ceased to struggle after the impossible.
So she eat watching, with a pity almost motherly, the
desolate man, with whom, it Beemed, for a time at least, her
lot was cast; inwardly praying that she might have
strength to do her duty by him, and secretly hoping that
it might not be for long ; that his grief, by its very wild-
nesa might wear itself out, and the second marriage, which
Lady Dunsmore bad prognosticated as the best thing
which could happen to him, might gradually come about,
"Eoaa would have wished it even Rosa," the sister
thought, choking down a not uunatnral pang, "could she
see him as I see him now."
It was a relief to catch an excuse for a few minutes' ab-
aence; she took out her watch, and told her brother-in-
law it was time to go up to the nursery.
" Nurse does not like it ; I see that ; but still I must go.
Every night before I sleep I must take my latest peep at
baby,"
"Ah, that reminds me I have never asked you what
rou think of baby. I don't know how it is I fear y on
"" think me very wicked," added the widower, aigh^^^
I can not take the interest I ought to take in %,
HANNAH. 39
poor child. I suppose men don't care for babies not at
first and then her birth cost me so much."
" It was God's will things should be thus," answered
Hannah, gravely. " It should not make you dislike your
child ^Rosa's child."
" God forbid ! only that I can not feel as I ought to
feel toward the poor little thing."
" You will in time." And Hannah tried to draw a pic-
ture such as might touch any father's heart of his wee
girl toddling after him, his big girl taking his hand, and
beginning to ask him questions, his sweet, grown-up girl
becoming his housekeeper, companion, and friend.
Mr. Rivers only shook his head. "Ah, but that is a long
time to wait. I want a friend and companion now. How
am I ever to get through these long, lonely years ?"
" God will help you," said Hannah, solemnly, and then
felt half ashamed, remembering she was preaching to a
clergyman. But he was a man, too, with all a man's weak-
nesses, every one of which she was sure to find out ere
long. Even already she had found out a good many. Evi-
dently he was of a warm, impulsive, affectionate nature,
sure to lay upon her all his burdens. She would have the
usual lot of sisters, to share most of the cares and responsi-
bilities of a wife, without a wife's blessings or a wife's love.
" I must go now. Good-night," she said.
" Good-night ? Nay, surely you are coming back to me
again ? You don't know what a relief it has been to talk
to you. You can not tell how terrible to me are these
long, lonely evenings."
A moan, to Hannah incomprehensible. For her solitude
had no terror had never had. In early youth she would
sit and dream for hours of the future a future which never
came. Now she had done with dreaming ; the present suf-
ficed her and the past. She liked thinking of her dear
ones living, her still dearer ones dead, and found in their
peaceful, unseen companionship all she required. Never
was there a person less dependent on outward society.
And yet when she had it she rather enjoyed it^-only she
40 HANNAH.
never craved after it, nor was it any necessity oi her ex-,
istence. On such women, who themselves can stand alone,
others always come and lean men especially.
As Miss Thelluson quitted him, Mr. Rivers looked after
her with those restless, miserable eyes of his, from which
the light of happiness seemed fled forever.
" Pray come back soon," he said, imploringly. " I do
so hate my own company."
" Poor man I How sad it would be if we women felt
the same !" thought Hannah. And she, who understood,
and could endure, not only solitude but sorrow, took some
comfort to herself a little more, also, in the hope of im-
parting comfort. ^
A child asleep ! Painters draw it. Poets sing about
it. Yet the root of its mystery remains a mystery still.
About it seem to float the secrets of earth and heaven
life and death ; whence we come, and whither we go : what
God does with and in us, and what He expects us to do for
ourselves. It is as if, while we gaze, we could catch dnft-
ing past us a few threads of that wonderful web which,
in its entirety. He holds solely in His own hands.
Hannah Thelluson looked on this sleeper of six months
old with a feeling of not merely tenderness, but awe. She
listened to the soft breathing-r-which might have to draw
its last sigh who knows ? perhaps eighty years hence,
when she and all her generation were dead, buried, and
forgotten. The solemnity of the charge she had under-
taken came upon her tenfold. She stood in the empty
nursery, apparently left deserted for hours, for the fire was
out, and the candle flickered in its socket. Strange shad-
ows came and went ; among them one might almost im-
agine human shapes perhaps the dead mother gliding in
to look at her lonely child. Even as in some old ballad
about a cruel step-mother
**The nlcht was lang and the bairaies grat,
Their mither she under the mools heard that.
"She washed the tane and bnskit her fair,
She kamed and plaited the tither*s hair;"
HANNAH. 41
and then reproached the new wife, saying the words
came vividly back upon Hannah's mind
"I left ye candles and grofF wax-light
My baimies sleep i* the mirk o' night.
**I left ye mony braw bolsters blae
My bairnies ligg i' the bare strae.'*
A notion pathetic in its very extravagance. To Hannah
Thelluson it scarcely seemed wonderful that any mother
shonld rise up from " under the mools," and come thus to
the rescue of her children.
" Oh, if this baby's father ever brings home a strange
woman to be unkind to her, what shall I do ? Any thing,
I think, however desperate. Rosa, my poor Rosa, you
may rest in peace. God do so to me, and more also, as
the Bible says, if ever I forsake your child."
While she spoke, half aloud, there was a tap at the door.
" Come in, nurse." But it was not the nurse ; it was
the father.
" I could not rest. I thought I would come too. They
never let me look at baby."
" Look, then. Isn't she sweet ? See how her little fin-
gers curl round her papa's hand already."
Mr. Rivers bent over the crib not unmoved. "My
poor little girl I Do you think, Aunt Hannah, that she
will ever be fond of me ?"
" I am sure she will."
" Then I shall be so fond of her."
Hannah smiled at the deduction. It was not her no-
tion of loving especially of loving a child. She had had
enough to do with children to feel keenly the truth that,
mostly, one has to give all and expect nothing at least,
for many years. But it was useless to say this, or to put
any higher ideal of paternal affection into the young fa-
ther's head. He was so completely a young man still, she
said to herself; and felt almost old enough, and experi-
enced enough, to be his mother.
Nevertheless, Mr. Rivers seemed much affected by the
sight of his child, evidently rather a rare occurrence.
42 HANNAH.
" I think she is growing prettier," he said. " Anyhow,
she looks very peaceable and sweet. I should like to take
her and cuddle her, only she would wake and scream."
" I am afraid she would," said Hannah, smiling. " You
had better go away. See, there comes nurse."
Who entered in somewhat indignant astonishment, at
finding not only Miss Thelluson, but Mr. Rivers, intruding
on her domains. Whereupon the latter, with true mascu-
line cowardice, disappeared at once.
But when Aunt Hannah who accepted gladly the wel-
come name rejoined him in the drawing-room, she found
him pacing to and fro with agitated steps.
" Come in, sister, my good sister. Tell me you don't
think me such a brute as I have been saying to myself I
am. Else why should that woman have thought it so ex-
traordinary my coming to look at my own child ? But
I do not mean to be a brute. I am only a miserable man,
indifferent to every thing in this mortal world. Tell me,
shall I ever get out of this wretched state of mind ? Shall
I ever be able to endure my life again ?"
What could Hannah say? or would there be any good
in saying it? Can^the experience of one heart teach an-
other ? or must each find out the lesson for itself? I fear
so. Should she as, with the strange want of reticence
which men sometimes exhibit much more than we women,
he poured forth the anguish of his life open to him that
long-hidden and now healed, though never-forgotten, woe
of hers? But no! she could not. It was too sacred.
All she found possible was gently to lead him back to
their old subject of talk commonplace, practical things
the daily interests and duties by which, as a clergyman,
he was necessarily surrounded, and out of which he might
take some comfort. She was sure he might if he chose ;
she told him so.
" Oh no," he said, bitterly. " Comfort is vain. I am a
broken-down man. I shall never be of any good to any
lody ! But you will take care of my house and my child.
Do, just as you fancy. Have every thing your own way."
' HANNAH. 43
cc
In one thing I should like to have at once my own
way," said she, rushing desperately upon a subject which
she had been resolving on all the evening. "I want to
change rooms with baby."
"Why? Is not yours comfortable? Those horrid
servants of mine ! I desired them to give yoit the pleas-
antest room in the house."
" So it is ; and for that very reason baby ought to have
it. A delicate child like her should live in sunshine, phys-
ically and morally, all day long. The nursery only catches
the sun for an hour in the day."
"How can you tell, when you have not been twelve
hours in the house ?"
She touched the tiny compass which hung at her watch-
chain.
" What a capital idea I What a very sensible woman
you must be !" And Mr. Rivers smiled for the first time
that evening. Miss Thelluson smiled too.
" What would become of a governess if she were not sen-
sible ? Then I may have my way ?"
" Of course ! Only what shall I say to grandmam-
ma? She chose the nursery, and was quite content
with it."
" Grandmamma is probably one of the old school, to
whom light and air were quite unnecessary luxuries nay,
rather annoyances."
" Yet the old school brought up their children to be as
healthy as ours."
"Because they were probably stronger than ours: we
have to pay for the errors of a prior generation ; or else
the strong ones only lived, the weakly were killed off pret-
ty fast. But I beg your pardon. You set me on my hob-
by a governess's hobby the bringing up of the new gen-
eration. Besides, you know the proverb about the perfect-
ness of old bachelors' wives and old maids' children."
" You are not like an old maid, and still less like a gov-
erness." He meant this for a compliment, but it was not
accepted as such.
"Nevertheless, I am both," answered Miss TheTlnS6n,
feively. "Nor am I ashamed of it either,"
W*' Certainly not ; there is nothing to he ashamed of," said
Mr, Rivers, coloring. lie could not bear in the snialleBt de-
gree to hurt people's feelings, and had painfully sensitive
feelings of hia own. Then came an awkward pause, after
which conversation flagged to a considerable degree.
Hannah began to think, what in the wide world should
she do if she and her brother-in-law had thus to sit opposite
to one another, evening after evening,tli rough the long win-
ter's nights, thrown exclusively upon each other's society,
bonnd to be mutually agreeable, or, at any rate, not disa-
greeable, yet lacking the freedom that esiats between hua-
L,liand and wife, or brother and sister who have grown up
RtOgether, and been used to one another all tbcir lives. It
KwBB a position equally difficult and anomalous. She wished
^ttie had known Mr. Itivcrs more intimately during Roea'e
B|&time ; yet this would have availed her Utile, for even
Jptftt intimacy would necessaiily have been limited. A rc-
MGcent woman never, under any circumstances, cares to be
Bpery familiar with another woman's husband, even though
R|e be the husband of her own sister. She may like him sin-
Eeerely, be ihay be to her a most tme and affectionate friend,
Hjlst to have bis constant exclusive society, day after day
^fad evening after evening, she would either find cxtreme-
^R irksome ov, ifshe did not God help hcrl Even under
Ipw most innocent circumstances such an attraction would
^fee a sad nay, a fatal thing to both parties. People talk
^nwut open jealousies; but the secret heart-burnings that
^prise from misunderstood, half-misunderstood, or wholly
^BJise positions between men and women, are much worse,
H^ is the unuttered sorrows, the unadmitted and impossible-
^b-be-avenged wrongs, which cause the sharpest pangs of
^Bastence.
^KXot that Miss Thellusoo thought about these tbinga ;
^deed, she Vas too much perplexed and bewildered by
^Mr new position to think much abont any thing beyond
^^e moment, but she felt enfiiclently awkward and uucoin-
HANNAH. 45
fortable to make her seize eagerly upon any convenient
topic of conversation.
" Are they all well at the Moat House ? I suppose I
shall have the pleasure of seeing some of your family to-
morrow ?"
" If if you will take the trouble of calling there. I
must apologize" and he looked more apologetic than
seemed even necessary " I believe Lady Rivers ought to
call upon you ; but she is growing old now. You must
make allowances."
His was a tell-tale face. Hannah guessed at once that
she would have a difficult part to play between her broth-
er-in-law and his family. But she cared not. She seemed
not to care much for any thing or any body now except
that little baby up stairs.
" One always makes allowances for old people," answered
she, gently.
"And for young people, too," continued Mr. Rivers, with
some anxiety. "My sisters are so gay so careless-hearted
thoughtless, if you will.''
Hannah smiled. " I think I shall have too busy a life
to be likely to see much of your sisters. And, I promise
you, I will, as you say, * make allowances ' except in one
thing." And there came a sudden flash into the deep-
set gray eyes which made Mr. Rivers start, and doubt if
his sister-in-law was such a very quiet woman after all.
" They must not interfere with me in my bringing up of
my sister's child. There, I fear, they might find me a little
difficult."
" No. You will have no difficulty there," said he, hast-
ily. " In truth, my people live too much a life of society
to trouble themselves about domestic concerns, especially
babies. They scarcely ever see Rosie ; and when they do
they always moan over her say what a pity it is she
wasn't a boy, and that she is so delicate she will never be
reared. But, please God, they may be mistaken."
" They shall," said Hannah, between her teeth, feeling
that, if she could so bargain with Providence, she would
i
46 HANNAH.
gladly exchange ten or twenty years of her own pale life
for that little life just beginning, the destiny of which
none could foresee.
Mr. Rivers went on talking. It seemed such a relief to
him to talk.
" Of course, my father and they all would have liked a
boy best. My eldest brother, you are aware well, poor
fellow, he grows worse instead of better. None of us ever
see him now. I shall be the last of my name. A name
which has descended in an unbroken line, they say, for
centuries. We are supposed to have been De la Riviere,
and to have come over with William the Conqueror. Not
that I care much for this sort of thing." And yet he look-
ed as if he did, a little ; and, standing by his fireside, tall
and handsome, with his regular Norman features, and
well-knit Norman frame, he was not an unworthy repre-
sentative of a race which must have had sufficient elements
of greatness, physical and moral, to be able to keep itself
out of obscurity all these centuries. " I am rather Whig-
gish myself; but Sir Austin is a Tory of the old school,
and has certain crotchets about keeping up the family.
Things are just a little hard for my father."
" What is hard ? I beg your pardon ^I am afraid I was
not paying much attention to what you said just then. I
thought," Hannah laughed and blushed a little "I thought
I heard the baby."
Mr. Rivers laughed too. " The baby will be Aunt Han-
nah's idol, I see. Don't spoil her, that is all. Grandmam-
ma is always warning me that she must not be spoiled."
Then seeins: the same ominous flash in Miss Thelluson's
eye, he added, " Nay, nay ; you shall have Rosie all to
yourself, never fear. I am only too thankful to get you
here. I hope you will make yourself happy. Preserve for
me my fragile little flower, my only child, and I shall bless
you all my days."
Hannah silently extended her hand : her brother-in-law
grasped it warmly. Tears stood in both their eyes, but
still the worst of this meeting was over. They had reached
HANNAH. 47
the point when they could talk calmly of ordinary things,
and consult together over the motherless child, who was
now first object to both. And though, whether the wid-
ower felt it or not, Hannah still felt poor Rosa's continual
presence, as it were ; heard her merry voice in pauses of
conversation ; saw the shadow of her dainty little form
standing by her husband's side these remembrances she
knew were morbid, and not to be encouraged. They would
fede, and they ought to fade, gradually and painlessly, in
the busy anxieties of real life. Which, of us, in dying,
would wish it to be otherwise ? Would we choose to be
to our beloved a perpetually aching grief, or a tender, holy
memory ? I think, the latter. Hannah, who knew some-
thing about sorrow, thought so too.
"Good -night," she said, rising, not regretfully, the in-
stant the clock struck ten. " I am an early bird, night
and morning. Shall you object to that ? No house goes
well unless the mistress is early in the morning."
The moment she had said the word she would have
given any thing to unsay it. That sweet, dead mistress,
who used to come fluttering down stairs like a white bird,
with a face fresh as a rose would the time ever come
when her husband had forgotten her ?
Not now, at any rate. " Yes," he answered, with evi-
dent pain. " Yes ; you are the mistress here now. I put
you exactly in her place to manage every thing as she
did She would wish it so. Oh, if we only had her back
again ! just for one week, one day ! But she never will
come back any more !"
He turned away, the forlorn man whom God had smit-
ten with the heaviest* sorrow, the sharpest loss, that a man
can know. What consolation could Hannah offer him?
None, except the feeble one that, in some measure, she
could understand his grief; because over her love too the
grave had closed. For a moment she thought she would
say that ; but her lips, when she opened them, seemed par-
alyzed. Not yet, at any rate not yet. Not till she
knew him better, and, perhaps, he her.
{
48 HANNAH.
So she only took kis hand, and again said, " Good-nightj"
adding softly, " God bless you and yours I"
"He has blessed us, in sending Aunt Hannah to take
care of us."
And so that first evening, which she had looked for-
ward to with no small dread, was over and done.
But long after Hannah had retired she heard her broth-
er-in-law walking about the house with restless persistency,
opening and shutting door after door, then ascending to
his own room with weary steps, and locking himself in
not to sleep, for he had told her that he often lay awake
till dawn. She did not sleep either; her thoughts were
too busy, and the change in her monotonous life too sud-
den and complete for any thing like repose.
She sat at her window and looked out. It was a good-
ly night, and the moon made every thing bright as day.
All along the hill-top was a clear view, but the valley be-
low was filled with mist, under which its features, whether
beautiful or not, were utterly indistinguishable. That
great white sea of vapor looked as mysterious as the to-
morrow into which she could not penetrate ; the new life,
full of new duties and ties, now opening before her just
when she thought all were ended. It interested her a lit-
tle. She wondered vaguely how things would turn out,
just as she wondered how the valley, hid under that misty
sea, would look at six o'clock next morning. But soon
her mind went back, as it always did in the moonlight, to
her own silent past her own people, her father, mother,
sisters, all dead and buried to her lost Arthur, with
whom life too was quite done. He seemed to be saying
to her, not near, for he had been dead so long that even
his memory had grown phantom-like and far away, but
whispering from some distant sphere words she had read
somewhere the other day
** Oh, maid most dear, I am not here,
I have no place, no part :
No dwelling more on sea or shore
Bat only in thy heart."
HANNAH. 49
"In my heart! in my heart!" she repeated to herself,
and thought how impossible it was that any living love
could ever 'have supplanted ever could supplant the
dead.
CHAPTER m.
This is no sensational or exceptional history, but one that
might happen does happen continually. The persons
therein described are just ordinary people, neither ideally
good nor extraordinarily bad. Not so weak as to be the
mere sport of circumstances, yet human enough to be influ-
enced thereby, as we all are. In short, neither heroes nor
heroines, but men and women the men and women of
whom society is mainly composed, and for which it has
to legislate. ^
Hannah Thelluson was no heroine, Bernard Rivers no
hero ; and they had not lived many days under the same
roof before they made that mutual discovery more espe-
cially as they had plenty of spare time in which to make
it; for, the fine autumn melting in continuous rain, no
visitors came near the House on the Hill not even from
the Moat House. Miss Thelluson had called there, as she
promised ; but the family were out driving. Next day a
footman brought her the cards of Lady and the Misses
Rivers, with an apology for not calling, on account of the
rain.
"They will ask you to dinner next; my people are very
particular on points of etiquette," observed Mr. Rivers,
evidently annoyed.
But Hannah was not annoyed at all. Not even when
the invitation never came, and the rain cleared up; yet
somehow or other she had been nearly three weeks at
Easterham without having once met her brother-in-law's
family.
Of Mr. Rivers himself she had enough and to spare. It
is a severe trial for any two people to be thrown on one
V V c
50 HANNAH.
another^s exclusive society at meal-times, and all other
times that politeness requires striving in a hopeless man-
ner to make conversation, eager to find out and seize upon
the smallest point of mutual interest which will break the
dull monotony of the time. What they were to her broth-
er-in-law Hannah could not tell, but to her the first four
days seemed like fourteen.
It was not from the dullness, which she would have put
up with, being a very patient woman ; but Mr. Rivers
sometimes vexed her exceedingly. His desultory, lazy
way of hanging about the house, his variableness, his ir-
ritability, and, above all, his indifference and carelessness
about every body and every thing, were to a woman
who all her life had found plenty to do, and if she could
not find work, made it utterly incomprehensible.
^' But I suppose it is because I am a woman, and have
never been used to live with any man except my father,
and he was not a man ; he was an angel !"
So she argued with herself, and " did her duty," as she
considered it, to the full ; placing herself at Mr. Rivers's
beck and call every hour in the day, following him about
obediently, as he evidently liked to be followed ; for his
craving after sympathy and his horror of solitude were
almost painful to witness: in short, trying to devote her-
self to him as a nurse does to a sickly, naughty child
naughty because sickly. But she did not enjoy this task.
His unhappy, restless face made her heart ache ; his aim-
less, useless life afflicted her conscience. A man, a father,
a clergyman surely he was made for better things. If
Heaven had taken away his delights, his duties still were
left him. He onijht to rouse himself.
And one day, driven almost to desperation by the way
in which he had done nothing, hour after hour, but moon
about and " bother " her, as an idle, melancholy man does
bother a busy woman and Hannah had not been twenty-
four hours in that chaotic, headless house before her head
and hands were quite full of business she ventured to
hint this.
HANNAH. 51
" Work I" he answered. " I have no work ; nothing that
I care to do. She always did every thing with me; we
went about the parish together; she used to call herself
my curate in petticoats ; and the curate was much more
useful than the vicar, I believe. Oh, Hannah I you knew
what she was, but you never knew what she was to
me!"
A tender idealization, perhaps ; but the sister felt it
deeply. Every memory of poor Rosa was most sacred to
her heart too.
" But," she reasoned, " is there nothing you could do, if
only for Rosa's sake ? She could not bear to see the par-
ish neglected, as you say it is. She would like you to look
afler the poor and the sick, and carry them comfort."
" I carry comfort !"
"Those can who have known sorrow."
The widower looked at her, uncomprehendingly, with his
wild, wistful, miserable eyes this woman so quiet, so gen-
tle, yet somewhat sad too.
" You have known sorrow ?"
" I have."
" Can you teach me how to bear mine ?"
What she answered was very little, but it was to the
purpose ; something like what the Lord said to the man
siek of palsy what He says to every man who is sinking
under the paralysis of grief ^^ Rise up and walk !" She
told him in plain words, that instead of sitting at home to
mourn, he ought to go out and work.
" I would, only I have no heart to go alone. There is
an endless number of parish visits due where she always
went with me. If"
He hesitated. Hannah hesitated too. It seemed usurp-
ing so pointedly the place of the dead; and yet that
dreary, helpless, appealing look of the lonely man I
** If you like that is, if you do not dislike my coming,
and I can be of any use to you ^"
" Would you go with me ? That would be so very kind.
Only this muddy, damp day "
62 HANNAH.
" Oh, I never mind mud or rain I"
" Nor trouble, nor fatigue, nor any thing else unpleasant,
so long as you can do a kindness. She always said so, and
now I have found it out for myself"
Hannah smiled. Until now she had no idea whether
her brother-in-law liked her or not, and she was not above
the pleasantness of being liked. " Suppose, then, I go and
put on my bonnet at once ?" And as she did so she caught
a sight of her own face in the glass, smiling. " If he likes
me I may get some influence over him, so as to make my
duty easier. And I will try to see his faults less plainly,
and his good points plainer, as people should who are
obliged to live together. How shall I be able to teach my
little girlie to love her father if I do not love him myself
a little ? I may in time !"
And she went down stairs with a more cheerful heart.
After that nearly every day she and " the parson " went
out together, and he made her acquainted with all the
poor people in the village. Only the poor. The few big
houses there were, taking their cue from the biggest of all
the Moat House or from some other mysterious reason,
into which Miss Thelluson did not care to penetrate, but
which apparently annoyed Mr. Rivers a good deal of
these she saw nothing. They did not call.
Little she cared. Every minute of her day was occu-
pied. Household affairs, parish work, the endless help that
her brother-in-law soon came to expect from her. Oflen
Hannah spiled to herself at finding that before her new
life had lasted twenty days, she was growing a busier
woman than ever too busy to heed outside things. Be-
sides, in addition to all this, there had come over her a
change which made her feel as if outside things never
could affect her any more. She had fallen in love.
Smile not, readers masculine readers especially who
think that we women can fall in love with nothing but
your noble selves. The object of Hannah's passion was
only a baby I
People say that babies are all alike ; but it is to those
HANNAH. 53
who do not discriminate them or love them, who take no
interest in that wonderful and most pathetic sight the
growth of a human soul. Ay, and a child's soul begins to
grow almost as soon as it is bom. Within three months
mothers know you can almost see it growing. At
least in most children.
Now, at nine months old, little Rosie Rivers was an act-
ual, individual character, with an individual soul. It had
shone out of her eyes that very first morning when she
opened and fixed them on her aunt, who sat beside her,
watching for her waking. And when Hannah took the
little white bundle in her arms, Rosie first drew herself
back, and with grave, sad, appealing eyes, intently con-
templated the stranger. " Who are you ? What do you
want with me ? Are you going to be kind to me ?" said
the mute little face as plain as any words. Then, as if
satisfied with her investigation, she slowly dropped her
head on her aunt's shoulder, and Hannah pressed her pas-
sionately to her breast.
Thus they fell in love the woman and the child and
the love grew day by day in a miraculous no ! in not any
miraculous way. Children have a heavenly instinct in
finding good people, and people that love them, in whom
they may safely trust. Ere two days were over Rosie
would leave any body to go to her aunt's arms. As for
Hannah, she could not get enough of her felicity. Had
Bbe not longed for this, ay, ever since she had dressed up
her big doll in her own half-worn baby-clothes, and caressed
it with all a mother's devotedness, at eleven years old ? To
have a baby a baby of her very own, as it were (for
nurse had given warning at once), it was perfect content.
Every minute that she could steal from Rosie's father she
gave to the child: she would have liked to be in the nurs-
ery all day long. When wearied out with Mr. Rivers's
restlessness, saddened by his gloomy face, she would fly
for refuge to that sunshiny room her own room which
she had made as cozy and pretty as she could, and find
it a heaven of peace ; for the bright little face, the happy
54 HANNAH.
little voice, were something nearer heaven than any thing
her life had as yet ever known.
It might not have been the same with all children ; bat
the poor, motherless Rosie was a very original child.
Small, quiet, gentle, pale, there was yet in the baby month
a firm little will of its own ; and in the serious eyes a
strange out-looking, as if seeing something grown-up peo-
ple could not see seeking, perhaps, the mother she was
never to know. Very soon Hannah learned to think that
tiny face unlike all the faces she had ever beheld. Not
that it was pretty poor Rosie was wholly unworthy,
physically, of her handsome father and beautiful mother
but it had such a world of changeful meanings in it ; it
was such a wonderful thing to study and marvel over. In
its peaceful, heavenly dumbness it seemed to come to the
lonely, shut-up woman like a face out of the unknown
world.
Such a companion Rosie was, too I Miss Thelluson was
accustomed to big pupils ; and, fond as she was of chil-
dren, they sometimes worried her; but this soft silent
creature, with its pretty ways ; its speechless yet intelli-
gible wants, only soothed her, and that inexpressibly. She
would sit or lie for hours on the nursery floor with Rosie
crowing over her, investigating her watch, her keys, her
hair, her dress, with that endless pursuit of knowledge
under difficulties peculiar to infants who are just catching
hold of the key of mystery which unlocks to them the
marvelous visible world.
A.nd the world invisible even that seemed to be very
near about this little child. The words, " in heaven their
angels do always behold the face of my Father which is
in heaven," were always coming into Hannah's mind ; and
the awful punishment of those who sin against " one of
these little ones," seemed to be only natural and just.
" You seem very fond of that baby," said Mr. Rivers,
one day, when she had tried to make it an attractive draw-
ing-room guest for about a quarter of an hour.
"Fond of" what an idle, unmeaning word! Why,
HANNAH. 55
Rosie was a treasure that one of God's angels had dropped
into her arms straight from the Father's house, and bade
her cherish it and make it into an immortal soul, fit for
His kingdom on earth, which is one with His kingdom in
heaven. This was how Hannah felt when she watched the
child. But she said nothing. How could Mr. Rivers, or
any man, underetand ? Who could put into any father's
face the mother-look of the Virgin Mary?
As she stood there, with Rosie leaning across her shoul-
der, and patting auntie's cheek with that little dimpled
hand, Mr. Rivers, who had traveled half over Europe, and
knew every Madonna by heart, called her to look at her-
self, for she and the child were just the picture of a cer-
tain Holy Family he named.
The color came painfully into Hannah's cheek. She,
too, like Mary, could have sung her Magnificat ; all to her-
selfher quiet, lonely self. What had she done that
Heaven should send her this blessing she, a solitary
woman of thirty years old ? As she carried away little
Rosie who was quite too much for papa, except in the
character of a Raffaelesque bambino^ and for about the
space of ten minutes she clasped the child passionately
to her heart. It had never beat so warmly, so hopefully,
since her Arthur died.
This was on a Sunday morning, the first sunshiny Sun-
day since her arrival; and as Miss Thelluson and her
brother-in-law walked together through the bright-looking
village, all the neighbora turned out in their best clothes
to go to church and criticise the stranger. Easterham
was a sufficiently small place for every body to know ev-
ery body ; and Hannah was fully aware she was running
the gauntlet of innumerable eyes "upper-class" eyes:
among the poor she was already well known. But this
was the first time she had taken her public place in the
parish the first time, for many a long year, that she had
walked to church arm in arm (country fashion, he offered
his, and she accepted it) with a man, and a man that belonged
to her. It felt ^not exactly uncomfortable, but strange.
66 HANNAH.
Her brother-in-law, however, seemed quite at ease, and
every person who came up to speak to him he carefully
introduced to "My sister Miss Thelluson." Sometimes
it was " sister-in-law," but always pointedly " sister."
" He is not in the least ashamed of me ^no more than
he was of his wife," thought she, with a certain comfort.
For if she had been much given to mind outside things it
might have struck her that this handsome young man,
with his Norman ancestry, his easy fortune, and his posi-
tion as heir-presumptive to one of the first families in the
county, was a strong contrast to a quiet, rather old-fash-
ioned governess-: even though she was his wife's sister.
But if she had also been a duchess he could not have
shown her more tender politeness ; and Hannah was grate-
ful.
It was only when he looked toward the wicket-gate
which divided the church from the Moat House, of which
it seemed originally to have been a mere appurtenance,
that his countenance fell.
" I see my people coming. We must stop and speak to
them. It will be best, as you sit in the same pew, and as
as we may have to go to lunch. They generally expect
me on Sundays."
" But not me oh, I hope not. I want to be at home to
give Rosie her dinner." And Hannah, with a nervousness
for which she despised herself, shrank back from the fash-
ionable elderly lady and her four fashionable daughters,
who seemed to fill up the whole of the yew avenue, quite
shutting out little old Sir Austin, who came tottering after
on his gold-headed stick.
" Never mind Rosie, for once. If they ask you, do not
refuse, pray," whispered Mr. Rivers. He seemed either
excessively fond of, or painfully subservient to, his family
a family which appeared to Hannah very much like
most other county families well-looking, well-bred, well-
educated, and exceedingly well-dressed. Among the odd
fancies that flitted across her mind she had had a keen
sense of humor, and even a slight turn for satire, in her
HANNAH. 57
youth was the comical suggestion, What would they be
without their clothes ? that is, how would they look or
feel if dressed like work-house women, or laborers' wives,
or, still worse, in the red chemise of Charlotte Corday, or
the white sheet of Jane Shore? They looked so very
proper those five ladies, sweeping one after the other
down the church aisle, and kneeling, not a fold awry in
their draperies, round their respectable square pew that
to imagine them placed in tragical or anywise exceptional
circumstances, where the trappings of worldly formality
had dropped off them, and they had to feel and act like
common creatures of flesh and blood, seemed a thing im-
possible.
Foolish thoughts these were, perhaps ; but they were
partly owing to her brother-in-law's sermon, which was
exceedingly commonplace. He had said himself, over-
night, that he felt not the slightest interest in his sermons,
and only did them mechanically, not believing them at all.
It looked like it ; and as Miss Thelluson listened or rath-
er tried hard not to, for listening irritated her so she
wished that, instead of being in church, she were sitting on
the sunny lawn beside that little white daisy with a pink
hood, which, as she kissed it before leaving, had looked up
to her with eyes in which were written the best sermons
in the world eyes that seemed as if only an hour ago
they had seen the angels.
As Hannah thought of them she forgot Lady Rivers,
with her withered, but still red ah ! far too red cheeks,
and the Misses Rivers, with their fashionable clothes.
What were they to her ? Had she not her baby her lit-
tle Rose of June ? The dainty, soft, round, innocent thing !
how sweet she must be looking now in her midday sleep
at home ! It was the first time that, Qven in thought. Miss
Thelluson had called her brother-in-law's house " home."
She did so now, for her baby was there.
Her baby, and no one else's ; for no one seemed to take
the smallest interest in it. After service the procession of
five silk gowns, with women inside them, sailed slowly
C2
58 HANNAH.
back down the yew avenue, and through the garden to the
beautiful old Moat House ; but nobody asked after baby.
Neither grandmamma nor aunt seemed to remember there
was such a creature in the world. Hannah hugged her-
self half indignantly, half exultingly, in the fact. Her
baby was all her own.
The Rivers family were perfectly polite to her. The in-
vitation to lunch was given, and chiefly because of the
anxiety she saw in her brother-in-law's eyes accepted ; so
they sat down all together in the grand old dining-room,
with generations of defunct Riverses watching them from
the walls. The conversation was quite general, and rather
insipid ; indeed, Hannah could not help thinking how very
dull was the company of grown-up people after that of her
baby. Her baby! whose dumb intelligence was such an
infinite mystery, such an endless interest. She longed to
be back at home with Rosie; nevertheless she did her
best, for Mr. Riyers's sake, to be pleasant ; and when he
having a christening and a funeral, though there was no
second service he asked her to wait for him, that they
might walk home together, she sat down again to endure
another hour of the foolish heart-ache which mothers un-
derstand when they are kept away for a good many hours
from the helpless creature that depends on them so en-
tirely.
The bright day had settled into autumnal rain, so the
family party gathered round the fire doing nothing, of
course, as it was Sunday. Sir Austin openly fell asleep ;
Lady Rivers took up a huge Bible and " meditated" nod-
ding a good deal at intervals ; the girls began sotto voce
that desultory gossiping which is supposed to be so much
more Sabbatical than books or work. They were all pret-
ty girls nay, rather pleasant girls, these four paternal
aunts of little Rosie ; and her maternal aunt tried hard to
get acquainted with them, and find out what was really in
them. But, of late years, Hannah's life had been so much
spent with children, and so little with young ladies, that
she found herself completely at sea, and watching these
HANNAH. 59
specimens of modem womanhood with the grave, perplexed
criticism of an elder generation.
" Will my Rosie grow up thus ?" she thought to herself.
"Will she talk about 'jolly,' and 'green,' and 'the mater-
nal parent,' and 'the governor?' Will there come into
her little innocent head such very odd ideas about love
and marriage?" (One of the girls was engaged, and
the others evidently hoped to be ere long.) "Is she
to grow up a little Miss Rivers, after the pattern of
these ?"
Not if auntie can help it, answered auntie's quiet, strong
heart, as the awfulness of her self-imposed duty, extending
far into future years, came upon her with double force. A
boy would have belonged to his father, and been made
naturally and wholly a Rivers ; but a girl this little un-
welcome girl was hers and Rosa's. Might baby not grow
up to be the foundress of a new family, the mother of many
sons ? This childish old maid, whose race was done, built
up no end of castles in the air for her niece Rosie. In
which, I am afraid and yet in time to come Miss Thellu-
son was not sorry, but glad of this ^Rosie's father had not
the slightest share.
She fell into such a dream about the child even in the
midst of the young ladies' chatter that she quite started
when Lady Rivers, suddenly waking up, and most anxious
to appear as if she had never been sleeping, put a sudden
question.
*'By-the-by, Miss Thelluson, I hear you have discharged
Anne Savage, and taken a new nursery-maid ?"
" Mrs. Savage gave me warning herself; but I was not
sorry, as I prefer, a younger woman," said Hannah, quietly.
" That, pardon me, is a mistake. I always made a point
that my head nurse should be over forty."
" But you had a nursery full of children ; I have only
Rosie."
" Oh, by-the-by, how is Rosie ?" cried one of the girls.
But as she did not wait for an answer, Hannah never
gave it.
60 HANNAH.
"And who is your new nurse ?" said grandmamma, in a
rather severe, grandmotherly tone.
" Grace Dixon, sister, I believe, to those Dixons of whom
the village is so full. It was Mrs. John Dixon, the black-
smith's wife, who recommended her to me. She said you
knew the family well"
"Miss Thelluson seems to have acquainted herself with
Easterham people as if she had lived here all her days or
meant to do so," said the eldest Miss Rivers, who was at
times a little sharp of speech. She was nearly twenty-
eight, and still Miss Rivers, which she did not like at all
" No ; I do not mean to live at Easterham all my days,"
returned Hannah, glad of an opportunity to remove any
false impression the family might have of her coming to
take entire possession of her brother-in-law, and rule ram-
pant over him all the rest of his life, as evidently they
thought he might be ruled. " On the contrary,! earnestly
hope my stay here will be short that your brother may
soon' find a good wife, and need me no more."
" So you approve of second marriages ?"
"Yes," said Hannah, swallowing down a slight pang.
" Yes. In a case like this, most decidedly. I think the
wisest thing Mr. Rivers could do would be to marry again,
after due time; that is, if he married the right woman."
. "What do you mean by 'the right woman?'" asked.
Lady Rivers.
" One who will make a good mother as well as a good
wife. In his first choice a man has only to think of him-
self; in a second marriage he has usually to consider not
only himself, but his children."
" I don't fancy Bernard will be in any haste to marry
again. He was very, very fond of poor, Rosa."
It was Adeline, the youngest, who said this ; and Han-
nah's heart warmed to her the first who had called her
dead sister " Rosa," or, indeed, spoken of her at all To
Adeline she turned for information about the Dixon fam-
ily, and especially about the girl Grace, whom she had
taken chiefly upon instinct, because she had a kind, sweet,
HANNAH. 61
good face a sad face too, as if she had known trouble ;
and had, indeed, begged for the place, because " her heart
was breaking for want of a child to look after."
" What an odd thing to say I Well, my heart wouldn't
b^ak for that, at any rate," laughed Adeline. " But really
I can tell you nothing about the poor people of Easterham.
We have no time to go about as your sister did. Bernard
ought to know. Here he comes."
Hannah looked up, almost glad to see Mr. Rivers return.
His society was not lively, but it was less dull than that
of his sisters. Just to keep conversation going for it had
reached a very low ebb she explained to him the mat-
ter under discussion ; but he seemed to have forgotten all
about it.
" If you remember, I brought the girl into your study,
and you liked her appearance, and said I might engage her
at once."
"Did I ? Then, of course, it is all right. Why talk it
over any more ? I assure you, girls, one of Miss Thellu-
son's great merits is that she does not talk things over.
As I always tell her, she can act for herself, and never
need consult me on any thing."
" But you ought to be consulted," broke in Lady Riv-
ers, " and in this matter especially. My dear Bernard, are
you aware that in your position you ought to be very cau-
tious ? Miss Thelluson, a stranger, is, of course, ignorant
of certain facts, otherwise Grace Dixon is the very last
person she ought to bring into your household."
" Why so ? The Dixons are an excellent family have
lived at Easterham Farm half as long as the Riverses have
lived at the Moat House."
" It is the more pity," said Lady Rivers, drawing her-
self up. " My dear Bemai*d, you have surely forgotten ;
and the subject is a little awkward to speak of before
Miss Thelluson and the girls."
Hannah sat silent, expecting one of those sad stories
only too common in all villages. And yet Grace Dixon
looked so sad so innocent and her kindly and very re-
62 HANNAH.
gpectable sisters had not seemed in the least ashamed of
her.
"I can not guess what you mean, Lady Rivers," said
Beraard, irritably. " I know nothing against the Dixons.
The daughters were all well conducted, and the sons "
" It was one of the sons. But perhaps I had better not
mention it?"
The good lady had a habit of " not mentioning " facts,
which, nevertheless, she allowed to leak out patently
enough ; and another habit of saying, in the sweetest way,
the most unpleasant things. Her step-son had winced un-
der them more than once to-day, as Hannah noticed he did
now. Still he replied, with perfect politeness :
" I think you had better mention it. It can not be any
thing very bad, or I should have remembered it. Though
I do forget things often often," he added, relapsing into
his usual dreary manner.
. " If you will rouse yourself you surely will remember
this, and the discussion there was about it one evening
here a discussion in which your wife took part and gave
her opinion, though it was an opinion contrary to your
own and mine."
Bernard's countenance changed, as it did at the slightest
mention of his lost darling. "Yes; I recall the matter
now," he said, and stopped suddenly.
But Lady Rivers went on triumphant. " The scandal,
Miss Thelluson though I must apologize for referring to
it before you ^was just this; one of the brothers Dixon
lost his wife, and six months after wanted to marry her
sister, who had been keeping his house. He actually
came to Mr. Rivers, as her clergyman, and asked him to
marry them. A marriage, you understand, within the for-
bidden degrees between a man and his deceased wife's
sister."
She looked hard at Hannah, as if expecting her to be
confused; but she was not no more than when Lady
Dunsmore had referred, though in a much more direct
way, to the same subject. It was one so entirely re-
HANNAH. 63
moved from herself and her own personality that she felt
no more affected by it than she should have been if, in
Lord Dunsmore's drawing-room, she had heard some one
telling a story of how a father eloped with his children's
governess. Of course such things were, but they did not
concern her in the least.
Her entire innocence and composure seemed to shame
even Lady Rivera ; to Mr. Rivers, though at first he had
colored sensitively, they gave self-possession at once.
"Yes," he said, "I remember the whole story now.
Dixon did come and ask me to marry him to his sister-in-
law, which, of course, I refused, as it was against both the
canon law and the law of the land."
"And the law of God also," said Lady Rivers, sharply.
" That I did not argue ; it was no business of mine. I
was rather sorry for the man he seemed to have no ill in-
tent; but the marriage was impossible. However, this
does not concern the rest of the Dixon family or the new
nurse-maid. What about her?"
But as often as he tried to slide away from the unpleas-
ant topic his step-mother pertinaciously slid back again.
" Excuse me ; I think it does concern the rest of the
&mily. No one can touch pitch without being defiled,
and a scandal like this affects every one connected with it.
How did it end, Bernard ?"
"I can not telL Probably Dixon went to some other
and less scrupulous clergyman, or some distant parish,
where they could put up bans and be married without be-
ing known ; or, probably, he went back and they lived to-
gether without being married at all. Such cases happen
continually. But why speak of them ? Is it necessary to
speak of unpleasant things ?"
Yet the way he himself spoke of them, with a mixture
of directness and grave simplicity, as only a pure-hearted
man ever does speak, struck Hannah much. Also his
quiet way of getting over an extremely awkward posi-
tion, which to avoid would have been more awkward still.
But Lady Rivers would not let him alone.
64 HANNAH.
"And I suppose you think now, as I remember Mrs.
Bernard did at the time, that you were wrong in refusing
to maiTy the man ?"
" No ; I was right. I have been similarly applied to
many times since, for the poor have strangely confused
notions on this point, and I have always refused. The
law makes these people brothers and sisters; therefore
they can not possibly be married. But, my dear Lady
Rivers, let us leave a topic which really does not concern
us. The matter of moment now, Aunt Hannah," turning
toward her with the smile of a worried man who knows
that there, at least, he shall find rest, " is, that you and I
must leave this warm fireside and walk home through the
wet together ; unless, indeed, we make up our minds to
swim."
The perfect freedom, and yet friendly respect of his
manner, healed over all the discourtesies which Lady Riv-
ers had so remorselessly inflicted. Miss Thelluson rose,
thankfully enough, and they two started off in the pelting
rain, for nobody ever thought of ordering the Moat House
carriage on a Sunday. Besides, Hannah never minded
weather, and the storm seemed almost to do her brother-
in-law good. Like all really manly men, ho was roused
and cheered by the necessity of fighting against some-
thing ; perhaps, also, of protecting something. He wrap-
ped his sister-in-law well up, and sustained her steps care-
fully against the wild equinoctial blast, which was almost
like pressing against a stone wall.
After they quitted the Moat House Mr. Rivers never
referred to the matter which had been so obstinately and
unpleasantly discussed in their presence. He seemed at
once to accept it and ignore it, as those should whom fate
has placed in any anomalous or difficult position that lays
them open to many annoyances, which must, nevertheless,
be borne, and are best borne with complete indifference.
Hannah took her lesson from him not without a cer-
tain respect, deeper than she had yet felt and did the
same.
HANNAH. 65
They parted in the hall, he to go into his study, she to
run eagerly up stairs, drawn thither by the little merry
voice which was heard through the nursery door chattering
its utterly unintelligible English. Hannah's face bright-
ened into something almost like beauty at the sound. Ro-
sie's father stopped to say,
"You are getting very fond of my child."
** It would be strange if I were not. Is she not my niece
my own flesh and blood ? And, besides, I don't think
there ever was such a child !" cried foolish Aunt Hannah.
" Just look there !"
The little round rosy face it was rosy now, having
grown 80 already in the pleasant new nursery, and un-
der incessant loving care was looking through the bal-
usters,' making a vain effort to say, " Peep I" at least so
Rosie's imaginative female worshipers declared it to be.
Behind appeared Grace Dixon's pale, kind, sweet looks,
moved almost into cheerfulness by the brightness of
baby's. A pretty sight ; and for the first time it seemed
to bring a ray of sunshine into the widower's household.
He sighed, but his sigh was less forlorn.
" How happy the child looks ! Poor Rosie, she is not
in the least like her mother except in that sunshiny na-
ture of hers. I hope she may keep it always."
" I hope so too, and I believe she will I did not think
her pretty at first; but never never was there such a
touching child."
" It is your doing, then."
"And Grace's, too. She has been quite different even
these few days since Grace had her. I hope " and here
Hannah could not help coloring a little " I hope you will
not require me to send away Grace ?"
" No." Mr. Rivers paused a minute, and then said,
gravely : " I am sony that any thing should have vexed
you to-day. Do not mind grandmamma; she speaks
thoughtlessly sometimes, but she means no harm. She
likes interfering now and then ; but you can bear that,
I know. Remember, I will always uphold you in matters
06 HANNAH.
concerning Kosie or the household, or any thing else that
you think right."
" Thank you," replied Hannah, warmly. She shook cor-
dially the hand he gave, and ran up stairs to ^' auntie's dar-
ling " with a light heart.
CHAPTER IV.
It is a mistake to take for granted, as in books and life
we perpetually do, that people must always remain the
same. On the contrary, most people are constantly chang-
ing growing, let us hope, but still changing in charac-
ter, feelings, opinions. If we took this into account we
should often be less harsh to judge ; less piteously mis-
judged ourselves. For instance, we resolve always to love
our friend and hate our enemy ; but our fiiend may prove
false, and our enemy kind and good. What are we then
to do ? To go on loving and hating as before ? I fear we
can not. We must accept things as they stand, and act
accordingly. Or and this is a common case we may
ourselves once have had certain faults, which we after-
ward had sense to see and correct ; yet those who knew
us in our faulty days will never believe this, and go on con-
demning us forever which is a little hard. And again,
we may have started honestly on a certain course, and
declared openly certain opinions or intentions, which we
afterward see cause to modify, or even to renounce entire-
ly. Time and circumstance have so altered us that we are
obliged to give our old selves the lie direct, or else to be
untrue to our present selves. In short, we must just re-
tract, in act or word, boldly or weakly, nobly or ignobly,
as our natures allow. And though we have been perfectly
sincere throughout, the chances are that no one will be-
lieve us ; we shall be stamped as hypocrites, renegades, or
deep designing schemers to the end of our days. This, too,
is hard ; and it takes a strong heart and a clear conscience
to bear it.
HANNAH. 67
When Hannah Thelluson consented to come to her
brother-in-law's house, and he thankfully opened to her
his dreary doors, they were two most sorrowful people,
"who yet meant to make the best of their sorrow, and of
one another, so as to be a mutual comfort, if possible. At
least this was her intent ; he probably had no intent at all
beyond the mere relief of the moment. Men and young
men seldom look ahead as women do.
Now two people living under the same roof, and greatly
dependent upon one another, seldom remain long in a state
of indifference ; they take either to loving or hating ; and
these two, being both of them good people, though so
very different in character, were not likely to do the lat-
ter. Besides, they stood in that relation which of all oth-
ers most attracts regard of reciprocally doing good and
being done good to. They shared one another's burdens,
and gave one another help. Consequently the burdens
lightened, and the help increased, every day that they re-
sided together.
Their life was very equable, quiet, and, at first, rather
dulL Of course the widower did not visit, or receive vis-
itors. Occasional family dinners at the Moat House, and
a few morning calls received and paid, were all that Han-
nah saw of Easterham society. She had the large handsome
hoqse entirely to herself often from morning to night ; for
gradually Mr. Rivers went back to his parish duties, which
he once used most creditably to fulfill. Consequently, in-
stead of hanging about the house all day, he was frequent-
ly absent till dinner-time. This was a great source of sat-
isfaction to Miss Thelluson ; at first let the honest truth
be told because she was heartily glad to get rid of him ;
by-and-by from sincere pleasure at the good it did him.
"Work always comforts a man," she said to herself,
when she saw him come in, fresh from battling with rain
and wind, or eager to secure her help and sympathy in
some case of distress in the parish, his handsome face look-
ing ten years younger, and his listless manner gaining en-
ergy and decision.
68 HANNAH.
" Yoa were right, Aunt Hannah," he would often say,
with an earnest thoughtfulness that was yet not exactly
sadness. "To preach to sufferers one needs to have suf-
fered one's self. I shall be a better parson now than I
used to be, I hope on week-days, certainly, and perhaps
even on Sundays, if you will continue to look over my sei%
mons.^'
Which, people began to say, were much better than
they used to be, and Hannah herself thought so too. She
always read them, and, after a while, criticised them, pretty
sharply and fearlessly, every Saturday night. On other
nights she got her brother-in-law into the habit of reading
aloud ; first, because it was much the easiest way of pass-
ing the evening and after being out all day, he absolute-
ly refused to go out again, lessening even his visits to the
Moat House whenever he could secondly, because soon
she came to like it very much. It was like falling into a
dream of peace to sit sewing at Rosie's little clothes (for
Aunt Hannah did all she coald for her darling with her
own hands), silent she always loved silence yet listen-
ing to Mr. Rivers's pleasant voice, and thinking over,
quietly to herself, what he was reading. In this way, dur-
ing the first three months, they got through a quantity
of books, both of prose and poetry, and had grown familiar
enough now and then to lay the books down, and take to
arguments quarreling fiercely at times until either be-
came accustomed to the other's way of thinking, and
avoided warlike topics, or fought so honorably and well
that the battles ended in mutual respect, and very often
in a fit of mutual laughter.
It may be a dreadful thing to confess, but they did
laugh sometimes. Ay, even with the moonlight sleeping,
or the white snow falling, on Rosa's grave a mile off
Rosa, who was with the angels, smiling in the eternal smile
of God. These others, left behind to do their mortal work,
were not always miserable. Rosie began the change, by
growing every day more charming, more interesting, more
curious, in her funny little ways, every one of which aunt
HAXNAH. 69
retailed to papa when he came home, as if there had never
been such a wonderful baby in any house before.
A baby in the house. Does any body know fully what
that is till he ^no, say she has tried it ?
Hannah did not. Fond as she was of children, and well
accustomed to them, they were all other people's children.
This one was her own. On her alone depended the little
human soul and human body for every thing in life ev-
ery thing that could make it grow up to itself and the
world a blessing or a curse. A solemn way of viewing
things, perhaps ; but Hannah was a solemn-minded wom-
an. She erred, anyhow, on the right side. This was the
" duty " half of her new existence ; the other half was joy
wholly joy.
A child in the house. Say, rather, an angel ; for I think
Heaven leaves a touch of the angel in all little children,
to reward those about them for their inevitable cares.
Rosie was, to other people besides her aunt, a very re-
markable child wonderfully sweet, and yet brave even
as a baby. She never cried for pain or fretfulness, though
she sometimes did for passion ; and for sorrow a strange,
contrite, grown-up kind of sorrow whenever she did any
thing the least wrong, wliich was very seldom. She was
usually a perfect sunbeam of brightness, wholesomeness,
and content. Her delicacy and fragility, which were
only that of a flower reared up in darkness, and recover-
ing its healthy colors as soon as ever it is brought into
the sun, soon became among the things that had been.
Not a child in all Easterham seemed more likely to thrive
than Rosie Rivers ; and every body, even at the Moat
House, now acknowledged this, to Miss Thelluson's great
glory and delight. Grace's also ^unto whom much credit
was owing.
Hannah had taken her rather rashly perhaps wise peo-
ple sometimes do, upon instinct, rather rash things. She
thought so herself when one day, accidentally asking Grace
some apparently trivial question, the giri burst into tears,
confessed that she was a married woman, and her hus-
70 HANNAH.
band had run away from her. " But I was married, in-
deed I was, and his sisters know it !" Which the sisters,
who were in fact sisters-in-law, resolutely confirmed ; but
no more facts could be gained. Nor did Hannah like to
inquire, having a feeling that poor women's miseries were
as sacred as rich ones'. It was an unwelcome discovery
a nurse with a living and, probably, scape-grace husband
might prove very inconvenient ; still she had grown fond
of the girl, who was passionately devoted to Rosie.
" For Rosie's sake I must keep her, if possible ; and for
her own sake, poor thing, I can not bear to send her away.
What must I do ?"
Rosie's father, to whom she thus appealed ^for, despite
what he had said, she persistently consulted him in every
thing answered decisively, "Let her stay." So Grace
staid. But Miss Thelluson insisted that she should no
longer pass under false colors, but be called Mrs. Dixon ;
and finding she had no wedding-ring her husband, she
declared, had torn it from her finger the day he left her
Hannah took the trouble to buy her a new one, and in-
sisted upon her wearing it, saying, " She hated all deceits
of every kind." Upon which Grace looked up to her with
such grateful, innocent eyes, that, Quixotic as her conduct
might appear to some people it did at the Moat House,
where the girls laughed at her immoderately she felt sure
the story was true, and that she should never repent hav-
ing thus acted.
This was the only incident of the winter ; and as week
after week passed by, and nothing ill came of it, no run-
away husband ever appeared, and poor Grace brightened
into the tenderest nurse, the most faithful servant, hardly
thinking she could do enough for her mistress and the child,
Hannah ceased to think of it, or of any thing unpleasant,
so busy and contented was she.
More than content ^that she had always been actually
happy. True, she had thought her May-time wholly past ;
but now, as spring began to waken, and she and Rosie be-
gan to gather primroses in the garden and daisies in the
HANNAH. 71
lanes, it seemed to her as if her youth had come back
again. Youth, fresh and full, added to all the experience,
the satisfied enjoyment, of middle age. They were like
two babies together, she and Rosie, all through this Rosie's
first earthly spring. They crawled together on the sunny
grass-plot ; they played bo-peep round the oak-tree ; they
investigated with the deepest interest every new green
leaf and flower and insect ; for she tried to make her child
like the Child in the Story without an End a companion
and friend to all living things. And Rosie, by the time
she was eighteen months old, with her sweetness, intelli-
gence, and the mysterious way the baby-soul opened out
to the wonders and beauty of this our world, had taught
her aunt Hannah quite as much as Aunt Hannah had
taught her, and become even a greater blessing than the
blessings she received.
** It is all the child's doing," Hannah said, laughing and
blushing, one day, when Mr. Rivers came suddenly in, and
found her dancing through the hall with Rosie in her
arms, and singing too at the top of her voice. ^' She is
the sunbeam of the house. Every servant in it spoils her,
and serves her like a little queen. As for me, auntie makes
a goose of herself every hour in the day. Doesn't she,
Rosie ? At her time of life, too !"
" What is your time of life ? for I really don't know,"
said Mr. Rivers, smiling. "Sometimes you look quite
young, and then, again, I fancy you must be fully as old
as lam."
Older. Thirty-one."
Well, I am thirty; so when you die of old age I shall
begin to quake. But tell her not to die, Rosie." And a
sad look came across his face, as it still often did. Han-
nah knew what it meant. " Bid her live and take care of
us both. What in the wide world should we two do
without Aunt Hannah."
And Rosie, with that chance instinct of babyhood,
often so touching, patted with her tiny soft hand her
aunt's cheek, saying, wooingly, " Nice Tannic, pitty
U
T2 HANNAH.
Tannie" which had been her first attempt at "Aunt
Hannah."
" Tannie " the name clung to her already, as baby pet-
names always do pressed the little breast to hers in a
passion of delight and content, knowing that there was
not a creature in the world no woman, certainly to
come between her and her child. Her child! Twenty
mothers, she sometimes thought,
" Could not with all their quantity of love
Make up the sum "
of that she felt for her motherless darling.
The father stood and watched them both. As Bosie
grew older and more winning he began to take more no-
tice of his little girl, at least when Aunt Hannah was pres-
ent to mount guard over her, and keep her good and quiet.
"You look quite a picture, you two! Hannah" (he
sometimes called her "Hannah" without the "Aunt"),
" you must be excessively fond of that child ?"
She laughed a low, soft, happy laugh. Her feeling for
little Kosie was a thing she could not talk about. Besides,
its sacredness had a double root, as it were ; and one root
was in the dead mother's grave.
" The little thing seems very fond of you too, as well
she may be," continued Mr. Rivers. " I trust she may yet
repay you for all your love. I hope ^I earnestly hope
that you and she may never be parted."
A natural thought, accidentally expressed. Hannah said
to herself over and over again that it must have been pure-
ly accidental, and meant nothing ; yet it shot through her
like a bolt of ice. Was there a chance, the dimmest, re-
motest chance, that she and the child might be parted?
Did he, now that the twelvemonth of mourning had ex-
pired, contemplate marrying again as Lady Dunsmore
had foretold he would ? Indeed, in a letter lately (for she
still wrote sometimes, and would by no means lose sight
of her former governess) the countess had put the direct
question, at which Miss Thelluson had only smiled.
HANNAH. 73
"Now she did not smile. She felt actually uneasy. She
ran rapidly over, in her mind, all the young ladies he had
seen or mentioned lately very few; and he seemed to
have no interest in anv. Still there mischt be some one
whom she had never heard of: and if so, if he married
again, would he require her of course he would ! to quit
the House on the Hill, and leave behind his little daughter?
" I could not ! No ! I will not," thought she. And
after the one cold shiver came a hot thrill of something
more like fierceness than her quiet nature had known for
long. " To expect me to give up my child. It would be
cniel, barbarous !" And then came a sudden frantic idea
of snatching up Rosie in her arms and running away with
her, anyhow, anywhere, so as to hide her from her father.
" I shall do it I know I shall if he drives me to it. He
had better not try !"
And hot tears dropped on the little white night-gown
which Aunt Hannah was vainly endeavoring to tie. It
was Sunday night ; and she always sent Grace to church,
and put the child to bed herself, of Sundays. Bitter, mis-
erable tears they were, too, but only on account of the
child. Nothing more. Afterward, when she recalled them
and what had produced them, this first uneasy fear which
had shot across the calm heaven of her life a heavenly
life it had grown to be since she had the child Hannah
felt certain that she could have looked the child's angel,
or its mother, in the face, and declared positively they
were nothing more.
But the notion of having to part from Rosie, under the
only circumstances in which that parting was natural and
probable, having once entered her mind, lurked there un-
easily, troubling often the happy hours she spent with her
darling; for the aunt, wholly engrossed with her charge,
had her with her more than most mothers, with whom
their children's father holds rightly the first place. Nev-
ertheless Miss Thelluson did her duty most satisfactorily
by her brother-in-law ; whenever papa wanted auntie, lit-
tle Rosie was remorselessly sent away, even though auntie's
D
her
liall
^^L "Win
^H jus
m
,Aeart followed her longiDgly all tlie while. But she had
i-Already learned her lesson she never allowed the child to
,%e a trouble to the father.
" Not one man in a thousand cares to be troubled about
any thing, yoa may depend upon that," she said, one day,
lyly, to the second Miss Rivers, who was now about to
married.
' Who taught you that ? my brother? Well, yoa must
lave had plenty of experience of him, faults and all ; al-
most as much as his wife had," said the sister, sarcastical-
ly; which made Hannah rather sorry that she had unwit-
tingly betrayed the results of her year's experience at the
House on the Hill.
Tea ; she knew her brother-in-law pretty well by this
time all his weaknesses, all his virtues ; better, he told
her, and she believed it, than his own sisters knew him.
He was so unlike them in character, tastes, and feelings
that she had now ceased to wonder why he chose none of
them to live with him and Roaie,but preferred rather his
wife's sister, who might a little resemble his wife, as Han-
nah sometimes vaguely wished she did.
More especially when the approaching marriage forced
him out of his retirement, and he had to officiate in the fes-
tivities as eldest brother, instead of poor Austin, whom no-
body ever saw or spoke of. Bernard had to act as head
of the house, Sir Austin being very frail now; and be ao-
cepted his place and went through his duties with a cheer-
fulness that Hannah was surprised yet glad to see. If
only ho could have had beside him the bright, beautiful
wife who was gone, instead of a grave sister like herself!
Still she did her best; wont out with him when he asked
her, and at other times staid quietly at home half amnsed,
half troubled, to find how she, who in the firet months of
Tfinter almost longed for solitude, now began to find it
just a little dull. She was not so glad of her own com-
"lany as she, used to be, and found the evenings, after F ~
" ""s bedtime, rather long. Only the evenings: of n~
igs, when Rosie was with her, she felt no want of anjr
own com-
afterBfcJ
of i^HM
'^9
HANNAH. to
Following the wedding to which Miss Thelluson was
of course asked and, somewhat unwillingly, went, seeing
Mr. Rivers wished it came many bridal parties, to which
she was invited, too. Thence ensued a small difficulty
ridiculous in itself, and yet involving much which, when
her brother-in-law urged her to accompany him every-
where, she was at last obliged to confess.
*' I can't go," she said, laughing it was much better to
make it a jesting than a serious matter. " The real truth
is, I've got no clothes."
And then came out another truth, which Mr. Rivers,
with his easy fortunes and masculine indifference to money,
had never suspected, and was most horrified at that, her
salary as governess ceasing. Aunt Hannah had absolutely
nothing to live upon. Though dwelling in the midst of
luxury, and spending unlimited sums upon housekeeping
weekly, the utmost she had had to spend upon herself,
since she came to the House on the Hill, was an innocent
fifteen-pound note laid by from last year, the remains of
which went in the wedding gown of quiet gray silk which
had replaced her well-worn black one.
"Dreadful!" cried Mr. Rivers. "While you have been
doing every thing for me, I have left you like a pauper."
" Not exactly," and she laughed again at his vehement
contrition. " Indeed, I had as much money as I wanted,
for my wants are small. Remember, I have been for so
many years a poor goveniess."
" You shall never be poor again, nor a governess, either.
I can not tell you how much I owe you how deeply I re-
spect you. What can I say ? Rather, what can I do ?"
He thought a little, and then said, " The only plan is, you
mnst let me do for you exactly what I would have done
for my own sister. Listen, while I explain."
He then proposed to pay her a quarterly allowance, or
annuity, large enough to make her quite independent per-
sonally. Or, if she preferred it, to make over the principal
in a deed of gift, from which she could draw the same sum
interest at her pleasure.
"And, jou unilcrstaad, this ia quite between ourselves.
B^y fortune ia my own, independent of my family. N*
me but us two need ever be the wiser. Only say the
word, and the matter shall be settled at once."
Tears sprang to Hannah's eyes.
" Tou are a good, kind brother to me," she said, " Nor
feould it matter so very much, as, if I did take the money,
I'should j uBt make a will and leave it back to Rosie, But
T can not take it. I never yet was indebted to any man
' alive."
" It would not be indebtedness only justice," argned
he. " You are a practical woman : let me put it in a prac-
tical light. I am not giving; only paying, aa I should
have to jiay some other lady. Why should I be more jnst
and liberal to a stranger than to you ? This on my side.
On yours what can you do ? You are fed and housed,
but you must be clothed. You are not a lily of the field.
Though" looking at her as she stood beside him, tall and
slender and pale " I sometimes think there is a good deal
of the lily about you, Aunt Hannah, You are so single-
minded and pure-hearted; and, like the lilies, you preach
me a silent sermon many a time,"
" Not always silent," said she, yet was pleased at the
compliment. He had never made her a pretty speech be-
fore. Then, too, his urging her to remain with him, on the
only possible terms on which she could remain those lie
proposed proved that he was not contemplating mai^
riage, at least not immediately.
All he said was thoroughly kind, generous, and wise.
Besides, her sound common-sense told her that clothes did
not grow upon bushes; and that if she were to continue
as mistress of the House on the Hill, it was essential that
Rosie's aunt and Mr, Rivera's sister-in-law should not go
^.dressed, as he indignantly put it, " like a pauper," She
lonsidered a little, and then, putting Ler pride inhcr poclc-
F'4t, she accepted the position of matters as inevitable.
" Very well, Mr. Rivers. Give me the same salary that
WT received from Earl Dnnsmore, and I will take it from j-aii
HANNAH. 77
as I did from him. It will cover all my personal needs,
and even allow me, as heretofore, to put by a little for my
old age." V
" Your old age ? Where should that be spent but here,
in my house ?"
** Your house may not always be ^" She stopped ; she
had not the heart to put into plain words the plain fact
that he might marry again few men were more likely to
do so. But he seemed to understand it.
" Oh, Hannah !" he said, and turned away. She was so
vexed at herself that she dropped the conversation at
ODce.
Next day Miss Thelluson found on her toilette-table, in
a blank envelope, a check for a hundred pounds.
At first she felt a strong inclination to throw the money
into the fire ; then a kind of sensation of gratitude.
" If I had not liked him I couldn't have touched a half-
penny ; but I do like him. So I must take it, and try to
please him as much as I can."
For that reason, and to do him credit when she went
out with him, poor Hannah expended more money and
thought over her clothes than she had done for years, ap-
pearing in toilettes so good and tasteful, though simple
Btill, that the Moat House girls wondered what in the
world had come over her to make her look so young.
We are always changing within and without, modified
more or less, as "Was said in the beginning of this chapter,
by continually changing circumstances. Had any one a
year ago shown Hannah her picture, as she often appeared
now, in pretty evening dress she had lovely round arms
still, and it ivas Rosie's delight to catch them bare, and
fondle and hug them to her little bosom as "dollies"
Hannah would have said such a woman was not herself at
alL Yet it was; and hers, too, was the heart, wonderfully
gay and light sometimes, which she can'ied about through
the day, and lay down to sleep with at night, marveling
what she had done that Heaven should make her life thus
content and glad.
78 IIAXNAH.
The change was so gradual that she accepted it almost
without recognition. Ay, even when there came an event
which six months ago she would have trembled at ^the
first dinner-party at the House on the Hill, given in honor
of the bride.
" I must give it, I suppose," said Mr. Rivers. " You will
not mind ? I hope it will not trouble you very much.''
Oh no."
" Be it so, then." He walked off, and then came back,
saying, a little awkwardly," Of course, you understand that
you keep your usual place as mistress here."
" Certainly, if you wish it."
So she sat at the head of his table, and did all the honors
as lady of the house. At which some other ladies, country
people from a distance (for it was a state dinner-party),
looked just a little surprised. One especially, a malign-
looking old dowager, with two or three unmarried daugh-
ters, whispered :
" His sister-in-law, did you tell me ? I thought she was
quite a middle-aged person. Better, perhaps, if she had
been. And they live here together quite alone, you say?
Dear me !"
The words were inaudible to Miss Thelluson, but she
caught the look, and during the evening several other looks
of the same inquisitorial kind. They made her feel she
hardly knew why rather uncomfortable. Otherwise she
would have enjoyed the evening considerably. No woman
is indifferent to the pleasure of being mistress of an ele-
gant, well-ordered house, where her servants like her and
obey her she doing her duty and they theirs, so that all
things go smoothly and well, as they did now. Also she
liked to please Mr. Rivers, who was much easier to please
than formerly. His old sweet temper, that poor Rosa used
so fondly to dilate on, had returned ; and oh ! what a rare
blessing is a sweet temper in a house, especially in the head
of it ! Then, by this time, his sister-in-law understood his
ways, had grown used to his very weaknesses, and found
they were not so bad, after all. He was far from being her
HANNAH. 79
ideal, certainly; but who are they that ever find their ideal?
And Hannah sighed, remembering her own the loveliest
and most lovable nature she had ever met, or so it had
appeared to her in her girlhood's long-ended dream. But
God had taken Arthur home ; and thinking of him now,
it was more as an angel than as a mortal man.
Looking round on the men she saw now and they had
been a good many lately she found no one equal to Ber-
nard Rivers. As he took his place again in society, a
young widower who had passed from under the black-
est shadow of his loss, though it had left in him an abid-
uag g^vity, he would have been counted in all circles an
attractive person. Handsome, yet not obnoxiously so;
clever ^though perhaps more in an appreciative than an
original fashion ; pleasant in conversation, yet never put-
ting himself obtrusively forward, he was a man that most
men liked, and all women were sure to admire amazingly.
Hannah saw she could not help seeing how daughters
brightened as he came near, and mothers were extraordi-
narily tender to him ; and, in fact, had he perceived this
which he did not seem to do, being very free from self-
consciousness Bernard Rivers would have run a very
good chance of being thoroughly " spoiled."
He was not yet spoiled, however ; it was charming to
watch him, and see how innocently he took all this social
flattery, which Hannah noticed with considerable amuse-
ment, and a sort of affectionate pleasure at thinking that,
however agreeable he was abroad, he was still more so at
home, in those quiet evenings, now sadly diminished. She
wondered sometimes how long they would last, how soon
her brother-in-law would weary of her companionship, and
seek nearer and fonder ties. Well, that must be left to
fate ; it was useless speculating. So she did her best now ;
and when several times during dinner he glanced across
the table to her and smiled, and also came more than once
through the drawing-rooms to look for her, and say a
kindly word or two, Hannah was a satisfied and happy
woman.
80 HANNAH.
Only during the pause of a long piece of concerted
music by the three remaining Misses Rivers fancying she
heard Rosie cry, she crept away up stairs, and finding her
sitting up in her crib, sobbing from a bad dream, Aunt
Hannah caught her child to her bosom more passionately
than usual. And when the little thing clung for refuge to
her, and was soothed to sleep again under showers of kiss-
es, Hannah thought, rejoicingly, that there was one crea-
ture in the world to whom she was absolutely necessary,
and all in all.
His guests being at length gone, the host stood on his
hearth-rug meditative, even grave.
" Well, Hannah !" he said at last.
She looked up.
" So our dinner-party is safe over. It went off beauti-
fully, I must say !"
" Yes, I think it did."
" And I am so much obliged to you for all the trouble
you must have taken. I do like to have things nice and
in order every man does. Especially as Lady Rivers
was there. They think so much of these matters at the
Moat House."
Hannah, half pleased, half vexed, she scarce knew why,
answered nothing.
" Yes, it was very pleasant, and the people were pleas-
ant too. But yet I think I like our quiet evenings best."
" So do I," Hannah was going to say, and then hesi-
tated, with a curious kind of shyness, for she had been
thinking the very same. Wondering also how long this
gay life they now led was to go on, and whether it would
end in that climax for which she was always preparing
herself ^Bernard Rivers taking a second wife, and saying
to his sister-in-law, " Thank you ; I want you no more.
Good-by !" A perfectly right, natural, and desirable thing,
too, her reason told her. And yet and yet Well ! she
would, at least, not meet difficulties half-way, but would en-
joy her halcyon days while they lasted.
So she sat down with him on the chair he placed for her,
!
HANNAH. 81
one on either Bide the fire, and proceeded to talk over the
dinner and the guests, with other small, familiar topics,
"'^Mch people naturally fall into discussing when they are
Perfectly at home with each other, and have one common
^pterest running through their lives. All their associa-
tions now had the easy freedom of the fraternal relation,
'tingled with a certain vague sentiment, such as people
feel who are not really brother and sister; but, having
^Pent all their prior lives apart, require to get over a sort
P^ pleasant strangeness, which has all the charm of travel-
^'^g' in a new country.
In the midst of it, when they were laughing together
O'V'^r some wonderful infantine jest of little Rosie's, there
^^rne a knock at the door, and a face looked stealthily in.
Sannah sprang up in terror. " Oh, Grace ! What is it ?
-^x^Y thing wrong with baby ?"
** No, miss, nothing. How wrong of me to frighten you
so !" cried the young woman, contritely, as Miss Thelluson
^^^opped back in her chair, so pale that Mr. Rivers hast-
^^y brought her a glass of wine, and spoke sharply to the
n^rse.
Crrace looked at him with a scared face. " It's true. Sir ;
I hardly know what I'm saying or doing. But never
i^ind I The little one is all right ; it's only my own trou-
ble. And I've kept it to myself all day long because I
'Wouldn't trouble her when she was busy over her dinner-
party. But oh ! miss, will you speak to me now, for my
l^eart's breaking ?"
"You should not have minded my being busy, poor
girl !" said Hannah, kindly. " What is it ?" And then,
"^ith a sadden instinctive fear of what it was, she added,
' But perhaps you would like to go with me into my own
room?"
" No, please, I want to speak to the master too. He's a
pargOD, and mu|^ know all about it ; and it was him that
he went to first !"
"My good woman, if you'll only say what ' it ' and ' he '
refer to; tell me a plain story, and I'll give you the best
D2
ad"'
Ri
|_ ha
an
advice I can, whatever yoar trouble may be." And Mr.
RWers eat down, looking a little bored like most men, he
bad a great dislike to "scenes" but still kindly enough.
Tell me, is it any thing about your husband ?"
Hauuab had not given him credit for remembering that
ict, or for the patience with which he eat down to listen.
"" My husband !" cried poor Grace, catching at the word,
and bursting out sobbing. " Yes, you're right, Sir, he is
my husband, and I ehall always believe he ja, though he
Baya he isn't, and that I have no claim upon him, no more
than any wicked woman in the street. But I was mar-
ried, Mr. Rivers !" and the poor gii-1 stood wringing her
bands, while her teara fell in floods. "He took me to
London and married me there {Pve got my certiticate ia
my pocket), and when we came back every body knew it.
And a year after, my little baby was born my poor little '
baby that I never told you of, miss, for fear you should
Bend rne away !"
"Is it living?" said Hannah, gravely, having listened,
as Mr. Rivers did also, to this torrent of grief-stricken
words.
" Yes ; he is living, pretty lamb 1 though many a time I
have wished he wasn't, after what bis father said when he
went away. But that might not be true, no more true
than what he sent me word yesterday; and I've been
nigh out of my mind ever since !"
" What was it ? Do keep to the point, I can not make
out the matter if you talk so much," said Mr, Rivera.
Hannah sat silent, waiting for what was coming nexL
An uneasy feeling, not exactly a fear, but not unlike It,
came over her, as she recalled the long-ago diacuasion at
the Moot House about the Dixon family.
Grace gathered herself up, and looked her master in the
face. She was a sweet-looking little woman, nstially reti-
cent and quiet enough, but now &he s^med desperate
with her wrong.
" DlxoD Bays, Sir that's my husband ; he's James Dix-
of your parish that I'm not his wife in law, and bo
HANNAH. 83
can get rid of me whenever he pleases, only he won't do
it if I'll come back and live with him, because he likes me,
he says, and all the poor children are crying out for me.
But that if I won't come back, he shall go and marry an-
other woman, Mary Bridges, of Easterham, that lived as
cook with Lady Rivers. He'll put up the banns here next
Sanday, he says."
*' He can not. It would be bigamy."
" Bigamy ! That's taking a second wife while your
first wife's living, isn't it, Sir ? And I'm living, though I
wasn't his first wife ; but I suppose that doesn't matter.
Oh, why did I ever take him ! But it was all for them
poor children's sakes ; and he was such a good husband to
my sister that I thought for sure he'd be a good husband
to me !"
Mr. Rivers started. " Stop a minute. Your story is very
confused ; but I think I take it in now. Is James Dixon
the Dixon who once came to me, asking me to marry him
to his deceased wife's sister ? And were you that person ?"
He spoke in a formal, uncomfortable voice; his cheek
reddened a little, and he looked carefully away from the
comer where Hannah was sitting. She did not move
how could she ? but she felt hot and red, and wished her-
self anywhere except where she was, and was obliged to
remain.
Grace spoke on, full of eager anxiety : " Yes, Sir, he did
come to you, I know, and you told him, he said, that I
was not the proper person for him to marry. But he
thought I was, and so did I, and so did all the neighbors.
Tou see. Sir" and in her desperation the poor young
woman came close up to her master " I was very fond of
my poor sister, and she of me, and when she was dying,
she begged me to come and take care of her children.
Jim was very glad of it too. And so I went to live with
him; it was the most natural thing possible, and it
wasn't wrong, ftiss, was it ?"
Hannah felt she must answer the appeal. She did so
with a half-inaudible but distinct " No."
I * Nobody said ii waa WJ'ong. Nobody blamed me,
md the childreu got so fond of me, and I made Jim so
nfortable, that at last he said be couldn't do without
i, and we had better get married at once. Was that
_ Sir?"
"*'Ye8 ; it was against the law," eaid Mr. Rivera, in the
^ame cold tone, looking into the fire, and pushing back-
ward and forward the ring he wore on his little finger
poor-Roaa's wedding-ring, taten from her dead liand.
" But people do it, Sir. I know two or three in our vil-
lage as have done it, and nobody ever said a word against
them. And, as it was, people did begin to say a deal
against me." Grace hung her head a minute, and then
lifted it up again in fierce innocence. " But it was all lies.
Sir. I declare before God it was. I was an honest girl
always. I told Jim I wouldn't look at him unless he mar-
ried me. So he did at last. Look here, Sir."
Mr. Rivers took nervously the marriage certificate, read
it over, gave it back again, and still remained silent.
*' It's all right, Sir ? I know it Is ! He did mari'y me ?"
"Yes but "
"And it wasn't true what he said when, after a while,
lie took to drinking, and we sqaabbted a bit that he
conld get rid of me whenever he liked, and marry some-
body else ? It wasn't true, Sir ? Oh, please say it wasn't
true, if only for the sake of my poor baby 1"
And Grace stood waiting for the answer that to her was
life or death.
All this while Miss Thelluson had sat silent, scarcely
lifting her eyes from tho carpet, except once or twice to
poor Grace's face, with keen compaBsion. Not that the
question seemed to concern her much, or that she attempt-
ed to decide the wrong or right of it; only the whole case
seemed so very pitiful. And she had grown fond of Grace,
who was a very good girl, and in feeling and education
rather superior to her class.
As for Mr, Rivera, the look in his eyes, which he care-
fully kept from meeting any other's eyes, was not com-
HANNAH. 85
passion at all ; but perplexity, uneasiness, even irritation
the annoyance of a man who finds himself in a difficult po-
sition, which he wishes sincerely he were well out of.
To Grace's frantic question he gave no reply at all.
She noticed this, and the form of her entreaty changed.
" You don't think I did wrong to marry him. Sir ? You
are a parson, and ought to know. Was it wicked, do you
think? My sister that's Mrs. John Dixon, a very good,
religious woman, and a Methody, too told me no ; that
the Bible said a man was not to marry his wife's sister in
her lifetime, which meant that he might do it after her
death."
"Apparently you have studied the subject very closely;
closer,! doubt not, than I have," replied Mr. Rivers, in that
hard voice of his. Hannah thought it at the time almost
crueL "Therefore there is the less need for me to give
you any opinion, which I am very reluctant to do."
A blank look came into poor Grace's beseeching eyes.
** But, Sir, my sister ^"
" Mrs. Dixon is a Dissenter, many of whom, I believe,
think as she does on this matter ; but we Church people
can only hold to the prayer-book and the law. Both for-
bid such marriages as yours. You being brother and
Bister "
" But we weren't. Sir ; not even cousins. Indeed, I nev-
er set eyes on Jim till just before Jane died."
" You being brother and sister," irritably repeated Mr.
Rivers, " or the law making you such"
" But how could it make us when we were not born so ?"
pleaded poor Grace, with a passionate simplicity.
" You being brother and sister," Mr. Rivers said, for the
third time, and now with actual sternness, " you could not
possibly be married. Or if you were married, as you say,
it was wholly against the law. James Dixon has taken
advantage of this, as I have heard of other men doing ;
but I did not tielieve it of him."
Grace turned whiter and whiter. " Then what he says
is really true ? I am not his wife ?"
^^^^ "I can't help you; I wish I could," said Mr. Rivers, ftt
^^^Bsst looking dawn upon the piteous face. "I am afraid it
^^^Bb only too true."
^^^B "And my haby, my baby! I don't care for myself
^^^Miuch 1 hut my baby I"
^^^K "If you ask me to tell you the truth, I must tell it. I
^^^W'QBed to marry James Dixon because I knew it would
"be no marriage at all, and could only be efiected by de-
ceiving the clergyman, as I suppose was done. Therefore
^^^ jou are not his wife, and your baby is, of course, an illegit-
^^^ymate child."
^^^B Grace gave a shrill scream that might have been beard
^^^nbrough the house. Lest it should lie heard, or from some
^^^ other instinct which she did not reason upon, Miss Thellu-
6on jumped up, and shut and bolted the door. When she
turned back the poor girl lay on the floor in a dead faint.
Hannah took her up in her arms.
" Please help me 1" she said to Mr. Ilivers, not looking
at him, "I think the servantB are all gone to lied. I
hope they are ; it will be much better. Once get her up
irs, and I can look after her myself."
n you ? Will it not harm you ?"
; no !" and Ilanuah looked pitifully on the stony
Kd that lay on her lap. " It lias been veiy hard for her.
r thing ! poor thing !"
[r, Rivera said nothing, hut silently obeyed bis sister-
iw's orders, and between them tliey carried Grace up
Mies Thelluson's room. Almost immediately afterward
pie heard him close the door of his own, and saw no more
f him, or any one except her charge, till morning. ^^^
CHAPTER V. ^^
s Thkllcson had always been lamentably deficient
1 the quality which is called " respect of persons." She
J her servant half the night through as carefully as
r poor Grace had been her personal friend, and a lady
HANNAH. 87
borr^. There was, indeed, much of the lady about the girl,
whicsli was Hannah's great comfort in having her as nurse
a xrefinement of manner and feeling, and a fine sense of
hon OT, not always found in her class. For since she had
been mistress of a large house and many servants Miss
Thelluson had discovered to her grief that, in these days,
the moral standard of kitchen and parlor was not always
the same. Still, in her nurse she had always comfort ; and
Gntoe, probably on account of this difference, or for other
reasons now patent enough had seemed to dislike mix-
ing xnuch with the other servants. Her mistress could
trust; her thoroughly. She was, indeed, quite a personal
friend as every faithful servant ought to be.
^V^hen the poor girl came to herself she poured her whole
sad story into her mistress's patient ^ar.
'^ I had no idea I was doing wrong no, that I hadn't !"
ni03.ned she. " Two or three in our village had married
tbeii sister's husband. What can a poor working-man do
wh^H he is left with a lot of children, but get their aunt to
cottx^ and look after them ? And then, if she's young, or,
y^^^ed, anyhow, people are sure to begin talking. Isn't
it tetter to stop their wicked tongues by marrying her at
once, and making all right and comfortable ? For they're
not comfortable I wasn't. And they're not real brother
and sister, whatever master says. And I'm sure they can
be married ; for there was our old squire, he married two
BiBters, and had two families, one all girls, the other boys.
And the eldest son by the second marriage young Mr.
Melville came in for the property, and is the squire now.
And nobody ever said his, mother wasn't lawfully mar-
ried, no more than, when I came home from London, the
ueighbors said I wasn't married to Jim. Married in church,
too, though we were Methodists both ; and neither the par-
son nor our own minister ever said a word against it."
Though the poor girl talked in a wild, rambling, excited
feshion, still there was some sense in her arguments ; and
when she implored Miss Thelluson to speak to Mr. Rivers
again, and repeat all she said, and ask if there was not a
88 HANNAH.
chance of his having been mistaken, or if he could not,
at least, prevent the marriage with Ann Bridges, Hannah
scarcely knew what to say. At last, just to soothe her-7-
for, out of consideration to her mistress, Grace had kept
her misery to herself for a day and a half, till it had al-
most driven her frantic she promised to do her best in
the matter.
" And you'll do it at once, miss ; and tell master that
whatever is done should be done at once, or Jim will get
married, and then what is to become of me and my poor
child ? It isn't myself that I care for. I didn't do wrong ;
God knows I didn't ! And I don't mind what folk say of
me ; but it's my poor boy. And it's Jim, too, a little ; I
don't want Jim to do wrong either."
And she shed a few tears over even the bad fellow, who,
she confessed, had in his drunken fits beaten her many a
time.
" But I forgive him, for he was drunk," said she, using
that too common but mistaken excuse. "And then I had
the children to comfort me. Such dear little things they
were, and so fond of me ! And he'll go and bring that
woman Bridges to be step-mother over them, and she is a
bad temper, and she's sure to ill-treat them, poor lambs !
Jenny's poor little motherless lambs ! I must go back to
them directly." And she sat up in bed, in an agony of
distress. " Oh, miss, please give me my clothes, and I'll
get up and dress, and be off by daylight."
This bitter grief, not over her own boy who, she said,
was safe with his grandmother but over her dead sister's
children, touched Hannah to the quick. She could under-
stand it so well.
"You must lie quiet," said she; "or, rather, you must
go back to your own bed beside Rosie. You have quite
forgotten Rosie."
The right chord was struck. The young woman had
evidently a strong sense of duty, besides being excessively
fond of her charge ; for Rosie was a little creature that
won every body. So she sat up, fastened back her di-
HANNAH. 89
8fci.^veled hair, and with her mistress's help tottered back
to -the nursery. Soon she settled herself in her customary
coxmer, stretching out a caressing hand to the crib beside
h^ XT bed, where, sleeping quite alone, but as sweetly as if all
tbi.^ angels of heaven were watching over her, little Rosie lay.
**Ah! baby, baby," Grace sobbed, " what would have be-
coxiae of me all these months without you, baby !"
"XVTiat would become of many a miserable woman if it
not for a baby !
[ow Grace had ever left her own Hannah could not im-
*Sine; but found afterward it was the hard necessity of
ea.iming money, the grandmother being very poor, and Jim
I^i:aton having gone off in search of work, and left the whole
ccx:iibined families in the old woman's hands. Now he re-
c^^^imedhis three eldest, but disowned Grace's unfortunate
^^My boy remember my boy !" implored she, as in the
dawn of the morning her mistress left her, hoping her
er exhaustion would incline her to sleep. "Promise
'^^^ that you will speak to the master, if only for the sake
^^ Mnj poor boy."
^Xlannah promised ; but when she went back to her room
^^^^ thought it all over for she could not sleep she was
sox*^ly perplexed. There might be some mistake, even
^-^^i^ugh Mr. Rivers, who was a magistrate as well as a
c^^:rgyman, spoke so decidedly. Grace's arguments were
6^^^^ng; and the case of Mr. Melville, whom she had her-
^^^met at the Moat House, was, to say the least, curious.
Slx^ herself knew nothing of the law. If she could only
^t^eak to any body who did know, instead of to her broth-
"^-in-law ! Once she thought of writing to Lady Duns-
ttlcre; but then what would the countess imagine? No
Aoubt, that she wanted the information for herself. And
Hannah grew hot all over with shame and pain, and an-
other feeling which was neither the one nor the other, and
which abe did not stay to analyze, except that it made her
feel more reluctant than ever to name the subject again to
Mr. Rivers.
I 1
H, con
am
ter
to
IStill Grace was bo unfortunate ; so innocently -wicked
iwiokednesa tliere was. And the projected marriage of
" seemed much more bo.
"Mr. Kivera will never allow it in Ilia churcii. He sure-
-would nob eauctioD anch a cruel thing, even if it be le-
And there is no time to lose. Whatever it costs me,
,ust speak to him at onco."
~ith this resolution, and deadening her mind to any
thoughts, Hannah lay down, and tried to sleep, but
vain. After au hour or two of restless tossing, Bhe
dressed herself, and descended to the breakfast-room.
There she found Mr. Rivers playing with little Rosie
contrary to his habit ; for he seldom saw her of morningB.
~* looked a little confnsed at being discovered.
"I sent for the cliild," said he. " Don't yon think, Aunt
mnah, she is old enough to come down to breakfast
ith us?"
Not quite," said Ilannah, smiling; "but she can stay
and play about on the floor. 1 dare say she will be good
won't she, auntie's darling?"
And auntie clasped fondly the little thing, who had tot-
tered up to her and hid the pretty fair head in her gown-
ekirt. Mr.J^ivers looked at them, and turned suddenly
way as he often did now,
Hosie behaved beautifully for about five minutes!
id then began to perpetrate a few ignorant naughti-
lesses; such as pulling down a silver fork, and a butter-
knife, with a great clatter; then creeping beneath the ta-
ble, and trying to stand upright there, which naturally
caused a bump on the head, and a scream so violent J'
Aunt Ilannah, frightened out of all proprieties, quitlfl
seat and walked up and down the room, soothing i
arms the piteous little waller.
"This will never do," said papa, sternly, "Pray 1
the child up stairs."
Which Hannah thankfully did, and staid away i
minutes; feeling that, after all, the nursery was the b
the most peaceful, and the pleasantest room in the b^
latu rally
lentth^J
itte^^H
ray tuSH
HANNAH. 91
^Vhen she came back, her brother-in-law had finished
'^^akfast, and was standing gazing out of the sunshiny
^'^^xidow in a sort of dream. His temporary crossness had
^^fcsided ; his face, though grave, was exceedingly sweet.
^cw that she had grown used to it, and it had gradually
"^^htened, if not into happiness, at least into composure
*^^ peace, Hannah sometimes thought she had seldom
^^^n so thoroughly sweet a face such a combination of
*^^ man and the woman that beautiful woman whose
P^^ture at the Moat House she often looked at, and won-
^^red what kind of young creature the firet Lady Rivers
*^^d been. Apparently not like the second Lady Rivers
^t; alL
It was exactly his mother's smile with which Mr. Rivers
^Xirned round now.
"So the little maid is comforted at last. What influ-
ence you women have over babies, and what helpless be-
ings we men are with them ! Why, it is as much as papa
Can do to keep Miss Rosie quiet for five minutes, and
Aunt Hannah has her the whole day. Do you never tire
of her?"
" Never. No more does Grace, who has an instinctive
love for children which all women have not, I assure
you. This is what makes her so valuable as a nurse."
Hannah said this intentionally ; for, not two minutes
before, the girl had nin after her with a wild white face.
"Have you spoken to the master? Will you speak to
him ? Don't forsake me ! Ask him to help me ! Oh,
Miss Thelluson, I'm fond of your child think of mine !"
Even if Hannah had not liked and respected Grace so
much, to her good heart, now open to all children for
Rosie's sake, this argument would have struck home.
"I hope the young woman is better this morning, and
that you did not fatigue yourself too much with her last
night," said Mr. Rivers, coldly ; and then began speaking
of something else. But Hannah, bracing up her cour-
age, determined to discharge her unpleasant duty at
once.
92 HANNAH.
" Have you ten minutes to spare ? Because I have a
special message to you from Mrs. Dixon."
What Mrs. Dixon ?"
" Grace. She insists upon it she has a legal right to the
name."
"She is under a complete delusion, and the sooner she
wakes up out of it the better. Pray, Hannah, do not, with
your weak womanish pity, encourage her for a moment."
Mr. Rivers spoke sharply more sharply than any gen-
tleman ought to speak to any lady; though men some-
times think they are justified in doing so to wives and
sisters. But her brother-in-law had never thus spoken to
Hannah before she was not used to it; and she looked
at him, first surprised, then slightly indignant.
"My pity is not weak or womanish, nor do I call it pity
at all. It is simple love of justice. Either Grace is mar-
ried or not married. All I want is, for her sake and the
child's, to find out the exact law of the case."
" Which is just what I told her last night. No doubt
she was married, as she says ; only the marriage, being
illegal, is null and void."
" But she says such marriages are not uncommon."
"I believe they are not, in the lower classes. Never-
theless, those who risk them must take the consequences.
The wife is only the mistress, and the children are base-
born. I beg your pardon for putting plain facts into plain
language, but you compel me. Why will you meddle in
this unpleasant matter ? It can be nothing to you."
And he looked at her keenly as he spoke, but Hannah
did not perceive it just then. Her interest was too strong-
ly excited for the cruel position of poor Grace. She re-
called involuntarily an old argument of Lady Dunsmore
on this very subject whether any wrong could be exact-
ly " nothing " to any honest-minded man or woman, even
though he or she were not personally affected thereby.
" Pardon me," she answered, gently, " it is something
to me to see any human being in great misery, if by any
possibility that misery could be removed. Are yon quite
HANNAH. 93
sure you are right as to the law ? It can not always have
been what you say, because Grace tells me of a certain
Mr. Melville who visits at the Moat House " And Han-
nah repeated the story. " Can it be possible," added she,
" that there is one law for the rich and another for the
poor ?"
" No. But in 1835 the law was altered, or at least modi-
fied: all such marriages then existing were confirmed,
and all future ones declared illegal. Melville escaped by
a hair- breadth only, his parents having been married
in 1834."
"Then what was right one year was wrong the next?
That is, to my weak womanly notions, a very extraordi-
nary form of justice."
Her brother-in-law regarded her inquiringly. Evident-
ly he was surprised ; did not at first take in the intense
single-mindedness of the woman who could thus throw
herself out of herself, and indignantly argue the cause of
another, even though it trenched upon ground so delicate
that most feminine instincts would have let it alone. He
looked at her; and then his just nature divining the utter
innocence and indifference out of which she spoke, he said
nothing only sighed.
"You are a very good woman, Hannah ^I know that
and Grace ought to be exceedingly obliged to you. But
you can not help her not in the least."
"And can not you ? Could you not, at least, pi'event
the man's marrying another woman as he means to do in
your very church next Sunday ?"
" Does he ? The brute !" cried Mr. Rivers, passionately.
Then, relapsing into his former coldness " I fear nothing
can be done. The former marriage being invalid, he can
contract another at any time legally, I mean ; the moral
question is a different thing."
" So it seems," said Hannah, bitterly ; for she was vexed
at his manner it seemed so hard, so unlike his usual warm,
generous way of judging matters. " But," she argued, re-
solved to leave not a stone unturned for her poor servant's
F
if tUe man-iage with Grace waa unlawful, why c
^fiot ho be prosecuted for that, as for higamy or similiir of-
Either il was a crime, or it was uot. If it was,
ptinisli it by the law ; if cot"
" You reason like a woman," interrapted Mr, Rivera an-
grily. " When I, a man, have already ai^ued the question
with myself in every possible way " He stopped abrupt-
ly. "I mean that you women will only see two sides of
subject the right and the wrong."
" Yes, thank Ileaven 1"
" Whereas there are many sides, and a man requires to
see them all. But we are slipping into ethical discussion,
which you and I are rather prone to, Aunt Ilannah. Sup-
pose, instead, we go and look at our roses ?"
Go and look at rosea when a fellow-creature was hang-
ing on every breath of theirs for hope or despair 1 Han-
nah had never thought her brother-in-law so hard-hearted.
"I can't go," she said. "I must first speak to poor
Grace. What shall I say to her ?"
" Whatever you like. But I think the less you say the
better. And perhaps, if you could gently hint it, the soon-
er she leaves us the better. Of course she will have to
leave."
" Leave !" repeated Ilannah, much startled by the new
phase which this most unlucky afihir was assumipg.
" Why ' of course ?' I never thought of her leaving,"
"Do you not see? But no, you can not you see noth-
ing at all !" muttered Bernard Rivers to himself. "Do
you not perceive," continued he, earnestly, "that we live
in a bouee on a hill, morally as well as physically? That
a clergyman must keep himself out of the slightest shadow
of evil comment ? I especially, both as rector of Easter-
ham and as Sir Austin's son, must expect to have my acts
and motives sharply criticlaed, and perhapa many a mo-
tive ascribed to me which does not eiist. No ; I have
been thinking the matter over all the rooming, and I aee
no alternative. Grace ought to go. I believe Lady T'
era and all at the Moat House would say V
HANNAH. 95
Hannah drew back. She had never resisted her brother-
in-law before ^not even in cases where she had thought
him a little wrong : though this happened seldom. She
had found out that, like most men who are neither selfish
nor egotistical, he was remarkably just. Now she felt
him to be unjust. To send away Rosie's fond and faithful
nnrse would be to the child herself a very harmful thing
to Grace, in her circumstances, a bitter unkindnes^, not to
say an actual wrong; and Miss Thelluson was not the
woman to stand tamely by and see a wrong done to any
human being if she could help it.
Still it was needful to be very guarded, and she might
even have been less courageous had not the allusion to
the Moat House and its opinions always more or less
shallow and worldly stirred up in her something of that
righteous indignation which blazed up, quite unexpectedly
fiometimes, in Aunt Hannah's quiet bosom.
" Excuse me," she said, more formally than she was used
to apeak, in the free and pleasant, even affectionate, rela-
tions that now subsisted between Mr. Rivers and herself.
**Lady Rivers is mistress of the Moat House, but not of
the House on the Hill. When you did me the honor to
give me that position, you distinctly said I should manage
it as I chose. I claim my right. For Rosie's sake, I must
beg of you not to send away her nurse."
" Good Heavens ! you will not see I How can I, placed
as I atn, keep in my house a woman who is disgraced for
Ufe?"
" Not disgraced ; only unfortunate. She is a very good
girl indeed. She protests solemnly she had not an idea
that in marrying James Dixon she was doing wrong."
"How you women do hold to your point!" said Mr.
Rivers, in great irritation, almost agitation. " But she has
done wrong. She has broken the law. In the eye of the
law she is neither more nor less than a poor seduced girl,
mother of a bastard child."
Now Hannah Thelluson was an exceedingly "proper"
person. That is, though not ignorant of the wickedness
of the world tlie things "done in secret," as St. Paul
terras tbera she agreed with St. Paul that it was a
ebame to speak of them, unless unavoidable, and for some
good end. K duty required, she would Laye waded
throagh any quauiiiy of filth; but she did not like it;
she preferred keeping in clean paths if possible. Often-
times she had been startled, not to say shocked, by the
light way in which some fast yoang ladies who came about
the Moat House, and even the Miasea Rivera themselves,
talked of things which she and the gu-ls of her generation
scarcely knew existed, and certainly would never have
spoken about, except to their own mothers. And among
the qualities in Mr. Rivers which first drew her toward
him was one which women soon instinctively find out in
men as" men, they say, in women ihat rai-o delicacy of
thought and action which no outward decorum can ever
imitate, because it springs from an innate chastity of soal.
Thus, when, in his excitement, Mr. Rivers used such ex-
ceedingly plain ugly words, Miss Theilusou looked at him
in intense astonishment, and blushed all over her face.
Some people called Hannah a plain woman that is, she
was tall and thin and colorleaa, not unlike the wbite liiy
she bad been compared to ; but when she blushed, it was
like the white lily with a rosy sunset glow upon it. For
the moment she looked absolutely pretty. Something in
Mr. Rivera's eyes made her conscioua that he thought bo
or, at leaat, that he was thinking of her, and not of poor
Grace or the subject in hand at all.
"Why do you not oftener wear white I like it so
' much?" he said, softly touching her gown, a thick muslto,
embroidered with black, which she thought would be a
sort of medieval compromise. She waa so fond of white
that it was half regretfully she had decided she was too
old to wear it. But among her new dresses she could not
resist thia one. It pleased her to have it noticed, or would
have done, had not her mind been full of other things,
" I waa going to the picnic in Langmead Wood, jtott
mow; but never mind that just now. Before I start I
HANNAH. ^ 97
shall have to tell poor Grace her doom. A heavy blow it
will be. Do not ask me to make it worse by telling her
she must leave us."
Bernard was silent.
"I can not bear to resist your will," pleaded she.
" When I first came here I made up my mind to obey you
that is, in all domestic things even as she would have
done. But even she would have resisted you in this.
Were she living now, I am sure she would say exactly as
I do dear, tender-hearted Rosa !"
" Why do you name her ?" said Mr. Rivers, in a low
tone. "Are you not afraid ?"
"Afraid! Why should I be? Of all women I ever
knew, my sister had the truest heart, the quickest sense of
justice. If she thought a thing was right, she would say
it ay, and do it, too in face of the whole world. So
would L"
" Would you? Are you one of those women who have
courage to defy the world ?"
" I think I am, if I were tried ; but I never have been
tried. I hope I never may be ; and I hope, too, that you
will save me froni doing any more in the defiant line,"
added she, smiling, " by retracting what you said, and let-
ting Grace stay."
" But how can she stay ? How can you keep her miser-
able story a secret ?"
" I should not keep it a secret at all. I would tell every
body the whole truth, explaining that we drew the line
between guilt and innocence; that you refused to marry
James Dixon to this new wife of his, but that the poor
creature whom he had made believe she was his wife
should stay under the shelter of your roof as long as she
liked. That, I am sure, would be the just and right way
to act. Shall it be so ?"
" You are a courageous woman, Hannah. But," added
he, with a sad kind of smile, " it is like the courage of little
boys venturing on our frozen pond there: they do not
know how deep it is. No, no ; I can not thus run counter
E
to my own people and to all the -world. In truth, I dare
not,"
"Dare not!" Hannah blazed ap, in that eudden way
of here whenever she saw a wrong done donbly so when
any one she cared for did it. She had lived with Mr. Riv-
ers nearly a year now, and, whether she cared for him or
not, she had never seen any thing in him which made her
cease to respect him. Until now. " Dare not !" she re-
peated, almost doubting if she had heard truly. " When
there is a certain course of conduct open to him, bo it right
or wrong, I always believed that the last reason an honest
man gave for declining it would be, 'I dare not !'"
The moment she had made this bitter speech one of
the old sarcastic speeches of her girlhood Hannah saw it
was a mistake ; that she was taking with Mr. Kivers a
liberty which even a flesh-and-blood sister had no right to
take, and she was certain he felt it so. All the proud K^or-
man blood rushed up to his forehead,
" I never knew I was a coward, Miss Thelluson. Since
yon think me one, I will relieve you of my company."
Opening the French window at once, he passed out of it
into the garden, and disappeared.
Hannah stood, overwhelmed. During all the months
they had lived under the same roof, and in the close in-
timacy that was inevitable under the circumstances, she
and her brother-in-law had never had any thing approach-
ing to a quarrel. They had differed widely Eometimes,
but always amicably, and upon abstract rather than per-
sonal grounds. Those "sharp words," which oven the
dearest friends say to one another sometimes, bad aerer
passed between them. His extraordinarily sweet temper
oh, how keenly Hannah now appreciated her aigter's
fond praise of the blessing it was to have a sweet-tem-
pered husband ! his utter absence of worldlinesa and &iH{-
conceit ; and that warm, good heart, which, as the cloud
I of misery slowly passed away from him, shone out in every
" ig he did and said all these things made quarreling
h Bernard liivcrs almost impossible.
HANNAH. 99
" What have I done ?" thought Hannah, half laughing,
half crying. " He must think me a perfect virago. I will
apologize the minute he comes back."
But he did not come back : not though she waited an
hour in the breakfast-room, putting off her household du-
ties, and even that other, as painful as it was inevitable
speaking to poor Grace. But he never came. Then, go-
ing into the hall, she saw that his hat and coat had van-
ished. She knew his appointments of the morning, and
was sure now that he was gone, and would be away the
whole day.
Then Hannah became more than perplexed thoroughly
unhappy. Even Grace's forlorn face, when she told her
she had not the heart to tell more that Mr. Rivers could
promise nothing, l?ut that she hoped he would prevent the
marriage, if possible, failed to affect her much ; and Rosie's
little arms round her neck, and the fond murmur of " Tan-
nic, Tannic," did not give nearly the comfort that they
were wont to do.
"Tannic has been naughty," said she, feeling a strange re-
lief in confessing her sins to the unconscious child. " Tan-
nic has vexed papa. When Rosie grows up she must never
vex papa. She must try to be a comfort to him : he has
no one else."
Poor Hannah ! She had done wrong, and she knew it.
When this was the case, nothing and nobody could soothe
Hannah Thelluson.
With a heavy heart she got ready for the picnic a fam-
ily affair between this house and the Moat House, which
was still full of visitors. The girls were to fetch first their
brother from the school-house, and then herself; but when
the carriage came round Mr. Rivers was not in it.
"Bernard is thoroughly sulky to-day," said the eldest
sister. " He doesn't seem to know his own mind at all,
whether he will go or won't ; but perhaps he may turn up
by-and-by. Don't let us bother about him. Such a splen-
did day it is for a picnic, and Langmead Wood at its love-
liest time ! Do let us enjoy ourselves."
They did enjoy themselves, and certainly, Hannah
tlioiight, were not much " botliered " by their brother'a
Bulkiiiess, or afflicted by liia absence. The iratemal bond
is BO free and easy ibal, except in cases of very special
affection, brothers and sisters can speedily console them-
selves with somebody else.
But with herself it was not so. She thought the girls
rather heartless in missing Bernard bo little. She missed
him a good deal, and set dowu her regrets as conscience-
stinga. They hindered half her enjoyment of tlie lovely
wood, just putting on its green clothing, full of primroses
and hyacinths, and nest-building birds pouring out on all
sides a rapture of spring-time song. She scarcely heard
it, or hearing it only gave her pain.
" I was unkind to him," she thought ; " unkind to a man
whose wife is dead, who goes lonely through the world,
and needs every allowance that can be made for him, every
comfort that can be given him. lie, too, who is always
BO considerate and kind to me ! How ungrateful I have
been I"
So absorbed was she in her contrition that she did not
notice for ever so long what otherwise would have inter-
ested her ranch a very patent love-aflair now going on
between Adeline Rivers and this same Mr. Melville, the
young squire whom Grace had mentioned. To bring him
" to the point," as one of the girls confidentially told her,
this picnic had been planned, hoping that the tender influ-
ence of the woody gladea of Langmead would open his
heart, and turn it from nebulous courtship to substantial
marriage a marriage evidently highly acceptable to the
whole family. Wliich Hannah thought rather odd, con-
eideringwbat she knew of the family opinions, and that it
was but the mere chance of a marriage happening before
instead of after the year 1835 which saved Herbert Mel-
ville from being in the same position as poor Grace's son
a "base-bom" child.
Ziatc in the afternoon Bernard appeared. They were all
Btting in a circle round the remnants of the dimier. He
HA27NAH. 101
shook hands with every body, ending with Miss Thelluson.
Words were impossible there ; but Hannah tried to make
her eyes say, "Are we friends ? I am so sorry." The
apology fell hopeless: he was looking in another direc-
tion ; and she shrank back into herself, feeling more un-
happy, in a foolish, causeless, childish sort of way, than
she remembered to have done for at least ten years.
If
"To be wroth with one we love
Doth work like madness in the brain,"
to be wroth with ourselves for having wronged one we
love is pretty nearly as bad ; except that in such a case
we are able to punish ourselves unlimitedly, as Hannah
did, with the most laudable pertinacity, for a full hour.
She listened with patience to endless discussions, tete-d-t^e,
among Lady Rivers and her girls, upon the chances and
prospects of the young couple for whose benefit the picnic
was made who, poor things, knew well what they were
brought there for, and what was expected of them before
returning home. At any other time she would have pit-
ied or smiled at this pair of lovers, who finally slipped
aside among the trees, out of sight, though not out of
comment, of their affectionate families; and she might
have felt half amused, half indignant, at the cool, public
way in which the whole matter was discussed. But now
her heart was too sore and sad; she just listened politely
to every body that wanted a listener, and meantime heard
painfully every word her brother-in-law said, and saw
every movement he made not one, however, in her direc-
tion. She made a martyr of herself, did every thing she
did not care to do, and omitted the only thing she longed
to do to go up straight to Mr. Rivers and say, "Are you
angry with me still? Do you never mean to forgive
me ?"
Apparently not, for he kept sedulously out of her way,
and yet near her, though not a word between them was
possible. This behavior at last tantalized her so much
that she feirly ran away : stole quietly out of the circle,
1 hid herself in a nul-wood del], filling her hands jvilh
tne hyacinths.
t- * Hannah, what are yoa doing ?"
" Gathering a nosegay to take home to Rosie."
\. A brief question and answer. Yet they seemed to clear
liiway the cloud, Mr. Rivera stood watching a little while,
and then began helping her to gather the flowers.
"How continually you think of Rosie's pleasure. Kut yon
do of every body's. What a warm, good heart yon have !"
" Have I ? I doubt it," answered Hannah, with a falter-
ing voice ; for she was touched by his gentleness, by that
wonderfully sweet nature he had so rare in a man, yet
not unmanly, if men could only believe this ! Hannah had
long ceased to wonder why her brother-in-law was
vers ally beloved.
"I think you and I rather quarreled this morning, Aaot
Hannah ? We never did so before, did we ?"
"No."
" Then don't let us do it again. Here ia my hand."
Hannah took it joyfully, tried to speak, and signal
failed.
"You don't mean to say you are crying?"
"I am afraid I am. It is very silly, but I can't help it.
I never was used to quarreling, and I have been quite un-
happy all day. You see" and she raised her face with
the innocent childlike expression it sometimes wore, more
childlike, he once told her, than any creature he ever saw
over ten years old " yow sec, I had behaved so ill to you
you that are unfailingly kind to me."
" Not kind say grateful. Oh, Hannah !" lie said, with
great earnestness,"! owe you more, mnch more, than I
can over repay. I wag sinking into a perlect slough of
despond, becoming a miserable, useless wretch, a torment
to myself and every body about me, when it came into my
head to send for you. You roused me ; you made me feel
that my life was not ended; that I had still work to do,
and strength to do it with. Hannah, if any human being
ever saved another, you saved me."
.n ot I
afl^n
HANNAH. . 108
Hannah was much moved. Still more so when, drAi-
ing his head, and playing absently with a mass of dead
leaves, from under which blue violets were springing, he
added,
" I sometimes think she must have sent you to me do
you r
" I think thus much that she would rejoice if I, or any
one, was able to do you any good. Any generous woman
would, after she had gone away, and could do you good
no more. She would wish you to be happy even if it
were with another woman another wife."
Hannah said this carefully, deliberately ; she had long
waited for a chance of saying it, that he might know ex-
actly what was her feeling about second marriages, did
he contemplate any thing of the sort. He evidently
caught her meaning, and was pained by it.
"Thank you, Rosa said much the same thing to me
just before she died. But I have no intention of marrying
again. At least not now."
Hannah could not tell why, but she felt relieved even
glad. The incubus of several weeks was taken off at once,
as well as that other burden, which she had no idea would
have weighed her down so much the feeling of being at
variance with her brother-in-law.
He sat down beside her on a felled log, and they began
talking of all sorts of things the beauty of the wood, the
wonderfully delicious spring day ; and how Rosie would
have enjoyed it ; how she would enjoy it by-and-by, when
she was old enough to be brought to picnics at Langmead,
All trivial subjects, lightly and gayly discussed ; but they
were straws to show how the wind blew, and Hannah was
sure now that the wind blew fair again that Mr. Rivers
had forgiven and forgotten every thing.
Not every thing ; for he asked suddenly if she had told
Grace the bitter truth, and how she bore it.
"Patiently, of course ; but she is nearly broken-hearted."
" Poor soul ! And you think, Hannah, that if she
Rosa had been here, she would have let Grace stay ?"
I 104
HErgc
I am Bure she would. SLe was bo just, so pure, eo
all her judgments; she would have seen at once
'^at Grace meant no harm that no real guilt could at-
tach to her, only misfortune ; and, therefore, it was neither
neoesaary nor right to aend her away."
"Very well. I camo to tell you that she shall not be
sent away. I have recousidered the question, and am pre-
pared to risk all the coneequences of keeping her for my
little girl's sake and yours."
Hannah hurst into brokea thanks, and then fiiirly be-
gan to cry again. She could not tetl what waa the mattor
with her. Her joy was as silly and weak-minded as her
sorrow. She was so aeliamed of herself as to he almost re-
lieved when Mr. Kivers, laughing at her in a kindly, pleas-
ant way, rose up and rejoined his sisters.
The rest of the day she had scarcely ten words with
him, yet she felt as happy as possible. Peace was restored
between him and herself, and Grace's misery was lighten-
ed a little, though, alas 1 not much. Perhaps, since even
her master said she had done no intentioual wrong, tho
poor girl would get used to her lot in time. It could not
be a very dreary lot to take care of Rosie. And Aunt
Hannah longed for her little darling wished she had her
in her arms, to show her the heaps of spring flowers, aud
the rabbits with their funny flashes of white tails, appear^
ing and disappearing beneath the tender ferns that were
shooting up under the dead leaves of last year life out
death, joy out of sorrow, as God meant it to he.
Nay, even the Rivera family and the rest seemed to
a little of their formal worldliness, and become young inei
and maidens, rejoicing in the spring. Especially the well-
watched pair of lovers, who had evidently come to an un-
derstanding, as desired ; for when, after a lengthy absence,
they reappeared, bringing two small sticks apiece, as their
contributions to tiie fire that was to boil the kettle, their
shyness and awkwardness were only equaled by their ex-
pression of blushing content.
Why should not old maid Hannah be content like
HANNAH. 105
though she was not in heiv teens like Adeline, and had no
lover ? But she had a tender feeling about lovers still ;
and in this blithe and happy spring-time it stirred afresh,
and her heart was moved in a strange sort of way half
pleasant, half sad.
Besides, this day happened to be an anniversary. Not
that Hannah was among those who keep anniversaries;
on the contrary, she carefully avoided them ; but she nev-
er forgot them. Many a time, when nobody knew, she
was living over again, with an ineffaced and ineffaceable
vividness, certain days and certain hours burned into her
memory with the red-hot iron of affliction. The wounds
had healed over, but the scars remained. For years she
had never seen yellow November fogs without recalling
the day when Arthur sailed ; nor cowslips, but she remem-
bered having a bunch of them in her hand when she got
the letter telling her of his death, just as he was "getting
up May Hill," as they often say of consumptive people.
And for years oh, how many years it seemed ! after that
day spring days had given her a ciniel pain ;* as if the
world had all come alive again, and Arthur was dead.
To-day, even though it was the very anniversary of his
death, she felt differently. There came back into her heart
that long-forgotten sense of spring, which always used to
come with the primroses and cowslips, when Arthur and
she played together among them. The world Tiad come
alive again, and Arthur had come alive too, but more as
when he was a little boy and her playfellow than her
lover. A strange kind of fancy entered her mind a won-
der what he was like now boy, or man, or angel ; and
what he was doing in that land, which, try as we will, we
can not realize, and are not meant to realize, in any way
that would narrow our duties here. Whether he still re-
mained the same, or had altered, as she was conscious she
had altered ; grown as she had grown, and suffered ; no,
he could not suffer as she had suffered these ten, eleven
years. Did he want her ? or was he happy without her ?
Would they, when they met, meet as betrothed lovers, or
E2
\
109 HANNAH.
as the angels in heaven, " wlio neither marry nor are given
in marriage?''
All those thoughts, and many more, went flitting across
her mind as Misu Thellusou sat iu a place she oltcD took
it eaved talking, and she liked it beside the old coach-
man on the Moat House caniage, as they drove in the soft
May twihght, through glade and woodland, moor and
down, to aBterham village. And, when far ofij she saw
the light shining from a window of the House on the Hill,
her heart leaped to it her heart, not her fancy for there
was her warm, happy, human home. There, nnder that
peaceful roof, centred all her dnties, all her delights;
there, in the quiet nursery, little Rosie lay sleeping, ready
to wake up next moraing fresh as the ilowcra, merry aa a
young lambkin, developing more and more in her opening
child-life the most wonderiiil and lovely eight God ever
gives us, and he gives it us every day a growing '
" Oh, if Rosa could only see her now the daughter
whom Bhe died !" sighed Hannah ; and then suppressed
sigh as irreligious, unjust. "No. I think if Rosa came
hack to us, and saw us now him and her baby, and me
she would not he unhappy. She would say what I should
say myself, if 1 died that when God takes onr dead froia
us, he means us not to grieve forever, only to remember."
lening i
I ever I
.er4|
3dth^^
CHAPTER VI.
Iabxah was fond of the Moat House; in the way tl
often fond of people thrown temporarily iu
thinking, "I should like you if I knew you," but ^
e that this will never liappen. Often, as in her y
passed by the gray old walls, she could quite uw
id Mr. Rivers's strong clinging to the only homeJ
resting-place of his family for generatS
lizfid keenly in his admiration for its q^
HANNAH. 107
nooks and corners within its quainter aspect without;
for the moat had been drained, and turned into a terraced
garden, and the old draw-bridge into a bridge leading to
it ; so that it was the most original and interesting house
possible.
Miss Thelluson would have gone there often, but for a
conviction that its inhabitants did not approve of this.
Wide as their circle was, and endless as were their enter-
tainments, it was not what Hannah called a hospitable
house. That is, it opened its doors wide at stated times ;
gave the most splendid dinners and balls ; but if you went
in accidentally or uninvited, you were received both by
the family and servants with civil surprise. Hannah was
once calling of an evening after an early dinner, when the
effort to get her an egg to her tea seemed to throw the
whole establishment, from the butler downward, into such
dire confusion that she never owned to being " hungry "
at the Moat House again.
Nor was it a place to bring a child to. Rosie, always
good at home, was sure to be naughty at the Moat House ;
and then grandmamma and aunts always told papa of it,
and papa came back and complained to Aunt Hannah ;
and Aunt' Hannah was sometimes sorry, sometimes indig-
nant. ' So the end was that she and the child never went
there unless specially invited ; and that paradise of most
little people" grandmamma's house " and " grandmam-
ma's garden "-was' to Rosie Rivers a perfect blank.
Nevertheless, Aunt Hannah never looked at the lovely
old house without a sense of tender regret: for it was
so very lovely, and might have been so dear. Perhaps
it would be, one day, when Rosie, its heir's sole heiress,
reigned as mistress there. A change which another ten
or fifteen years were likely enough to bring about, as Sir
Austin was an old man, and young Austin, the hapless
eldest son, would never inherit any thing. Every body
knew, though nobody said it, that the Reverend Bernard
Bivers would be in reality his father's succq^r. Even
Lady Rivers, who was a rich young widow wnen she be-
10-9 DAirsie,
L-aiiio Sir Auatiu'a wife, and had a comfortable jointure
house ID aiiotlier county, openly referred to that time, and
aa openly regretted that her step-sou did not turn hia
thoughts to a eecood marriage. '
"Bnt lie will soon, of coorBe; and you ought to takfi
every opportunity of suggesting it to him, Misa Thellu-
son; for, in Lis position, it la really his duty, and he says
one of the great advantages you are to him is that you al-
ways keep him up to his duty."
To these remarks Hannah seldom answered more than
a polite smile. She made a point of never discassiug Mr.
Rivers's marriage ; first, becaase if hia family had no deli-
cacy on the subject, she had ; and second, because every
day convinced her more and more that he was sincere
when he told her he had no present intention of the kind.
Tet he was perfectly cheerful now not exactly in his
old buoyant fashion, but in a contented, equable way, that
Hannah, at least, liked much better. Tlieirs was a cheer-
ful house, too. "TTse hospitality without grudging" was
Bernard's motto ; and he used it, as she once suggested to
him, principally to those " who can not repay thee." So
the House on the Hill the clergyman's house was sel-
dom empty, but had always bed and board at the service
of any who required it or enjoyed it. Still this kind of
hospitality, simple as it was, kept Hannah very busy al-
ways. Not that fiho objected to it nay, she rather liked
it; it roused her dormant social qualities, made her talk
more and look brighter and better indeed, some people
congratulated her on having grown ten years younger
since she came to Easterham. She felt so herself, at any
rate.
Besides the outside cheerfulness in their daily life, sha
and her brother-in-law, since their quarrel and its mak-
ing-up, seemed to have got on together better than over.
Her mind was settled on the marriage question; sUs
dreaded no immediate changes, and he seemed to respect
her all the more for having "shown fight" on the ques-
tion of Grace Dixon alas ! Mrs. Dison no longer now
HAITNAH. 109
she took off her wedding-ring, and was called plain Grace ;
she had no right to any other name.
" And my boy has no name either," she said once, with
' a pale, patient face, when, the worst of her sorrow having
spent itself, she went^ about her duties, outwardly re-
signed.
" Never mind !" Hannah replied, with a choke in her
throat. "He must make himself one." And then they
laid the subject aside, and discussed it no more.
Neither did she and her brother-in-law open it up again.
It was one of the sore inevitables, the painful awkward-
nesses, best not talked about. In truth in the position
in which she and Mr. Rivers stood to one another how
could they talk about it ?
The Rivers family did sometimes ; they had a genius for
discussing unpleasant topics. But happily the approach-
ing marriage of Mr. Melville and Adeline annihilated this
one.
"Under the circumstances nobody could speak to him
about it, you know ; it might hurt his feelings," said the
h^ppy bride elect. " And pray keep Grace out of his way,
for he knows her well ; she was brought up in his family.
A very nice family, are they not ?"
Hannah allowed they were. She sometimes watched
the dowager Mrs. Melville among her tribe of step-daugh-
ters, whom she had brought up, and who returned her
care with unwonted tenderness, thought of poor Grace,
and sighed.
Adeline's marriage was carried out without delay. It
seemed a great satisfaction to every body, and a relief like-
wise. Young Mr. Melville, who was rather of a butterfly
temperament, had fluttered about this nosegay of pretty
girls for the last ten years. He had, in fact, loved through
the family, beginning with the eldest, when they were
playfellows, then transferring his affections to Helen, and
being supposed to receive a death-blow on her engage-
ment ; which, however, he speedily recovered, to carry on
a long flirtation with the handsome Bertha; finally, to
K
ery body's wonder, he settled dowa to Adeline^ who wia
the qiiieteat, the least pretty, and the only one out of the
four who really loved him.
Bertha was vexed at first, but soon took consolation.
"After all, I only cared to flirt with him, and I can do it
just as well when he is my brother-in-law. Brothers are
BO stupid ; but a brother-in-law, of one's own age, will be
ao very convenient. Miss Thelhison, don't yoii find it so 7"
Hannah scarcely answered this one of the many odd
things which she often heard said at the Moat Honae.
However, she did not consider it her province to notice
them. The Rivei'ses were Bernard's "people," as he af-
fectionately called them, and his loving eye saw all their
faults very small, and their vii-tuefl very large. Hannah
tried, for his sake, to do the same. Only, the better she
knew them the more she determined on one thing to
hold firmly to her point, that she, and she alone, should
have the bringing up of little Rosie,
" I dare say you will think me very conceited," she said
one night to Rosie's father the winter evenings were
drawing in again, and they were sitting together talking,
in that peacefnl hour after "the children are asleep"
" but I do believe that I, her mother's sister, can bring ap
Rosie better than any body else. First, because I love
lier best, she being of my own blood ; secondly, becanae
not all women, not even all mothers, have the real moth-
erly heart. Shall I tell you a story I heard to-day, and
Lady Rivera instanced it as ' right discipline ?' But it ia
only a baby story; it may weary you."
"Nothing ever wearies me that concerns Rosie and
" Well, then, there ia an Easterham lady you meet her
often at dinner-parties young and pretty, and capital at
talking of maternal duties. She has a little girl of six, and
the little girl did wrong in some small way, and was told
to say she was sorry. 'I have said it, mamma, seventy
times seven to myself.' (A queer speech; but children
do say such qnper things sometimes; Rosie does already.)
HANNAH. m
* But you must say it to me,' said mamma. * I won't,' said
the child. And then the mother stood, beating and shak-
ing her, at intervals, for nearly an hour. At last the little
thing fell into convulsions of sobbing. * Fetch me the
water-jug, and I'll pour it over her.' (Which she did, wet-
ting her through.) * This is the way I conquer my chil-
dren.' Now," said Hannah Thelluson, with flashing eyes,
" if any strange woman were ever to try to conquer my
chUd "
" Keep yourself quiet, Hannah," said Mr. Rivers, half
smiling, and gently patting her hand. " No ' strange wom-
an ' shall ever interfere between you and Rosie."
"And you will promise never to send her to school at
Paris or anywhere else, as Lady Rivers proposed the oth-
er day, when she is old enough ? Oh, papa" (she some-
times called him " papa," as a compromise between " Ber-
nard," which he wished, and "Mr. Rivers"), "I think I
should go frantic if any body were to take my child away
from me."
"Nobody ever shall," said he, earnestly pressing her
hand, which he had not yet let go. Then, after a pause,
and a troubled stirring of the fire his habit when he was
perplexed ^he added, " Hannah, do you ever look into the
future at all ?"
" Rosie's future ? Yes, often."
" No ; your own."
"I think ^not much," Hannah replied, after slight hesi-
tation, and trying to be as truthful as she could. " When
first I came here I was doubtful how our plan would an-
swer; but it has answered admirably. I desire no change,
I am only too happy in my present life."
" Perfectly happy ? Are you quite sure ?"
" Quite sure."
"Then I suppose I ought to be."
Yet he sighed, and very soon after he rose with some
excuse about a sermon he had to look over ; went into his
study, whence, contrary to his custom, he did not emerge
for the rest of the eveninor.
Hannah sat alone, and rather uncomfortable. Had slie
vciod liim in any way? Wa& he not glad she declared
herself happy, since, of necessity, his kindness helped to
make her so ? For months now there had never come a,
cloud hetweea them. Their first quarrel was also their
last. By this lime tbcy had, of course, grown perfectly
used to one another's ways; their life flowed on in its
even course a pleasant river, busy as it was smooth.
Upon its surface lloatcd peacefully that happy, childish
life, developing into more beauty every day, Rosie was
not exactly a baby now ; and often wh^ she trotted
along the broad garden walk, holdjog tightly papa's hand
on one side and auntie's on the other, there came into Han-
nah's mind that lovely picture of Tennyson's; " Jj^l
"And in tlieir tlonbic love secure ^^M
The littia mniclen wnlked demure, ^^B
Pacing with dowDM-ard eyelids pure."
That was the picture which she saw in a vision, and had
refiirred to why had it vexed the father? Did he think
she "spoiled" Rosie? But love never spoils any child,
and Aunt Hannah could be stem too, if necessary. Sha
made as few laws as possible ; bnt those she did nuke
were Irrevocable, and Eosie tnew this already. She never
cried for a thing twice over aud, oh, bow touching was
her trust, how patient her resigning 1
"I don't know how far you will educate your
niece," wrote Lady Dunsmore, in the early days of
nah'a willing task; "but I am quite certain she will
eate yoti,"
So she did ; and Hannah continually watched in wonder
the little new-born soul, growing as fast as the body, and
spreading out its wings daily in farther and fairer fiiglits,
learning, she knew not how, more things than she bad
taught it, or could teach.
Then Rosie comforted her aunt so with the same sweet,
i^nmb comfort that Hannah used to get from fiowers and
'a and trees, Bnt here was a living flower, which God
4
HANJSTAH. 113
had given her to train up into beauty, blessing her with
twice the blessedness she gave. In all her little household
worries, Rosie's unconscious and perpetual well-spring of
happiness soothed Hannah indescribably, and never more
BO than in some bitter days which followed that day, when
Mr. Rivers seemed to have suddenly returned to his ojj^n
miserable self, and to be dissatisfied with every thing and
every body.
Even herself. She could not guess why ; but sometimes
her brother-in-law actually scolded her, or, what was worse,
he scolded Rosie ; quite needlessly, for the child was an ex-
ceedingly good child. And then Aunt Hannah's indigna-
tion was roused. More than once she thought of giving
him a severe lecture, as she had occasionally done before,
and he declared it did him good. But a certain diffidence
restrained her. What right, indeed, had she to " pitch into
him," as he had laughingly called it, when they were no
hlood relations ? if blood gives the right of fault-finding,
^hich some people suppose. Good fiiends, as she and
Mr. Rivers were, Hannah scrupled to claim more than the
lights of friendship, which scarcely justify a lady in say-
^g to a gentleman in his own house, "You are growing
^ perfect bear, and I would much rather have your room
than
your company
Which was the truth. Just now, if she had not had Ro-
8ie 8 nursery to take refuge in, and Rosie's little bosom to
fly to, burying her head there oftentimes, and drying her
^et eyes upon the baby pinafore. Aunt Hannah would have^
"^ a sore time of it.
And yet she was so sorry for him so sorry I If 'the old
cloud were permanently to return, what should she do?
'^hat possible influence had she over him ? She was nei-
ther his mother nor sister, if, indeed, either of those ties
pcnnanently affect a man who has once been married, and
'"lown the closest sympathy, the strongest influence a man
can know. Many a time, when he was very disagreeable,
her heart sank down like lead ; she would carry Rosie sor-
rowfully out of papa's way, lest she should vex him, or bo
made nanghty by liim; conscious, as she tilasped the child
to her boHom, of that daiigeroua ieeling whicli men some-
mes rouse in women even fathers in mothers that
leir children are much pleasaiitcr company than them-
fives.
\ Poor Bernard 1 poor Hannah ! Perhaps the former ehould
Wve been wiser, the latter more quick-sighted. But men
e not always Solons ; and Hannah was a rather peculiar
Sort of woman. She had ao completely taken her own
tneasure, and settled her voluntary destiny, that it never
occnrred to her she was not quite the old maid she thought
lierself, or that, like other mortal creatures, her lot, aa well
M her individuality, was liable to be modified by circum-
tancGS. When Bernard once told her she was a well-liked
Iferson, growing very popular at Eastcrham, she smiled,
_ nther pleased than not ; but when ho liioted that au el-
derly rector, a rich widower, who bad lately taken to viB-
iting constantly at the House on tho Hill, did not visit
there oa hia account, but hers, Misa Thelluson at firet
wked innocently un comprehending, then annoyed, as if
r brother-in-law bad made an uuseemly jest. He never
e it again. And soon afterward, either from her es-
reme coldness of manner, or some other cause, the rector
Buddenly vanished, and waa no more seen.
Presently, and jugt at the time when she woald hare
been most glad of visitors to cbeer up her brother-in-law,
their house seemed to grow strangely empty. Invitations
ceased, even those at the Moat House being fewer and more
formal. And in one of her rare visits there Lady Rivers
bad much annoyed her by dragging in apropos of Ade-
line's marriage, and the great advantage it was for girla
to get early settled in life a pointed allusion to the aibro-
Baid rector, and his persistent attentions.
" Which, of course, every body noticed, my dear. Ev-
ery body notices every thing in Eaaterham. Aud allow
me to say that if he does mean any thing, you may count
on my best wishes. Indeed, I think, all things considered,
to marry him would bo the very best thing you conld do."
HAJJNAH. 115
" Thank you ; but I have not the slightest intention of
doing it."
" Then do you never mean to maiTy at all ?"
" Probably not," replied Hannah, trying hard to keep
up that air of smiling politeness, which she had hitherto
found as repellent as a crystal wall against impertinent in-
trusiveness. " But, really, these things can not possibly
interest any one but myself. Not even benevolent East-
erham."
"Pardon me. Benevolent Easterham is taking far too
much interest in the matter, and in yourself, too, I am
sorry to say," observed Lady Rivers, mysteriously. " But,
of course, it is no business of mine."
And with a displeased look the old lady disappeared
to other guests, giving Hannah unmistakably " the cold
shoulder " for the remainder of the evening.
This did not afflict her much, for she was used to it.
Of far greater consequence was it when, a little while af-
ter, she saw by Bernard's looks that his spirits had risen,
and he was almost his old self again. It always pleased
him when his sister-in-law was invited to the Moat House,
and made herself agreeable there, as she resolutely did.
The habit of accepting a man's bread and salt, and then
making one's self disagreeable in the eating of it, or abus-
ing it afterward, was a phase of fashionable morality not
yet attained to by Miss Thelluson. She did not care to
visit much ; but when she did go out, she enjoyed herself
as much as possible.
"Yes, it has been a. very pleasant evening; quite lively
^for the Moat House," she would have added, but checked
herself. It was touching to see Bernard's innocent admi-
ration of every thing at the Moat House. The only occa-
sions when it vexed her was when they showed so little
appreciation of him.
" Oh, why can he not always be as good as he is to-
night !" thought Hannah, when, as they walked home to-
gether, which they did sometimes of fine evenings instead
of ordering the carriage, he talked pleasantly and cheer-
Ilia
J&lly the whole way. They passed through the silent,
Fishut-u|) village, and up the equally silent hill-road to the
' Btnooth "down" at its top. There the extreme quietness
and loneliness, and the mysterious beauty of the frosty
Btarliglit, aeenied to soothe him into a more earnest mood,
imparting something of the feeling which bright winter
nighta always gave to Hannah that sense of neamees to
the invisible which levels all human griefs, and comforts
all mortal pain.
"Perhaps, after all," said he, when they had been speak-
ing on this subject, " it does not so very much matter
whether one is happy or miserable during one's short life
here ; or one is inclined to feel bo on sa night like this, aild
talking together as you and I do now. The only thing of
moment seems to be to have patience and do one's dnty."
"I think it does matter," Hannah answered; but gen-
tly, so as not to frighten away the good angel which she
rejoiced to see returning. "People do their duty mnch
better when they are happy. I can not imagine a God
who could accept only the sacrifices of the miserable. We
must all suffer, less or more ; but I never would suffer one
whit more, or longer, tlian I could help."
" Would you not ?"
" No, nor would I make others suffer. What do yon
think the cliild said to me yesterday, wlien I was removing
her playthings at bed-time ? I suppose I looked grave,
for she said, 'Poor Tannic ! Isn't Tannie sorry to take
away Rosie's toys?' Tannie was sorry, and would ghul-
ly have given them all back again if she could. Don't
you think," and Hannah lifted her soft, gray, truthful oyea
I to the winter sky, " that if Tannie feels thus, so surely muat
[ God?"
Mr. Kivers said nothing; but he pressed slightly tbo
mn within his, and they walked on, taking the " sweet
(.ttounsel together" which is the best privilege of real
" tends. It was like old days come back again, and Uait-
|:tiah felt so glad.
"Now you may perceive," Bernard said, after a little,
H ANi' AH. 117
apropos of nothing, " why the charming young ladies who
come about my sisters, and whom they think I don't ad-
mire half enough, do not attract me as I suppose they
ought to do. They might have done so once, before I had
known sorrow; but now they seem to me so 'young,'
shallow, and small One half of me the deepest half
they never touch ; nor do my own people either. For in-
stance, the things we have been talking of to-night I should
never dream of speaking about to any body except you."
" Thank you," replied Hannah, gratified.
Had she thjught herself bound to tell the full truth, she
might have confessed that there was a time when she, on
her part, thought Mr. Rivers, as he thought these girls,
*' young, shallow, and small." She did not now. Either
he had altered very much, or she had much misjudged
him. Probably both was the case. He had grown older,
graver, more earnest. She did not feel the least like his
mother now ; he was often much wiser than she, and she
gladly owned this. It would have relieved her honest
mind to own likewise a few other trifles on which she had
been egregiously mistaken. But in some things, and es-
pecially those which concerned herself and her own feel-
ings, Hannah was still a very shy woman.
" Not that I have a word to say against those charm-
ing girls," continued he, relapsing into his gay mood. No
doubt they are very charming, the Misses Melville and the
rest.
***He that loves a rosy cheek,
And a coral lip admires/
may find enough to admire in them. Only only you
remember the last verse ?" And he repeated it, with a
tender intonation that rather surprised Hannah
*' 'Bat a trae and constant mind,
Gentle thoughts and calm desires,
Hearts in equal love combined,
Kindle never-dying fires.*
That is my theory of loving is it yours ?"
TllR
"I Bliould fancy it is most people's who have ever deep-
I ly thought about the matter."
"Another theory I have, too," ho went on, appareotly
half in earnest, half in jest, " that the passion comes tc
different people, and at different times of their livcB, in
very contrary ways. Some 'fall' in love as I did, at first
Bight, with ray lost darling" he paused a full minnte.
" Others walk into love dcUberately, with their eyea open;
while a few creep into it blindfold, and know not where
they are going till the bandage Ji-ops, and then "
"And which of those do you suppose was the case of
Adeline and Mr. Melville?"
" Good Heavens ! I waa not thinking of Adeline and
Mr. Melville at all."
He spoke with such needless acerbity that Ilannah actu-
ally laughed, and then begged his pardon, which seemed
to offend him only the more. She did not know how to
take him, his moods were bo various and unaccountable.
But whatever they were, or whatever he was, she felt
bound to put up with him ; nay, she was happier with
him in any mood than when far apart froni him, as when
be had held himself aloof from her of late.
"Ton are very cross to me," said she, simply, "but I do
ot mind it. I know you have many things to vex you ;
I only do please try to bo aa good as you can. Aud you
might as well as not be good to me,"
"Be good to youl"
"Tes; for though I may vex you sometimes,
J Beem to have done lately, I do not really mean
f iiarm."
"Harm! Poor Hannah! Why, you wouldn't harm ft
, fly. And yet" be stopped suddenly, took both her
I hands, and looked ber hard in the face " there are titnte
t-Trhcn I feel as if I bated the very sight of you."
Hannah stood aghast. Such unkind, causelessly unkind
I words! Hate ber why? Because she reminded bimof
[|iis wife? And yet, except for a certain occasional "ikmi-
[ ]y" look, no two sisters could be more unlike than she ttud
4
HANNAH. 119
Rosa. Even were it not so, what a silly, nay, cruel reason
for disliking her ! And why had not the dislike shown
itself months ago, when he seemed to prize her all the
more for belonging to the departed one, whom he still
fondly called his " lost darling ?"
Miss Thelluson could not understand it at all. She was
first startled ; then inexpressibly pained. The tears came
and choked her. She would have run away if she could ;
but as she could not, she walked on, saying nothing, for
she literally had not a word to say.
Mr. Rivers .walked after her. " I beg your pardon. I
have spoken wildly, ridiculously. You must forgive.
You see I am not such a calm, even temperament as you.
Oh, Hannah, do forgive me. I did not mean what I said
^I did not, indeed."
** What did you mean, then ?"
A question which some people, well versed in the sci-
ence which Mr. Rivers had just been so eloquently discuss-
ing, may consider foolish in the extreme, showing Hannah
to have been, not merely the least self-conscious, but the
most purblind of her sex. She was neither. But there
are natures so exceedingly single-minded and straight-for-
ward that what seems to them not a right or fitting thing
to be done they no more think of doing themselves, or of
suspecting others of doing, than of performing that cele-
brated feat of "jumping over the moon." Besides, her
idea of herself was, in many ways, as purely imaginary as
her idea of her brother-in-law. The known, notable fact
that " hate " is often only the agonized expression of a
very opposite feeling never once suggested itself to the
innocent mind of Hannah Thelluson.
They had by this time reached their own gate. Her
hand was on the latch, not reluctantly. He took it ofl*.
"Don't go in not just this moment, when you are
displeased with me. The night is so fine, and there is
Bobody about." (What would that matter? Hannah
thought.) " Just walk a few steps further, while I say to
you something which I have had on my mind to say for
Preeks past : a message no, not a message, but a s
saioQ from a friend of mine,"
By hia hesitation, liis extreme awkwatdnesB and anj
forlableness of manner, Ilannah guessed directly what it
was. "Et tu. Brute !" she could have bitterly' saiJ, re-
membering the annoyance to which she had been jnsl aab-
^ected by Lady Rivers, whom she had seen afterward in
pose conclave with Bernard. Had he, then, been eulieted
I the same side of the obnoxious rector? Well, what
matter? She had better Lear all, and have done with it.
But there was delay, and for fully ten minutes ; first by
Bernard's silence, out of which she was determined not to
help him in the least; and secondly, by their encountering
a couple out walking like themselves, the village apoUie-
cary and the village milliner known well to be lovers
who looked equaiiy shy at being met by, and astonished
KSt meeting, their clergyman and his eister-tn-law out on
Hbe Mil at that late hour. Mr. Kivers himself looked
Biuch vexed, and hastily proposed turning homeward, as
Br forgetting altogether what they liad to say, till they
^Mtcse more reached the gate.
K "Just one turn in the garden, Hannah I must deliver
Kiy message, and do my duty, as Lady Rivers says I ought.
Bteg your pardon," ho added formally; "it is trencfaing
Bn delicate ground; but my friend, Mr. Morecamb, has
Hbiked me confidentially to tell him whether you have any
"objection to his visiting our house,"
" Our house ? Certainly not."
" But the house means you visits paid to yon with a
^sertain definite end. In plain terms, he wishes to marry
bou."
H " And has confided that intention to you, and to all
BEasterharal How very kind I But would it not have
been kinder to put the question to me himself, instead of
making it pnblic through a third party?"
"If by the 'third party' yoa mean me, I assure you I
mras no willing party; and also that I have sedulon^y
B^t the secret forced upon mc. Even to-nigbt, wbn
HANNAH. 121
Lady Rivers was questioning me on the subject, I was
careful not to let her suspect, in the smallest degree, that
there was any foundation for the report beyond Easter-
ham gossip at Morecamb's frequent visits. I kept my own
counsel, ay, and submitted to be rated roundly for my in-
difference to your interests, and told that I was hindering
you from making a good marriage. Is it so ?"
" You ought to have known me better than to suppose
I should ever make a ' good ' marriage, which means, in
Lady Rivers's vocabulary, a marriage of convenience.
She is very kind to take my affairs so completely into
her own hands. I am deeply indebted to her and to
you.''
The tone was so bitter and satirical, so unlike herself,
that Bernard turned to look at her in the starlight the
pale, pure fece, neither young nor old, which, he some-
times said, never would be either younger or older, be-
cause no wear and tear of human passion troubled its ce-
lestial peace.
" I have offended you, I see. Can it be possible that "
" Nothing is impossible, apparently. But I should have
supposed that you yourself would have been the first to
put down all remarks of this kind ; aware that it was, at
least, highly improbable I could have any feeling con-
cerning Mr. Morecamb unless it was resentment at his
having made me a public talk in this way."
"He could not help it, I suppose."
"He ought to have helped it. Any man who really
loves a woman will hide her under a bushel, so to speak
shelter her fr^m the faintest breath of gossip, take any
trouble, any blame even, upon himself, rather than let her
l)e talked about. At least that is how I should feel if I
were a man and loved a woman. But I don'tunderstand
you men less and less the more I know of you. You
Kern to see things in a different light, and live after a dif-
ferent pattern from what we women do."
"That is only too true the more the pity," said Mr.
Riven, sigbing. " But as to gossip : the man might not
F
fee able to prevent it. There might be circa m stances
BVVhat do you think Morocamb ought to have doDc ?"
H Hannah thought a uiomeut. " lie Ehould have held hii
fcongue till he kuew his own mind fully, or guessed mine.
BiL'bcn he should have put the question to me direct, and I
B'would have answered it the same, and also held my tongue.
Half the love-miseries in the world arise, not from the love
itself, but irom people's talking about it. I say to all my
young friends who fall in love, whether happily or unhap-
pily, ' Keep it to yourself; whatever happens, hold your
tongue.' "
" Oracular advice as if from a prophetess superior lo
all these human weaknesses," said Bernard, bitterly. "A
^jity it was not given in time to poor Mr, Morecsmb,
KWliat do you dislike in him his age ?"
B " Ko ; it is generally a good thing for the man to bo
fclder than the woman even much older."
B "His being a widower, thou?"
B "Not at all; hut " and Hannah stopped, as indignant
Bbs if she had really loved Mr. Morecamb. That her brotli-
Bn-law should be pleading the cause of a gentleman wbo
BFanted to marry her, or that any gentleman should bo
Bfrantlng to marry her, seemed equally extraordinary. She
Rsould have laughed at the whole matter had ehe not felt
no strangely, absurdly angry. She stood twirling her
bands in and out of her muff, and patting with fierce little
Beet the frosty ground, and waited for Mr. Rivera to speak
Kext, He did so at length, very formally.
B "I have, then, to convey to my friend a simple neg-
*tive, and say that you desire his visits here to cease ?"
"Not if he is your friend, and you wiab them to tioih
tinue. What right have I to shut the door upon any of
your guests? My position is most awkward, most unoou-
librtahle. Why did not you spare me this? If yon had
tried, I think I think you might."
B It was a woman's involuntary outcry of pain, an appeal
jbF protection until she remembered she was making It
BkD s sham protector; a man who had no legal rights to-
HANNAH. 123
ward her ; who was neither husband, father, nor brother ;
who, though she was living under his roof, could not shel-
ter her in the smallest degree, except as an ordinary friend.
He was that, anyhow, for he burst out in earnest and pas-
sionate rejoinder :
"How could I have spared you only tell me! You
talk of rights what right had I to prevent the man's
seeking you to stand in the way of your marrying, as
they tell me I do ? Oh, Hannah ! if you knew what mis-
apprehension, what blame, I have subjected myself to, in
all these weeks of silence ! And yet now you even you
turn round and accuse me."
" I accuse you !"
" Well, well, perhaps we are taking a too tragical view
of the whole matter. You do not quite hate me ?"
" No ; on the contrary, it was you. who said you hated
me."
And that sudden change from pathos to bathos, from
the sublime to the ridiculous, which, in talk, constantly
takes place between people who are very familiar with
one another, came now to soothe the agitation of both.
" Let us make a paction, for it will never do to have an-
other quarrel, or even a coolness," said Mr. Rivers, with
that bright, pleasant manner of his, which always warmed
Hannah through and through like sunshine; she whose
life before she came to Easterham had been, if placid, a
little sunless, cold, and pale. " I know, whenever you tap
your foot in that way, it is a sign you are waxing wroth.
Presently you will burst out, and tear me limb from limb,
as allegorically speaking ^you delight to do, you being
a ^ big lion,' as Rosie says, and I as innocent as a lamb
the whole time."
Hannah laughed, and " got down from her high horse,"
as he used to call it, immediately. She always did when
he appealed to her in that irresistibly winning, good-hu-
mored way. It is one of the greatest of mysteries the
influence one human being has over another. Oflener than
not because of extreme dissimilarity. Upon Hannah's
124 HANNAH.
grave and silent nature the very youthfulness, bnoyant-
nesB, and frankness of this young man came with a oharm
and freshness which she never found in grave, silent, mid-
dle-aged people. Even his face, which she had once called
too handsome uninterestingly handsome she had come
to look at with a tender pride, as his mother (so she said
to herself at least) might have done.
" Well, papa," she replied, " I don't know whether you
are a lamb or a lion, but you are without doubt the sweet-
est-tempered man I ever knew. It is a blessing to live
with you, as Rosa once said."
" Did she say that ? poor darling ! And and do you
think it ? Oh, Hannah I" and he lifted up in the star-
light a suddenly grave, even solemn face " if you knew
every thing if she were looking at us two here would
she not say ^I am suye she would ^^
But the sentence was never ended ; for just as they stood
at the hall door a scream resounded from within an un-
mistakable woman's scream.
" That is Grace's voice. Oh, my baby ! my baby !" cried
Hannah, and darted away, Mr. Rivers following her.
CHAPTER VH.
No harm had befallen baby. Hannah, flying up stairs
on terror-winged feet that carried her she hardly knew
how, found her treasure all safe, lying fast asleep, as
warm and soft as a little bird in its nest, in the quiet
nursery.
Grace was not there, and yet it was certainly Grace's
voice she had heard. What could have happened? The
uneasy fear that some time or other something uncomfort-
able might turn up concerning Jem Dixon was seldom long
absent from Hannah's mind, though it was not strong
enough to take away the comfort she had in her intelli-
gent and faithful nurse.
HANNAH. 125
Of course the whole household, as well as every house-
hold at Easterham, knew Grace's story. In such a small .
conununity concealment was impossible, even had Miss
Thelluson wished it, which she did not. She had a great
horror of secrets, and, besides, she felt that in this painful
matter perfect openness was the safest course. Therefore,
both to her servants and her neighbors, she had never hesi-
tated to mention the thing, telling the plain story, accept-
ing it as an inevitable misfortune, and then protecting
Grace to the utmost by her influence the influence which
any lady can use, both with equals and inferiors, when she
is, like Hannah, quite firm in her own mind, and equally
fearless in expressing it. Whatever people said behind
her back, before Hannah's face nobody breathed a word
against the poor nurse, who cowered gratefully under the
shelter of her mistress's kindness, and kept out of other
people's way as much as possible.
In her class broken hearts are rare; working-women "
have not time to die of grief. But though Grace said lit-
tle or nothing, often when she sat sewing, with Rosie play-
ing at her feet, Hannah watched with pity the poor sad
&ce, and thought of the blighted life which nothing could
ever restore. For, as has been said, Grace, brought up as
little maid to the Misses Melville, had caught from them
a higher tone of feeling and a purer morality, in great
things and small, than, alas ! is usually found among serv-
ants ; and she suffered accordingly. Her shame, if shame
it could be called, seemed to gnaw into her very heart.
So did her separation from the children. How far she
grieved for their father could not be guessed ; she never
named him, and, Hannah was certain, saw and heard noth-
ing of him. But that scream, and a slight confusion which
was audible down stairs, convinced her that something
probably the vague something she always feared had
happened : James Dixon had reappeared.
She went down stairs and found it so. In the servants'
hall, the centre of an excited group some frightened at
him, some making game of him stood a little, ugly-look-
126 HANNAH.
ing man, half drunk, but not too drunk to be incapable of
taking care of himself, or knowing quite well what he was
about. He held Grace tight round the waist with one
hand, and brandished a kitchen carving-knife with the
other, daring every body to come near him, which nobody
did, until Mr. Rivers walked quietly up and took the knife
out of his hand.
" James Dixon, what business have you in my house at
this time of night ?"
" I want my missis. I'm come to fetch my missis," stam-
mered the man, drunkenly, still keeping hold of Grace, in
spite of her violent struggles to get free.
^^ She isn't his missis," cried some one from behind.
" Please, Sir, he married my cousin, Ann Bridges, only two
months ago. He's always a-marrying somebody."
"But I don't like Ann Bridges, now I've got her. She's
forever rating at me and beating the children ; and Pm a
fond father, as doesn't like to see his little 'uns ill used,"
added Jem, growing maudlin. " So I'd rather get rid of
Ann, and take Grace back again."
When he spoke of the children Grace had given a great
sob ; but now, when he turned to her his red, drunken face,
and wanted to kiss her, she shrank from him in disgust,
and, making one struggle, wrenched herself free and dart-
ed over to Mr. Rivers.
" Oh, please save me ! I don't want to go back to him,
I can't, Sir, you know." And then she appealed despair-
ingly to her mistress. "Did you hear what he said?
That woman beats the children ; I knew she would ; and
yet I can't go back. Miss Thelluson, you don't think I
ought to go back ?"
" Certainly not," said Hannah ; and then her brother-in-
law first noticed her presence.
" Pray go away," he whispered ; " this is not a place for
you. See, the man is drunk."
" I do not mind," she answered. " Just look at poor
Grace. We must save her from him."
For Jem had again caught the young woman in his
HANNAH. 127
arms, where she lay half fainting, not resisting at all, evi-
dently frightened to death.
"This can not be endured," said Mr. Rivers, angrily.
** Dixon, be off v^ith you ! Webb, Jacob, take him be-
tween you and see him clear out of the gate."
Butler and footman advanced, but their task was not
easy. Dixon was a wiry little fellow, sharp as a ferret,
even in his clips. He wriggled out of the men's grasp im-
mediately, and tried again to snatch at the kitchen knife.
" Hands off, mates ; I'll go fast enough. It isn't much
a fellow gets in this house. Grace wouldn't even give me
a drop o' beer. I'll be off, Mr. Rivers ; but I'll not stir a
step without my wife that's the young woman there. I
married her in church, same as I did t'other woman, and I
like her the best o' the two; so do the little ones. I
promised them I'd fetch her back. You'll come, Grace,
won't you? and I'll be so kind to you."
" Oh, Jem, Jem !" sobbed poor Grace, melted by the
coaxing tone ; but still she tried to get away, and cried
imploringly to her master to release her from Dixon's
hold. Mr. Rivers grew angry.
" Let the woman go, I say. You have not the smallest
claim upon her, no more than she upon you. If she
chooses to stay here she shall. Begone, before I set the
police on you !"
" Do it if you dare. Sir," said Dixon, setting his back
against the door. "I'll not stir a step without Grace;
she's a pretty girl, and a nice girl, and I married her in
church, too, I found a parson to do it, though you
wouldn't."
" Your marriage is worth nothing ; I told you so at the
time. It was against the law, and the law does not recog-
nize it. She is not your wife, and so, very rightly, she re-
fuses to go back to you ; and I, as magistrate, wiU protect
her in this refusal. Let her go." And Mr. Rivers, follow-
ing words by action, again shook off the fellow's grasp,
and let the young woman free. " Now, Grace, get away
up stairs, and let us put an end to this nonsense."
128 HANNAH.
For, in spite of their respect for their master, the other
servants seemed rather amused than not at this spectacle
of a gentleman arguing with a drunken man for the pos-
session of his wife ; or, perhaps, some of them, having as
confused notions of the marriage laws as James Dixon, had
thought Jem was rather hardly used, and ought to get
Grace if he wanted. John, the butler, an old servant, even
ventured to hint this, and that it was a pity to meddle be-
tween man and wife.
" Did I not say plainly that she is not his wife ?" cried
Mr. Rivers, in much displeasure. "A man can not marry
his wife's sister. I am master here, and out of my house
she shall not stir against her will Grace, go up stairs im-
mediately with Miss Thelluson.'*
Then Dixon's lingering civility and respect for the
clergy quite left him. He squared up at Mr. Rivers in
drunken rage.
" You're a nice parson, you are ! Mind your own busi-
ness, and I'll mind mine. Your own hands bean't so very
clean, I reckon. Some folk 'ud say mine were the cleanest
o' the two."
" What do you mean, you scoundrel ? Speak out, or Pll
take you by the neck and shake you like a rat !"
For Mr. Rivers was a young man, and his passions were
up; and Dixon looked so very like a rat, with his glit-
tering, hungry eyes, and a creeping way he had till he
showed his teeth and sprung upon you. Hannah won-
dered how. on earth poor, pretty Grace could ever have
been persuaded to marry him. But no doubt it was like
^60 many marriages, the mere result of circumstances, and
for the sake of the children. " If ever I could marry that
man, it would be for the sake of his children," said once a
very good woman ; and though men are probably too vain
to believe it, many another good woman may have felt the
same.
"What do I mean, Sir?" said Dixon, with a laugh ; " oh,
you knows well enough what I mean, and so do your serv-
ants there, and so does all Easterham. There bean't much
HAKNAH. 129
to choose betwixt you and me, Mr. Rivers, if all tales be
true."
"What tales?" said Bernard, slowly, turning white,
though he still held his ground, and deliberately faced the
man. For all his servants were facing him, and on more
than one countenance was a horrid kind of smile, the smile
with which, in these modem days, when the old feudal
reverence seems so mournfully wearing off, the kitchen
often views the iniquities of the parlor. " What tales ?"
** Of course it isn't true. Sir or else it doesn't matter
gentlefolks may do any thing they likes. But people do
say, Mr. Rivers, that you and I row in the same boat ;
only I was honest enough to marry my wife's sister, and
you wasn't. That's all I"
It was enough. Brief as the accusation was put, there
was no mistaking it, or Dixon's meaning in it Either Mr.
Rivers had not believed the man's insolence would go so
far, or was unaware of the extent to which the scandal
had grown ; but he stood, for the moment, perfectly para-
lyzed. He neither looked to one side nor the other to
Hannah, who had scarcely taken it in, or to the servants,
who had taken it in only too plainly. Twice he opened
his lips to speak, and twice his voice failed. At last he
said, in a voice so hollow and so unlike his own that ev-
ery body started :
"It is a lie ! I declare, before God and all now present,
that what this man says against me is a foul, damnable
lie I"
He uttered the ugly words as strongly and solemnly as
he was accustomed to read such out of the Bible in his
pulpit at church. They sent a thrill through every listen-
er, and sobered even the drunken man. But Jem soon
saw his advantage, and took it.
"Lie or not. Sir, it looks just the same, and folks believe
it all the same. When a poor man takes a young woman
into his house, and either marries her or wants to, what an
awful row you kick up about it ! But when a gentleman
does it oh dear I it's quite another thing I"
F2
130 HANNAH.
Mr. Rivers almost ground his teeth together; but still
no words came except the repetition of those four, " It is
a lie !"
" Well, if it is. Sir, it looks uncommon queer, anyhow.
For a young lady and a young gentleman to live togeth-
er, and be a-going out and a-coming home together ; and
when we meets 'em, as I did a bit ago, not exactly a-going
straight home, but a-walking and a-whispering together
in the dark 'twas them, sure, for the lady had got a red
hood on, and she's got it on still."
Hannah put up her hand to her head. Until this mo-
ment, confused and bewildered, and full of pity for unfor-
tunate Grace, she had scarcely understood the scandal
with regard to herself. Now she did. Plain as light
or, rather, black as darkness she saw all that she was ac-
cused of, all that she had innocently laid herself open to,
and from which she must at once defend herself. How?
It was horrible! To stand there and hear her good
name taken away before her own servants, and with her
brother-in-law close by ! She cast a wild appealing look
to him, as if he could protect her ; but he took no notice
scarcely seemed to see her. Grace only poor, miser-
able Grace stole up to her and caught her hand.
" It is a lie, miss and Jem knows it is I You musn't
mind what he says."
And then another of the women-servants an under
house-maid to whom she had been specially kind ran
across to her, beginning to cry. Oh, the humiliation of
those tears !
Somebody must speak. This dreadful scene must be
ended.
" Sister Hannah," said Mr. Rivers, at length recovering
himself, and speaking in his natural manner, but with
grave and pointed respect, " will you oblige me by taking
Grace up stairs? Webb and Jacob, remove this fellow
from my house immediately ; or else, as I said, we must
fetch the police."
Mr. Rivers had great influence when he chose to exer-
HANNAH. 131
cise it, especially with his inferiors. His extraordinarily
sweet temper, his tender consideration for other people's
feelings, his habit of putting himself in their place the
lowest and most degraded of them, and judging them
mercifully, as the purest-hearted always do judge these
things stood him in good stead, both in his household and
his parish. Besides, when a mild man once gets thorough-
ly angry, people know he means it, and are frightened ac-
cordingly.
Either Dbcon felt some slight remorse, or dreaded the
police, for he suffered himself to be conveyed quietly
oatside, and the gate locked upon him, without making
more ado than a few harmless pullings of the garden bell.
These at last subsided, and the household became quiet.
Quiet, after such a scene ! As if it were possible ! Re-
tiring was a mere form. The servants sat up till mid-
night, gossiping gloriously over the kitchen fire. Hannah
heard them where she, too, sat, wide awake, in the dread-
ful silence and solitude of her own room.
She had gone up stairs with Grace, as bidden ; and they
had separated, without exchanging a word, at the nursery
door. For the first time in her life Hannah went to bed
w^ithout taking one watchful, comforting look, one kiss of
her sleeping darling. She went to bed in a mechanical,
stunned way ; for though it was still quite early, she never
thought of rejoining her brother-in-law. She heard him
moving up and down the house for an hour or more, even
after that cruel clamor of tongues in the kitchen was si-
lent ; but to meet him again that night never struck her
as a possibility. What help, what comfort, could he be to
her? ^he who was joined with her in this infamous slan-
der ? Henceforth, instead of coming to him for protection,
she must avoid him as she would the plague.
" Oh, what have I done, and how have I erred, that all
this misery should fall upon me ?" moaned poor Hannah,
as bit by bit she realized her position the misinterpreta-
tions that might be put upon her daily conduct, even as
upon to-night's walk across the hilL Perhaps what Dixon
w
Boid was true that all Eaaterham was watching her and
speaking evil of her? Was this the nicaniog of Lady
Rivera's dark hints of the eager desire to get her mar-
ried to Mr. Morecamb of the falling off of late in Bociai
civilities a certain polite coldness in liouaes where her
visits used to be welcomed a gradual cessation of lady
viaitorB at the Honse oa the Hill? As al! these facts came
back upon her mind, fitting into one another, as tinpleaB-
aot facts do, when one once fancies one has got the key to
them, Hannah groaned aloud, feeling as if she could lay
her down and die. It had all come so suddenly. She had
gone on her way in snch happy unBuspiciousness. Yes !
now she recognized, with mingled wonder and was it ter-
ror also? how very happy slie had been. There seemed
nothing left for her but to lay her down and die.
Every body knows the story of the servant lamenting
his master's dying innocent, to whom the master sai^
"Would youhave me die guilty?" NeverthelcBS, it is hard
to die, even when innocent. No bitterer hour ever came to
Hannah, or waa likely to come, than that first hour after a
bad man's wicked words had forced from Mr. Kivers the
declaration which in itself, and in hia ever feeling it in-
cumbent upon himself to make it, was disgrace enough
" It is a lie I"
Of course it was ; and any friend who really knew them
both would be sure of that. But what of the world at
large the careless world, that judges from hearsay the
evil world, which is always so quick to discover, so ready
to gloat over any thing wrong ? And there mast bo some-
thing wrong, some false position, some oversight in con-
duct, some unfortunate concatenation of circumstances, to
make such a lie possible.
" Be thou chaste as ice, pare as snow, thou shalt not es-
cape calumny." Most true ; but the calumny is rarely al-
together baBclesB some careless, passing hand may bav
smutched the snow, or the ice have let itself be carried too
near the fire. Hannah remembered now, wondering
could have forgotten it bo long, Lady Dansmore'a wi
HANNAH. 133
ing: "He is not your brother; it is only a social fiction
that makes him so." And if Bernard Rivers and she were
not brother and sister, if there was no tie of blood between
them, nothing that, if he had not been Rosa's husband
first, would have prevented their marrying why, then,
she ought not to have gone and lived with him. The
chain of argument seemed so plain, that in thinking it out
Hannah suddenly begun to tremble nay, she actually
shuddered ; but, strange contradiction ! it was not alto-
gether a shudder of pain.
Fictions, social and otherwise, may have their day, when
both the simple and the cunning accept them. But it is
not a day which lasts forever. By-and-by they tumble
down like all other shams; and the poor heart who had
dwelt in them is cast out, bare and shelterless, to face the
bitter truth as best it may.
Hannah's was the most innocent heart possible strange-
ly so for a woman who had lived, not ignorantly, in the
-world for thirty years. Whatever mistake she had fallen
into under whatever delusion she had wrapped herself
it was all done as unknowingly, as foolishly, as if she
had been a seven-years-old child. But that did not hin-
der her from suffering like a woman a woman who, after
a long dream of peace, wakes up to find she has been sleep-
ing on the edge of a precipice.
That pleasant fiction which had been torn down by the
rough hands of James Dixon, opened her eyes to its corre-
sponding truth, that nature herself sets bounds to the as-
sociation of men and women certainly of young men and
young women and that, save under very exceptional cir-
cumstances, all pseudo-relationships are a mistake. Two
people, who are neither akin by blood nor bound in wed-
lock, can seldom, almost never, live together in close and
affectionate friendship without this friendship growing to
be something less or something more. The thing is ab-
normal, and against nature ; and Nature avenges herself
by asserting her rights and exacting her punishments.
The law says to people in such positions to brothers
134 HANNAH.
and sisters in law especially " you shall not marry.'' But
it can not say, "You shall not love." It can not prevent
the gradual growth of that fond, intimate affection which
is the surest basis of married happiness. Suppose ^Han-
nah put the question to herself with frightened conscience
suppose, instead of that tender friendship which un-
doubtedly existed between them, she and Bernard had
really fallen in love with one another ?
That he was very fond of her, in a sort of way, she never
doubted. That she was fond of him yes, that also was
true. She could not help it. He was so good; he made
her so happy. Many a man is deeply attached to a woman
wife or sister whom he yet entirely fails in making hap-
py. He thinks too much of himself, too little of her. But
Bernard was a different kind of man. That sweet sun-
shininess of nature, that generous self-forgetfulness, that
constant protecting tenderness more demonstrative in
deeds than words qualities so rare in men, and so precious
when found, were his to perfection. He was not brilliantly
clever ; and he had many little faults ; rashnesses, bursts
of wrath, sudden, childish, fantastic humors, followed by
pathetic contrition; but he was intensely lovable. Han-
nah had told him truly when she said oh, how hot she
grew when she recalled it! "that it was a blessing to
live with him," for every body whom he lived with he
contrived to make happy.
" Oh, we have been so happy together," Rosa had sighed,
almost with her last breath. And Rosa's sister, in the bit-
ter pang which seemed like death for it must surely re-
sult in a parting as complete could have said the same.
Yes, of course she must go away. There seemed to her
at first no other alternatiye. She must quit the House on
the Hill the very next day. This not alone for her own
sake. It was, as Bernard had once said, truly a house on
a hill, exposed to every comment, a beacon and example
to every eye. Xo cloud of suspicion must be suffered to
rest upon it not for a day, an hour. She would run
away at once.
HANNAH. 135
And yet, was that the act of innocence did it look like
innocence? Was it not much more like the impulse of
cowardly guilt ? And if she did run, could she take Rosie
with her?
Then poor Hannah at once fell prone, crushed by a
weight of misery greater than she could bear. To go
away and leave her child behind ! All Easterham might
be howling at her, but she could never do that. Life with-
out Rosie the old, blank, sunless, childless life she could
not endure it. It would kill her at once. Better a thou-
sand times stay on here, strong in her innocence, and let
Easterham do and say its worst. For she had done no
wrong, and, come what would, she had been happy. This
sense of happiness, never stronger than a few hours ago,
when she and Bernard were, taking together that innocent-
guilty walk, and finding out more than ever the deep, true
harmony of soul, which, in spite of their great differences
of character, existed between them, seemed to wrap her
up, close and warm, her only shelter against the bitter
outside blast.
What would her brother-in-law say? She could not
act for herself alone; the position was as cruel for him
as for her. She must think of him too, and wait for his
opinion, whatever it might be. And then she became
conscious how completely she had learned to look to Ber-
nard's opinion, to lean upon his judgment, to consult
his tastes, to make him, in short, for these many months,
what no man who is neither her relative nor her lover
ought to be to any woman the one primary object of
her life.
Utterly bewildered, half frightened, and unable to come
to the slightest conclusion, Hannah, after lying awake half
the night, fell heavily asleep, nor wakened till the sound
of little feet in her room, and the shrill, joyous cry as
sweet as the song of the lark springing up into the morn-
ing air over a clover-field " Tannic, Tannic ! Wake up,
Tannic !" dispersed in a moment all the cloudy despairs of
the night.
I"
^^^^ TennyBOQ knew human nature well when he made tte
^^^P^eoted lover say,
^^^r^ "Mj laWst rival brings thee rest:
^^^ Baby Bogere, wasen tonchea, press me from the molher'a breast."
That is, they prees out every image uuholy, or painful, or
j despairing. Such can not long exist in any heart that is
filled with a child. Hannah had sometimes I'ead in novels
of women who were mothers falling in love, and with otter
men than their own husbands; kissing their babies in
their innocent cradles, and then flying from lawful liomea
to homes unlawful All these stories seemed to her then
very dreadftil, very tragical, but not quite impQseibl&
Now, since she had had Rosie, they almost did seem im-
possible. How a woman once blessed with a chUd could
ever think of any man alive she could not comprehend.
Hannah had not held her little niece beside her for five
minutes feasting her eyes on the loving, merry face, and
playing all the funny little games which Rosie and Tannie
were so grand at when together before all the agony of
last night became as unreal as last night's dreams. This
was the real thing the young life intrusted to her care
the young soul growing up under the shelter of her lova
She rose and dressed for breakfast, feeling that with the
child in her arms she eoald face the whole world.
Ay, her brother-in-law included ; though this was a hard
thing. She would not liave been a woman not to have
found it hard. And if he decided that she must Stay
that, strong in their innocence, they must treat Diion^
malicious insolence as mere insolence, no more, and make
no change whatever in their way of life still, how doubly
difficult that life would be ! To meet day after day at
table and fireside; to endure, not in cheerful ignorance^
but painful consciousness, the stare of all suspicious eye^
especially of their own household, who had heard t' ~
wickedly accused, and seen they must have
deep the wound had gone. It would be dreadful
unbearable.
And then with regard to thuL" two selves !
HA]NNAH. 137
Bernard was ^Hannah knew it, felt it one of the purest-
hearted of men. Living in the house with him was like
living with a woman ; nay, not all women had his delicacy
of feeling. Frank and familiar as his manner was or had
been till lately he never was free with her ^never ca-
ressed her; nothing but the ordinary shake of the hand
had ever passed between them, even though he was her
brother-in-law. Hannah liked this reserve; she was not
used to kissing; as people in large families are, as the
Moat House girls were ; it had rather surprised her to see
the way they all hung about young Mr. Melville. But,
even though in their daily conduct to one another, private
and public, she and Bernard could never be impeached,
Btill the horrible possibility of being watched ^watched
and suspected and that both knew it was so, was enough
to make the relations between them so painful, that she
hardly knew how she should bear it.
Even this morning her foot lingered on the stair, and
that bright breakfast-room, with its pleasant morning
greeting, seemed a sort of purgatory that she would have
escaped if she could.
She did escape it, for it was empty of every body but
Webb, the butler, whom she saw hovering about, near, sus-
piciously near, to an open note, or rather a scrap of paper,
left on the table, open was it intentionally open? for
any body's perusal.
"Master has just gone off to the railway in the dog-cart.
Miss Thelluson. He left me this bit of paper, with an
apology to you, saying he was in a great hurry, and hadn't
time to write more, or he would miss the London train."
"He has gone to London?" said Hannah, with a great
sense of relief, and yet of pain.
" Yes, miss, I think so ; but the note says "
Then Webb had gratified his curiosity by reading the
paper.
Any body might have read it, certainly. It might have
been printed in the Times newspaper, or declaimed by the
Hasterham town-crier for the benefit of the small public at
138 HANNAH.
the market-place. And yet Hannah's eyes read it eager-
ly, and her heart beat as she did so in a way that no sight
of Bernard's familiar handwriting had ever made it beat
before.
" Dear Sister Hannah, ^I am away to town to visit a
sick friend, and am obliged to start very early. I hope to
be back by Sunday, but do not expect me till you see me.
Give papa's love to his little Rosie, and believe me,
" Your affectionate brother,
"Beenabd Riyebs.
" Perhaps you will kindly call at the Moat House to-day,
and tell them I am gone."
CHAPTER Vm.
Hannah's first feeling on discovering her brother-in-
law's absence was intense relief. Then, as she sat over the
solitary breakfast -table, there came unto her an uneasi-
ness akin to fear. He had done exactly w^hat she had
not done ; what, in spite of her first instinctive wish, she
had decided was unwise and cowardly to do he had run
away.
From what ? From the scandal ? But since it was all
false, and they innocent, what did it matter ? Could they
not live it down? Dreadful as things had appeared in
the long watches of the night, in that clear light of morn-
ing, and with the touch of her darling's arms still lingering
about her neck, Hannah felt that she could live it down.
Perhaps he could not ; perhaps he was afraid and a cold
shiver crept over her a conviction that he was afraid.
In the sick friend she did not quite believe. She knew
all Bernard's affairs knew that though he had an old col-
lege companion ill in London, it was no friend close enough
to take him suddenly and compulsorily from all his duties
^he who so hated going from home. Yes, he must have
HANNAH. 139
gone on her account, and in consequence of what happened
last night. Her first impulse of relief and gratitude sank
into another sort of feeling. He had certainly run away,
leaving her to fight the battle alone. That is, if he meant
them to fight it out. If not, if he wished her to leave him
in his absence, he would perhaps take the opportunity of
telling her so.
For not yet not even yet did that other solution of
the difficulty suggest itself to Hannah's mind. Had she
looked at the sweet, grave face reflected in the mirror op-
posite, had she heard the patient, tender voice which an-
swered Rosie's infantile exactions for she had gone and
fetched the child, as usual, after breakfast the truth
would at once have occurred to her concerning any other
woman. But it did not concerning herself; or only in
that form a rather sad but perfectly safe one not that
her brother-in-law was growing fond of her, but that she
was growing fond of him ; fond enough to make his mar-
riage, or any other catastrophe which should part them,
not so indifferent to her as it once had been.
But still this was only affection. Hannah had never
had a brother, her nearest approach to the tie having been
her cousin Arthur, who, from his extreme gentleness and
delicacy of health, was less like a brother than a sister
ay, even after he changed into a lover. Now, when not
one spark of passion, only sacred tenderness, was mixed up
with the thought of him, his memory was less that of a
man than an angel. In truth, only since she had lived
with Mr. Rivers had Hannah found out what it was to as-
sociate with a real man, at once strong and tender, who
put a woman in her right place by conscientiously taking
his own with regard to her, and being to her at once a
shelter and a shield.
Poor Hannah ! she had grown so accustomed now to be
taken care of, that she felt if fate thrust her out into the
bitter world again she should be as helpless as one of those
little fledgelings about whom, in the intervals of her med-
itations, she was telling Rosie a pathetic story. And when
140 HANNAH.
Kosie said, " Poor little dicky-birds 1" and looked quite
sad, then, seeing Aunt Hannah look sad too alas ! not
about " dicky-birds " burst into the sympathetic sobbing
of her innocent age, Aunt Hannah's heart felt like to
break.
It would have broken many a time that day but for the
blessed necessity of keeping a bright face before the child
ay, even though sometimes there occurred to her, with a
refined self-torture, the thought of what she should do if
Mr. Rivers sent her away without Rosie. But she did not
seriously fear this he could not be capable of such cru-
elty. If he were, why. Aunt Hannah was quite capable
of something else which he might not exactly like, and
which perhaps the unpleasant English law might call
child-stealing. And she remembered a story, a true sto-
ry, of an aunt who had once traveled from England to
America, and there fairly kidnapped from some wicked re-
lations her dead sister's child; pretended to take it out
for a walk, and fled over snow and through forests, trav-
eling by night and hiding by day, till she caught the New
York steamer, and sailed, safe and triumphant, for English
shores.
"As I would sail, for Australia or America, any day, if
he drives me to it. Oh, Rosie, you little know what a des-
perate woman Tannic could be made !"
And Rosie laughed in her face, and stroked it, and said,
" Good Tannic, pretty Tannic !" till the demon sank down,
and the pure angel that always seems to look out of baby-
eyes comforted Hannah in spite of herself. No one can
be altogether wretched, for long together, who has the
charge of a healthy, happy, loving little child.
Sunday came, but Mr. Rivers did not return, sending as
substitute in his pulpit an old college chum, who reported
that he had left London for Cambridge, and was staying
there in his old college ; at which Lady Rivers expressed
herself much pleased.
" He shuts himself up far too much at home, which would
be natural enough if he had a wife, but for a man in Ber-
HANNAH. 141
nard's circumstances is perfectly ridicnlons. I hope he
will now see his mistake and correct it."
Hannah answered nothing. She knew she was being
talked at, as was the habit of the Moat House. Her only
protection was not to seem to hear. She had, as he de-
sired, taken Bernard's message to his family, even showing
the letter, and another letter she got from him respecting
Mr. Hewlett, the clergyman, also evidently meant to be
shown. Indeed, he wrote almost daily to her about some
parish business or other, for Hannah had become to him
like her lost sister ^his "curate in petticoats." But ev-
ery letter was the briefest, most matter-of-fact possible,
beginning " My dear sister," and ending " your affection-
ate brother." Did he do this intentionally, or make the
epistles public intentionally ? She rather thought so. A
wise, kind precaution ; and yet there is something painful
and aggravating in any friendship which requires precau-
tiona
Day after day Hannah delivered her brother-in-law's
messages, and transacted his business, speaking and look-
ing as calmly as if she were his mere locum tenenSy his
faithful " curate " as if her throat were not choking and
her hands trembling, with that horrible lie of Dixon's ever
present to her mind. She tried to find out whether it had
ever reached others' minds whether there was any differ-
ence in the way people glanced at or addressed her ; but
beyond a certain carelessness with which she was usually
treated at the Moat House when Mr. Rivers was not pres-
ent, and a slight coldness in other houses which might or
might not have been her own morbid fancy she discov-
ered nothing.
The clergyman sent by Bernard, being of no imposing
personality or high worldly standing, but only just a poor
" coach " at Cambridge, was not invited to stay at the
Moat House ; so Miss Thelluson had to entertain him her-
self till Monday. It was an easy task enough ; he was
very meek, very quiet, and very full of admiration of Mr.
Rivers, concerning whose college life he told Hannah sto-
ries without end. She listened with an interest strangely
warm and tender ; for the tales were all lo hie credit, and
proved iiim to have been then, as now, a man who, even
as a young man, was neither afraid of being good nor
aehanaed of being amiable. They made her almost for-
give herself for another fact which had alarmed and
startled her that she missed him so much.
People of Hannah's charactpr, accustomed of sad neces-
sity to stand alone until self-dependent solitude becomes
second nature, do not often "misa" other people. They
like their friends well enough, are glad to meet and sorry
to part ; but still no ordinary parting brings with it that
intense sense of loss of which Hannah was painfully con-
scious now her brother-in-law was away. She had thought
the child was company enough ; and so Roaie was in day-
light honrs the little imperious darling, who ruled Aunt
Hannah with a rod of iron, escept when Aunt Hannah
saw it was for the child's good to govern her, when she
turned the tables with a firm gentleness that Rosie never
disobeyed but after Rosie had gone to bed the blank si-
lence whicli seemed to foil njwn the Louse was indescrib-
able.
Oh, the lonely tea-table ! for she had abolished seven
o'clock dinners; oh, the empty drawing-room, with its
ghostly shadows and strange noises I The happy home
Iclt as dreary as Bernard must have found it after poor
Rosa died. In the long hours of evening solitude Han-
nah's thoughts, beaten back by the never-ceasing businesB
of the day, returned in battalions, attacking her on every
weak side, often from totally opposite sides, so that she re-
tired, worsted, to her inner self the little secret chomlaers
which her eoul had dwelt in ever since she was a child.
Yet even there was no peace now. Bernard had let him-
self into her heart with that wonderful key of sympathy
which he so well knew bow to use, and even in her deep-
est and most sacred self she was entirely her own no more.
Continually she wanted him to talk to, to argue with, to
igh with, nay, even to laugh at sometimeB. She missed.
HANNAH. 143
him everywhere, in every thing, with the bitter want of
those who, having lived together for many months, come
inevitably, as was before said, either to dislike one another
excessively, or that other alternative, which is sometimes
the most fatal of the two to love one another. Such love
has a depth and passion to which common feelings can no
more be compared than the rolling of a noisy brook to the
solemn flow of a silent river which bears life or death in
its waveless but inexorable tide.
Ay, it was life or death. Call affection by what name
you will, when it becomes all-absorbing it can, in the case
of persons not akin by blood, lead but to one result, the
love whose right end is marriage. When Hannah, as her
brother-in-law's continued absence gave her more time for
solitary reflection than she had had for many months, came
face to face with the plain fact, how close they had grown,
and how necessary they were to one another, she began,
startled, to ask herself if this so-called sisterly feeling
were really sisterly ? What if it were not ? What if she
had deceived herself, and that sweet, sad, morning dream,
which she had thought protected her from all other dreams
of love and marriage, had been, after all, only a dream, and
this the reality? Or would it have grown into such had
she and Bernard met as perfect strangers, free to fall in
love and marry as strangers do ?
"Suppose we had suppose such a thing had been
possible?" thought she. And then came a second
thought. Why was it impossible? Who made it so
God or man ?
Hannah had hitherto never fairly considered the mat-
ter ^not even when Grace's misery had brought it home.
With her natural dislike to what she called "walking
through muddy water," she had avoided it, as one does
avoid any needlessly unpleasant thing. Now, when she
felt herself turning hot and cold at every new idea which
entered her mind, and beginning to think of her brother-
in-law not at all as she was wont to think the question
came, startlingly, was she right or wrong in so doing ?
Wot she was one of thoae woineii after the typo of Jeanie
'b. *' Auld Robin Gray," to whom the mere fact,
"I dauma tbink of Jsmje, for that wail be a sin,"
rBB the beginuing and end of every thing.
But was it a sin? Could she find any thing in the Bible
to prove it such ? She took down a " Concordance," and
searched out all the texts which bore upon the subject,
but found none, except that prohibition adduced once by
Mi-H. Dixon " Thou ehalt not take a wife to her sister in
her Ufe-iime" of which tho straightforward, natural in-
terpretation was that, couaequently, it might be done af-
ter her death.
Right or wrong. That, as Sir. Rivera had more than
once half satirically told her, was, in all things, the solo
question in Hannah's mind. As for the social and legal
point lawful marriage that, she knew, was impossible;
Bernard had said so himsel But was tho love which
desired marriage absolute hve, as distinguished from
mere aflectJon also a sin? If it should spring up in
her heart of his she never thought should she have to
flmother it down as a wicked thing ?
That was her teri'or, and that alone. The rest, and
whatever it must result in, was mere misery ; and Han-
nah was not afraid of misery, only of sin. Yet, when day
after day Bernard's absence lengthened, and except these
constant business letters she had no personal tidings
whatever from him, there grew in her mind a kind of fear.
The house felt so empty without him that she sometimes
caught herself wondering how he managed without her
who brought him his hat and gloves, and arranged his
daily memoranda for, like most other excellent men, he
was a little disorderly, and very dependent upon the vrota.-
cn about him. Who would take care of him, and see that
he had the food he liked, and the warm wraps he required?
All these thoughts came continually back upon Ham
JH. a piteously human, tender shape, quite different
kt dim dream-love, that sainted remembrano^
]Uirt!dr I
lanual^a^
HANNAH. 145
lost Arthur, He was not a man like Bernard, helpless
even while helpful, requiring one woman's whole thought
and care he was an angel among the angels.
That power which every good man has to turn all his
female ministrants into slaves, by being himself the very
opposite of a tyrant; who can win from all household
hearts the most loyal devotion, because exacting none
this, the best prerogative and truest test of real manhood,
was Bernard's in a very great degree. It was, as Hannah
had once innocently told him, a blessing to live with him,
he made other people's lives so bright. She had no idea
how dark the house could feel till he was gone till, day
after day slipping by, and he not returning, it settled it-
self for the time into a house without a master, a solar
system without a sun.
When she recognized this, the sense of her fast-coming
fate darkened down upon Hannah. She was not a young
girl, to go on deceiving herself to the end ; nay, hers was
the kind of nature that can not deceive itself if it would.
During the first week of Bernard's absence she would have
almost gone wild sometimes, but for the strong conviction
like poor Grace's, alas! that she had done nothing
wrong, and the feeling, still stronger, that she could al-
ways bear any thing which only harmed herself.
Then she had the child. In all that dreadful time,
which afterward she looked back upon as a sort of night-
mare, she kept Rosie always beside her. Looking in her
darling's face the little fragile flower which had blos-
somed into strength under her care, the piece of white
paper upon which any careless hand might have scribbled
any thing, to remain indelible through life then Aunt
Hannah took heart even in her misery. She could have
done no wrong, since, whatever happened to herself, she
bad saved, by coming to Easterham, the child.
On the second Saturday of Mr. Rivers's absence Hannah
was sitting on the floor with Rosie, in the drawing-room,
between the lights. It had been a long, wet, winter day,
and had begun with a perplexing visit from the church-
G
^^46
warden, wanting to know if tbe vicar bad come home,
and, if not, what muBt be done for Sunday. Hannah had
had no letter, and could not tell; could only BUggest that
a neighboiing clergyman might probably have to be sent
for, and arrange who it should be. And the vexed look
of the old cburch-warden, a respectable farmer; a certain
wonder he showed at bis principal's long absence "bo
very unlike our parson " together with a slight incivility
to herself, which Hannah, so fearfully observant now, fan-
cied she detected in his manner, made her restless and un-
happy for hours after. Not till she had Rosie beside her,
and drank of the divine lethe-cup which infant hands al-
ways bring, did the painful impression subside. Now, in
the peace of firelight within, and a last amber gleam of
rainy sunset without, she and Ilosie had the world all to
themselves ; tiny fingers curled tightly round hers, with
the sweet, imperative "Tannie, turn here!" and a, little
blue and white fairy held out its mushroom-like Iroc]^
with "Roeie dance, Tannie sing!" And Tannic did Bvag,
with a clearness and cbeerfalness long foreign to her
voice ; yet she had had a sweet voice when she was a girl.
When this, her daily business of delight, came, tbe tempt-
ing spirits, half angel, half demon, which had began to
play at hide-and-seek through the empty chambers of
poor Hannah's heart, fled away, exorcised by that magic
spell which Heaven gives to every house that owns a
^(diitd.
She was sitting there, going throngh " Mary, Mary, quite
Fontrary," " Banbury Cross," the history of the young gen-
tleman who " put in his thumbs and pulled out the plums,"
with other noble nursery traditions all sung to tunes com-
posed on the spot, in that sweet, clear soprano which al-
ways made Rosie put up her small fingers with a mysteri-
ous " Hark ! Tannte's singing !" when a ring came to the
door-bell.
Hannah's heart almost stopped heating. Shonld tbe
fij? Then there was a familiar voice in the hall, and Ro-
tie shrieked out in an ecstasy, " Papa come I papa come !"
HANNAH. 147
Should she hide ? Or should she stay, with the child be-
side her, a barrier against evil eyes and tongues without
and miserable thoughts within? Yes, that was the best
thing, and Hannah did it.
Mr. Rivers came in ; and, shaking hands with his sister-
in-law, took his little girl in his arms. Rosie clung to
him in an ecstasy of delight. She, too, had not forgotten
papa.
" I thought she would forget," he said. " Baby memo-
ries are short enough."
" But Rosie is not a baby ; and papa has only been away
eleven days."
Eleven days! then he would know she had counted
them. As soon as the words were uttered Hannah could
have bitten her tongue out with shame.
But no ; he did not seem to notice them, or any thing
but his little girl. He set Rosie on his lap, and began
playing with her, but fitfully and absently. He looked
cold, pale, ilL At last he said, in a pathetic kind of way :
" Hannah, I wish you would give me a glass of wine. I
am so tired."
And the eyes which were lifted up to hers for a minute
f^hsid in them a world of weariness and sadness. They
drove out of Hannah's mind all thoughts of how and why
she and he had parted, and what might happen now they
met, and threw her back into the old domestic relationship
between them. She took out her keys, got him food and
drink, and watched him take both and revive after them
with almost her old pleasure. Nay, she scarcely missed
the old affectionate "Thank you, Hannah, you are so
good," which never came.
Presently, when Rosie, growing too restless for him, was
dismissed with the customary " Do take her. Aunt Hannah,
nobody can manage her but you," Hannah carried the lit-
tle one to bed, and so disappeared, not a word or look hav-
ing been exchanged between them except about the child.
Still, as she left him sitting in his arm-chair by his own
fireside, which he said he found so " cozy," she, like little
148 HANNAH.
Rosie, was conscious of but one feeling gladness that
papa was come home.
At dinner, too, how the whole table looked bright, now
that the master's place was no longer vacant ! Hannah
resumed hers ; and, in spite of the servant's haunting eyes
and greedy ears, on the watch for every look and word
that passed between these two innocent sinners, there was
a certain peace and content in going back to the old ways
once more.
When they were left alone together, over dessert, Mr.
Rivers looked round the cheerful room, saying, half to
himself, " How comfortable it is to be at home !" and then
smiled across the table to her, as if saying mutely what he
had said in words a hundred times, that it was she who
made his home so comfortable. And Hannah smiled in
return, forgetting every thing except the pleasantness of
having him back again the pure delight and rest in one
another's society which is at the root of all true friend-
ship, all deep love. They did not talk much ; indeed, talk-
ing seemed dangerous ; but they sat a long time in their
opposite seats, as they had sat day after day for so many
months, trying to think, feel, and speak the same as here-
tofore.
But it was in vain. In this, as in all false positions, the
light once admitted could never again be hidden from ; the
door once open could never be shut.
Mr. Rivers proposed going to the drawing-room at once.
" I want to talk to you ; and here the servants might be
coming in."
Hannah blushed violently, and then hated herself for do-
ing so. Why should she be afraid of the servants coming
in ? Why tremble because he " wanted to talk to her ?"
Such a common occurrence a bit of their every-day life,
which went on, and must go on, externally, just the same
as before.
So she rose, and they went into the drawing-room.
It was the prettiest room in the house ; full of every
thing that a man of taste and refinement could desire, in
HANNAH. 149
order to make and it does help to make a happy home.
Yet the master of it looked round with infinite sadness in
his eyes, as if it gave him no pleasure, as if he hardly
saw it.
"Hannah," he said at last, when they had gone through
the form of tea, and she had taken her work another
empty form, for her hands shook so she could hardly thread
her needles " Hannah, I had better not put off my busi-
ness with you my message to you, rather. You must un-
derstand I fulfill it simply as a matter of duty. I hope
you will not be offended ?"
"I offended?"
"You ought not to be, I think, in any case. No lady
should take offense because an honest man presumes to
love her. But I may as well speak out plainly. My fiiend
Morecamb ^"
" Oh, is it that matter again ? I thought I was to hear
no more of it."
" You never would have done so from me, but circum-
stances have altered a little, and I have been overborne by
the opinion of others."
" What others ?"
"Lady Rivers" (Hannah started angrily), "To her,
wisely oi* foolishly, Morecamb has appealed ; and, by her
advice, has again written to me. They both put it to me
that it is my duty, as your brother-in-law, once more to
lay the matter before you, and beg you to reconsider your
decision. His letter ^which I do not offer to show you,
for he might not like it, and, besides, there are things said
in it to myself which none but a very old friend would
venture to say his letter is thoroughly straightforward,
manly, and generous. It makes me think, for the first
time, that he is almost worthy of you. In it he says
may I repeat to you what he says ?"
Hannah bent her head.
" That his conviction of your worth and his attachment
to yourself are such, that if you will only allow him to
love you he shall be satisfied, and trust to time for the rest.
150 HANNAH.
He entreats yon to many him at once, and let him take
you from Easterham, and place you in the position which,
as his wife, you would, of course, have, and which he
knows we all know you would so worthily filL*'
Bernard had said all this like a person speaking by rote,
repeating carefully and literally all that he had before
planned to say, and afraid of committing himself by the
alteration of a word. Now he paused, and waited for an
answer.
It came not.
" He desires me to tell you that, besides the Rectory,
he has a good private income ; that his two daughters are
both married ; and that, in case of his death, you will be
well provided for. It is a pleasant parish and a charming
house. You would have a peaceful home, away, and yet
not very far away, from Easterham. You might see Rosie
every week "
Here Hannah turned slowly round, and for the first time
Bernard saw her face.
" Good Heavens !" he cried. " What have I done ? I
meant no harm Morecamb meant no harm."
" No," she answered, in a hard, dry tone. " He meant
I quite understand it, you see, and, since I understand it,
why should I not speak of it ? he meant to stop the mouths
of Easterham by marrying me, and taking me away from
your house. He is exceedingly kind and you also."
" I ? oh, Hannah 1 I ?"
" Why distress yourself? Do I not say you are exceed-
ingly kind ?"
But she seemed hardly to know what she was saying.
Her horrible, humiliating position between her brother-in-
law and her brother-in-law's friend, the one having unwill-
ingly affixed the stain upon her name, which the other was
generously trying to remove, burst upon her with an agony
untold.
" Why did I ever come here? Why were you so cruel
as to ask me to come here ? I came in all innocence. I
knew nothing. You, a man, ought to have known."
HANNAH. 151
He turned deadly pale.
" You mean to say I ought to have known that, although
the law considers you my sister, you are not my sister, and
our living together as we do would expose us to remarks
such as James Dixon made the other night. Most true ;
I ought to have known. Was that all ? or did you mean
any thing more than that ?"
" Nothing more. Is not that enough ? Oh, it is dread-
ful dreadful for an innocent woman to have to bear !"
And her self-control quite gone, Hannah rocked herself
to and fro ; in such a passion of grief as she had never let
any one witness in her since she was a child. For, indeed,
woman as she was, she felt weak as a child.
But the man was weaker still. Once twice he made a
movement as if he would daiii across the hearth to where
she sat, but restrained himself, and remained motionless
in his seat attempting no consolation. What consolation
could he give ? It was he himself who had brought this
slander upon her ^how cruel and how wide-spread it was
he by this time knew, even better than she.
" Hannah," he said, after a little, " we are neither of us
young people, to take fright at shadows. Let us speak
openly together, as if we were two strangers, viewing the
case of two other strangers, placed in the same relation
together as ourselves."
" Speak I How can I speak ? I am utterly helpless, and
you know it. Lady Rivers knows it too ; and so, doubt-
less, does Mr. Morecamb. Perhaps, after all, I should be
wisest to accept his generous offer and marry him."
Bernard started, and then composed himself into the
same formal manner with which he had conducted the
whole conversation,
*' Yes, in a worldly point of view, it would bo wise ; I,
speaking as your brother-in-law, am bound to tell you so.
I wish to do my duty by you ; I have no right to allow my
own or my child's interest to stand in the way of your
happiness," He paused. " I wish you to be happy God
knows I do I" He paused again. " Then what answer
I^tI
am I to give to Moi-ecamb?
hero aud epeat for himself?"
"No I" Hannah buvBt out vehemently. "No^a thon-
sand times no 1 My heart is my own, and he haa not got
it. If I Tverc a beggar starving in the streets, or a poor
wretch ivliora every body pointed the finger at as per-
haps they do I would not marry Mr. Morecamh,"
A strange light oame into Bernard's eyea.
" That's Ilaonah ! There speats my good, true Uannab !
I thought she had gone away, and some other woman come
in her place. Forgive me ! I did my duty ; but oh, it was
hard I I am so glad, so glad !"
He spoke with hia old, affectionate, boyish impulsiveness;
he was still exceedingly boyish in some things, and perhaps
Hannah liked him the better for it who knows V Even
now a faint smile passed over her lips.
" You ought to have known mo better. You ought to
have been sure that I would not marry any man without
loving him. And I told you long ago that I did not lovo
Mr, Morecamb."
"You did; but people sometimes change their minds.
And lovo cornea, we know not how. It begins just a
little seed, as it were and grows, and grows, till all of a
Budden we find it a full-grown plant, and we can not root
it up, however we try."
He spoke dreamily, aud as if he had forgotten all about
Mr. Morecamb, then sat down and began gazing into the
fire with that dull, apathetic look so familiar to Hannah
during the early time of her residence there, when she
know him little, and cared for him less ; when, if auy one
had told her there would come to her such a day as this
day, when every word of the sentence ho had just uttered
would fall on her heart like a drop of burning lead, shd
woald have pronounced it impossible ridiculously impos-
sible. Yet she was true then true now to herself and
to all others; perfectly candid and sincere. But would,
world ever believe it? Does the world, so readj|
id out double or interested motives, ever believe ia
HANNAH. 15
o
scientious turncoats, righteous renegades ? Yet there are
such things.
After a while Mr. Rivers suddenly aroused himself.
"I am thinking of other matters, and forgetting my
friend. I had better put the good man out of his pain by
telling him the truth at once, had I not, Hannah ?"
Certainly."
" Your decision is quite irrevocable ?"
Quite."
" Then we need say no more. I will write the letter at
once."
But that seemed not so easily done as said. After half
an hour or more he came back with it unfinished in his hand.
" I hardly know how to say what you wish me to say.
A mere blank No, without any reasons given. Are there
none which could make the blow fall lighter ? Remember,
the man loves you, Hannah, and love is a precious thing."
"I know it is, when one has love to give back; but I
have none. Not an atom." '
" Why not ? I beg your pardon I ought not to ask
I have not the slightest right to ask. Still, as I have
sometimes thought, a woman seldom lives thirty years
without without some sort of attachment ?"
Hannah became much agitated. Rosa, then, had kept
sisterly faith, even toward her own husband. Mr. Rivers
evidently knew nothing about Arthur ; had been all along
quite unaware of that sad but sacred story, which Hannah
thought sheltered her just as much as widow's weeds might
have done.
She hesitated, and then, in her misery, she clung to the
past as a kind of refuge from the present.
" I thought you knew it," she answered, very slowly ;
and quickly, " I thought Rosa had told you. If it will
lessen his pain, you may tell Mr. Morecamb that once I
was engaged to be married to a cousin of mine. He was
ill : they sent him away to Madeira, and there he died."
"He I did not quite hear." For, indeed, Hannah's
words were all but inaudible.
G2
154 HANNAH.
" He died !"
She had said it out now, and Bernard knew the whola
Those two silent ghosts, of his dead wife and her own
dead lover, seemed to come and stand near them in the
quiet room. Was it with looks of sorrow or anger? ^if
the dead can feel either. Arthur Rosa in their lives
both so loving, unselfish, and dear. Was it of them that
the living needed to be afraid ?
Mr. Rivers seemed not afraid, only exceedingly and pain-
fully surprised.
" I had no idea of such a thing, or I would never have
urged Mr. Morecamb's plea. And yet, tell me, Hannah, is
this lost love the only cause of your refusing him? Was
this what you referred to when you once said to me, or
implied, that you would never marry any body? Is all
your heart, your warm, true, womanly heart, buried in
your cousin's grave ?"
There may be circumstances in which people are justi-
fied in telling a noble lie ; but Hannah was not the woman
to do it. Not though it would at once have placed her
beyond the reach of misconstruction, saved her from all
others, and from herself encompassed her henceforward
with a permanent shield. Though one little " Yes " would
have accomplished all this, she could not say it, for she felt
it would have been a lie a lie to Heaven and to her own
soul. She looked down on the floor, and answered, delib-
erately, " No !"
But the effort took all her strength, and when it was
over she rose up totteringly, and tried to feel her way to
the door. Mr. Rivers opened it, not making the least ef-
fort to detain her.
" Good-night !" she said, as she passed him. He, with-
out even an offered hand, said " Good-night " too ; and so
they parted.
HANNAH. 155
CHAPTER IX.
Hannah's waking up in the morning after her brother-
in-law's return was one of the most painful sensations she
had ever known, the more so as it was so unusual. To
her healthy temperament the morning hour was generally
the best of the day. Not Rosie herself, who always woke
up as lively as a young linnet in a thorn-bush, enjoyed it
more than Aunt Hannah did. But now things seemed
changed. She had gone to bed at once, and fallen asleep
immediately ; for there are times when the brain, worn out
by long tension, collapses the instant we lie down Nature
forcing upon it the temporary stupefaction which is its
only preservative.
"Now even she could not shake off weariness, nor rise as
usual to look at one of those glorious winter sunrises
which only active people see. She dreaded the dawn;
she shrank from the sun, for he brought her her daily du-
ties; and how she should ever fulfill them as heretofore
she could not tell.
First, how should she again meet Mr. Rivers ? What
position should she hold toward him? Had her sister
lived, he would have been to her nothing at all : regarded
with the sacred indifference with which every pure-minded
woman regards every other woman's husband. Now,
what was he? Not her brother except by a legal fic-
tion, which he had himself recognized as a fiction. Not
her lover ; and yet when she recalled his looks and tones,
and a certain indescribable agitation which had been upon
him all the evening, some feminine instinct told her that,
under other circumstances, he might have become her
lover. Her husband he could never be ; and yet she had
to go on living with him in an anomalous relationship
which was a compound of all these three ties, with the dif-
ficultics of all and tiie comfort of nono. Her fiieinJ l^
waa J that Ijond seemed clear and plain ; l)ut then is it
customary for a lady to go and keep the house of a male
" friend," be he ever bo tried and trusted ? Society, to say
nothing of her own feelings, would neyer allow it; and for
once society is in the I'igbt.
Hannah felt it so felt that, stripping off the imaginaiy
broth er-and- sister bond, Bernard and 8he^were esactly in
the position of a lady and gentleman living together in
those Platonic relations which are possible certainly, but
which the wicked world never believes to be possible, and
which Nature herself rejects as being out of the ordinary
couree of things, and therefore very unadvisablc. A life
diiEcult enough to carry on even if the parties were calmly
indifferent to one another ; but what if they were not indif-
ferent? Though be bad never "made love" to her in the
smallest degree, never caressed her even in the hannleBS
salutations which hrotbers and sisters in law so commonly
indulge in, still Hannah must have been dull indeed not
to bavo long since found out that in some way or other
Bernard was very fond of her ; and a young man is not
usually " very foud " of a woman not his own born si&teF
without sooner or later wishing to monopolize her to
have her all to himself; in plain terms, to marry her. And
though women have much less of ibia exclusive feeling
though many a woman will go on innocently adoring a man
for years without the slightest wish of personal appropria-
tion still, when somebody else appropriates him marries
liim, in short and the relations are changed, and she
drops into a common friend, or leas than a friend, tten
even the noblest and most unselfish woman living will feel
for a time a slight pang, a blank in ber life, a soreness at
ber heart. It is Nature's revenge upon all shams, how-
ever innocent those shams may be.
And poor Hannah was reaping Nature's revenge now.
Whether he did or did not love her in a brotherly way,
she was cruelly conscious that to go on living with her
brother-in-law as heretofore would be a very severe tri&L
HANNAH. 157
Should she fly from it? The way was open. She could
write to Lady Dunsmore, who she knew was again in
search of a governess, and would gladly welcome her back.
Two days, or one day even, and she might resume her old
life, her old duties, and forget this year and a half at East-
erham as if it had never been.
For a moment the temptation was strong. She felt
hunted down, like the Israelites, with the Egyptians be-
hind and the Red Sea before the dreadful, surging sea of
the future, over which there seemed no pathway, no possi-
ble way of crossing it, to any safe shore. If she could but
escape, with her reputation clear j out of her brother-in-law's
honise ! that House on the Hill which had been so pleas-
ant, which she had tried to make a sort of home-beacon to
all the parish; and now all the parish leveled at it their
cruel stares, their malignant comments, for it was exposed
to all. For Bernard's sake, as well as her own, she ought
to save him from this, free him from her blighting pres-
ence, and go.
As she lay thinking, turning over in her mind how best
to accomplish this when she should write and what she
should say to Lady Dunsmore there came the usual little
knock at her door, the usual sound of tiny bare feet trot-
ting over the carpet, and the burst of joyous child-laugh-
ter at her bedside. And when she hardly noticed it, for
it pierced her like a sword, there came a loud wail. " Tan-
nic, take her I Take Rosie in Tannie's arms." Poor Tan-
nic sprang up, and felt that all her well-woven plans were
torn down like spider webs. To go away and leave her
cbil^ I The thing was impossible.
Our lives, like the year, go through a succession of sea-
sons, which may come early or late, but come in regular
order. We do not find fruit in March or primroses in Au-
gust. Thus, though Hannah's heart now, strangely stirred
as it was, had a primrose breath of spring quivering through
it, it was not exactly the heart of a girl. She was a wom-
an of thirty, and though she loved alas, she knew it now
only too well ! she did not love romantically, absorbingly.
w
A!
I rors,
Besides, coexistent with this love bad come to her thflfi
other BeBtiment, usually of much later growth the mater-
nal instinct which iu her was a passion too. Bernard's
one rival, and no small one, was his own little child.
As Haonah pressed Rosie to her bosom all her vagne ter-
rors, her equally dreadful delights, faded away into qoiet*
ilities, and by the time she had had the child with her
hour she felt quite herself again, and was able to
y Rosie down to the Sunday breakfast-table, where
email woman had lately beguu to appear, conducting
herself like a little princess.
Oh, what a blesabg she was ! the pretty little raaid !
How her fuuny ways, bei- wonderful attempts at English,
and her irresistible bursts of laughter smoothed over diffi-
culties untold, and helped them through that painful hoar
those two, who stood to the little one like father and
mother, and yet to one another were nothing, and never
could be. Tbis was the strange anomaly of their relation-
ship, that while Rosie was her own flesh and blood, closer
her than any child not her very own could possibly be,
ith Rosie's father there was no tie of blood at all.
I Sunday morning routine went on prayers,
ikfitst, after breakfast play with Rosie yet neither
innah nor Bernard ventured once to look at each other,
they should betray the piteous secret which whether
did the deadly paleness of Bernard's features
"and his nervous, excited manner only too much revealed.
"I scarcely slept an hour," he said. "I had to sit np
and write my sermon. And I found so much to do among
my papers, I must never leave home again."
She was silent.
Then he asked her if she were going to church au idle
question for one who never missed church in any weather.
Perhaps he did not want her to go ? And she would have
been angry but for the strange compassion she always had
for him the feeling that if any trouble came to him she
lould always like to bear it herself. And now he had
ire to bear than she. Ue must go up into his pulpit
HANNAH. 159
I ^tifl preach, conscious that all eyes were watching him, all
^Ongues gossiping concerning him. For in Easterham
Nothing was hid ; rich and poor alike chattered of their
Neighbors' affairs ; and James Dixon's visit to the House
^ on the Hill, in all its particulars, was likely to be as fully
inown as Mr. Morecamb's interview with Lady Rivers,
and its purport as regarded Hannah herself.
The Moat House, too, must be faced, for at breakfast-
time a note had come asking them to dine there, though
it was Sunday, as young Mrs. Melville had come over for
the day, and particularly wished to see Miss Thelluson.
"You will go?" Bernard had said, passing the note
over to her. Her first instinct had been a decided " no ;"
till, looking down on the bright little face beside her. Aunt
Hannah felt that, at whatever cost, she must boldly show
her own at church, at the Moat House, anywhere and
everywhere. There were just two courses open to her
to succumb to the lie, or to meet it and trample it down.
So, again taking Hosie in her arms, she looked up fearless-
ly at Rosie's father.
"Yes, since Lady Rivers asks me, I will certainly go."
It was Hannah's custom to get ready for church quite
early, that she might walk with Bernard thither: he dis-
liked walking alone. Never was there a man who clung
more affectionately to companionship, or to whom it was
more necessary. But this Sunday he never summoned her,
so she did not come. Indeed, she had determined not.
She watched him start off alone, and then followed, going
a longer way round, so that she only reached her pew
when he reached his reading-desk. Then the sad tone of
his voice as he read, evidently with an effort, the sentence,
" If we say that we have no sin, we deceive ourselves,"
eta, went to her heart.
Were they sinners ? Was it a crime for her to look now
at her dead sister's husband, her living Rosie's father, and
think that his was one of the sweetest, noblest faces she
had ever seen ? that had she met him by chance, and he
had cared for her, she could have tended him like a moth-
er, served Lita liko a slave ; nay, liave forgotten for liia sake
that sacred dream of bo maoy years, the lost love of her
girlhood, and become an ordinary human wife and mother
; Kosie's mother ? And it would all have seemed so right
ilind natural, and they three would have been so happy.
Could it bo a sin now? Could any possible interpreta-
tion, secular or religious, construe it into a sin ?
Poor Hannah ! Even in God's house these thonghla
pursued her; for, as before said, her only law of conduct
was how things were, not in the sight of man, but of God.
That love, which was either a righteous affection or a dead-
ly sin, could she once assure herself that He did not forbid
it, little she eared whetljer man forbade it or not ; nor, if it
were holy, whether it were a happy love or not.
Thus, during her solitary walk home, and a long, soli-
tary afternoon that she spent with llosie earning that
wonderful rest of mind and fatigue of body which the
companionship of a child always bidngs her thoughts
grew clearer. Rosa's veiy spirit, which now and then
looked strangely out of her daughter's eyes, seemed to
say to her that the dead view all things with larger vis-
ion than ours; that in their passing away they have left
all small jealousies behind them, and remember only the
good of their beloved not themselves at alL
"Oh, Rosa, Rosa!" Hannah thought to herself, "surely
you are not angry with me, not even now? I "am not
stepping into your place and stealing away your joya ! I
have only tried to fulfill your duties toward this little one
and toward him. You know how helpless he is alone!
And his pretty lamb I have to take care of them both,
Rosie, my darling, who could ever !ove you like Tannie ?
Yet tliey say it is all unnatural and wrong: that any
strange woman would bo a better mother to you than 1 1
9nt that is false, altogether false. When your own moth-
er comes to look at you, as slie may do every night I
:would, if I were a happy ghost and God would let me
iie, look at her and tell her so !"
These wild and wandering thoughts, the last of vU
HANNAH. 161
had been said out loud, must have brought a correspond-
ing expression to Hannah's face, for the child caught it,
and fixing on her aunt that deep, wise, almost supernatu-
ral gaze she sometimes had, answered, deliberately, " Yes."
For " No " given with a sweet decisiveness, as if she al-
ready knew her own mind, the baby ! and a gentle, satis-
fied " Yes," were among the earliest accomplishments of
that two-year-old darling.
But when Rosie was put to bed, and left wide awake
in her little crib, fearless of darkness or any thing under
Tannie's " lots of tisses " left to curl round and fall asleep
in the blessed peace of infancy, innocent of all earthly
cares then this world's bitterness darkened down again
upon poor Aunt Hannah. She went to dress for the Moat
House dinner, and prepare to join the family circle, where
she, always an uncomfortable excrescence, was now re-
garded How and in what light did they regard her?
Hannah could not tell ; she was going there in order to
find out.
Of one thing she was sure ; the invitation was not given
out of pure kindness. Kindness was not the habit of the
Rivers family; they generally had a purpose in all they
did. More than once lately Lady Rivers had told her, in
as plain terms as so polite a person could, that she Han-
nah stood in the way of her brother-in-law's marriage ;
that his family wished him married, and she ought to aid
them in every possible way toward that desirable end.
Could there be a plan formed for lecturing her on this
point?
But no. Bernard would never have allowed it. And
if he had, Hannah would not have turned back ; she had
always faced her fate, this solitary woman ; and as she
now walked alone in the early winter darkness through
Easterham village, she braced up her courage and faced it
Btill.
Externally there seemed nothing to face ; only a bright,
pleasant drawing-room, and a circle of charming, well-
dressed women, whose conversation suddenly paused at
ITT..,
her entrance, as if they had been talking her over, (emi-
nine faahion, which no doubt they had. Hannah was sure
of it. She knew the way they used to talk over other peo-
ple the Melville family above all, till Adeliue belonged
to it with that sweet acerbity and smooth malicioQEnees
which only women understand, A man's weapons smita
keen, but they generally smite straight forward. Women
only give the underhand thrusts, of which Hannah that
night had not a few.
What a long, dark walk, Miss Thclluson ; only you
iver mind dark walks. Were yon really quite alone?
id what has become of Bernard ? for you generally
til his proceedings. We thought him lookiDg so
BO much the better for going from home. Bnt
,t can lie have done with himself since churcb-time?
you quite sure that "
'^The question was stopped by Bernard's entrance ten
utea after the dinner-hour, of which Sir Austin bitterly
iplaiued to his son ; and then offered his arm to Han-
ih, who stood, silent and painfully conscious, under.
ittery of four pairs of feminine family eyes.
"I have been home to fetch Misa Thelluson," said,
ltd, "Hannah, you should not have walked here all ^^
And he would have taken a seat beside her, but Lkd^
signed for Bertha to occupy it. Fenced in by a
ir on each side, he had not a chance of a word witb
fiannah ait dinner-time.
It was the same thing afterward. Miss Thelluson would
have been amused, if she had jiot been a little vexed and
annoyed, to see herself thus protected, like an heiress in
her teens, from every approach of the obnoxious party.
Mother and daughters mounted guard successively, keep-
ing her always engaged in conversation, and subjecting
Bernard to a sort of affectionate imprisonment, whence,
once or twice, he vaujly tried to escape. She saw it, for
somehow, without intending it, she always saw him every'!
where, and was conscious that he saw her, and K
every word she was saying. Yet she made no efli:
Han-
HANNAH. 163
get near him, not even when she noticed him surreptitious-
ly take out his watch and look at it wearily, as if entreat-
ing, "Do let us go home." Every simple word and act
of a month ago had a meaning, a dreadful meaning, now.
Hannah was not exactly a proud woman, but she had a
quiet dignity of her own, and it was sorely tried this night.
Twenty times she would have started up from the smooth,
polite circle, feeling that she could support it no longer,
save for Bernard's sad, appealing face and his never-end-
ing endurance. But then they loved him in their own
way, and they were his "people," and he bore from them
what he would never have borne from strangers. So
must she.
So she took refuge beside Adeline's sofa. Young Mrs.
Melville had never been well since her marriage; they
said the low situation of Melville Grange did not agree
with her. And ill health being quite at a discount among
the Rivers girls, who were as strong as elephants, Adeline
lay rather neglected, watching her husband laughing and
talking with her sisters flirting with them, people might
have said, almost as much as before he was manied; only,
being a brother now, of course it did not matter. Never-
theless, there was at times a slight contraction of the
young wife's brow, as if she did not altogether like it.
But she laughed it off at once.
"Herbert is so merry, and so fond of coming here.
Our girls amuse him much more than his own sisters, he
says. Just listen how they are all laughing together
now."
It is good to laugh," said Hannah, quietly.
Oh yes ; I am glad they enjoy themselves," returned
Adeline, and changed the conversation : but through it all
the pale, vexed face, the anxious eyes, heavy with an un-
spoken anger, an annoyance that could not be complained
of, struck Hannah with pity. Here, she thought, was a
false position too.
At nine the butler came in, announcing, formally,
" Miss Thelluson's servant."
hi
It is Grace. I told her to call for me on her way from
lapeL I wished to go home early."
''And without Bernard? I understand. Very right;
very nice," whispered Lady Rivers, in a tone of such pat-
ronizing approval that Hannah repented herself of having
thus planned, and was half inclined to call Mr. Rivers out
" the dining-room and tell him she was going. But she
id not. She only rose and bade tbeni all good-night,
"ot one rough word had broken the smooth surface of po-
ite conversation ; yet she was fully aware that though,
with that convenient plastering over of sore or ugly placed
peculiar to the Rivers family, they said nothing, they aH
knew well, and knew that she knew they knew, why she
was going, and the instant her back was turned would
talk her over to their hearts' content. Yet she walked
out of the room slowly, calmly, with that dignified, lady-
like presence she had almost better than beauty. Tea,
even though she saw Lady Rivers rise to accompany her
up stairs apiece of condescension so great that thei-e was
rai"ely some purpose in it. Lady Rivers seldom took trou-
withont a purpose.
Yet for a moment she hesitated, sat pulling her rings
" and on, and eying with her critical, woraan-of-the-world
this other woman, who fiilfilled the apostolic law of
ing in the world, not of it. The long strain of the even-
ig had worn Hannah out, and she was in doubt whether
lemard would like her stealing off thus whether, since
Lady Rivers thought it "wise," it really was not most no-
wise, thus to condense the cloudy scandal into shape by
paying it the respect of acceptance. As sho tied her ^~^
net her hands trembled a httle.
"Are you ready ? Then, Miss Thelluson, may I
one word before you go? As a married lady ai
of a family, speaking to a young no, not cxi
young, but an nnmanied person, may I ask is it true
fchat I hear, that you have had a definite oSer of marriagQ
"r. Morecamb?"
Hannah started indignantly, and then composed b
HANNAH. 165
" I do not quite see that the xnatter concerns any one'
but myself and Mr. Morecamb. But since you have heard
this, I conclude he has told you. Yes, it is true."
"And what answer did you give? You may as well
tell me, for he will ; he is coming here to-morrow."
Hannah waited a moment. " I have given the only an-
swer I could give ^No."
Lady Rivers sprang from her chair. " Good Heavens 1
Are you mad? My dear Miss Thelluson, I beg your
pardon ; but really to refuse such an offer ! If Mr.
}Iorecamb had come and asked me for one of my own
daughters, I would at least have considered the mat- *
ter. To one in your position, and under present circum-
stances "
"Excuse me. Lady Rivers; but I am myself the best
judge of my own position and circumstances."
" So gentlemanly of him, too so honorable when he
knew, as every body knows, the way you are being talked
about !"
"He did know, then " and Hannah checked herself.
" Will you oblige me by ^telling me what he knew ? How
am I being talked about?" And she turned her face,
white as that of a traveler who walks up to face a supposed
ghost by a church-yard wall ; shuddering, but still facing
it. It may be only a dead tree after all.
"I am very sorry," said Lady Rivers; and no doubt
she was, for she disliked saying unpleasant things, except
in a covert way. " It is a most awkward matter to speak
about, and I have kept it from the girls as long as possi-
ble ; but people say in Easterham that it was not for noth-
ing you took part with that unfortunate Grace ^Dixon I
can't call her, as she has no right to the name. In fact, I
have heard it suggested plainly enough that the reason of
Semard's not marrying is because, were it not for the law,
he would like to marry you."
Hannah stood silent. All the blood in her heart seemed
to stand still too.
"We do not believe it, of course. Neither does Mr.
166 HANNAH.
Morecainb. Still it is generally believed at Easterham
and worse things, too."
" What worse things ? Tell me. I insist upon hearing."
Hannah spoke, as she had listened, with a desperate
calmness ; for she felt that at all costs she must get to the
bottom of the scandal must know exactly how much she
had to fight against, and whom.
" Miss Thelluson, you are the very oddest person I ever
knew. Well, they say that ^that Excuse me, but I
really don't know how to tell you."
" Then I will tell you ; for I heard James Dixon say it,
and before my own servants as, of course, you know;
every body knows every thing in Easterham. They say,
these wicked neighbors, that I, a woman not young, not
pretty, not attractive in any way, with her dead sister^s
memory yet fresh in her heart, and her dead sister*B child
in her arms, am living in unlawful relations with that sis-
ter's husband. Lady Rivers, I do not wonder that you
shrink from repeating such an atrocious lie."
The other was a little confounded. She had been so
very patronizing, so condescendingly kind in her manner,
to this poor Miss Thelluson, who now stood and looked at
her face to face, as much a lady as herself, and ten times
more of a woman. Nay, the fire in the gray eyes, the dig-
nity of the figure, made Hannah for the moment even a
handsome woman, handsome enough to be admired by
many a man.
" Pray don't talk of lies, Miss Thelluson. We object to
such an ugly word out of the school-room where, how-
ever, your experience must chiefly have lain. This is what
made me resolve to speak to you. You can not be ex-
pected to know the world, nor how important it is for
Bernard, as a gentleman and a clergyman, that this gossip
should be stopped at once. Of course I only refer to the
nonsense about his wishing to marry you. For the rest,
his own character the character of the family is enough
denial. Still, the thing is unpleasant, very unpleasant, and
I don't wonder that Bernard feels it acutely."
HANNAH. 167
Hannah started. "Does he? Did he tell you so?"
" 'Not exactly ; he is a very reserved person, as we all
know ; but he looks thoroughly wretched. We, his family,
see that, though you, a stranger, may not. The fact is, he
has placed himself, quite against our advice, in a most dif-
ficult and painful position, and does not know how to get
out of it. You ought to help him, as, most providentially,
you have now the means of doing."
Hannah looked up. She was being pricked to death
with needles ; but still she looked firmly in the face of her
adversary, and asked, " How ?"
" Do you not see, my dear Miss Thelluson, that every bit
of gossip and scandal would necessarily die out if you
married Mr. Morecamb ?"
ELannah was but human. For a moment the thought of
escape of flying out of this maze of misery into a quiet
home, where a good man's love would at least be hers
presented itself to her mind, tempting her, as many anoth-
er woman has been tempted, into marriage without love.
But immediately her honest soul recoiled.
" Lady Rivers, I would do a great deal for my brother-
in-law, who has been very kind to me ; but not even for
his sake since you put it so can I marry Mr. Morecamb.
And now " turning round with sudden heat ^^ since you
have said all you wanted to say, and I have answered it,
will you let me go home ?"
Home ! As she uttered the word, ending thus the con-
versation as quietly, to all appearance, as it had begun
though she knew it had been all a planned attack, and that
the ladies down stairs were all waiting eagerly to hear
the result of it as she spoke of hom^, Hannah felt what a
farce it was. Had it been a real brother's home, there at
least was external protection. So likewise was there in
that other home, which, when she had saved enough, she
had one day meant to have some tiny cottage, where by
her own conduct a single woman can always protect her-
self, keep up her own dignity, and carry out, if ever so
humbly, her own independent life. Now this was lost^
118 UASNAn.
id the other Dot gaiocd. As she walked on towarcl ttie
ouse ou the Hill, that cruel " home " where sbo and Bcr-
ird must live henceforward, as if in a house of glass, ex-
posed to every malicious eye, Hannah felt that aomehoff
or other ehe had made a terrible mistake. Almost as great
a one as that of the poor girl who walked sileatly by her
eide, asking no questions Grace never did ask any but
simply following her mistress with tender, observant, ud-
" Don't let ua go through the village," whispered she.
"I'il take you round a nearer way, where there are not
half so many folk about,"
" Very well, Grace ; only let ua get home qnicVly. Too
not afraid of meeting any body?"
For Jem Dixon waa still at Eaaterham, she knew, though
ithing had been seen of him since that night.
No, no," sighed Grace; "nobody will trouble rae. The
master frightened him, I think. My sister told me the
master did really speak to the police about him, in case he
should trouble us wliile he was away. Look, Misa Thel-
liison, there he is."
Not Jem Dixon, bat Mr. Rivers ; yet Hannah instinct-
ively shrank back under the shadow of a high wall, and let
"""im pass her by. She made no explanation to her bcpt-
it for this; what could she say? And Grace seemed td
it all withont her telling.
It was a bitter humiliation, to say nothing of the pain.
As she bade Grace keep close to her, while they faiirricd
along by narrow alleys and ci-oaa-cuta, the thought of that
happy walk home nnder the stars, scarcely a fortnight ago,
came back to Ilannali'a mind. Alas! such could never
be again. Their halcyon days were done. In her imagin-
ary wickedness, her sinless shame, she almost felt as if she
could understand the agony of a real sin of a woman who
loves some other woman's husband, or some man besidea
her own husband any of those dreadful atoriea which she
heard of afar off, but had never seemed to realise.
ice no power of will could put ber in the place of these
i^^pjti
K
miserable sinners j now, perhaps, she was as miserable a
sinner aa any one of ihem all.
"When reaching the gate she saw Mr. Rivera standing
there waiting. She drew back as if it were really so as
if it were a sin fur him to be watching for her, as he evi-
3ently waB,with the kindly tenderness of old.
*' llannah, how could you think of starting off alone ?
Y"ou make me miserable by such vagariee,"
Xle spoke angrily that fond anger which betrays bo
much; and when he found he had betrayed it to more
'tliari bei'self, he too started.
*' X did not know Grace was with you. That alters the
case a little. Grace, take Miss TJielluson'a wet cloak off,
ftOcl tell the eei-vanta to come at once to prayers."
He was wise and kind. Hannah recognized that, in spite
of tbe bitter feeling that it should be necessary for him to
"be -wise and kind. She came into his study after all the
8rvaDts were assembled there ; and as she kneit near him,
^stening to the short servioe customary on Sunday nights,
lioir spirit grow calmer. No one could hear Bernard Riv-
either in his pulpit, as that morning, or among his lit-
honsehold congregation, as now, without an instiaotire
- taiuty that he was one of the " pure in heart," who are
orever "blessed."
The servants gone, ho and she stood by the fire alone,
Tbere was a strange look upon both their faces, aa if of a
*torm past or a storm brooding. Since this time last night,
*'hen, after her sore confession was wrung from her, Han-
"a,h had tottered away out of the room, she and her broth-
^'-iQ-law had never been one minute alone together, nor
"Hd. exchanged any but the briefest and most common-
Place words. Tliey did not now. They just stood one on
*'thcr side tlie fire so near, yet so apart.
A couple that any outside observer would have judged
^^11 sailed. Both in the prime of life; yet, thpugh he was
* 'ittle the younger, he did not seem so, more especially of
'**, since he had grown so worn and ansious-lookhig. " Both
pleasant to behold, though he had more of actual phys-
^1 fri.
JO HANNAH.
'fioal beauty than she ; but Hannah had a Epiritiial charm
about her aach as few handsome women possess. And
both were at that season of life when, though boy and girl
fancies are over, the calm, deep love of mature years is at
its meridian, and a passion conceived then usually lasts
for life. And these tivo, with every compulsion to love,
from within and without, pressing bard upon them re-
spect, tenderness, b.ibit, familiarity with no law, natnral
or divine, forbidding that love, in case it Bhould arise be-
tween them, had to stand there, man and woman, brotfan
and Bister, so called, and ignore and suppress it alL
That there was something to be suppressed showed
plainly enough. In neither was the free-hearted nnc(-
Boiousness which, when an accusation is wholly untroe,
iftUghs at it, and passes it by. Neither looked toward the
ther; they stood both gazing wistfully into the firo nntil
the silence became intolerable. Then Ilannah, but with-
ut extending her hand as usual, bade him " Good-night,"
. "Good-night? Why so?"
"I am going up stairs to look at Rosie."
" I believe if the world were coming to an end in half
an boar, yon would still be ' going up stairs to look at
Rosie.' "
Tbat excessive irritability which always came when be
was mentally disturbed, and had been heavy upon him in
the early time of his sorrow, seemed revived again. IIo
could not help it; and then be was so mournfully contrite
for it.
"Oh, forgive me, Uannah! lam growing a perfect bear
to you. Come down stall's again and talk to me. For We
must speak out. "Wo can not go on like this ; it will drive
me wild. We must come to some couclnsion or other.
Make baste back, and we will speak together, just as
friends, and decide what it shall be."
Alas ! what could it be ? Every side she looked, Hu-
nah saw no path out of the maze, Not even when,
' ig tbat Grace sat reading her Bible by the ni
Grace was a gentle, earnest Methodist, very
n when, M^
HANNAH. 171
in her own fashion she sat down beside her living Bi-
ble, her visible revelation of Him who was once, like
Hosie, a Christmas child, and tried to think the matter
quietly out, to prepare herself humbly for being led, not
in her own way, but in God's way : the more, as it was
not her own happiness she sought, but that of those two
committed to her charge in so strange a manner the
man being almost as helpless and as dependent upon her
as the child. For she had not lived with Bernard thus
long without discovering all his weaknesses, which were
the very points upon which she knew herself most strong.
When he called as he did twenty times a day "Han-
nah, help me !" she was fully conscious that she did and
could help him better than any one else. Did she like him
the less for this ? Most women especially those who have
the motherly instinct strongly developed will find no dif-
ficulty in answering the question.
How peaceful the nursery was so warm and safe and
still ! Not a sound but the clock ticking on the chimney-
piece, and the wind murmuring outside, and the soft breath-
ing out of that darkened comer, where, snuggled down un-
der the bedclothes, with the round little head and its cir-
cle of bright hair just peeping above, " Tannie's wee dor-
mouse," as she sometimes called her, slept her sound, in-
nocent sleep.
Aunt Hannah bent over her darling with a wild con-
striction of the heart. What if the " conclusion" to which
Mr. Rivers said they must come to-night implied her going
away leaving Rosie behind ? The thought was too much
to bear.
"I will not I will not ! God gave me the child; God
only shall take her from me !"
And rushing to her own room, she vainly tried to com-
pose herself before appearing in Rosie's father's sight. In
vain. His quick eye detected at once that she had been
crying ; he said so, and then her tears burst out afresh.
" I am so miserable so miserable I Don't send me
away^on't take Rosie from me. I can bear any thing
172 HANNAH.
but that. It would break my heart if I had to part from
my child !"
He answered calmly was it also a little coldly ?
" Don't distress yourself, Hannah ; I had no thought of
taking Rosie from you. I promised you she should be all
your own, and I mean to keep my word."
" Thank you."
She dried her tears, though she was, indeed, strangely
excited still; and they sat down for that serious talk to-
gether, which was to have who knew what end ?
The beginning was not easy, though Bernard did begin
at once.
" I shall not detain you long, though it is still early.
But I must have a few words with you. First, to apolo-
gize for a question I put to you last night, which I now
feel was intrusive and wrong."
Which question that about Mr. Morecamb, or the final
one, which she had answered with such sore truthfulness
he did not say, and she did not inquire.
Bernard continued :
" Let us put that matter aside, and speak only of our
own present affairs. I want you to give me your advice
on a point in which a woman is a better judge than any
man ; especially as it concerns a woman."
A woman ? Hannah leaped at once to the heart of the
mystery, if mystery it were. Her only courae was to solve
it without delay.
" Is it your possible marriage ?"
" It is. Not my love, understand ; only my marriage."
They were silent he watching her keenly. Hannah
felt it, and set her face like a stone. She seemed, indeed,
growing into stone.
" My family as they may have told you, for they tell
it to all Easterham are most anxious I should marry.
They have even been so kind as to name to me the lady,
whom, as we both know her, I will not name, except to
say that she is very young, very pretty, very rich ; ful-
fills all conditions they desire for me, not one of which I
HANNAH. 173
desire for niyselC Also, they tell me though I scarcely
believe this that if I asked her, she would not refuse
me."
*' You have not asked her, then ?"
- " If I had, there would be little need for the questions I
wished to put to you. First, what is your feeling about
second marriages?"
" I thought you knew it. I must surely have said it to
you some time ?"
" You never have ; say it, then."
Why should she not? Nothing tied her tongue now.
The end she had once hoped for, then doubted, then feared,
was evidently at hand. He was, after all, going to marry.
In a totally unexpected way her path was being made
plain.
Hannah was not a girl, and her self-control was great.
Besides, she had. suffered so much of late that even the
very fact of an end to the suffering was relief So she
spoke out as if she were not herself, but somebody else,
standing quite apart from poor Hannah Thelluson to
whom it had been the will of God that no love-bliss should
ever come.
" I think, with women, second marriages are a doubtful
good. If the first one has been happy, we desire no other
we can cherish a memory and sit beside a grave to the
last; if unhappy, we dread renewing our unhappiness.
Besides, children so fill up a woman's heart that the idea
of giving her little ones a second father would be to most
women very painful, nay, intolerable. But with men it is
qnite different. I have said to Lady Rivers many a time
that from the first day I came it was my most earnest wish
you should find some suitable wife, marry her, and be hap-
py as happy as you were with my sister."
"Thank you."
That dreadful formality of his fonnality and bitterness
combined I And Hannah knew his manner so well ; knew
every change in his face a very tell-tale face. Bernard
was none of your reserved heroes who are always " wear-
m
nat
S
ing a mask." Her heart yearned over liim. Alast
had spoken truly when she said it was not buried in Ar-
thur's grave. It was quick and living full of all human
affections and human longings still.
"Then, sister Hannah, I have your full consent to my
marriage ? A mere mariage de convenmiee, as I told you.
Not like my first one ah, my poor Rosa, she loved mel
No woman will ever love mc so well."
Hannah was silent.
" Do you think it would be a wrong to Rosa, my marry-
ing again ?"
"Not if you loved again. Men do."
" And not women ? Do you mean that ?"
" I hardly know what I mean or what I say," cried Han-
nab, piteously. "It is all so strange, so bewildering.
Tell me exactly how the thing stands in plain words, and
let me go."
"I will let you go; I will trouble you no more about
myself or my affairs. You do not care for me, Hannah ;
you only care for the child. But that is natural quite
natural. I was a fool to expect any morf."
Strange words for a man to say to a woman under any
other feeling than one. Hannah began to tremble vio-
* itly.
' What could you expect more ?" she faltered.
loot done my duty to yon my sisterly duty?"
"We are not brother and sister, and we lie we lie to
own souls m calling ourselves so."
He spoke passionately; he seized her hand, then begged
ler pardon ; suddenly went back to his own ])lace,
continued the conversation.
" We are neither of us young, Hannah not boy and
anyhow and we have been close friends for a long
Let U3 speak openly together, just as if we were V
parted souls looking out of Paradise at ourselves ooi
selves as our Rosa may be looking ni
Our Rosa I It went to Hannah's heart. The tend*
the man, tlie unfoiget fulness ah, if mea kneWj
i Tio-
-i
HANNAH. 175
Tiroiiien prize a man who does not forget ! " Yes," she re-
peated, softly, "our Rosa."
*' Oh that it were she who was judging us, not these !"
"Not who?"
"The Moat House the village every body. It is
vain for us to shut our eyes, or our lips either. Hannah,
this is a cruel crisis for you and me. People are talking
of us on eveiy hand ; taking away our good name, even.
James Dixon's is not the only wicked tongue in the world.
It is terrible, is it not?"
" No," she said, after a moment's hesitation. "At least,
not so terrible but that I can bear it."
" Can you ? Then I ought too. And yet I feel so weak.
You have no idea what I have suffered of late. Within
and without, nothing but suffering, till I have thought the
only thing to do was to obey my family's wish, and marry.
But whether I marry or not, the thing seems plain we
can not go on living as we have done. For your sake, as
well as my own for they tell me I am compromising you
cruelly we must make some change. Oh, Hannah I what
have I said, what have I done ?"
For she had risen up, the drooping softness of her atti-
tude and face quite gone.
"I understand you. You need not explain further.
You wish me to leave you. So I will ; to-morrow if you
choose ; only I must take the child with me. I will have
the child," she continued, in a low, desperate voice. " Do
what you like, marry whom you like, but the child is mine.
Her own father shall not take her from me."
" He has no wish. Her unfortunate father !"
And never since his first days of desolation had Han-
nah seen on Bernard's countenance such an expression of
utter despair.
" You shall settle it all," he said ; " you who are so pru-
dent and wise and calm. Think for me, and decide."
"What am I to think or decide?" And Hannah vainly
struggled after the calmness he imputed to her. " How can
I put myself in your place, and know what you would wish?"
176 HANNAH.
" What I would wish ! Oh, Hannah ! is it poaslWe yori
do not guess ?"
She must have been deaf and blind not to have gncBscd,
Duml she was dumb as death while Bernard went on,
speaking with excited rapidity :
" When a man's wish is as hopeless and unattninable as
a child's for the moon he had better not utter it. I have
long thought this. I think so still. Happy in this world
I can never be; but what would make me least unhappy
wouttOje to go on living aa we do, you and Rosie and I,
if such a thing were possible."
"Is it impossible?" For with this dumbness of death
had come over Hannah also the peace of death as if the
struggle of living were over, and she had passed into an-
other world. She knew Bernard lo^'ed her, though they
could never be married, no more than the angels. Still he
loved her. She was content. " Is it impossible ?" she re-
peated, in her grave, tender; soothing voice. " Evil tongues
would die out in time the innocent are always stronger
thau the wicked. And our great safeguard against them
a such a life as youm has been. You can havo almost do
"Ah!" replied he, monrnfully, "but in this case a man's
they of hia own household. My people there ia
fighting against them. What do you think I am tallc-
Ig to you, Hannah, aa if you were not yourself, but some
other person what do you think my step-mother ^aid to
me to-night? That unless you mari-ied Mr. Morecamb, or
I Ellen Melville (there ! her name is out, but no matter)
unlesB cither of these two things happened, or I did the
ler wicked, heait-breaking thing of turning you out of
doors, she would never admit yon again into here.
t, in fa ot, to-night is the last time you will be received
Moat House."
Hannah's pride rose. "So be it. I am tot aware that
that would be such a terrible misfortune,"
"Ton unworldly woman, you do not know I Oh, for-
!, forgive mo, Hannah; I am forgetting all yoi
I I Ell
I attl
HANNAH. 177
must feel. I am speaking to you as if you were my con-
science my very own soul which you are."
The love that glowed in his eyes, the emotion that trem-
bled in his voice ! Hannah was not a young woman, nor,
naturally, a passionate woman, but she would have been a
stone not to be moved now. She sat down, hiding her
face in her hands.
" Oh, it is hard, hard !" she sobbed. " When we might
have been so happy we and our child !"
Bernard left his seat and came closer to hers. His
breath was loud and fast, and his hands, as he took Han-
nah's, grasping them so tight that she could not unloose
them, though she faintly tried, were shaking much.
" Tell me I never believed it possible till now, I thought
you so calm and cold, and you knew all my faults, and I
have been harsh to you often only too often ! but, Han-
nah, if such a thing could be, if the law allowed it man's
law, for God's is on our side if we could have been mar-
ried, would you have married me ?"
" Yes," she answered, putting both her hands on his
shoulders, and looking at him with a sad solemnity, as of
those who take farewell for life ; " yes, I would."
Then, before he had time to answer, Hannah was gone.
CHAPTER X.
Fob the second time Hannah fled away from her broth-
er-in-law's presence into her own room, and tried to realize
what had happened. Something which would forever pre-
vent their two lives from going on together as before a
distinct mutual acknowledgment that they did not love
one another like brother and sister, that he would have
married her if he could, and that if he had asked her she
would not have refused him.
This confession on her part had been unintentional,
wrung from her by the emotion of the time, and by the
H2
w
direct question whicli liai "been put to her, and Hannah
was the kind of woman who never thought of compromis-
ing or playing with the truth. Still, when it was made,
and henceforth irrevocable, it startled her. Not tliat &he
felt it in the least wrong; the idea that to love or marry
her eister's husband was a moral offense had now entirely
left her mind; but it was snch an absolute ignoring of her
own past her dear, cherished, sacred past tbat it at first
almost overwhelmed her. She sighed, as if it had been an
unrequited instead of a fondly sought attachment which
she had confessed.
For it liad crept into her heart unawares, and not in the
ordinaiy guise of love at all. Pity, affection, the tender
habit of honsehold happiness, bad drawn her day by day
to Rosie'a father, chiefly because he was a father and a
widower, scarcely a young man in any sense regarding lier,
supposing she had considered herself still a young woman,
which she did not. It was only when her youth forced
itself up like an imprisoned stream, when the great outcry
for love arose and would be heard, that Hannah recognized
how painfully, piteously young she was still.
And yet in one sense this love was as different from the
love of her girlhood as antumn is from spring. It did not
seem in the least to interfere with the memory of Arthur.
True, she liad been only eighteen when she last saw bis
dear face, scareely twenty when he died ; but Hannah was
one of those sort of people with whom to be "off with the
old love and on with liie new" was a thing not needing ar-
gument, it was simply impossible. She had never dropped
willingly a single thread of love in her life ; the threads
which God had broken liere were only temporarily invisi-
ble ; she could follow them still, in spirit, to the unseen
land. Yet to her intensely constant nature any change
was at fii-st a kind of pain.
"Arthur, Arthur 1" she sighed, and kept tuniing his ring
round and round upon her finger. " You are not i
"ith me? I could not help it. He needed me Bol"
Yes, there was the secret, as it is of bo many n
HANNAH. 179
SO many lasting loves: people become necessary to one
another before they are aware. Propinquity, circumstan-
ces, do a great deal; but more is done by the strong,
gradual, inner want, the sympathy which grows day by
day", the trust which, feeling its way step by step, may be
slow of advancing, but never retrogrades. Whether such
a love be as perfect as the real passion, " first-born and
heir to all " the lovely dream of youth and maidenhood,
which if man or woman ever realizes and possesses must
be the crown of existence I do not say. But such as it
is, it is a pure, noble, and blessed affection, the comfort and
refreshment of many lives that is, if they accept it as it is,
and do not try to make it what it never can be, nor seek
to find among the August roses the violets of the spring.
"Arthur, Arthur !" Hannah sighed once again, and then
said to herself, in a solemn, steadfast, resolute tenderness,
the name she had never yet uttered, even in thought, for
it seemed like an unconscious appropriation of him " My
Bernard !"
And the word was a vow. Not exactly a love-vow,
implying and expecting unlimited happiness she scarcely
thought of happiness at all but a vow that included all
duties, all tendernesses, all patience ; a pledge such as a
woman makes to the man unto whom she is prepared to
resign herself and her own individuality for life.
It was a change so sudden, total, and overwhelming that
beyond it she could at first see nothing, did not recognize
the future as a real thing at all. She went asleep like a
person half bewildered, and woke up in the morning con-
fused still, until Rosie came in as usual, while Tannic was
dressing, requiring all sorts of "pitty sings to play wid" in
her usual sweet exactingness. Then slowly, slowly, Han-
nah realized all.
" My darling, my darling I my own forever !" cried she,
snatching up Rosie in a passion of tenderness. And not
even Bernard's fond look of last night, as he put to her
and she answered that solemn question, thrilled to Han-
nah's heart more than the embrace of the child.
Carrying the Utile one in lier arms, ehe -went down
stairs and met him in the balU A meeting just the same
as on all mornings, except that there waB a glow, a radi-
ance almost, in his countenance which she had never eeen
before, and his voice whenever he addressed her bad a rev-
erential affection at enesa which gave meaning to his light-
est words. Also he called her "Hannah," never "Aunt
Hannah," again.
Tiiera is a pathos in all love ; what must there be, then,
in a lovo such as this, conceived in spite of fate, carried on
through all hinderances, at last betrayed rather than con-
fessed, and when confessed having to meet the dark fu-
ture, in which its sole reward must bo the mere act of lov-
ing? Those two, forbidden by destiny to woo and many
like ordinary people, were nevertheless not a melancholy
pair of lovers. No outward eye would have recognized
them as lovers at all. By no word or act did Bernard
claim his rights,' the happy rights of a man to whom a
woman has confessed her affection. He neither kissed her
nor said one fond word to her. No servant coming in and
out, nor even the innocent little tell-tale, who was just at
that age when she was sure to communicate every thin;
to every body, could have suspected any thing or betrayed
any thing conceniing these two, who knew they ~*
henceforward not two, but one till death.
They were neither afraid nor ashamed. At tbo
Bight of Bernard every lurking feeling of shame wtnt
of Hannah's heart. Every thought, too, as if her loving
tbo living were a wrong to the dead. Arthur's ring was
still on her finger, Rosa's sweet face still smiled from over
the mantel-piece upon the two whom in life she had loved
best in the world, and Rosa's child clung fondly unto Taw-
iiie's faithful breast. Hannah shrank from none of tbcM
things, nor did Beniai-d. More than once that moml
ho had named, incidentally but nnhesitatingly, his
mother, calling her, as he always did from tbis day
Jgtrd, "our" Rosa; and though he was so quiet, ho
font cheerfully, as he had not done for long, like
tbin^
ay sd I
t oat [
ving
was
... over
1 loved
,o Taw-
f thoM I
lomlnofl
M
HANNAH. 181
who has recovered his own self-respect and his interest in
life ; to whom the past brings no pain, and the future no
dread.
Passion is a weak thing; but love, pure love, is the
strongest thing on earth ; and these lovers felt it to be so.
Though neither said a word beyond the merest domestic
commonplace, there was a peace, a restfulness about them
both which each saw in the other, and rejoiced to see. It
was like calm after storm ease after pain. No matter
how soon the storm arose, the pain begun again the lull
had been real while it lasted.
They began arranging their day's work, as usual ; work
never very light. This Monday there seemed more to set-
tle than ever.
"What should I do without you?" said Bernard.
** Such a wise, sensible, practical woman as you are ! al-
ways busy, and yet forgetting nothing. Stay have you
forgotten we were to dine at the Grange to-night ?"
The invitation had come a week ago, and Adeline had
repeated it last evening. Still Hannah hesitated.
" Must we go ? Nay, ought we ?"
" Why not ? Because of of what we said last night ?
That is a stronger reason than ever why we should go.
We should not shrink from society. I am not ashamed of
myself. Are you ?"
" No." She dropped her head, faintly blushing ; but when
she saw that Bernard held his erect she took courage.
"What Lady Rivers says does not apply to Melville
Grange. My sister is mistress in her own house, and Mel-
ville, though he is fond enough of his sisters-in-law, is not
really so likely to be influenced by his mother-in-law as by
his own mother. She is a very good and wise woman, Mrs.
Melville. I wanted to have a little talk with her to-night."
Hannah looked uneasy. " Oh, be careful I I would
much rather not a word were said to any one."
"About ourselves? No; I have not the slightest inten-
tion of telling any body. It is our own affair entirely till
we see our way clear to to the rightful end ; for, Han-
nab, I need not say that must come about, if it bs possi-
ble. I can not live without you."
He epoke in a low tone, grasping her hand. He was
not nearly so calm as she; yet even Hannah felt her heart
beating, her color coining and going. Is it only for young
lovers, passionate, selfisli, uncontrolled, that society must
legislate ? or criminal lovers, who exact an excited pity,
and are interesting just becaaae they are criminal? la
there no justice, no tenderness, for those who suffer and
are silent, doing no wrong?
"Wo will never do any thing wrong," said he. "We
will neither fly in the face of the law, nor offend my own
people, if possible ; but we will be married if we can. I
must take legal advice on the subject. Till then let all
go on as usual. Is it not better so?"
"Yes.^'
They stood at the hall door, Rosie sitting queen-like on
Tannie's arm, to watch papa away. He kissed his little
givl, and then just touched with his lips the hand thai
held her. No more. No love-embrace, no thought of
such a thing; but there was a gleam in his eyes, like the
January sun through the winter trees, showing that enm-
mer days might yet come.
~, warmed Hannah's heart with a quiet, serioos joy as
went through her household duties, especially those
licb concerned the child. She had her darling with her
lost all day, and never had Roaie's innocent compi
been bo satisfying and so sweet.
grM 1
Among the magnificent literature in which Tannie,;
3 indulged happened to be an illustrated fairi
wk, -wherein the uanal cruel step-mother figured l
e. And she herself should be a step-mother, perhaps,
day ! In the glee of her heart Hannah laughed act-
y laughed to think how different fiction
!i reality.
HANNAH. 183
Bernard came home only just in time to dress, and they
did not meet till he put her into the carriage. Half their
drive passed almost in silence, but by-and-by Bernard
spoke in a business-like way, saying he meant to go up to
London, and take counsel's opinion there. It would not
do to consult any one here. On what subject he did not
Bay, but it was easy to guess.
"Mrs. Melville might give me information only, of
course, I could not ask her direct. I can only find it out
in a quiet way, as I have already found out a good deal.
It seems till 1835 these marriages were legal at any rate
not illescal, unless an ecclesiastical suit should find them
SO, which it never did. It was in 1835 that was passed
the ridiculous bill confirming all marriages pnor to 31st
August, and making those unlawful which happened on or
after the 1st September."
"Then they are unlawful now ?" said Hannah, feeling si-
lence worse than speech.
"Nobody seems quite to understand whether they are
or not. On the Continent, nay, in every country except
ours, they are certainly legal. Our colonies have several
times passed a bill legalizing such marriages, and the moth-
er country has thrown it out. Many persons go abroad to
be married, come back again, and live unblamed ; but they
risk a good deal, and " he hesitated " it is not for them-
selves alone."
Hannah drew back into her dark corner, glad of the
darkness. It was a strange and sore position for any wom-
an to be placed in. Betrothed, yet having none of the
honors and happinesses of an affianced bride ; sitting be-
side her lover, yet treated by him in no lover-like fashion,
and feeling nothing of the shy frankness which makes the
new tie so sweet; obliged to talk with him about their
marriage and its possibilities with a mournful candor that
would have been most painful to bear, save for her own
strong, innocent heart and Bernard's exceeding delicacy
she found her lot as humiliating as it was hard.
Yet she had never loved him so dearly, never recognized
how well hB deserved lioi" love, aa wben, after their long,
dark diive, he said, teudeyly, "Now, Hannah, we will for-
get for the time all these bitteriieases except the love,
cept the love," handed her out into the bright hall at the
Grange, and entered the drawing-room with her on his
arm, as at Easterham diu tier-parties liad been thoii- cus-
tom always.
This waa a state dinner. All the Moat House people
were there, and Mr. Morecamb too. Hannah did not know
whether it waa pure accident or refinemeut of ill-natnre,
but Mr. Morecamb waa assigned to her at dinner, and she
had no resoarce but to obey. The poor man evidently
knew his fate, and was bearing it like a man. It was ei-
ther one of tlic contre-tempa in which the unlucky vietitjis
can only aubmit aud make the best of things, or done on
purpose ; but in either case there waa no remedy.
Bernard had been placed far down the table; but, wheth-
er or not, Hannah knew he could be no shield to her;
rather the contrary. She must keep up her own dignity
trust for protection solely to Iierselit And a nervous
consciousness made her look aeduloualy away from him all
dinner-time ; nay, as she passed him in the procession of
ladies afterward, she kept her eyes xed ao steadily on
the ground that Beitha asked, satirically, " if she and Ber-
nard had been quarreling?"
During dinner she had been comparatively safe, even
with Mr. Morecamb beside her ; afterward there gathered
over her the vague colduoaa which women nlways know
how to show toward another woman who is somehow
" under a cloud," The Rivers family indicated it most n
all. Scarcely any one of them addressed her except i
line.
"Don't mind it," whispered the latter, following Bifl
nah into a corner. " We'll stand by you, and people V
aee you here. Of course it is awkward, very awkwi
Easterham is talking about yon so much, and ray fiui
of all things, dislike being talked about. But I \
thrown duat in every body's eyes by giving yon at i'
HANNAU. 1 85
to Mr. Morecarab. Couldn't you like hiin ? Such a nice
old fellow, and so fond of you ?"
Hannah shook her head, smiling drearily. It was idle to
take offense at silly little Adeline, who never meant any
harm.
She sat down, turning over the leaves of a photograph
book, and bade her young hostess go back to her other
guests.
" No, no ; I mean to stay with you. I don't feel as my
family do. I can't see why they should make such a fuss
even if Bernard did want to marry you. People used to
do it ^my respected mother-in-law, for instance. And sis-
ters-in-law are not real sisters ; never ought to be. If the
law made this quite clear, a man wouldn't dare go philan-
dering with them in his wife's lifetime. Now oh dear !
it's so convenient. He can't marry them, so he may flirt
with them as much as ever he likes. It's all right, and the
wife can't say a word. But she may feel, for all that."
Adeline spoke bitterly ; having evidently quite slidden
away from the case in point, not thinking of Hannah at all ;
so there was no need to answer her except in a general way.
" Yes, I dare say it is at times a little vexing. But I
am afraid I do not understand jealousy. I can not com-
prehend how, after people are once married, they feel the
smallest interest in any body else. And the conjugal fidel-
ity which has only the law to secure it must be a very
shallow thing."
" You ridiculously simple woman ! Well, perhaps you
are right. Jealousy is silly. We can't stop every young
lady out of our house because our husband may one day
have the chance of marrying her. Let him ! When we
are dead and gone we shall not care. Only don't let her
come and steal him from us while we are alive. It's all a
sham, this nonsense about sisters," added she, stamping
with her white satin shoes, and tearing to pieces her hot-
house roses. "And, like you, I am beginning to hate shams.
Hannah Thelluson, let us be friends."
" We always were friends, I hope," said Hannah, gently,
w
pitying the young wife, whose ekeleton io the house lia3
been so unconsciously betrayed. She was raoro than sor-
ry, rather angiy, when, as the evening wore on, and the
gentlemen came in, Herbert Melville, scarcely noticing his
sickly, unlovely Adeline, devoted himself entirely to her
blooming sisters, especially to Bertha ; who, a born co-
quette, aeemed to enjoy the ti-iumph amazingly. The law
which barred some people from happiness did not seem to
fiii-niab any security for the happiness of others. Uannah
almost forgot herself in her pity for Adeline.
And yet she could have pitied herself too a little. It
was liard to sit there, tabooed, as it were, by t!iat silent
ignoring which women understand bo well, and bear the
othei's talking pleasantly round her. No one was actually
uncivil; the Melvilles were almost obtrusively kind; but
there the coldness was, and Hannah felt it. Such a new
thing, too; for, in her quiet way, she had been rather pop-
ular than not in society; she had 8uch gentle tact in fish-
ing out all the sby, or grim, or stupid people, and warpir
ing them up into cheerfulness. But now even they qui
slipped away and left her alone.
It was a heavy night. She asked herself more than 4
how many more of the like she should have to hear, a
Bhe could bear Ihera. Did Bernard see it or feel it ? She
could not tclL He came in late. She saw liim talking to
Mrs. Melville, and afterward to Lady Rivera; then trying
his utmost to be pleasant to every body. She waa so
proud always of the sweet nature he had, and the simplu
unconscious cbarra of his manner in society. But iu the
pauses of conversation he looked inexpressibly sad ; and
when they got into the carriage, and were alone together,
she heard him sigh so heavily, that if his people had been
all night long pricking her with pins and needles Uannah
would not have complained. The very fact of o
seemed a certain humiliation.
They scarcely exchanged a word nil the drive J
but he took and held fast her hand. There was somel
in the wann clasp that comforted her for every tbing;
I warmr .
quiqU^y
an ^^^^H
t? She I
HANNAH. 187
" Dear," he whispered, as he lit her candle and bade her
good-night, which he did as soon as possible, " it is a hard
lot for both of us. Can you bear it ?"
I think I can."
And so for some days she thought she could. She had
that best balm for sorrow a busy life ; each hour was as
full of work as it would hold ; no time for dreaming or re-
grets, scarcely even for love, except in the form wherein
fate had brought love to her calm, domestic, habitual
scarcely distinguishable from friendship even yet. She
and Bernard did all their customary business together
day by day. They had become so completely one in their
work that it would have been diflScult to do otherwise.
Nor did she wish it. She was happy only to be near him,
to help him, to watch him fulfilling all his duties, what-
ever bitterness lay underneath them. That pure joy which
a woman feels in a man's worthiness of love, keener than
even her sense of the love he gives her, was Hannah's to
the core. And then she had her other permanent bliss
the child.
Women good women, too have sometimes married a
man purely for the sake of his children; and Hannah never
clasped Rosie in her arms without understanding some-
thing of that feeling. Especially on the first Sunday after
the change had come the great change, of which not an
atom showed in their outward lives, but of which she and
Bernard were growing more and more conscious every
day. This bright morning, when the sun was shining, and
the crocuses all aflame across the garden, and a breath of
spring stirring through the half-budded lilac-tree, it might,
perhaps, have been hard for them to keep up that gentle
reticence of manner to one another, except for the child.
Rosie was a darling child. Even strangers said so.
The trouble she gave was infinitesimal, the joy unlimited.
Father and aunt were accustomed to delight together
over the little opening soul, especially on a Sunday morn-
ing. They did so still. They talked scarcely at all, nei-
ther of the future nor the past ; but simply accepted the
188 HANNAH. \
present, as childhood accepts it, never looking beyond.
Until, in the midst of their frolic while papa was carry-
ing his little girl on his back round and round the table,
and Tannic was jumping out after them at intervals in the
character of an imaginary wolf, Rosie screaming with ec-
stasy, and the elders laughing almost as heartily as the
child there came a note from the Moat House.
Mr. Rivers read it, crushed it furiously in his hand, and
threw it on the back of the fire. Then, before it burned,
he snatched it out again.
" My poor Hannah ! But you ought to read it. It will
hurt you still you ought to read it. There must never
be any concealments between us two."
"No."
Hannah took the letter, but did not grow furious rather
calmer than before. She knew it was only the beginning
of the end.
" My dear Bernard, Your father wishes particularly
to talk with you to-day, as poor Austin, we hear, is rather
worse than usual. You will, of course, come in to lunch,
and remain to dinner.
" I perceive that, in spite of my earnest advice. Miss
Thelluson is still an inmate of your household. Will you
suggest to her that I am sorry our pew will be full, and
our dinner-table also, to-day ?
" I wish you were more amenable to the reasonings of
your family, but remain, nevertheless, your affectionate
mother, A. Rivers."
" Well ?" Bernard said, watching her.
Hannah drooped her head over Rosie's hair ; the child
had crept to her knees, and was looking with wide blue
eyes up at Tannic.
" It is but what I expected what she before declared
her intention of doing."
" But do you recognize all it implies all it will result in ?"
" Whatever it be, I am prepared."
HANNAH. 189
" You do not know the worst," Bernard said, after a
pause. "I found it out yesterday by getting counsel's
opinion on the strict law of the case ; but I had not cour-
age to tell you."
"Why not? I thought we were to have no secrets."
" Oh, we men are such cowards ; I am, anyhow. But
will you hear it now ? It will be such a relief to talk to
you."
" Talk, then," said Hannah, with a pale smile. " Stop ;
shall we have time ? It will be twenty minutes yet before
the church-bells begin ringing."
For she knew that the wheels of life must go on, though
both their hearts were crushed on the way.
" Five minutes will be enough for all I have to tell you.
Only take the child away."
Hannah carried away little Rosie, who clung frantically
to her fond paradise in Tannie's arms, and was heard wail-
ing dolorously overhead for a good while.
" See ! even that baby can not bear to part with you.
How, then, shall I?" cried Bernard, passionately; and
then, bidding her sit down, began giving her in words ex-
act and brief the result of his inquiries.
These confirmed all he had said himself once before in
the case of Grace and James Dixon. Of the law, as it
now stood, there could be no possible doubt. No mar-
riage with a deceased wife's sister, whether celebrated here
or abroad, would be held valid in England. No woman so
married had any legal rights, no children could inherit.
Thus, even in cases where the marriage was known to have
existed, and the wife had borne the husband's name for
years, whole estates have been known to lapse to the
Crown ; but then the Crown, with a curious recognition
of the difference between law and equity, had been usually
advised to return them piecemeal, under the guise of a
free gift, to the children, who otherwise would have been
the undisputed heirs.
"Heirship money! it seems all to hinge upon that,"
said Hannah, a little bitterly.
T 1,3
not
K. you
Tea ; beeanse property 13 tbo test tipon which the
legal question tnnis. If I had been without ties
ly a poor clerk npoo a handred and fifty a year (I wish
I had) we might have set sail by the next steamer to
America, and lived there happy to the end of our days;
for England is the only country which docs not recognize
sueh maiTiages as ours. Some countries France and Ger-
many, for instance require a special permission to marry;
but this gained, society accepts the union at once. Now
with US ob, Hannah, how am I to put it to you ? this
would do no good. As I said before, the misery would
not end with ourselves." ^
"Would it affect Roaie?"
Yonr heart is full of Rosie. No ; but she is only a
[irl, and the Moat House Is entailed in the male line,
istin is slowly dying, I am the last of my race. Do
you understand ?"
She did at last. Her face and neck tamed scarlet, but
she did not shrink, It was one of the terrible necessities
if her position that Ehe mast not sbrink from any thing.
"le saw clearly, that never, according to the law of En-
[laud, could she be Beraard's wife. And if not, what
aid she be ? If she had children, what would they be?
id his estates lay iu England, and he was the last of his
" I perceive," she faltered. " No need to explain further.
Ton must not think of me any more. To marry me would
lin you."
"Wild and miserable as his eyes were fiei'ce with n
the tears rushed into tbem.
"My poor Hannah, my own uuaelfiah Hannah, yoo^
er think for a moment that it would also ruin you,"
It was true, she had not thought of herself;
A clergyman, prepared to break the canon 1
n of family and position, running counter to all I
sjudicGs; a son, dutiful and fondly attached, o_ _
father's dearest wishes 1 The mental stru^le tJ
ist have gone through before there ever dawnad^
HANNAH. 191
him the possibility of marrying her struck Hannah with a
conviction of the depth of his love, the strength of his en-
durances-such as she had never believed in before.
" Oh, Bernard !" she cried, calling him by his name for
the first time, and feeling was it also for the first time ?
how entirely she loved him " Bernard, you must never
think of marrying me : we must part."
"Part!" and he made as if he would have embraced
her, but restrained himself. " "We will discuss that ques-
tion by-and-by. At present, hear the rest which I have
to telL"
He then explained, with a calmness which in so impul-
sive a man showed how strong was the self-control he was
learning to exercise, that since 1835 many dissentients
from the law then passed had tried to set it aside ; that
almost every session a bill to this effect was brought into
the House of Commons, fiercely discussed there, passed by
large majorities, and then carried to the Upper House,
wh^re the Peers invariably threw it out. Still in the mi-
nority were a few very earnest in the cause.
" I know ; Lord Dunsmore is one of them."
" Yes ; I had forgotten ; I seem to be forgetting every
thing!" and Bernard put his hand wearily to his head.
*' I met Lady Dunsmore in London, and she asked me no
end of questions about you. She is very fond of you, I
think."
"Is she?"
"She wanted to know if you would come and stay with
her, and bring Kosie ; but I said I could not spare either
of you. And then she looked at me inquisitively. She is
a very shrewd, clever, good woman, and a strong ally on
our side. For it must be our side, Hannah, whatever my
people say, whatever I might have said myself once. Any
law that creates a crime is mischievous and cruel There
ought to be, as I once overheard Lord Dunsmore say, no
bar whatsoever to marriage except consanguinity. Even
if I had no personal concern in the matter, it is a wrong,
and I would fight against it as such."
w
ma
I hai
"The Riverses were ever fighters, you know," said Han-
nah, watuhiDg him with a ead, tender smile, and more tfaaa
ever there darkened down upon her all that bo was giving
up for her eako.
" But to come to the point, Ilannah. I have told you
all tlio ill ; now hear the good. Every year public feeling
is advancing ; this year Die bill is to be brought in again,
ItB adherents are ready for a good hard fight, as usual ;
bat this time tbey hope to win. And if they win thea
" len "
(He seized her hands, and clasped tbera passionately. It
not the dreamy love-making of a boy in his teena of
T lost Arthur, for instance, over whose ntmost happiness
hung the shadow of early death ; it was the strong pas-
sion of a man in the midst of life, with all his future before
him a future that needed a wife's help to make it com-
plete ; and Hannah knew it. For a moment, sad, pale,
white-lily-like as she was, there came a flush rose-red into
ber cbeeks, and to her heart an eager response to the new
duties, the new joys ; then she shrank back within berself.
It all seemed so hopeless, or with such a slender thread of
hope to cling to : yet he clung to it.
"I will never give in," he said, "if I have to wait for
years. I will marry you if I possibly can, 1 will never
marry any other woman. You shaU not be troubled of
harmed not more than I must necessarily harm yon,tny
lortove, simply because you are my love. But mine you
lust and shall be. You hear me, Hannah ?"
For she stood passive and bewildered. Any one might
ive tbonght she did not care until she lifted up her eyes
to him. Then he had no doubt at alL
"Oh, give me one kiss, Hannah, to last me all these
lonths and years. It will not hurt you it is not wrong."
"No;" and she gave it. Then with a great sigh tbey
JbIIi sat down.
I The church-bells began to ring, " I must go," Bernn
" But first, what t
[Orch to-day?"
3 to do? Will J
HANNAH. 193
"I must. If I sit in the free seats or in the aisle, I must
go to church. It is God's house ; He will not drive me
from, it; He knows I have done nothing wrong." And
she wept a little, but not much.
"You are right; we have not done any thing wrong,
and we ought not to act as if we had. Then will you
come with me ?"
" No ; I had rather go alone," said Hannah, gently. " I
will bear every thing alone, so far as I can."
" What do you mean? What do you wish ?"
"That you should in all things do your duty without
considering me. Go to the Moat House, as they desire.
If they do not mention me, do not you. What does it
matter ? they can not harm me ^not much. And to break
with them would be terrible for you. Keep friends with
your own people to the last."
" You truly wish that ?"
" I do. Now go. Good-by, and God bless you, Ber-
nard."
" God bless you, my Hannah !"
And with that mutual blessing they parted.
CHAPTER XL
The climaxes of life come only occasionally. When
borne upon the height of them we think we can endure
any thing ; all beside them seem so small. But when they
are over, and we have sunk back in the level of every-day
life, it is different. The sword-stroke we hardly felt ; the
daily pin-pricks drive us wild. It is sure to be so ; we can
not help it.
At first Hannah thought she could. After that Sunday
morning she and Bernard talked no more together why
should they ? Their minds were quite made up that both
love and marriage were lawful to them if attainable.
But seeing that an immediate union was impossible, and a
I
I
laration almost equally so, tliey spoke of neither again,
it tacitly determined to go on living together as before
way lite lovers, but as like brother and sister as
as practicable both for their own Bakes, and for the sake
of outward eyes.
This decided, Hannah thought her way would be clear.
was only a quoBtion of time and patient waiting. Any
the Bill might he passed, and their marriage made
ble. In the mean time it was no worse than a long
engagement} better, perhaps, since they had the daily
comfort of one another's society. At least Hannah felt it
so, and was cheerful and content. What Bernard felt he
did not say; but he was not always content; oflen very
dull, irritable, and desponding. At such times Hannab bad
great patience with him the patience which had now the
additional strength of knowing that it was to be exercised
' r life.
I It was most needed, she found, after he had been to the
Itoat House, whither, according to her wish, he steadily
went, and went alone. Had she been his wife, or even
"lenly his betrothed, she might, spite of all she had said,
3 resented this, but now what could she resent? She
jbd no rights to urge. So she submitted. As to what
a these visits she asked no questions, and he gave
9 information. She never saw Bernard's people now, ex-
npt on Sundays, with the distance of a dozen pews be-
1 thera. Yonng Mrs. Melville still called, punctillons-
JT and pointedly, leaving her pair of grays standing ont-
Sfle the gate ; but she excused herself from asking Han-
nah to the Grange, because if the girls were there it would
bo BO very awkward.
"And the girls are always there," added she, qnemlotif-
ly. "I can't call my house my own or my hnsband's
either. Hannah, when you marry you'll be thankful that
you've got no sisters."
Hannah smiled. She saw that of the real truth of her
wition with regard to Mr. Rivers Adeline gaessed notb-
It was best so,
HANNAH. 195
As weeks passed another change gradually came. Invi-
tations the fear of which had sometimes perplexed her,
for how should she meet the Moat House family even
upon neutral ground? almost totally ceased. Her neigh-
bors left off calling that is, her grand neighbors; the
humbler ones still sought her ; but she fancied she read in
their eyes a painful curiosity, a still more painful compas-
sion, especially when they met her and Bernard together
a chance which occurred but seldom now. For he, too,
seemed to have a nervous dread of being seen with her,
and avoided her so much that she would often have
thought he had forgotten every word that had passed be-
tween them, save for the constant mindfulness, the contin-
ual watchful care which a man never shows except to the
one woman he loves best in the world.
Yet sometimes even having so much made the weak
heart crave for a little, a very little, more ; just a word or
two of love ; an evening now and then of their old frank
intercourse, so safe and free. But neither ever came.
Bernard seemed to make it a point of honor that what-
ever people chose to say, they should be given no data
apon which to come to the smallest conclusion. Within,
as without the house, all the world might have heard
every word he said to Miss Thelluson.
Whatever suspicion was whispered about the village, it
rose to no open scandal. Every body came to church as
usual, and no one applied to Mr. Rivers's bishop to restrain
him from preaching because he retained as his housekeeper
a lady whom the law persisted in regarding as his sister.
But the contradiction was that in spite of her being count-
ed his " sister," people did talk, and would talk ; and, of
course, the sharpest lash of their tongues fell, not upon
the man, but upon the woman.
Slowly, slowly Hannah became aware that every serv-
ant in the house, every family in the parish, kept an eye
upon her, observing, condemning, sympathizing, defending
all by turns ^but never leaving her alone, till she felt
like the poor camel in the desert, whose dying gaze sees in
m
the horizon that faint lilack line coming nearer and nearer
the vultures which are to pick lier bones. She would
have gone frantic sometimes, brave woman as she wae, in
the litter impossibility of fighting against the intangible
wrong, had it not been for the child.
Rosie became not only her darling but her friend. She
had now almost no other companion, and wanted none.
All grown-up people seemed worldly and shallow, dull
and cold, compared to tlje pure little son], fi-esh out of
heaven, wliich heaven itself h.id sent to comfort her. Ah
}ioBie'3 English increased they two held long couversa-
tions together, very monosyllabic, certainly, and upon the
simplest of topics "bow-wows," "gee-gees," and so on
yet quite comprehensible and equally interesting to both.
For is not a growing soul the most interesting and lovely,
as well as most solemn sight, in all this world ? Hannab
sometimes stood in awe and wonder at the intelligence of
the little woman not yet three years old.
They two understood one another perfectly, and loved
one another as eien real mother and child do not always
love. For never in all her little life had Roaie heard a
harsher word than, " Oh, Rosie, Tannic so sorry !" which
sufficed to melt her at once into the most contrite tearsi
Pnro contrition, with no fear of punishments for she had
never been punished. To her innocent, happy heart no
harralesa joy had ever been denied, no promise ever
broken. She knew that, and rested in her little ark of
love as content and safe as a naatilus in its shell, swim-
ming over the troubled waters of poor Taunie's lot like a
visible angel of consolation.
Day by day that lot was growing more hard to bear,
until at last chance brought it to a climas.
One forenoon, just before Wr, Rivers was going ont,
there drove up to the House on the Hill a pretty pony
carriage and pair of grays, and out of it stepped a lUtlo,
bright, active, pretty woman the Countess of Dimsmore.
*'I knew I should surprise you," cried she, kissing lIoiH
1 both cheeks, and telling her how well she was
HANNAH. 197
looking; which she was, in the sudden pleasure of the
meeting. " But I wanted to surprise you. We are visit-
ing at High wood Park, Mr. Rivers, and I met your sisters
there at dinner, you know, and promised to come and see
them ; but of course I came to see Miss Thelluson first.
Well, my dear, and how are you ? And how is your pet
Rosie ?"
The little Rosie answered for herself, being so greatly
attracted by Lady Dunsmore's ermine tails, and, perhaps,
by her sweet motherly face, that she made friends with
ber immediately. But Hannah was nervous agitated.
She knew exactly the expression of that quick dark eye,
which saw every thing and saw through every thing,
whether or not the lady mentioned the result of that ob-
servation.
Bernard, too, was a little constrained. He knew Lady
Dunsmore slightly, and evidently was not aware that
Hannah knew her so well; for Hannah was not apt to
boast of her friends, especially when they happened to
have titles. Yet the sight of her warmed her heart, and
she had hundreds of questions to ask about her old pupils,
and endless reminiscences of her old life with them so
peaceful and contented. Yet would she have had it back
rather than the life now ? No ! unhesitatingly no !
She felt this when, having put the blithe little countess
in her carriage, Bernard returned. He walked heavily
down the garden in deep thought.
"A charming person, Lady Dunsmore, and a warm,
steady friend of yours, Hannah."
"Yes, she was always kind to me."
" Kinder than others have been since," said Mr. Rivers,
sighing. "Would you like to go and pay her the long
visit she asks for?"
No."
"And what shall you do about that invitation she brought
you, to go with my sisters to dine at Highwood Park ?"
" What can I do except not go ? To explain is impos-
sible."
198 HANNAH.
" Yes." After a moment's thought Mr. Rivers went on :
" Hannah, may I say a word ? Evidently my people have
been quite silent to Lady Dunsmore about you ; she ex-
pected to meet you at the Moat House. They perhaps
are sorry, and would be glad of an opportunity to atone.
May I speak to them ?"
"Stop a minute. What shall you say? For I will have
nothing said that would humiliate me."
Bernard looked tenderly at the flushed face. " My love,
any man humiliates himself who for a moment allows the
woman he has chosen to be lightly esteemed. Be satis-
fied ; I shall keep up your dignity as if it were my own ;
for it is my own."
" Thank you." But there was only pride, no sweetness,
in the words. They made him turn back at once.
"Oh, Hannah, how long is this state of things to last?
How can we bear it if it lasts very long ?"
She replied nothing.
" Sometimes I ask myself, why should we bear it, when
our consciences are satisfied, when the merest legal form
stands between us and our happiness? You do not feel
the suspense as I do? I see that; but do you know it
sometimes almost drives me mad that I can not marry
you ?"
His acritation was so extreme that Hannah was fright-
ened, both for his sake and lest any servant should come
in and find them thus. Oh, the misery of that false life
they led ! oh, the humiliation of concealment !
" Why should all the world be happy but me? Why
should that foolish old Morecamb But I forget ; I never
told you he was going to be married. I tell you nothing;
I never have a chance of an hour's quiet talk with you."
" Why not? It would make me much happier."
Those pure, sad, beseeching eyes ^he turned away from
them ; he could not bear them.
" Don't ask me. I dare not. If I saw much of you I
would not answer for myself I might " he laughed
" I might even horrify you by asking you to go abroad
HANNAH. 199
and get married, as old Mr. Melville did. But I will not ;
no, I will not. And if I would, you would not consent ?"
N'o."
" I was sure of it. One might as well attempt to move
the monument as Hannah Thelluson after she had once
said no."
His manner was so rough, so reckless, that it pained her
almost more than any thing she had yet experienced. Was
their forced unnatural kind of life injuring him ? And if
so, ought it to continue ? And if it must be ended, was
not she the one to do it ?
"Bernard," she said," will you come home to-night?" '
for it was now not the rule, but the rare exception, his
staying with her of evenings " then we will have one of
our old talks together, and perhaps we may settle some-
thing ; or feel, when we look them calmly in the face, that
things are not so dreadful as they seem. Now go. Hark !
there is Rosie calling over the staircase for papa."
He had a real fatherly heart now this young man, from
whom, in his full flush of youth, life's best blessing, a wife's
love, was first taken, and then tantalizingly denied. He
snatched at the joys still left to him, and clasping his little
girl in his arms, pressed his hot forehead upon Rosie's breast.
But all that day his words and tones rang warningly
through Hannah's heart. This could not last it was
against human nature. So much, yet so little as they
were to one another. They mitst be more or less. Should
she leave him ; for a time, perhaps ? or should she go quite
away ? She knew not what to do ; nor what to say when
he should come home to her to-night, and appeal to her,
with the innocent, half-childlike expression his face some-
times wore, for comfort, counsel. How could she give ei-
' ther ? She needed both herself.
And when their formal dinner was over, and they sat
together in their pleasant drawing-room, with the yellow
twilight glimmering outside for summer wa9 coming back
again, the third summer since Rosie died life seemed to
Hannah so hard, so hard !
^^Ht She gave him his tea almost in silence, and then ho pro-
^H^Bed a Bti'oU in the garden, up aod down the front walk,
^^Eirhich was in full view of the honse. Into the sheltered
green alley the "lovers' walk" these two poor lovers
never went ; never dared to go.
13tit each happiness as they could get they took, and
Hannah had risen to fetch her shawl, when they saw en-
tering the gate tlie last apparition they expected to see
Lady Rivera. For months she bad not crossed their thresh-
old. But then Hannah would have been more than moi^
tal not to have remembered this it liad been crossed tbsfe
morning by the Countess of Uunsmorc.
Lady Rivers was by no means a stupid woman. Her
faculty for discovering which way the wind blew, and
trimmiog her sails accordingly, amounted to absolute
genius. Not being thin-skinned herself, she never looked
for that weakness in others; so had under all circam-
Btances the most enviable coolness and self-possession.
Tlie graceful air with which she entered by the French
indow, kissed Bernard in motherly greeting, and shook
ids with Miss Thellusou as if she had seen her only the
ly before, was most inimitable.
"How comfortable you look here ! it is quite a pleasure
yon. May I ask for a cup of tea ? your tea used al-
nys to be so good, Srisa Tbellnson. And you had a visit
rom Lady Dunsmore ? So had we afterward. What a
charming person she is; and a great friend of yours, I un-
derstand."
Hannah assented.
"I must congratulate yon ; for a lady, especially a sin-
gle lady, is always judged by her choice of friends."
" I did not choose Lady Dunsmore for my friend ; I was
Lor govemCBH."
"Indeed ! Anyhow, she has evidently a great regard
for you. By-the-bye, does she know any thing of the
the liltlo un comfortableness between us lately, wbicb, aa
I came to say to-night, is, I trust, entirely a thing of the
past. Don't speak, Bernard. In fact, this visit is not
HANNAH. 201
meant for you. I came over to tell Miss Thelluson of
something which as Mr. Morecamb was the cause of dif-
ference between her and me " (Hannah opened her eyes)
" will, I trust, heal it. He is engaged to be married to my
eldest daughter."
Hannah offered the customary good wishes.
" It is indeed a most suitable marriage, and we are quite
pleased at it. So now, my dear, let by-gones be by-gones.
Will you come with Bernard to meet Lady Dunsmore at
dinner on Friday ?"
iNever was there a more composed putting of the saddle
upon the wrong horse, ignoring every thing that it was
advisable to ignore, for the sake of convenience. And
many a woman, prudent and worldly wise, would have ac-
cepted it as such. But, unfortunately, Hannah was not a
prudent woman. Against certain meannesses her spirit re-
volted with a fierceness that slipped all self-control.
She glanced toward Bernard, but his eyes were turned
away ; he had the moody, uncomfortable look of a man
dragged unwillingly into women's wars. Thrown back
upon herself, alone, quite alone, pride whispered that she
must act as if she were alone as if his love were all a
dream, and she once more the solitary, independent Han-
nah Thelluson, who, forlorn as she was, had always been
able till now to hold her own ^had never yet experienced
an insult or submitted tamely to an injury. She would
not now.
" I thank you. Lady Rivers, for the trouble you have
taken, but it will be quite impossible for me to accept your
invitation."
Lady Rivers looked amazed. That any concession she
made should not be joyfully received that any invitation
to the Moat House should not be accepted with avidity :
the thing was ridiculous. She paused a moment, as if
doubting she had heard aright, and then appealed to Ber-
nard.
" Pray assure Miss Thelluson that she need not hesitate.
I have watched her narrowly of late, and have quite got
12
over any little prejndicea I might have had. I and the
girls will he delighted to see her. Do persuade her to
come with you."
"Excuse me, but I always leave Miss Thclluson to do
cide for herself,"
The cold voice, the indifferent manner, though she knew
both were advisable and inevitable, smote Hannah to the
core. That bitter position of love and no love, ties and no
ties, seemed to degrade her almost as if she had been real-
ly the vile thing that some people thought her.
" Mr. Rivers is right," she said ; " I must decide for my-
Bel Ton wished my visits to you to cease ; I acquiesced.
It will he not quite so easy to resume them. As Mr. Ri\'.
er's sister-in-law and housekeeper I shall always be happy-
to see you iu his house ; but I fear you must excuse my
coming to yours. Let us dismiss the subject. Shall I
offer you a cup of tea?"
llcr manner, gentle as it was, implied a resolution sti
enough to surprise e^en Bernard. For Lady Rivers,
colored, even beneath her delicate rouge; but she was
prudent to take offense.
"Thank you. Tonr tea, as I said, is always eicelleDt;
and perhaps when we have more attractions to offer yott
we may yet see yoa at the Moat House, In the mean
time I hope, Bernard, that Miss Thelluson's absence will
not necessitate yours?"
And she looked hard at him, determined to find out how
he felt in the matter, and to penetrate, if possible, the exact
relations between the two.
It was a critical moment. Most men even the best of
them are, morally, very great cowards, and Bernard was
no exception to the rule. Besides, Hannah was not hia
wife or his betrothed; she had not even called herself hta^
friend; she had given him no rights over her,
protection from him. What could he do or say? Ii
lute, he looked from one to the other, excessively
fortable, when Hannah came to the rescue.
" Of course my brother-in-law will go without :
! my
all I I
HANNAH. 203
are quite independent in our proceedings. And he will
explain to Lady Dunsmore the utmost it is necessary to
explain, as I never talk of my private affairs to any body
that I do not. pay. many visits. I had rather stay at
home with: my little girl. That will be perfectly true,"
she added, her lips slightly quivering. " I prefer Rosie's
company to any body's. She loves me."
Bernard started up, and then, fearful of having com-
mitted himself, sat down again. Lady Rivers, though ev-
idently vexed, was equal to the situation, and met it with
a dignified indifference.
"Pray please yourself. Miss Thelluson; no doubt you
act upon your own good reasons. You are, I always un-
derstood, a lady who never changes her mind ; but if you
should do so, we shall be glad to see you." And then she
passed over the matter, as too trivial to bear further dis-
cussion, and conversed in the most amiable manner for
another half-hour. Finally, with a benign " Good-evening,
Miss Thelluson ; I am sure Lady Dunsmore will be much
disappointed at not seeing you," she terminated the visit
as if it had been any ordinary call.
Hannah was not surprised. It was the fashion of the
Rivers family not to see any thing they did not wish to
see. The only thing that vexed her was about Bernard.
He had said nothing absolutely nothing except telling
her, when he took his hat to accompany his step-mother
home, that he would be back immediately. Was he dis-
pleased with her? Did he think she had acted ill ? Had
she done so ? Was it her duty to submit to every thing
for his sake ? Surely not. He had no right to expect it.
Was it because she loved him that she felt so bitterly an-
gry with him ?
Yet when, sooner than she had expected, he returned,
and threw himself into his chair, pale and dejected, like a
man tied and bound by fate, who sees no way to free him-
self, the anger melted, the pity revived. He too suffered
they suffered alike. Why should they reproach one an-
other ?
" So yon have had your way, Hannah." Tea, there waS
reproach in the tone. " Are you quite sure you were right
in what you have done ?"
"Quito Bure; at least, that unless I were some other
than myself, I could not have done differently."
And then they eat silent, in stiff coldness, until the last
ray of amber twilight had faded out of the room. What
a pretty room it was ! just the placo to be happy in ; for
friends or lovers, or husband and wife, to sit and dream
together in the quiet gloaming, which all happy people
love which is bo dreadful to the restless or the miserable.
"We should have rung for lights," said Bernard, pull-
ing violently at the bell. " You know I hate the dark."
And when lights came they saw one another's facea^
his burning crimson, hers pale and in tears.
" Oh, Ilaonah, Hannah, how miserable we at;^ As J
said, if this goes on much longer, how shall wo belh^J?"
" I do not know." Then, steeling herself against Both
anger and pain, "Bernard," she said, "what did you wish
me to do? Your family have no claim upon me, nor T
npon them. Wo are, as things stand, mere Btrangi
Are they to throw me off and pick me up again when a
how they clioose ? Am I to submit to it ?'
" I did not ask you,"
"No, but you looked it. You would have liked me to
go to the Moat House."
"Yes. I wish you to be friends with them. I want
them to love you."
"They do not love me; they only receive mo on suffer-
ance, and I will go nowhei-e on sufferance. I can liva
alone. I want no society; but where I do go I want to
be loved, 1 want to be respected. Oh, Bernard I" and she
looked piteously in his face, "sometimes I am tempted to
say, with you, if this lasts long, how shall I ever bear it ff'J"
" How shall I bear it ? It is harder for me than you-^J
" Perhaps, But you forget it was your doing, |
mine."
And then both di'cw back, appalled at the sharpness 4
able.
puU- I
AslH
Both
nor I^^
HANNAH. 205
their words at the bitterness of these mutual recrimina-
tions. *
Bernard held out his hand. "Forgive me. You are
right. It was I who brought all this trouble upon you,
and now I have not strength to meet it either for you or
for myself. I am so miserable that it makes me wicked.
Something must be done. What shall it be ?"
" What, indeed ?"
"Hannah, decide. Don't look at me in that dead si-
lence. Speak out, for I can bear it no longer. Shall we
part ? Or will you marry me at once ?"
He could have hardly known what he was saying, or
else, in his despair, any thing seemed possible to him.
Not to her. She was very gentle. She did not even
draw away her hands which he had grasped ; she scarcely
seemed to recognize the insult he was unwittingly offer-
ing her. She only answered, sorrowfully, yet without the
slightest indecision, " We will part."
Three little words ^but they brought Bernard to his
senses immediately. He fell on his knees before her, and
passionately begged her forgiveness.
. "But you do not know what I suffer. Inwardly, out-
wardly life is one long torment. At the Moat House I
have no peace. They talk at me and at you ; they try
every means of worming out my secret from me. But
they shall not. I will hide it at all costs. People may
gaess what they like, but we are safe so long as they
know nothing. God help me ! I talk as if we were com-
mitting a deadly sin, when my love of you is the best
thing the only good thing in me." He looked up at
Hannah, and ground his teeth. "It is an accursed law,"
he said ; " a law made only for fools or sinners ; and yet it
may suffice to blast both our lives."
" No," Hannah answered, " nothing could do that ex-
cept ourselves."
"A commonplace truth !" and Bernard laughed bitterly.
" It is God's truth, though ; His right and wrong are
much simpler than man's."
^P^s
man. i
What is right and what is -wrong? for I am
BO mad I hardly know. Show me preach to me ; I used
to tell you yoii could preach better than the clergyman.
Only love me, Hannah if there is any love in that _
pure face of yours. Sometimes I think there is nona^
" None oh, Bernard, none ?"
For a minute she stooped over him ; for a minute he
that she had not a etone for a heart. And then the strong,
firm, righteous will of the woman who, however deeply
loving, could die, hut would not do wrong, forced itself
upon him, lulling passion itself into a temporary calm.
He leaned his head against her ; he sohhed upon her arm
like a child ; and she soothed him almost as if he had been
a child.
" Listen to me," she said. " We must endure there ia
no help for it. It is a cruel, unjust law,but it is the law,
and while it esists we can not break it. I could not twist
my conscience in any possible way so as to persuade my-
self to break it. No form of marriage could ever make me
legally your wife."
" Not in England. Out of England it could."
"But then as soon as we came back to England, wht
should I be ? And if, in the years to come Oh, Bet-
naril, it is impossible, impossible !"
She said no more than that how could she? But she
felt it so intensely that, had it been necessary, she would
have smothered down all natural shame, and said out to
hira as solemnly as if it had been a vow before Giod ^her
determination never, for any personal happiness ofher own,
to entail upon innocent children the curse of a tainted
name.
" I miderstand," Bernard replied, humbly. *' Forgiva
me ; I ought never to have said a word about onr marry-
ing. It must not he, I must go on my way alone to the
end."
" Not quite alone oh, not quite alone."
But, as if more afraid of her tenderness than of her o
ness, Bernard rose, and began walking about the room
HANNAH. 207
" You must decide as I said; for my own judgment al-
together fails me. We can not go on living as we do:
some change must be thought of; but I can not tell what
it should be."
" Why need it be ?" said Hannah, timidly. " Can we
not continue as we are ?"
" No." A fierce, abrupt, undeniable "No.
"Then ^I had better go away." He looked so terrified
that she hastily added, " Only for a time, of course ; till
the bitterness between you and your people softens ; till
we can see our way a little. It must be made plain to us
some day ; I believe it always is to those who have inno-
cent hearts."
And as she sat, her hands folded on her lap, pale and sad
as she looked, there was such a sweet composure in her
aspect that Bernard stopped and gazed gazed till the
peace was reflected on his own.
" You are a saint, and I am only a man ; a very wretch-
ed man sometimes. Think for me tell me what I ought
to do."
Hannah paused a little, and then suggested that he
should, for a few weeks or so, part with Rosie and herself,
and let them go, as Lady Dunsmore had earnestly wished,
to pay her a visit in London.
" Did she say so ?" said Bernard, with sensitive fear.
*' Do you think she said it with any meaning that she
has any idea concerning us ?"
" You need not be afraid even if she had," was the rath-
er proud answer. Alas-! how quick they were growing to
take offense, even at one another. Yes, it was best to part;
" I mean," Hannah added, " that, even if she guessed any
thing, it would not signify. I shall confess nothing ; and
I have often heard her say that a secret accidentally dis-
covered ought to be held just as if it had never been dis-
covered at all. Be satisfied neither Lady Dunsmore nor
I shall betmy you, even to one another."
And for a moment Hannah thought with comfort that
this good woman was her friend had grown more and
3 Bueli as absence discovered to both their mutiiitl
J.TTorth, It would be a relief after the long strain to real
upon this genial feminine companionship this warm and
^Lisdly heart.
"She will treat me like a friend, too not like her old
' governess, if you arc uneasy about that. Or, if you like
it better, I ehall be received less as poor Hannah Thellnson
than as Mr. Rivers's sister-in-law and Rosie's annt. I am
to go about with her everywhere she made me quite un-
derstand that. A Bti-ange, changed Hfci for me; but my
life is all so strange."
And Hannah sighed. She felt as if she bad let fa(r oars
go, and were drifted about involuntarily, she knew not
whither,hardlycaring whether she should ever touch land;
L and if she did, whether it would be as a living woman or
creature so broken down and battered that siic could
neither enjoy nor suffer any more. Who could tell ? Fate
must decide.
Mr. Rivera listened to her silently, but full of ibougli^
thoughts which, perhaps, she could not have followed had
she tried. lie was a very good man, but he was also b
man of the world ; he would not have been a Rivers else
He saw at once the advantage of Lady Dunsmore'a coan-
tenancc not merely because she happened to be a mar-
I quis's daughter and an carl's wife, but because in any so-
f*iety hIio was the sort of person whose friendship wa
PTaIaed and valuable. Was it human nature, or only mat-
f cutine nature, that, dearly as he loved Hannah, Bernard
I nneonsciouBly prized her the more becauae she was prized
r'bj such a woman as the Countess of Dunsmore?
"Go, then," lie said. "I will not hinder you. Riy
[ your visit ; yon will be happy ; and it will in many way
be a good thing." Then with a nervoua eagcmiss thnt,
in spite of her reason, pained Hannah acutely, *'Wbn
does she want yon? How soon can you start?"
"Any day, since you are so glad to get rid of me."
" Oh, Hannah 1"
They stood side by side, these two lovers,
HANNAH. 209
whom was a barrier slight and invisible as glass, yet as im-
possible to be broken through without sore danger and
pain. They could not break it ; they dared not.
"Things are hard for us very hard," said Bernard, al-
most in a groan. " We shall be better apart, at least for
a time. I meant to have gone away myself to-morrow ;
but if you will go instead "
" I can not to-morrow. I will as soon as I can."
" Thank you."
She did not sob, though her throat was choking ; she
only prayed. Dimly she understood what he was suffer-
ing ; but she knew he suffered very much. She knew, too,
that however strangely it came out, in bitterness, anger,
neglect, still the love was there, burning with the intensi-
ty of a smothered fire all the more for being suppressed.
The strength which one, at least, of them must have, she
only cried to Heaven for and gained.
"Good-by," she said; "for we shall not talk thus to-
gether again. It is better not."
"I know it is. But you love me; I need not doubt
that ?"
" Yes, I love you," she whispered. " Whatever happens,
remember that ; and oh I keep me in your heart till death."
" I will," he said ; and snatching her close, held her
there, tight and fast. For one minute only ; then letting
her go, he bade her once more " Good-night and good-by,"
and went away.
Three days after. Miss Thelluson, the child, and the nurse
started for London together, Mr. Rivers himself seeing
them off from the railway.
Kosie was in an ecstasy of delight to be " going in a
puff-puff with Tannic " being to the little maid the crown
of all human felicity. She kept pulling at her papa's hand,
and telling him over and over again of her bliss ; and ev-
pry time he stopped and listened, but scarcely answered
a word. Grace, too, looked glad to go. Easterham, with
James Dixon still hovering about, was a cruel place for
her to live in. Hannah only looked grave and pale ; but
Bhe Bmiled whenever her little girl Bmiled; and to the oiM
or two persons who spoke to her at the railway Btfttion,
where, of conrse, they were known to every body, she
spoke also iu her usual gentle way.
Only when Mr, Rivers kisseil Rosie, eaying, "Papa will
miss his little girl," and then turning, shook hands with
her silently, llaunah grew deadly pale for a luinnte. That
was all. The train moved off, and she saw Lim walking
I hack, solitary, to his empty house.
Xife has many anguishes; but perhaps the sharpest of
j. is an anguish of which nobody knows.
CUAPTER SII.
As we walk along, staggering under some heavy bur-
den, or bleeding with some unseen wound, how often do
the small perplexities of life catch at ns anawareB, liko
briers, and vex us soi-e. Hannah, as she felt herself bomo
fast away from Easterham, conscious of a sense half of re-
lief and half of bitter loss, was conscious, too, of a ridicu-
lously small thing which had not occurred to her till now,
and which she would never have cared for on lier own ac-
count, but she did on Bernard's. This was, How would
Lady Dunsmore manage to receive back in her hoaseludd^
as an eqnal and familiar friend, her ci-deoartt governesBt
Not that Miss Thellnaon had ever been treated in the way
governesses are said to be treated, though it is ushaU;
their own fault ; but she had, of course, taken her poaittoii,
both with guests and servants, simply as the goTemesB,
and never sought to alter it. But this position Rosiu'il
aunt and Mr. Rivcrs's sister-in-law could no longer sait*-
bly bold. As the cab drove up to the old family inaouoo
in Mayfair which she knew so well, Hannah felt a sense of
un comfortableness for which she was almost angry villi
herself
But it was needless. Lady Dunsmore bad that tnio no-
bility wliich, discovering the same in others, recogoixe
HANNAH. 211
at once, and acts accordingly. The slight difficulty which
an inferior woman might have bungled over, she, with her
gracious, graceful frankness, solved at once.
" You will establish Miss Thelluson and her niece in the
blue rooms," ^d she to the housekeeper, who, seeing who
the arrival wds, came forward with a pleased but patroniz-
ing air. "And see that every thing is made comfortable
for the child and nurse, and that my friend here shall feel
as much at home as if she were in her own house."
" Certainly, my lady." And the wise old woman slip-
ped quietly behind her back the hand she was extending
to Miss Thelluson, till Miss Thelluson took and shook it
cordially, then, courtesying, Mrs. Rhodes followed her re-
spectfully to the blue rooms, which, as every body knew,
being in communication with the countess's, were never
assigned but to her favorite guests.
Thus domestically, the critical point was settled at once.
Socially, too, with equal decision.
" My friend, Miss Thelluson," said Lady Dunsmore, in-
troducing her at once to two ladies, aunts of Lord Duns-
more, who were in the drawing-room, and whom Hannah
knew well enough, as they her, by sight. "We are so
glad to have her back among us, with her little niece.
She will be such a welcome visitor, and my little girls will
perfectly spoil the child, if only for her sake : they were
so fond of Miss Thelluson."
And when, to prove this, Lady Blanche and Lady Mary
came in leading little Rosie between them, and clung lov-
ingly round their old governess's neck, Hannah felt perfect-
ly happy ay, even though Bernard was far away ; and
the remembrance of him striding forlornly to his deserted
home, came across her like a painful, reproachful vision.
And yet it was not unnatural. The transition from per-
plexity to peace, from suspicion to tender respect, from in-
difference or coldness to warm, welcoming love, was very
sweet. Not until the strain was taken off her did Hannah
feel how terrible it had been.
When Lady Dunsmore, as if to prove decisively the fu-
I
w
I et
I BG
f.
ture relation in wbicli they were to stand, came into I
room before dlnDcr, and sitting down in ber white drea-
ing-gowo before the hearth where aunt and niece 'vera
arranging together a beautiful Noah's ark put her hand
on Miss ThelluBon's shonlder, saying, " My dear, f bope yon
will make yourself quite Lappy with ns," Hannah very
nearly broke down.
The countess stooped and began caressing the child,
making solemn inquiries of her as to Noah and Mrs. Noah,
their sons and sons' wives, and arranging them in a digni-
fied procession across the rug,
"What a happy-lookiog little woman she is this Ro-
sic! And I hope her anntie is happy too? As happy as
she expected to be ?"
Hannah's self control was sorely tested. This year paet
she had lived in an atmosphere of mingled bliss and tor-
ment, of passionate love and equally passionate coldnoss;
been exposed to alternations of calm civility and nidcncas
almost approaching unkindness ; but it was long since any
one any woman had spoken to her in that fi-ank, affec-
tionate tone. She felt that I^ady Dunsraore undcPstood
her; and when two good women once do this they have a
key to one another's hearts, auuh as no man, be he ever so
lear, can quite get hold of.
Aa Hannah laid her cheek against the pretty soft hand
none the less soft that its grasp was firm, and none the
less pretty that it sparkled with diamonds the tears came
stealing down, and with them was near stealiag out that
secret which all the taunts in the world would never hare
forced fi'om her.
But it must not be. It would compromise not herself
alone. She knew well she had long made np her mind
to the fact that unless Bernard and she could be legnlty
married, the relations between them mnst be kept strictly
between their two selves. The world might guess as it
chose, accuse as it chose, lint not one confirmatory word
must it get out of either of liiem. Out of her, ci-rtAinly,
r Bhoii!l.
HANNAU. 213
Therefore she looked steadily up into her friend's face.
"Yes; my little girl makes me very happy. You were
right in once saying that a woman is only half a woman
till she hgs a child. Of her own, you meant ; but it is true
even if fiSk her own. I have found it to be so. I have al-
most forgotten I am not Rosie's mother."
And then, aware of a keen inquisitiveness in Lady Duns-
more's look, Hannah blushed violently.
The countess dropped down again beside Noah's ark,
and occupied herself, to Rosie's intense delight, in making
a bridge over which all the animals could pass out, till the
child and her new playfellow became the best of friends.
" Rosie is not much like her father, I think ; and yet she
has a look of him his bright, merry look, such as he had
before his trouble came. Is he getting over it at all ? It
is now a good while since your poor sister died."
** Rosie's age tells it nearly three years."
*'That is a long time for a man to mourn nowadays.
But'* checking herself "I always thought Mr. Rivers
very faithful-hearted, constant in his friendships, and, there-
fore, in his loves; and knowing how forlorn a man is who
has once been married, I, for one, should never blame him
if he made a second choice."
Hannah was silent ; then seeing Lady Dunsmore paused
for some acquiescence, she gave it in one or two meaning-
less words.
"And meantime, I conclude, you remain at Easterham.
Your brother-in-law evidently appreciates your society,
and the blessing you are to his little girl. He said as much
to me. He told me he did not know what Rosie would
have done without you, and that you and she are never to
be parted. Is it so ?"
"He has promised me that I shall have her always."
" Even in case of his second marriage ? But I beg your
pardon ; I really have no right to be curious about Mr.
Rivers's domestic arrangements I know him too slightly ;
but yet I can not help taking an interest in him, for his
own sake as well as for yours."
I
-whi
She pressed the hand she held, but asked no further
iGBti 0118 made no attempt whatever to find out what
innah did not choose to tell. That noble coufideace
which exists among women oftener than they are g^VD
credit for when each knows quite well the other's eecMt^
but never betrays cither to her friend or a stranger the m-
lent, mutual trust was henceforward established between
the two. The moment Lady Dunsraore had closed tlM
door, after talking a good while of Dunsmore topics, of her
daughters, her husbancl, and a journey she wanted to tftJifl^
only was hindered by Lord Dunsmore's determinatJon to
wait and rote for a bill that he greatly desired to see pBM
-the House of Lords " the Bill concerning deceased wivM*
wliich you know he was always so interested"
.nnah felt certain that this sharp-witted little lady
lessed her whole position as well as if eho had told it.
,lso that she would keep the discovery herself, and aid in
ifending it from the outside world, as gaci-edly as if she
id been pledged to inviolable secrecy and bound by the
nior of all the Dacrea and Dunsmores.
With a sense of self-reapect and self-contentedness great-
than she had known for some time, Hannah dressed for
inner. Carefully, too ; for Bernard's sake ; since, if the
connteas guessed any thing, she wonid have liked her to
feel that it was not so unnatural, Bemard^s loving far
On his account she was glad to be held an honored gaest
glad to be met cordially, and talked to with conrteoofi
ttention at dinner-time by a man like the Earl of Dans-
lore, who, though rumor said his wife had made him all
lat he was had i-ouaed him from the t7okeffir nienU lift
of an idle young nobleman into a hard-working man vaa
a person who in any rank of life would have been nsefU
and esteemed. And he spoke of Bernard, whom be said
|fl had met several times when in London, with warm re-
jsrd.
t This was sweet to her ; and equally sweet was the t
s contrast of coming back to her old haunts
' conditions and circumstances. Oflen, duriiva
HANNAH. 215
panse of silence, she secretly counted up her blessings
how rich she was, who had once been so poor. And when,
at dessert, there stole in, hand-in-hand with little Lady
Isabel, who had grown from a baby into a big girl since
Miss Thelluson left, a certain white fairy in blue ribbons,
who, looking round the dazzling room with a pretty be-
wilderedness, caught sight of one known face, and ran and
hid her own lovingly in Tannie's lap, Tannie's heart leaped
with joy. The child her own child ! nothing and no-
body could take that treasure from her. She and Bernard
might never be married ; weary of long waiting, he might
give up loving her, and marry some one else ; but he was
a man of honor ^he would always leave her the child.
"Rosie does you the greatest credit," said Lord Duns-
more, smiling at the little woman, and trying to win her
^but vainly ^from Tannie's arms. " She is a charming
child."
Hannah laughed. " Then you will indorse the proverb
about old maids' children ?" said she.
Was it because he looked at her, or because of her own
conscious heart, that one of those horrible sudden blushes
came, and with it the sense of hypocrisy of always bear-
ing about with her a secret, which, sinless as she felt it
was, every body might not consider so ? For even this
night, though the dinner-circle was small, Lord Dunsmore's
known advocacy of the Bill caused it to be discussed on
all sides, argued pro and con by friends and enemies, in a
way that neither host nor hostess could repress without at-
tracting attention. At length, perhaps out of wise kind-
ness, they ceased trying to repress it ; and Hannah heard
the whole question of whether a man might or might not
marry his deceased wife's sister argued out logically and
theologically as she had never heard it before, together
with all the legal chances for and against the Bill. She
could not shut her ears she dared not : for what to all
these others was a mere question of social or political
opinion, was to her a matter of life and death. So she sat
quiet, keeping, by a strong effort, her countenance as still
^B
as a stone, and her voice, when sho had to speak, just liko
that of any other dinner-tahle gncst, who joiued placidly,
Kr carelessly, or combatively in the conversation that was
{Ding on. It was best so ; best to bnckle on at ones tlie
rmor that, in all probability, she would Lave to wear
brough life,
Iiord Dunamore seemed hopeful of his cause. He had
Dteredinto it, unlike many others, from purely impersonal
lotives from a simple sense of right and justice ; and ho
ad a strong faith, he said, that the right would conquer
at last.
I " Not," be added, laughing, " that I want to compel ev-
ery man to marry liis deceased wife's sister, as some peo-
ple seem to think I do ; I am sure I have not the slightest
I wish ever to marry muie ! But I consider alt restrictions
upon marriage made by neither God nor nature a mistake
" id a wrong. And any law which creates a false and
matural position between man and woman is an eqnal
Let there be no shams. Let a man have his oat-
:ral mother, sister, wife, but no anomalous relationships,
which, pretending to all, are in reality none of the three."
"And," said Lady Dunsmore, mischievously, "such is
Ke nature of man, that when all these pretty pretenses
jre broken down, and a man must either marry a lady
have nothing to say to lier, I believe Ke would choose
e latter course. You are such contradictory oreaturcB,
u men, that I suspect as Boon as all of you might marry
your wives' sisters you would none of you desire to do it!
But, come, we ladies have had enough of the Marriags
Bill, though every body must put up with it in this house;
for when my husband gets a hobby he rides it to death.
I ride with him, too, on this one," she added, as, stepping
aside to let her matron guests pass into the drawing-room,
she quietly, and without any apparent intention, took bold
of Miss Thelluson's hand. There was something in tba
warm, firm clasp so sympathetic that, for very gratiWd!
"~ innah could have wept.
"he subject ended with the closing of the dining
HANNAH. 217
door ; no one suspected for a moment that one guest pres-
ent had a vital interest therein. The ladies gathered
round the fire, and the countess, who was as popular and
agreeable with her own sex as she was with gentlemen,
began talking gayly of other things. And so Hannah's
ordeal, from which no one could save her, from which it
would have been dangerous to attempt to save her, passed
by for the time being.
It was a very happy evening ; not exactly a family even-
ing the public life the Dunsmores led precluded that
but with a great deal of familiness about it : more than
Hannah had ever imagined could be, in the days when she
sat aloof in her attic parlor, and spent her lonely evenings,
enapty of love, and feeling that love would never revisit
her more. Now, when she saw Lord Dunsmore speak ca-
ressingly to his wife, and watched one young couple slip
away into the inner parlor Lady Dunsmore had a pro-
verbial faculty of allowing young people to fall in love at
her house ; not make a marriage, but really fall in love
Hannah remembered, with a strange leap of the heart, that
her love-days, too, were to come not past.
Tes, she had been loved she was loved even like
thesa She had felt once just once Bernard's arms close
around her, and his kiss upon her mouth ; and when, sol-
emnly and tenderly rather than passionately, she thought
of this in the very house and among the very people
where she had once been so lonely, yet not unblest or dis-
contented in her loneliness it seemed as if she could never
be lonely any more.
When she quitted the drawing-room coming out of the
glitter and the show, yet not unreal or painful show, for
there was heart- warmth beneath it all and went back
into her own room, Hannah was happy too.
For there, from a crib in the corner, came the soft breath-
ing of "auntie's darling," who always slept beside her now.
She had taken her during some slight illness of Grace's,
and could not again relinquish the fond charge. It gave
her such a sense of rest and peace and content the mere
K
Kl " UAKNAIl.
iBciousneBH of little Rosie asleep beside her
drive away all the evil angels that sometimes haunted
, the regreta and despond en ciea over a lot that sach a
ii,vle more would have mado quite pei'fect, and yet that
little could not be regrets all the sharper that they were
B not altogether for herself! For she had Roeie ; and she
^^^HfsB Beci'etly, almost contritely, aware that Itosie was al-
^^^ftoBt enough to make her happy. Not so with Bernard.
^^^K she sat over her pleasant fire she could bare blamed her-
^^^^elf for that peace of heart in which he could not share.
He had begged her to write to him regularly, and she
had agreed ; for bIic saw no reason why both shonld not
take every comfort that fate allowed them. Yet when
^-die sat down she knew not what to say. How was she to
."write to him as her brother, her friend, her betrothed ?
B was all three, and yet neither; and he might never be
(By thing else,
I She dropped her pen, and fell into deep thought. Put-
^ig herself entirely aside, was it right to allow Bernard,
Kyoung man in the prime of his days, to bind himself by
1 uncertain bond, which debarred him from the natural
joys of life, and exposed him to the continual torment of
|ope deferred, which to a woman wonld be liard cnongh,
lat to a man was all but unendurable?
i Now that she was away from Easterham escaped from
_Sie nightmare-like influence of the life, half bliss, half tor-
ture, which she had led there she tried to feel in this now
place like a new person, and to judge her own position
calraly,asifit had been that of some one else. She ihoaghl
per, deliberately, every word she had heard from Lord
insmore and others that night, and tried to count what
jasonable chances there were of the only thing which
Would ever make lier Bernard's wife the passing ( ~ "
Bill they had talked about. Vain speculation, as hunc||
in this land know only too well. The result was, thl
stead of the letter she had meant to write, she sat l^
iDd wrote another : such a one as many a woman haa ll
I, too, with bleeding heart and streaming eyes, ihoagh
place
L- calmlj
I^HM^er, I
^^^BhmsD
^^^HeasoQ
^Kirould
Bill th
g which
at 'flU
laa wnl^i
HANNAH. 219
the words may have been calm and cold. She implored
him for his own sake to consider whether he could not con-
quer his ill-fated love for herself, and find among the many
charming girls he was alwjiys meeting some one whom he
could love and marry, and be happy.
"I only want you to be happy," she wrote. "I shall
never blame you never tell any human being you once
cared for me. And you will think of me tenderly still
as you do of my sister Rosa. And you will leave me
Rosa's child ?"
Then she planned, in her clear, common-sense way, how
this was to be managed ; how he was to pay her a yearly
sum she would refuse nothing for the maintenance of
her niece, whom she would herself . educate, perhaps abroad,
which would make an ostensible reason for the separation.
" She will comfort me for all I lose, more than you think.
She will be a bit of her mother and of you always beside
me ; and your letting me take care of her will be almost
equivalent to your taking care of me, as you wanted to
do, but my hard fate would not allow it."
And then all she was resigning rushed back upon Han-
nah's mind the sweetness of being loved, the tenfold
sweetness of loving.
"Oh, my Bernard, my Bernard!" she sobbed, and
thought if she could once again, for only one minute, have
her arms round his neck, and her head on his shoulder, the
giving him up would be less hard. And she wondered how
she could have been so thoughtlessly happy an hour ago,
when things were in exactly the same position as now,
only she saw them in a different light. Hers was one of
those bitter destinies, in which the aspect of circumstances,
oflen even of duties, changed every hour.
Still re-reading her letter, she felt it must go, just as it
was. It was right he should know her exact mind, and be
set free to act as was best for himself She finished and
sealed it ; but she wept over it very much so much that
her child heard her.
. A little white ghost with rosy cheeks peeped over the
Bb side, and Etared, half-Mghtened, raund the nnfai
sm.
" Rosie wake up ! Tannic tying ! Then Rosie
meu came a little wail " Tanuio take her, in Tarn
Kns!"
i Ko resisting that. All love-anguish, love-yi
" r away ; and Hannah half forgot Bernard in her innocetift
passion for Bernard's child.
The letter went, but it brought no answer back. At
first Hannah scarcely expected one. He woul4 naturally
take time to consider bis decision, and she bad put it to
him as an absolute decision, proposing that, after this
event, neither she nor Rosie fihould go back to Easterbam.
II' he was to be free, the sooner he was free the better.
Suspense was sore, as she knew.
A letter of his had crossed hers, written at the very hoar
she wrote, Kut in oh ! such a different tone a real lore-
letter, out of the deepest heart of an impulsive man, to
whom nothing seems impossible. How hard, how cruel
must hers have seemed ! Still, she was glad she had writ-
ten it. More and more the misery of a woman who feels
that her love is not a blessing but a misfortune to her
lover forced itself upon Hannah's mind. Through all the
present pleasantness of her lile her long idle mornings
with her darling, her afternoons with Lady Dnnsmore,
shopping, visiting, or enjoying that charming companion*
ship which was fast growing into the deliberate frieodship
of middle age, often firmer than that of yonth through
nil this came the remembrance of Bernard, not as a joy, aa
at first, but an actual pain.
For his silence continued: nay, seemed to be i
ally maintained. He forwarded her letters in blank |
lopes, without a single word. Was he ofiended ? ~ '
in her very love, strack him so bard that he could no|
give the blow ?
" I hope yonr broth ewn-l aw is well," Lady Dun
y, courteously looking away while Hannah o
r letter, at first with a trembling anxiety, tttie
HANNAH. 221
with a stolid patience that expected nothing. " We shall
be delighted to see him here. And tell him he ought to
come soon, or his little girl will forget him. Three weeks
is a long trial of memory at her age."
" Oh, Rosie will not forget papa. And he is busy very
busy in his parish." For Hannah could not bear he should
be thought to neglect his child.
Yet how explain that she could not deliver the message,
could not write to him, or ask him to come ? His possible
coming was the greatest dread she had. Apart from him
she could be stern and prudent ; but she knew if he stood
before her, with his winning looks and ways his sisters
sometimes declared that from babyhood nobody ever could
say no to Bernard all her wisdom would melt away in
utter tenderness.
By-and-by the fear or the hope it seemed a strange
mixture of both came true. One day, returning from a
drive, leaving Lady Dunsmore behind somewhere, she was
told there was a gentleman waiting for her,
*'Papa! papa! Dat papa's stick!" shrieked Rosie, in
an ecstasy, as her sharp young eyes caught sight of it in
the hall.
Hannah's heart stood still; but she must go on; the
child dragged her. And Rosie, springing into papa's arms,
was a shield to her aunt greater than she knew.
Mr. Rivers kissed his little girl fondly. Then, wasting
no time in sentiment, the butterfly creature struggled
down from him, and offered him a dilapidated toy.
" Rosie's horse broken papa mend it."
" Papa wishes he could mend it, with a few other broken
things!" said Mr. Rivers, bitterly, till, seeing Rosie's piti-
ful face, he added, " Never mind, my little woman ; papa
will try. Go with Grace, and I will come and see Rosie
presently."
And so he shut the door upon nurse and child, in a way
that made Hannah see clearly he was determined to speak
with her alone. But his first words were haughty and
cold.
222 UANNAn.
" I suppose it is scarcely necessary for me to apologize
for coming to see my daughter? I had likewise another
errand in London Adeline is here, consulting a doctor.
She has been worse of late."
" I am very sorry."
Then he burst out : " You seem to be sorry for every
body in the world except me I How could you write
me that letter? As if my fate were not hard enough be-
fore, but you must go and make it harder,"
" I wished to lighten it."
" How ? By telHng me to go and marry some one else ?
What soi-t of creature do you think a man must be more,
what sort of creature is he likely to grow to who loves
one woman and marries another? For I love you. You
may not be young, or beautiful, or clever. I sometimes
wonder what there is about you that makes me love you.
I fight against my love with every argument in my power.
But there it is, and it will not be beaten down. I will
marry you, Hannah, if I can. If not, I will have as much
of you your help, your companionship as ever I can.
When are you coming home ?"
" Home ?"
"I say it is home: it must be. Where else should you
go to ? I can not be parted from my daughter. Rosie
can not be parted from you. For Rosie's sake, my house
must be your home."
" What shall I do ?" said Hannah, wringing her hands.
" What shall I do ?"
She thought she had made her meaning plain enough ;
but here was the work all to do over again. If she had
ever doubted Bernard's loving her, she had no doubt of it
now. It was one of those mysterious attractions, quite in-
dependent of external charms, and deepened by every in-
fluence that daily intimacy can exercise. She fully be-
lieved him when he said, as he kept saying over and over
again, that if he did not marry her he would never marry
any other woman. And was she to bid him go away, and
never see her more ? This, when their love was no unholy
HANNAH. 223
love, when it trenched upon no natural rights, when no
living fcjoul could be harmed by it, and many benefited, as
well as they themselves ?
Hannah could not do it. All her resolutions melted into
air, and she let him see that it was so. Anyhow, he saw
his power, and used it. With a hungry heart he clasped
and kissed her.
"Now we are friends again. I have been hating you
for days, but I'll forgive you now. You will not write
me any more such letters? We will try not to quarrel
again."
" Quarrel ! oh, Bernard !" and then she made him let her
go, insisting that they must be friends, and only friends,
just now.
" Perhaps you are right. I beg your pardon. Only let
me hold your hand."
And so they sat together, silent, for ever so long, till
both had recovered from their agitation. Hannah made
him tell her about Adeline, who was fast declining, no-
body quite saw why; but they thought some London
doctor might find it out. And Adeline herself was eager
to come.
"Chiefly, I think, because you are here. She wants
you, she says. She will not have any of her own sisters
to nurse her ; to Bertha especially she has taken a violent
dislike, only we don't mind the fancies of an invalid. I
brought Adeline up to town myself. Her husband had
some business to attend to ; but he comes up with Bertha
to-morrow."
" He should have come with his wife to-day ;" and then
Hannah stopped herself. jQf'-what use was it to open
the family eyes to an impossible and therefore imaginary
wrong? What good would it do? probably much harm.
Yet her heart ached for unfortunate Adeline.
She suggested going at once to see her, for Bernard
had left her close at hand, in one of those dreary lodgings
which seem chiefly occupied by invalids, the most of
London fashionable physicians living in streets hard by.
22^ TUiSSAa,
Tlieir patients come to bo near tbem, Bcttling down i
few weekB in these mi rooms to recover or to die, as i
might choose.
"Yes, do let me go," repeated Hannah. "Shall I i
Rosie to play with papa while I leave a meeeage for 1
Dunsmore ?"
When she came back with the child in her arms I
nard told her she looked qtiite her old self again. So did
he. And she was glad to throw the shield of their former
peaceful, simple lH'e over the strong passion that she per-__
ceived in him, and felt more and more in herself tl
emothered, silent tragedy which might embitter all thi
coming days.
And jet when she found herself walking with bim in
the safu loneliness of Regent Street crowds, Hannah was
not unhappy. Her long want of him had made him terri-
bly dear. He, too, appeared to snatch at the present i
ment with a wild avidity.
" Only to be togethei" together," said he, as he e
her arm through his and kept it there. And the 1
thus cruelly suppressed seemed to both a thing comparefl
to which all young people's love young people who
can woo and marry like the rest of the world was pale
and colorless. Theirs resistance had but strengthened,
because it was only a struggle against circumstance; un-
mingled with any couBcience stings, like as of those who
fight against some sinful passion. But their passion,
thoagh legally forbidden, was morally pure and free from
blame.
So they walked on together ; content, accepting the ja
of the hour, making gay remarks, and peeping into s'
windows, in a childish sort of way, till they reached I
gloomy house where Bernard's sister lay. Then theyl
got themselves and thought only of her.
Adeline was greatly changed. Never very pretty, |
she was actaally plain. There was a sickly gbastli'
about her, a nervous, fretful look, which might be '
mental or physical probably was a combination of &
"^
im in
1 terri- i
nt iq^H
^di^l
e \m^^^
nnororl '
HAISTNAH. 225
Not a pleasant wife for a man to come home to; and
young Mr. Melville, who was a mere ordinary country
squire, without any tastes beyond hunting, shooting, and
fishing, was a little to be pitied too. Still, men must take
their wives, as women take their husbands, for better for
worse.
"I am very ill, you see. Miss Thelluson," said the inva-
lid, stretching out a weary hand. "It was very kind of
Bernard to take all this trouble to bring me up to a Lon-
don doctor, but I don't think it will do any good."-
Hannah uttered some meaningless hope, but faintly, for
she saw death in the girl's face. She was only a girl still,
and yet in some ways it was the face of an old woman.
The smothered pangs of half a lifetime seemed written
there.
"I bring good news," said Bernard, cheerfully. "I
found a letter in the hall saying that Herbert will be here
to-morrow, possibly even to-night."
Adeline looked up eagerly.
" To-night ! And any body with him?"
"Bertha, I believe. Her mother insisted she should
come."
A miserable fire flashed in the poor sunken eyes.
"She shall not come! I will not have her! I want
no sisters ; my maid is nurse enough. Besides, it is all a
sham, a wretched sham. Bertha has no notion of nursing
any body !"
" I think you are mistaken, dear," said Bernard, sooth-
ingly. " Hannah, what do you say ? Ought not her sis-
ter to be with her ?"
Hannah dropped her eyes; and yet she felt the miser-
able girl was watching her with an eagerness actually
painful, as if trying to find out how much she guessed
of her dreary secret ; which, weak and silly as she was
in most things, poor Adeline had evidently kept with a
braveiy worthy of a better cause.
" I see no use in Bertha's coming," said she again, with
a great effort at self-control. "I know her better than
K2
226 HANNAH.
Hannah does. She is no companion to an invalid; she
hates sickness. She will be always with Herbert, not with
me. I heard them planning Rotten Row in the morning
and theatres every night. They are strong and healthy
and lively, while I "
The poor young wife burst into tears.
" I will stay beside her," whispered Hannah to Bernard.
" Go you away."
After he was gone Adeline burst out hysterically: "Keep
her away from me ! the sight of her will drive me wild.
Keep them all away from me, or I shall betray myself I
know I shall. And then they will all laugh at me, and
say it is ridiculous nonsense ; as perhaps it is. You see "
clutching Hannah's hand " she is by law his sister too.
He couldn't marry her, not if I were dead twenty times
over. Sometimes I wish he could, and then they dared not
go on as they do. I could turn her out of the house, like
any other strange woman who was stealing my husband's
heart from me."
Hannah made no answer; tried to seem as if she did
not hear. Incurable griefs are sometimes best let alone ;
but this of Adeline's, having once burst its bonds, would
not be let alone.
"Tell me," she said, grasping Hannah's hand " you are
a good woman ; you will tell me true is it all nonsense
my feeling this as I do ? How would you feel if you were
in my place? And if you were Bertha, would you do as
she does? Would you try to make your sister's husband
fond of you, as he ought not to be of any woman except
his wife, and then say, ' Oh, it's all right, we're brother
and sister ?' But is it right ? Hannah Thelluson, is it
right ? Suppose your sister had been living, how would
it have been between you and Bernard ?"
A startling way of putting the question, far more so
than the questioner dreamed of. For a moment Hannah
winced, and then her strong, clear common-sense, as well
as her sense of justice, came to the rescue and righted her
at once.
HANNAH. 227
"You might as well ask how would it have been be-
tween me and any other woman's husband in whose house
I happened to stay. Of course he would have been noth-
ing to me nothing whatever. I am not married," she
added, smiling, " and I can not quite judge of married
people's feelings. But I think if I ever loved a man well
enough to be his wife, I should not be a jealous wife at all.
Sister or friend might come about the house as much as
he chose. I could trust him, for I could trust myself. I
would be so much to him that he would never care for any
body but me. That is, while living. When I was dead "
there Hannah paused, and tiied solemnly to put herself
in the place of a dead wife of Bernard's dead wife view-
ing him tenderly from the celestial sphere " if the same
love for my sister or my friend, which would be his deg-
radation in my lifetime, could be his blessing afterward,
let him take it and be blessed !"
Adeline looked astounded. But the hidden sore had
been opened, the cleansing healing touch had been ap-
plied. There was a reasonableness in her expression as
she replied :
" That is altogether a new notion of love. You might
not feel so if you were married, or if you were really fond
of any body. Now I was very fond of Herbert, even when
I knew he liked Bertha. But when he liked me, and mar-
ried me seeing that it made him safe never to marry my
sister ^I thought I could not possibly be jealous again.
No more I am, in one sense. They will never do any thing
wrong. But there's a great deal short of doing wrong that
breaks a wife's heart ; and they have broken mine they
have broken mine."
Again rose up the feeble wail of the weak, affectionate
soul, who yet had not the power to win or command af-
fection. From sheer pity Hannah forbore to blame.
"Why. not speak to them plainly?" suggested she at
last. "Why not tell them they are making you unhappy ?"
"And be laughed at for my pains, as a sickly, jealous-
minded fool I Because he can't ever marry her the law
228 HANNAH.
forbids that, you know. After I am dead he must choose
somebody else, and she too, and nobody will blame them
for any thing ; and yet they have killed me."
"Hush hush!" said Hannah; "that is not true, not
right. You yourself allowed they meant no harm, and
will never do any thing wrong."
"What is wrong?" cried poor Adeline, piteously. "I
want my husband his company, his care, his love ; and I
don't get him. He turns to somebody else. And I hate
that somebody, even if she is my own sister. And I
wish I could drive her out of the house that I do I or
shame her openly, as if she were any strange girl who
dared come flirting with my husband. They're wicked
women, all of them, and they break the hearts of us poor
wives."
There was a certain bitter truth under Adeline's frenzied
fancies; but Hannah had no time to reply to either; for,
while they were talking, there was a bustle outside. Gay,
blooming, excited with her journey. Bertha Rivers burst
in, Mr. Melville following her.
" So I am come, Addy dear, though you didn't want me.
But you'll be glad of me, I know. Why you're looking
quite rosy again ; isn't she, Herbert ?"
Rosy she was; for her cheeks burned like coals. But
the husband, as he carelessly kissed her, never found it
out ; and Bertha, in her redundant health and exuberant
spirits, never noticed the dead silence of her sister's wel-
come the sullen way in which she turned her face to the
wall, and left them to their chatter and their mirth.
It was the same all the evening ; for Hannah, at Ade-
line's earnest request, had staid. Mrs. Melville scarcely
spoke a word. Their plans were discussed, sometimes in-
cluding her, sometimes not ; but all were talked of freely
before her. It never seemed to occur to any one not
even to Bernard that Adeline was dying. And with
that wonderful self-command which perhaps only the con-
scious approach of death could have given to so weak a
nature, Adeline never betrayed, by look or word, the se-
HANNAH. 229
cret jealousy that, at any rate, had helped to sap her frail
life away.
"Come and see me every day," she whispered when
Miss Thelluson wished her good-by. " Til try and remem-
ber what you said ; but please forget every thing I said.
Let nobody guess at it. I shall not trouble any of them
very long."
Hannah walked home, strangely silent and sad, even
though she was beside Bernard ; and feeling, as one often
is forced to feel, that other people's miseries would per-
haps be worse to bear than one's own.
. CHAPTER XHL
Lady Dunsmobe was a shrewd and far-seeing woman.
She responded with the utmost civility to all Miss Bertha
Rivers's advances, and planned no end of gayeties for her
and Hannah, from which the Rivers family might plainly
see and she meant them to see that she desired her
friend Miss Thelluson's visit to be made as pleasant as
possible.
But fate and Hannah's own will stood in the way. Ad-
eline declined more rapidly than any one expected ; and
it soon became evident that she was never likely to quit
those dull lodgings in Harley Street, except to be taken
back to Easterham in the one peaceful way as, however
far off they died, it had always been the custom to carry
home all the Riverses. Even Adeline herself seemed to
understand this.
" I don't want to stir from here ; it is too much trouble,"
she said one day to Hannah, now daily beside her. " But,
afterward, tell them they may take me home. Not to the
Grange that never was home ^but to the Moat House.
Let them have me one night in the drawing-room there
before they put me under the daisies. And let Bernard
read the service over me. And you may teU him and
IT
ny to dte^I did uot miud il I
them all that I was not s
felt 80 tired !"
I Nevertlielesa
V "On Gomo fond breast the pirting soul relies!"
. imd that breast was, for Adeline, not her liusband'a, bat
Hannah's. Of any one else's nursing she testified such im-
patience perhaps feeling instinctively that it was given
more out of duty than love that gradually both Mr. Mel-
ville and Bertha let her have her own way. Things ended
in Miss Thelluaon's spending most of her time, not in the
Dansmores' lively mansion, but in that dull drawing-room,
from whence, except to her bedroom, Adeline was never
moved.
" Do stay with her as much as yon can," entreated Ber-
nard, who ran up for a day to London as often as he conid,
but who still saw no more than brothers usually see the
mere outside of his sister's life. He knew she was doomed;
but then the doctors had said Adeline was consumptive, anil
not likely to live to be old, "And she has had a happy life,
married to a good fellow whom she was always fond ofl
Poor Adeline! And she has grown bo much attached to
you, Hannah, She says yon are such a comfort to her
"I think I have rather a faculty for comforting sick
pie ; perhaps because doing so comforts me."
But Hannah did not eay where was the use of sayii _
that this comfort was to her not unneeded. The nncer-
tainty of her present position ; the daily self-suppression it
entailed ; nay, the daily hypocrisy or what to her honosl
nature felt like Buch were so painful that sometimes wben
Bernard appeared she did not know whether she were
glad or sorry to see him. But every body else even to
the Dunsraores seemed heartily glad. And no one
ed to have the Blightest suspicion of any bond bet'
Rosie's aunt and Rosie'a father except little Rosie.
times this was to her a relief sometimes an inoxprei
"Good-by, and God bless you for all your goodiu
d to
jcer- I
HANNAH. 231
my sister," said Bernard one Saturday as he was going
back to Easterham. " They will bless you one of these
days," added he, tenderly all he could say, for he and she
were not alone. They seldom were alone now. Opportu-
nities were so difficult to make ; and when made, the fear
of being broken in upon in their t^te-d-t^tes caused them to
feel awkward and uncomfortable at least Hannah did.
" Good-by," she responded, with a sad, inward smile at
the phrase " one of these days." Did it mean when they
should be married ? But that day might never come, or
come when they were quite elderly people, and hope de-
ferred had drained their hearts dry of all but the merest
dregs of love. And the picture of the woman who might
have been Bernard's wife, happy and honored, accepted by
his family, welcomed by his neighbors, reigning joyfully
at the House on the Hill, and finally succeeding to the
Moat House, to be there all that a Lady Rivers should be
presented itself bitterly to Hannah's imagination. She
had taken from him the chance of all this, and more, and
given him in return what ? A poor, weary heart, which,
though it was bursting with love, could not utter more
than that cold "good-by."
But when she had said it and returned to Adeline's bed-
side, Hannah forgot the troubles of life in the solemnity of
fas^ advancing death.
" It is hard Bernard is obliged to go," the sick girl said,
pitifully. " He likes to sit with me a little, I can see that.
T/it/ do not, and therefore I don't want to have them.
Besides, I can't have one of them without having both ;
and I won't have both. Nobody could expect it."
"No," said Hannah, feeling sorrowfully that it was use-
less to argue against what had grown almost into a mon-
omania, though the poor sick girl had still self-control
enough not to betray herself, except in incidental, half-in-
telligible words like these. Better leave it thus, and let
her sorrow die with her one of the heart-wounds which
nobody avenges; one of the thefts for which nobody is
punished.
fH^i HANNAtl.
At length, just in the middle of the London season, when,
one Bummer momiDg', Mayfair lay in the passing lull be-
tween the closing of operas and theatres, and the breaking
np of late balls, a cab thundered up to the Eavl of Diiiis-
more'B door. It was Mr. Melville coming to fetch Miss
Thetltison to his wife. She was dying.
And then Hannah found out that the young man had
some feeling. Full of strength and health himseli^ he had
never really believed in Adeline's illness, still less her ap-
proaching death, till now, and it came upon him with a
shoclc indescribable. Overwhelmed with grief, and some-
thing not unlike remorse, during the twelve hours she still
lingered he never quitted her side. Careless as he had
been to his living wife, to a wife really dying he waa the
tenderest husband in the world. So much so that she once
turned to Hannah with a piteous face :
L " Oh, if this could only last ! Couldn't you make me
tmell again ?"
P But she could not be made well again ; and it might
not have lasted, this late happiness which gave her peace
in dying. Poor Adeline ! it was better to die I And when
Hannah watched the big fellow, now utterly subdued by
the emotion of the hour, insist upon feeding his wife wttb
every mouthful of her last food as tenderly as if she were
a baby sit supporting her on the bed, motionless for
hours, till his limbs were all cramped and stiff sadiler
than ever seemed the blind folly, perhaps begun iu a mis-
take on both sides, which had ended in letting a poop
heart first starve for love, and then grow poisoned with
a nameless jealousy, until between the hunger f
poison it died.
For Adeline did die ; but her death was peacefiil, w
was in her husband's arms,
"He is fond of me, after all, yon see," she whispered t'
Hannah in one of Herbert's momentary absences. "It
was very foolish of me to be so jealous of Bertha. P fcr-
I should not, bad it been a thing I co
wnt. And don't speak of it now, plea
HANNAH. 233
ever wants to do as his father did, and the law will allow
it, tell him he may as well marry Bertha as any body : I
shall not mind."
But to Bertha herself, although she kissed her in token
of amity and farewell, Adeline said not a word. The se-
cret wound, vainly plastered over, seemed to bleed even
though she was dying.
Her end had come so suddenly at last that no one from
Easterham had been sent for ; and when Bernard arrived
next morning at his accustomed hour, it was to find a shut-
up house, and his sister " away." Then, in the shock of
his first grief, Hannah found out, as she had never done
before, how close, even with all their faults, was the tie
which bound him to his own people. It touched her deep-
ly ; it made her love him better, and honor him more ; and
yet it frightened her. For there might come a time when
he had to choose, deliberately and decisively, between the
love of kindred and the love of her; and she foresaw now
more clearly than ever how hard the struggle would be.
In the absorption of her close attendance upon Adeline
she had heard little of what was going on in the outside
world. Even "the bill" the constant subject of discus-
sion at Dunsmore House had faded out of her mind, till
such phrases as "read the first time," "read the second
time," " very satisfactory majority," and so on, met her
ear. Once they would have been mere meaningless forms
of speech ; now she listened intently, and tried hard to un-
derstand. She did understand so far as to learn that there
was every probability this session of the bill's passing the
Commons, and being carried up to the House of Lords,
where, upon a certain night, a certain number of noblemen,
some biased one way or other by party motives, and a pro-
portion voting quite carelessly, without any strong feeling
at all in the matter, would decide her happiness and Ber-
nard's for life.
It was a crisis so hard, a suspense so terrible, that per-
haps it was as well this grief came to dull it a little. Not
entirely. Even amidst his sorrow for his sister, Hannah
234 HANNAH.
could detect a nervous restlessness in Mr. Rivera's every
movement ; and every day, too, he sought eagerly for the
newspaper, and often his hands actually trembled as he
took it up, and turned at once to the parliamentary no-
tices. But he never said one word to Hannah, nor she to
him ; indeed, this time they were never alone at all.
Adeline was to be buried at home, and Mr. Melville
begged that Hannah would accompany Bertha, and take
her place, with his wife's sisters and his own, at the fu-
neral Lady Rivers, in a note, asked the same, adding a
cordial invitation that she should stay at the Moat House.
Hannah looked at Bernard.
" Yes, go," he said ; " I wish it. They are very grateful
to you for your goodness to her. And I want you," he
continued, in a low tone, " to try to be one of us which
you may be before very long."
This was all ; but Hannah felt forced to obey, even
though it cost her the first parting from her child. Only
a three days' parting, however, and Bernard seemed so
glad that she should go.
She, too, as she sat with the other three mourners one
in each corner of the silent railway-carriage and watched
the soft rain falling on the fields and reddening hedges,
under which, here and there, appeared a dot of yellow, an
early primrose, she was conscious in her heart of a throb
of hope responding to the pulses of the spring ; and once,
suddenly looking up at Bernard, she fancied he felt it too.
It was nature, human nature ; and human passion, sup-
pressed but never crushed, waking out of its long sleep,
and crying unto God to bless it with a little happiness,
even as he blesses the reviving earth with the beauty of
the spi-ing.
Miss Thelluson's welcome at the Moat House, mournful
as it was, was kind ; for they had all been touched by her
kindness to the dead, and sorrow strikes the tenderest
chord in every heart. She had never liked Bernard's peo-
ple so well, or been drawn to them so much, as during
that quiet evening when poor Adeline's coffin rested a
HANNAH. 235
night under the Moat House roof, or the day after, when,
with all the family, she followed it to its last resting-place.
It was a curious sensation. To stand as one of them
these Riverses, whom she loved not, at best merely liked
well aware how little they had ever liked her, and how
ignorant they were of the tie which bound her to them.
Guiltless as she knew herself to be, she was not without
a painful feeling of deception, that jarred terribly upon
her proud and candid spirit. She scarcely said a word to
Bernard, until he whispered, " Do speak to me now and
then, or they will think it so strange." But even then her
words were formal and few.
She had meant to leave on the third day, for she yearn-
ed to be back with her darling; but fate came between.
Sir Austin, long an invalid, and almost a nonentity in the
family, passed, the night after his daughter's funeral, sud-
denly and unawares, into the silent dignity of death.
"When Hannah came down next morning it was to find the
Moat House plunged once more into that decent, decor-
ous affliction which was all that could be expected of them
under the pircumstances.
They begged her to stay a little longer, and she staid.
There was a good deal to be done, and the ladies soon
found out how well Miss Thelluson could do it. Also, not
being a relative, she could see the visitors, and retail to
the family the wide-spread sympathy expressed for it at
Easterham, and for many miles round. " You are such a
comfort to us," they said ; and Bernard, whom his father's
death seemed to affect more deeply than Hannah had ex-
pected, said, in his entreating eyes, " You are such a com-
fort to me." So what could she do but stay ?
A few days more, and the Rivers vault was again
opened ; and Miss Thelluson stood beside it, with all the
Rivers family except the new Sir Austin, of whom nobody
spoke except the Easterham lawyei', who lamented confi-
dentially to Hannah that Mr. Rivers should be kept out of
his title, though it could not be for more than a few years.
The hapless elder brother, whose mind grew weaker and
236 HANNAH.
weaker every day, though his body was strong enongh,
might at any time have some fit that would carry him oflT,
and prevent his being an incumbrance longer.
"And then," whispered the lawyer, " Mr. Rivers will be
Sir Bernard ; and what a fine position he will hold ! one
of the finest in the county. What a pity he has no heir !
only an heiress. But of course he will now marry im-
mediately. Indeed, he owes it to his family."
Hannah listened, as she was now learning to listen
teaching her poor, mobile, conscious face the hardness of
marble : her heart, too, if possible ; for these torments, so
far from lessening, would increase day by day. How
should she ever bear them? She sometimes did not
know.
The family had just come out of the study, where the
will had been read, and were settling down to that strange
quiet evening known in most households, when, the dead
having been taken away and buried out of sight, the liv-
ing, with an awful sense of relief as well as of loss, try to
return to their old ways eat, drink, and talk as usual.
But it was in vain ; and after a silent dinner Bernard went
back to the examination of papers in the study. Thence
he presently sent a message for help.
"I suppose that means Miss Thelluson," said Bertha,
with a half laugh, which Lady Rivers gravely extin-
guished.
" Go, my dear. I dare say your brother-in-law finds
you more useful to him than any one else." So Hannah
went.
Bernard was sitting his head in his hands. It was a
white, woe-begone face that he lifted up to Hannah.
" Thank you for coming. I thought perhaps you might.
I wanted comfort."
Hannah said a few commonplace but gentle words.
" Oh no, it is not that. I am not sorry my poor old father
is away. It was his time to go. And for me, there will
be one less to fight against, one less to wound."
He said the latter words half inaudibly evidently not
HA^kXAH. 237
meaning her to hear ; but she did, at least some of them.
A wild, bitter answer came to her lips, but this was not
the time to utter it. She merely replied by an offer of
help, and sat down to fulfill it. He showed her what to
do, and they went on working silently together for nearly
half an hour.
But the extremes of human emotion are not so far apart
as they seem. Keen and real as the young man's grief
was, he was a young man still, and when the woman he
loved sat beside him, with her sweet, grave look, and her
calm, still manner, another passion than grief began to stir
within him.
" Hannah," he cried, seizing her hand, " are you happy,
or miserable as I am ? or, which seems most likely, have
you no feeling at all ?'*
She looked up. It was not a face of stone.
"Put your work away what does it matter? Talk to
me, Hannah. Think how long it is since you and I have
had a quiet word together."
" Can I help that ?"
"No nor I. We are both of us victims tied and
bound victims in the hands of fate. Sometimes I think
she will get the better of us, and we shall both perish
miserably."
" That is a very melancholy view to take of things," said
Hannah, half smiling. " Let us hope it is not quite true."
" My bright, brave-hearted woman ! If I had you al-
ways beside me, I should not go down. It is being alone
that sinks a man to despair. Still, suspense is very hard."
And then he told her what she had not been before
aware of- that the bill had safely passed the House of
Commons ; that Lord Dunsmore and other peers, a rather
strong party, hoped even in the House of Lords, wliich
had hitherto always thrown it out, to get this year a suffi-
cient majority to carry it through and make it the law of
the land.
"And then, Hannah, we can be married married imme-
diately."
S38
u, even &a Ladr I
He gasped rather than uttered the words.
Hosted had conquered him with double force.
"But your own people?"
"They like you now appreciate you, even as Lady
PuDsmore doea," (He did not see, and Hannah had not
the heart to suggest, that perhaps it was in consequence
of that appreciation.) "Besides, whether or not, they
must consent. They can not go against me. My father
has left every thing in my hands. I am, to all intents and
purposes, the head of the family. It is that which makes
me so anxious. Should the bill not pass But it shall
pass 1" he cried, impetuously, "and then no power on earth
shall prevent me from marrying the woman I choose and
that is you I"
" Strange, strange !" murmured Hannah, half to herself,
and dropped her conscious face, and felt more like a girl
than she had done for many years. For she had no duties
o think of; her child was away, there was only her lover
Bside her. Her lover, wooing lier with a reality of love,
I persistent earnestness, that no woman coaid either qnes-
r mistake,
" You are not quite colorless, I see, my white lity. Ton
l^ill not always shrink back when I want to take you to
/ heart ? You will creep in there some day, and :)alio
1^ feel warm again, instead of cold and empty and lonely,
S it is now. Hannah, how soon, supposing the bill passes
Ehis month how soon will you let me marry you ?"
They were standing together by the fire, and Bernard
had just put his arm round her. She turned towai-d him;
she could not help it; it was so sweet to be thus lovod.
Hand in hand and eye to eye they stood fpr the momcut,
yielding to present joy and futnre hope, absorbed in one
another, thinking of nothing beyond themselves, seeing
and hearing nothing when the door opened, and Ladjr
Rivers stood right in front of them.
" Good Heavens I" she exclaimed, and started baclc as if
she had trod on a snake.
They started back too these guilty-innocent lowl
HANNAH. 239
^Instinctively they separated from one another; and then
Bernard recovered himself.
Vexatious as the crisis was though he looked as if he
would have cut off his hand rather than have had it hap-
pen still, now that it had happened, he was too much
of a man not to meet it, too much of a gentleman not to
know how to meet it decorously. He moved back again
to Hannah's side and took her hand.
" Well, Lady Rivers, had you any thing to say to me ?"
" Well, Bernard Rivers, and what have you to say for
yourself? And what has this-^this young woman to
say for herself, I should like to know ?"
" If you mean Miss Thelluson, her answer is as brief as
my own must be. It is now many months since she prom-
ised to be my wife as soon as our marriage can be lawful-
ly carried out. In the mean time we are friends close
fHends ; and, as you may have observed, we also consider
ourselves engaged lovers. ^Hannah, do not distress your-
self; there is no need."
And in the face of his step-mother he put his protecting
arm round her she was trembling violently and drew
her head on his shoulder.
There are some people whom to master you must take
by storm. Hold your own, and they will let you have it,
perhaps even respect you the more ; but show the slight-
est symptom of weakness, and they will trample you into
the dust. Bernard knew perfectly well with whom he had
to deal, and took his measures accordingly.
Lady Rivers, utterly astounded, less perhaps by the fact
itself than by the cool way in which Bernard had taken its
discovery, simply stood and stared.
** I neveir knew any thing so dreadful ; never in all my
life. Excuse my intrusion. The only thing I can do is to
leave you immediately."
She turned and quitted the room, shutting the door
after her. Then, left alone with him, Hannah sobbed out
her bitter humiliation upon Bernard's breast.
He comforted her as well as he could, saying that this
240 HANNAH.
must have happened some day; perhaps it was as well it.
shpuld happen now ; and that he did not much care. Still
it was evident he did care ; that he was considerably an-
noyed.
" Of course it increases our perplexities much ; for our
secret is no longer our own. In her wrath and indigna-
tion she will blab it out to the whole community, unless,
indeed, family pride ties her tongue. But, anyhow, we
can not help ourselves; we must brave it out. Come
with me, Hannah."
" Where ?"
" Into the next room, to face them all and tell the ex-
act truth. Otherwise we may be overburdened with any
quantity of lies. Come, my dear one. You are not afraid ?"
" No." She had had all along a vague doubt that when
it came to the point he would be ashamed of her and of
his lovfe for her. To find that he was not gave Hannah
such comfort that she felt as if she could have walked
barefoot over red-hot plowshares, like some slandered wom-
an of the Middle Ages, if only she might find at the end of
her terrible march Bernard's face looking at her as it look-
ed now.
" Yes," she said, " I will come with you at once ; for
what is told must be told quickly. I can not stay another
night in this house."
" You must, I fear," answered Bernard, gently. " Where
would you go to ? Not to mine ?"
" Oh no, no ; I can never go to your house any more."
And the cruel penalties of their position, the chains
which bound them on all sides, began to be felt by both
in a manner neither had ever felt before. To Hannah it
seemed as if she were actually treading between those fiery
plowshares, and she could not have steadied her steps bat
for Bernard's supporting hand.
She held to him, literally with the clinging grasp of a
child, as they passed across the .hall to where, in the fine
old drawing-room, like a conclave of the Inquisition, the
whole family were assembled. *
HANNAH. 241
Lady Rivers had evidently been explaining what she
had just heard and seen. Astonishment was upon every
face, and but for one accidental circumstance the presence
of Herbert Melville there might have been a stronger
feeling yet. But indecorum being the greatest dread, and
prudence the principal characteristic, of the Riverses, they
were obliged to restrain their wrath within the natural
limits of an offended family which has just discovered that
one of its members has made a matrimonial engagement
without telling them any thing about it. Even Lady Riv-
ers, with her widowed son-in-law standing by, was forced
more than once to pause and alter her form of speech, di-
lating more on the wicked secrecy with whicli Bernard
had planned his marriage than the sort of marriage he
was about to make.
When the two culprits walked in, looking agitated
enough, but still not exactly like culprits, she stopped.
" Let them speak for themselves, if they have the face
to do it," cried she, dropping down in her chair, exhausted
with vituperation. And then his sisters rushed to Ber-
nard some angry, some in tears asking him how he
could ever think of doing such a dreadful thing ; with his
father not yet cold in his grave their poor, poor father,
who would have shuddered at the thought of such a mar-
riage.
It was a hard strait for a man to be in. That he felt it
as acutely as so tender a heart could possibly feel was
plain. He turned deadly pale ; but still he never let go
of Hannah's hand. She for a moment she thought of
breaking from him, and flying out of the house anywhere
^to the world's end that she might save him from her
and her fatal love. Then a wise resolution came the de-
termination, since he had chosen her, to stand by him to
the last. By her child, too, for one implied both. Think-
ing of little Rosie, she was strong again, for no sense of
guilt enfeebled her; all she was conscious of was misery
pore misery; and that was at least bearable. She sat
down in the chair where Bernard had placed her, still
L
242 HANNAH.
holding him fast by the hand ; the only being she had to
hold to in the wide world now.
" Sisters," said he at last, speaking very quietly, but as
firmly as he could, "what your mother has just found out
I intended to have kept back from you till the law made
my marriage possible. I knew how you would feel about
it as I felt myself once ; but people's minds change."
" So it appears," said Lady Rivers, with a loud sneer.
" Especially after living in the same house together for
months and months."
" Especially after living in the same house together, as
you say," repeated Bernard, deliberately, though his cheek
flamed furiously. "Living in a relation close enough to
give us every opportunity of finding out one another's
character, and of wishing the tie should be made closer
still. I did not love her at first ; not for a long time ; but
once loving her, I love her forever. What I do, I beg you
all to understand, is done not hastily, but deliberately.
Long before I ever said a word otherwise than brotherly
to Miss Thelluson, or she had any suspicion of what my
feelings were, my mind was made up. I shall marry her
if I can, believing that, both for my own sake and my
child's, it is the wisest second marriage I could make and
the most natural."
"Marry her ! after living together as brother and sister
or whatever you choose to call it," cried Mrs. Morecamb.
" Thomas, dear, did you ever hear of any thing so shock-
ing so improper ?"
" The law did not hold it improper," answered Bernard,
in extreme irritation. "And, as I tell you, at first we had
no idea of such a thing. It came upon me unawares.
The law should not have placed me in such a position.
But it will be broken soon, I trust. And until then you
may all rest satisfied ; Miss Thelluson will never again
enter my house until she enters it as my wife. Then, sis-
ters, whether you like her or not, you must pay her the re-
spect due to a brother's wife, or else I am your brother no
longer."
HAXXAH. 243
He had taken a high tone it was wisest ; but now he
broke down a little. In that ^miliar home, with the fa-
miliar faces round him, two out of them just missing, and
forever, it was hard to s:o asrainst them alL And when
the gentlemen having prudently stepped out of the room
the women began sobbing and crying, lamenting over
the terrible misfortune which had fallen on the family,
things went very sore against Bernard .
"And supposing the bill you talk of does not pass, and
you can not carry out this most unnatural, most indecent
marriage," said Lady Rivers, " may I ask what you mean
to do? To go abroad and get married there, as I hear
some people do ? though afterward, of course, they are
never received in society again. Or, since ladies who can
do such unlady-like things must have very easy consciences,
perhaps Miss Thelluson will excuse your omitting the cere-
mony altogether."
Bernard sprang up furious. " If you had not been my
father's wife, and my father only this day buried, you and
I should never have exchanged another word as long as I
lived. As it is. Lady Rivers, say one word more one
word against her and you will find out how a man feels
who sees the woman he loves insulted, even by his own
relations. Sisters I" he turned to them, almost entreat-
ingly, as if in his natural flesh and blood he might hope to
find some sympathy "sisters, just hear me."
But they all turned away, including Bertha, whom poor
Adeline had judged rightly as a mere coquette, and who
evidently was not at all anxious that brothers-in-law, how-
ever convenient to flirt with, should be allowed to marry
their deceased wives' sisters. She stood aloof, a pattern
of propriety, beside the rest ; and even made some sharp,
ill-natured remark concerning Hannah, which Hannah
heard, and lifted up reproachful eyes to the women whom
she had been helping and comforting, and feeling affec-
tionately to, all. the week, but who now held thcmHcIvefi
apart from her, as if she had been the wickedest creature
living.
244 HANNAH.
" You know that is untrue, Bertha. I was perfectly sin-
cere in every word I uttered ; but, as Mr. Rivers says, peo-
ple's feelings change. I did not care for him in the least
then but I do now. And if he holds fast by me, I will
hold fast by him, in spite of you all."
Slowly, even mournfully, she said this ; less like a con-
fession of love than a confession of faith the troth-plight
which, being a righteous one, no human being has a right
to break. They stood together these two, terribly sad and
painfully agitated, but still finn in their united strength
stood and faced their enemies.
For enemies, the bitterest any man can have those of
his own household undoubtedly Bernard's sisters and
their mother now were. It seemed hardly credible that
this was the same family who, only a few hours ago, had
wept together over the same open grave, and comforted
one another in the same house of mourning. Now out of
that house all solemnity, all tenderness had departed, and
it became a house full of rancor, heart-burning, and strifa
Long the battle raged, and it was a very sore one. A
family fight always must be. The combatants know so
well each other's weak points. They can plant arrows be-
tween the joints of the armor, and inflict wounds from be-
hind ; wounds which take years to heal if ever healed at
all. Hannah could hardly have believed that any persons
really attached to one another, as these were, could have
said to one another so many bitter things within so short
a time ; such untrue things also, or such startling traves-
ties of truth; such alterations of facts and misinterpreta-
tions of motives that she sometimes stood aghast and won-
dered if she had not altogether deceived herself as to right
and wrong, and whether she were not the erring wretch
they made her out to be. Only her not him ; they loved
him ; evidently they looked upon him as the innocent vic-
tim to her arts the fly in the spider's web, glad of any
generous kindred hand that would come and tear it down,
and set him free. Unfortunate Bernard !
He bore it all for a good while not, perhaps, seeing the
HANNAH. 246
whole drift of their argnmcnts till some chance Hpcoch
opened his eyes. Then his man's prido rose up nt onoc.
He walked across the hearth, and onco more took hold of
Bimiiah's hand.
"Yon may say what you like about mc ; but if you way
one word against her here, you shall repent it all your
lives. Now this must end. I have heard all you have to
say, and answered it. Sisters, look here. You may talk
as much as you like, seeing you are my sistcrH, for ton
minutes more" and he laid his watch on the table, with
that curious mixture of authority and good-humor which
used to make them say Bernard could do any thing with
any body. "After that you must stoj). Every nianV pa-
tience has its limits. I am the head of the houMc, and can
marry whomsoever I choose; and I choose to nmrry Minn
Thelluson, if I have to wait years and yearn. Ho, girln, you
may as well make up your minds to it. Otherwine, when
she is Lady Rivers as one day she may be you would
find it a little awkward."
He half smiled as he spoke ; perhaps ho knew them well
enough to feel sure that the practical rather than the Hen-
timental side was the safest to take them on ; pcM'hnpH,
also, he felt that a smile was better than a furiouM word
or a tear and both were not far off, for his heart waH ten-
der as well as wroth ; but the plafn answered.
Lady Rivers gave the signal to retire. " For thiH night,
Miss Thelluson, I suppose you will be glad to accept the
shelter of our roof; but perhaps you may find it not in-
convenient to leave us to-morrow. Until that dcHirablo
event, which Bernard seems so sure of, does take place,
you will see at once that, with my unmarried daughters
Btill under my charge "
" It will be impossible for you to keep up any acquaint-
ance with me," continued Hannah, calmly. " I quite un-
derstand. This good-night will be a permanent good-by
to you all."
Lady Rivers bowed. But she was a prudent woman.
It was a perfectly polite bow as of a lady who was act-
246 HANNAH.
ing not so much of her own volition as from the painful
pressure of circumstances.
Hannah rose, and tried to stand without shaking. Her
heart was very full. The sense of shame or disgrace was
not there how could it be, with her conscience clear, and
Bernard beside her ? but bitter regret was. She had been
with his people so much of late that sorrow, had drawn
them closer to her than she had ever believed possible.
Likewise they were his people, and she still tried to be-
lieve in the proverb that " blood is thicker than water."
"I have done you no harm not one of you," she said,
almost appealingly. "Nor your brother either. I only
loved him. If we are ever married, I shall devote my life
to him; if not, it is I that shall suffer. In any case, my
life is sad enough. Do not be hard upon me, you that are
all so happy."
And she half extended her hand.
But no one took it. Neither mother nor sisters gave
one kind word to this motherless, sisterless woman, whom
they knew perfectly well had done nothing wrong only
something foolish. But the foolishness of this world is
sometimes higher than its wisdom.
" Good-night," said Bernard; " good-night, my dearest.
You will find me waiting at the railway at eight o'clock to-
morrow morning to take you direct to Lady Dunsmore's."
With a chivalric tenderness worthy of his old crusading
ancestors those good knights, pledged to Heaven to suc-
cor the distressed he took Hannah by the rejected hand,
kissed it before them all, led her to the door, and, closing
it upon her, went back to his mother and sisters.
CHAPTER XIV.
It was the dreai'iest of wet March mornings^ more like
winter than spring when they met at the station those
two, whom, if all the eyes of Easterham had been on them,
no one would ever have taken for lovers, so grave, so sad,
HANNAH. 247
SO silent were they. The only attention Bernard paid to
her was the common courtesy of any gentleman to a lady
any kind-hearted man to a suffering woman. For that
Hannah did suffer, was plain. To rise in the dull dawn
of the morning, to breakfast alone, and steal away, unno-
ticed and uncared-for by any member of the family, was
outward humiliation enough: but it was nothing to the
inward pain. No wonder that her eyes were heavy and
sleepless, her face deadly white, and that even the village
doctor, whom they met on the platform, noticed how very
ill Miss Thelluson was looking.
" Yes, she was my sister's constant nurse, and has been
helping us here through all our trouble," said Bernard,
hastily. " She is very much worn out ; and I am glad to
be taking her back at once to her friend Lady Dunsmore."
Hannah recognized the prudence, and was grateful.
Yet still, that there should be this vital need for pru-
dence, for circumspection, for worldly wisdom, was itself
a kind of mute disgrace.
The doctor traveled up with them to London ; so they
had not one word together Bernard and she till they
found themselves alone in the cab. Then he seized her
band.
"We have but five minutes, my love. Always my
love ! Remember that ; and for my sake forgive all."
"I have nothing to forgive. Thinking as they do, they
could scarcely act otherwise than as they do. But, oh, it
is hard. I was growing so fond of Easterham of them
too. And now I shall never see the Moat House or them
again."
" Do not be too sure of that," said Bernard, passionate-
ly. " You may be back again ere many weeks. Back
in a character in which they must receive you."
And then he explained how he had seen in the day's
newspapers that the bill was to be brought up to the
House of Lords for the second reading that very night.
"The critical night. Lord Dunsmore has been expect-
ing it for long. There will be a debate ; still, I know, he
248 HANNAH.
hoped for a majority small, indeed, but enough to carry
it through enough to save us. Oh, Hannah, if it were
right to pray for such a thing such a common secular
thing as a few votes more or less in Parliament ^I, a
clergyman too."
He laughed; but his eye glittered with excitement.
Hannah was almost frightened when she looked at him.
"I am glad the suspense will be ended to-night," he
continued. " You see, the trial is harder for me than for
most though, I believe, by Lord Dunsmore's account,
that there are hundreds of men in England in my position
waiting till the bill shall pass. But then I am a * city
set on a hill ' ^like my house, as you used to say to me.
A clergyman, contemplating an act which is directly con-
trary to the canon law, and in which my very bishop, I
understand, is dead against me. I shall be excommunica-
ted, of course ^that is, suspended except, by-the-bye, if
my marriage ever takes place, it will be according to law ;
and, then, whatever he tbinkfi^ the bishop can not suspend
me. Oh, we care quite as much for the law as the gospel,
we clergymen !"
And he laughed again, and still continued rapidly talk-
ing in a way very unusual with him. Evidently the trial
was becoming past his endurance; and now that there
was added the home-warfare to which he never referred
things would be worse still. Suffering, they say, oflen
changes a woman into an angel ; but it is not so with men
^generally quite the contrary. Hannah was so grieved
that she hardly answered a word till they reached their
destination.
" Stop a minute 1" Bernard said. " I had meant to
leave you here and go "
" Where ?"
"Any where; it does not matter. But I can not do it.
Oh, Hannah, keep me beside you ! I am good then. Could
you not invent some nice little falsehood for my staying ?"
" Does it need a falsehood to excuse a father's coming
to see his own child ?" said Hannah, gravely.
- "The child alwaTS the diiidir he cried. '^You care
for nobody else. I do belBere Toa are marTyiog me ^if
ever we are married soielj tor die sake of the child.''
Hannah paused a miniite heibre she answered. His
conversation was not exactlr tme, ret there was some
trath in it ; and to deny truth is always dangeroa& She
laid her hand on his Tery tenderly the tenderness of a
love 80 baptized in sorrow that almost all earthly passion
had been washed out of it.
" Bernard, if what you say were true ^I do not allow
that it is ^but if it were, would it be a wicked thing ?
Would Rosie's mother, or need Rosie's father, be angry
with me for it ?"
" No, no !" And for the hundredth time, looking at the
saintly patience of her face ^a face in which, besides love,
were written grie^ and loss, and resignation ^he learned
patience too.
Lady Dunsmore had gone out, and might not be home
till dinner-time ; but had left a note for Miss Thelluson,
in case she returned to-day, which the countess seemed to
have expected.
/'Why? Does she guess any thing, do you suppose?"
"Every thing, I believe," said Hannah. "But she has
never breathed one syllable to me, and never will."
" Good, wise, generous woman ! We must tell her all
to-morrow."
But Hannah only sighed. She had little faith in " to-
morrow." People whose lives have been very sunless
gradually cease to believe in the sun.
It was a long, long day. They could hardly have got
through it but for the child, who with her little imperative
queenliness put aside both past and future, and compelled
them to live in the present. Desperately in love an ho
was, Mr. Rivers had a father's heart, and the n)other-h;art
in Hannah kept it alive. Also, after the domcHtic nUmtin
of the Moat House, there was something in thrs UtttoMiui
peace of the baby-life so absorTed in littlo tbin^ which
soothed them both Men might have laughed, but siu^ttU
L2
250 HANNAH.
would have smiled to see these two forlorn lovers, who
dared not show their love, to whom one another's presence
was always a painful restraint often an actual dread
comforting one another a little in their mutual love of the
child.
Lady Dunsraore smiled too when she saw them building
houses of cards for Rosie on the nursery floor, and then
blowing them down with the solemnest of faces; but afler
the smile she turned away with a tear. She had a heart
this brilliant little woman of the world.
Kissing Hannah, she said a few words of gentle condo-
lence to Mr. Rivers.
" I did not wonder that Miss Thelluson was kept at the
Moat House, she is such a help to every body in trouble ;
but I am glad you have brought her back now, and glad
you have come to see your little girl. She would have
forgotten papa soon. You will stay and dine? We have
no guests, for Lord Dunsmore will be at the House. He
speaks to-night, if the Man-iage Bill comes on for the sec-
ond reading, as we expect it will."
Bernard made some brief assent.
" See what it is to be a politician's wife," said the couut-
ess, turning to Hannah. "All this forenoon I have been
acting as amateur whipper-in to get votes for our side.
Lord Dunsmore is desperately anxious about it, but very
hopeful of the result. He will come straight home with
the news; so I shall be most grateful of your company,
Mr. Rivers, to congratulate my husband if he wins to
condole if he fails. But as I said to my thane this morn-
ing, when I counseled him to go and murder, not King
Law, but the tyrant Injustice
** * Screw your courage to the sticking-place,
AndwVUnotfaU.'"
She put the matter thus, with her consummate tact and
delicate kindliness, chattering gayly on, and not waiting
for any body to answer. And all day she kept them up
with her gay, witty, continuous talk a perpetual fountain
HAX^AH. 251
of prettiness ^never by word or look betraying that she
gaessed any thing, that any body had any anxiety except
herself for the result which this day must bring.
At dinner they were only three ; but in the evening one
or two people dropped in. Lord Dunsmore's house was
always a sort of rendezAOus to discuss what was going on
in the House, especially when there was pending such a
question as this, in which he was known to be strongly
interested. His wife, too her enemies called her a female
politician ; but even they acknowledged that she pursued
her unfeminine metier in a most womanly way, and that it
was chiefly for her lord's sake, in whose projects she joined
heart and soul.
" No," she said, when all the comers and goers had left,
and she sat waiting for Lord Dnnsmore's return, trying in
every way to make the time slip by for those other two,
to whom she talked fast, but scarcely looked at them
" no ; I hate the word party ; I despise heartily those poli-
ticians who dare not think for themselves, but must vote
as their leader bids them, just as much as I despise those
feeble legislators who, as in this case, are afraid to do good
lest evil might come to break a bad law, lest good laws
might some day be broken. If I were a man, the only
question I should ever ask myself would be Is this right
or wrong ? That once clear, I would risk the rest."
"Would you," cried Bernard, leaning forward, strongly
excited. He had looked very ill all day indeed he had
owned to Hannah that he was not well, and that before
he went home he meant to consult a doctor; but he had
the true masculine dislike to be pitied and sympathized
with in his ailments, so she asked no more ; only she
watched him his changing cheek, his nervous start at
every opening of the door, with an anxiety she could not
control.
And, as during a pause in his conversation with Lady
Dunsmore he turned and asked Hannah rather irritably
*' why she was so silent ?" he little knew what a desperate
resolve was forming in her mind, should certain combiiia^
252 HANNAH.
tions of circumstances force her to it drive her into the
carrying out of that principle, "All for love, and the world
well lost." A resolve which no one would have expected
possible for such a quiet woman as she.
Ten o'clock struck eleven ; it was near midnight.
" They are having a long debate ; that looks well for
our cause," said Lady Dunsmore ; and then a carriage was
heard to drive up, and Lord Dunsmore's foot he was a
large, heavy, ponderous man, not easily moved, physically
or mentally, but firm as a rock after he did move was
distinctly audible coming up stairs.
His little bright wife flew to him. " Oh, tell us ^I mean,
tell me in two words "
But he had caught sight of the other two, and looked
for the moment as if he wished himself miles and miles
away. Still he went up and shook hands with them with
a noble affectation of carelessness.
" Pardon. Lady Dunsmore is so anxious about me and
my affairs. Well, my dear, there is, unluckily, no news.
We have failed this time beaten ; but by the smallest
majority yet. Hope on, hope ever! Next session we
shall have converted those heretics, and be sure to get our
bill through. If we fight on steadily we shall carry our
point at last."
" Of course we shall," cried the countess, with a choke
in her throat. " No need to be down-hearted. The right
always wins. Cheer up, Dunsmore !"
And she patted him on the shoulder, never once turning
her eyes they glittered with tears, in spite of her gay
tone to the two behind her.
Hannah stood motionless. She had expected nothing,
and was scarcely disappointed ; but Bernard stepped for-
ward excitedly.
"Yes, yes, the right always wins. And you made a
brilliant speech. Lord Dunsmore. I I con grat "
An uncomfortable sound rose in his throat, as if he were
struggling to articulate and could not. Then he dropped
down, and there was the piteous sight of a strong man
HANNAH. 253'
swooning dead away. Hannah, as she fell on her knees
beside him, and lifted his head, thought for the instant it
was real death.
" It has tilled him," she said, piteously. " He could not
bear it the suspense, I mean ; and now You under-
stand ?"
"Yes, I have understood it all along," said Lady Duns-
more, gently, and bade her husband lock the door, so as
to prevent any one entering for a minute or two. "We
will see after him ourselves. Look, he is reviving a little
already !"
Bernard sighed. " Oh, Hannah !" he murmured, and
stretched out his arms. She opened hers, and took him
into them, resting his head against her shoulder, so that
he could breathe freer, then looked up to her two friends.
" You see how it is ? We could not help it. And you
do not think us wrong, I know."
" Wrong ! Quite the contrary. And I always knew it
would happen. Didn't I tell you so ?"
That one little triumph " I told you so !" The count-
ess could not resist it ; but after that she said no more
only helped Hannah, in the kindest and tenderest way,
to restore the still half-conscious man. Bernard's illness,
however, seemed rather more than an ordinary fainting-fit.
When he recovered he wandered in his talk, and scarcely
seemed to know where he was.
Then Hannah took at once the motherly part which
seems natural to almost all women in case of sickness
soothing him, tending him, and accepting for him all the
arrangements which Lady Dunsmore immediately made,
that he should remain in the house. Soon he was able to
be half led, half carried, to his room.
" Is it all right, Hannah? You will see that it is all right ?"
said he, helplessly; and when she answered him in her quiet-
ing voice, he seemed satisfied and submitted patiently.
But she had to submit to harder things. When, hearing
him call her, she mechanically rose to follow him, Lady
Dunsmore detained her.
254 HANNAH.
"Not you; my old housekeeper must be his nurse.
Not you."
" But he wants me. He called me."
" Never mind. You can not go. What would the world
say ?"
Hannah bhished horribly, then answered, in a low, des-
perate voice, " I care nothing for the world. He is mine.
You forget we are engaged ; we were to have been mar-
ried as soon as ever the law allowed. Nobody under-
stands him as I do. Let me go."
" No," said her friend, firmly. " He will be taken every
care of; but your care he can not have. For both your
sakes, I will not allow it ; the world is too wicked. And
yet," she added, " the world has common sense on its side.
No man or woman, not related, ought to have been to one
another what you and he have been, unless they could be
married. You must accept things as they are. I am not
cruel to you, but kind."
Hannah knew that. With a stolid patience she did ac-
cept her lot, submitting day after day, for a whole week,
to the miserable suspense of only hearing second-hand
tidings of Bernard's state, of having rights and no rights,
of being neither wife nor sister, yet having to endure the
agonizing anxiety of both. Not alone, either, in her pain
for Bernard continually sent messages for her to come
to him, and Lady Dunsmore would not let her go.
" Ca?sar's wife," she said, " must not even be suspected.
You are under my protection, and I will protect you to
the utmost of my power; but you must also protect your-
self. You must give no handle to the bitter tongues
which are already beginning to wag about you."
What tongues, she did not state ; but Hannah knew.
By the manner in which she had often heard other peo-
ple talked of at the Moat House, she guessed well enough
how the Moat House would now be talking of her. And
the plan which, in the wretchedness of being parted from
him, she had already matured, and intended to propose to
Bernard as soon as he got well ^namely, that, adhering to
HANNAH. -255
the letter of the law, and risking all misinterpretation, she
should go hack with him to Easterham, and resume her
place as his sister and housekeeper faded into thin air.
"You are right," said the countess, when they dis-
cussed, as they did openly now, the actual position of
things, and what was the hest course to take next. " Such
a scheme would never do. The world would never he-
lieve in you or him. I can quite understand a woman,
conscious of her own innocence, doing the most daring
things ; but there are things which she has no right to
dare. No, my poor Hannah, if ever you are married, you
must bring to your husband a spotless name ; not a soul
must be able to throw a stone at you. And there are
those who would stone you to death if they could."
" I know that," said Hannah, sadly ; " but perhaps they
do not mean it. Don't tell him; he loves them."
So spoke she, and tried to believe the best that cir-
cumstances were chiefly in fault, not individuals. But
Lady Dunsmore was very angry, especially when, the ill-
tidings about Bernard being necessarily sent to Easter-
ham, Bertha and Mrs. Morecamb rushed up and bemoaned
him, and exacted a promise from him that he would come
home directly, and let himself be nursed at the Moat House
by his own people. That day he did not ask for Hannah
not once.
She sat in her room, and saw nothing of him saw al-
most nobody except the child. She was painfully aware
that every person in the house, servants included, guessed
her exact position with regard to Mr. Rivers, and watched
her with the eager curiosity with which almost all people,
good and bad alike, follow a domestic tragedy of this sort
a something which can not be talked of openly, which
has all the delightfulness of sin without its dangerous
elements.
Thus, when Mr. Rivers at last came down to the draw-
ing-room, Celestine, the countess's maid, ran into Miss Thel-
luson's room, with the substance of half a dozen French
novels written in her face, to communicate the event ; as-
i
256 HANNAH.
suriDg mademoiselle that monsieur was looking bo mncli
better than any body expected, and she had heard him
asking for her ; and should she arrange mademoiselle's toi-
let to the best advantage before she went down stairs ?
But, when really summoned, Hannah crept rather than
walked to her lover's presence. There was no joy, no ea-
gerness in her face only a kind of dreamy thankfulness
until they were alone together, and then he called her
to his side.
"Hannah, it was not of your own will that you forsook
me?"
" No, no !"
"And you love me still ? You will not give me up even
after what has befallen us? You undei*stand? For an-
other year, at least, there is no hope of our being married."
"No."
" Isn't it sad and strange sad and strange," he contin-
ued, wistfully, as he lay on the sofa, she holding his hand,
for he was very feeble still. " Here are we two, with every
blessing under heaven youth, health, freedom, money
nothing in the world to prevent our being happy ; and yet
happy we can not be. I see no way out of it. Do you ?"
For a minute he looked as if he thought she might ; but
she shook her head, and kept her eyes down on the ground.
"Then the question is, what are we to do? I must go
home directly, but it must be without you. Lady Duns-
more tells me so, and I think she is right."
" I think so too."
"And parting from you, I must also part from my child.
You know I promised you I would never claim the child,
and I shall keep my word, though I shall miss her sorely.
Pretty little Rosie ! Still, I will give her up to you."
"Thank you."
And then, looking at him, the thanks seemed cruel he
was so worn, so weak, so joyless ; and it was such a joy-
less, empty life that he was going back to. He was bo
helpless, too the kind of man who always wants a wom-
an to take care of him to whom marriage is, domestical-
HANNAH. 257
ly, not merely a comfort but a necessity ; and all his little
weaknefiBes she knew all his innocent wants she was ac
CBStomed to supply.
**Oh,you don't know how I have missed you !'" said ho,
with an almost child-like complaining. ^^Homc has not
been like home since you went away. There was nobody
to do any thing for me, or, when they did it, they did it
wrong. Xobody like Hannah. When shall I have you
back again ?^
"When, indeed?"
"And now, when I was ill when, once or twice^ 1
thought I was dying, and could not get at you it was
8o hard. Will you promise" ^he lifted himself up and
elatched her hand tight " promise faithfully that, if I am
really dying, you will come to me, whatever the world says?"
"I will ;" and he saw by her face that she would. ** Hut
you must not die," she added, desperately ; " you must get
well as fast as ever you can. Ton must take the utmost
possible care of yourself, for Rosie's sake and mine Oh,
Bernard! once I told you to part from me and go and
marry another woman ; but I could not do it now."
He smiled, and tried to draw her closer to him ; but she
glanced at the door and shrank away.
" You don't care for me you are afraid of caring for
me," Bernard said, angrily.
" I ! not care for you !"
She wept ; and, overcome by the weakness of illness, ho
wept too. It was cruelly hard for them both as hard as
that most pathetic line in the ballad
''We took bat ae kiss, and we tore onrselves away."
But that " ae kiss " of theirs had no sin in it nothing but
sorrow.
" Hannah," implored he, " do not forsake me again. If
you knew what a lost creature I am without you to die
without you, or to live without you, is equally dreadful.
Can nothing be done ? Oh, my dearest I can nothing be
done T'
258 HANNAH.
His eyes were so sad, his looks so wan. Even this com-
'paratively trifling illness, following the long mental strain
which he must have midergone, had broken him down so
completely that Hannah was terrified. There came upon
her that mortal dread, which comes upon all who love, and
was most natural in her, who had lived to see the grave
close over all her nearest and dearest. What if, among
all their cares, the one care they never contemplated were
to happen ? What if Bernard were to fall into ill health,
to sicken and die, and she still parted from him ? What
if, instead of the long, lonely years which both had feared
so much, there should be allotted to one of them only a
brief space of earthly life, was that space to be spent in
separation ? Would it not be better to clutch at the van-
ishing joy to risk all things, and gain one another?
Under the agony of this fear, Hannah was near giving
way, and, whispering a word or two ofiering that fatal
sacrifice which, however he needs it and craves it, no wom-
an has a right to make to any man, not even though it
may be one which, as in this case, involves no moral guilt,
and concerning which her own conscience may be at ease
entirely. For the sacrifice is not hers alone. He too is
involved in it. Nor he only; but the solemn rights of
creatures yet unborn innocent beings who can not plead
and say, " Father, mother, why did you do this ? why en-
tail this misery upon us also ?"
Whether, noble and pure woman as she was, the moth-
erly heart in Hannah made her faintly hear those voices,
with a solemn prevision that no woman ought ever to blush
for or to set aside who knows ? but she hesitated. She
could not be the first to propose that marriage abroad
which secured nothing at home. Besides, so long as the
law was the law, it ought not to be broken.
While she hesitated, Bernard, who had lain silent and
thoughtful, said suddenly, in a rather changed tone the
" worldly " tone which she had sometimes remarked in
him, the faint reflex of what was so strong in the rest of
his family :
HAITNAH. 259
" Perhaps, after all, iny going back to my parish work
alone will be the most prudent course; for I may soon
have to make some change in it, and indeed in all my
outward surroundings. The girls told me that poor Aus-
tin has had another series of fits, worse than ever before.
Most likely I shall be Sir Bernard before very long."
He sighed ^but it was not a heart-deep sigh ; one could
not expect it to be ; and there was something in his look
which corresponded to that tone which always jarred upon
Hannah. No, "All for love, and the world well lost," was
not the creed of any Rivers ; if Bernard tried it, the loss
would not be by him quite unfelt. Would it by any man
brought up as he had been, and with the nobler half of
him never developed at all till he fell in love with poor
Rosa till he afterward walked into love, deeply, deliber-
ately, with such a woman as Hannah Thelluson ?
Hannah left her passionate words unsaid, and continued
their grave and anxious talk listening to all the plans he
made for her and Rosie, in which he showed the utmost
thoughtfulness and tenderness. The most likely scheme,
and one which Lady Dunsmore had herself suggested, was
that, as the young Ladies Dacre were going to the sea-
ride for a little, Hannah should accompany them, or rather
chaperone them, taking with her Rosie and Grace. This
would be a quiet life, and yet not a life quite shut out of
the world. No one could say she was " hiding."
" For you must not hide," Bernard argued ; " we must
not look as if we were ashamed of ourselves. And you
must be somewhere where I can get at you run down to
see my child, of course, whenever it is practicable. Still,
you are best a little out of the way too, and not going
much into society, for the thing is sure to ooze out."
" How ?"
"Oh, though my people pledged me to secrecy *for the
honor of the family,' I know what women's tongues are,"
said Bernard, bitterly. " Still they dare not say or do
much, seeing I shall be Sir Bernard some time ; and then
But however things end, I had rather, whatever may be
260 HANNAH.
the curiosity of the world about you, that it was not grati-
fied, but that you lived a rather secluded life. It is best,
especially considering how you stand with respect to my
family."
" I comprehend you. Yes."
" Oh, Hannah, have I said any thing to wound you ?
But I am placed, as it were, between two fires. What
can I do ?"
" Nothing. Nor L Fate is too much for us ; we had
better say good-by for a time. Give me the child and let
me go."
And at the moment she felt as if she did not care where
she went or what was done to her. It was all pain ; noth-
ing but pain. In her sad life all its natural delights
seemed turned into bitterness.
Bernard seized her hands "Tell me the whole truth.
Tell me all that is in your mind about me, or against me
which is it ?"
Another minute and she might have said, not at all the
tender words that a while ago she had meant to say, but
others quite opposite ^words which might have placed an
eternal barrier between her and the man she loved ; who,
after all, was only looking upon their position with a man's
eyes always harder and more worldly than a woman's.
But to save her the door opened, and there burst in,
with a cry of delight, her Rosie her " sunshiny child," as
she often called her. The little thing, who had been with
her papa every day for the last week, climbed upon him in
an ecstasy, then turned to Hannah.
" Tannic too. Tannic too ! Papa and Tannic kiss Rosie.
Both together !"
It was going back to the old ways ; childhood and age
are alike in clinging to old ways and resisting the small-
est change.
" You see," said Beniard, with a smile, " Rosie herself
insists upon things being as they used to be as they ought
to be. Rosie herself delights in us * both together.' "
Hannah said nothing ; but, clasping her darling, she laid
nxssAH. 261
her weight of secret pam upon the unconscioas, childish
bosom which was already the receptacle and the comfort
of half her woes.
" I will go any where, and do any thing that you and
Lady Dunsmore think best, if I may only have Rosie with
me. She'll come, I know ?" And Hannah curled round
her fingers the soft little ring of silky hair baby hair
which had never been cut, and which netted in its dainty
meshes all her motherly heart. " Who loves poor Tannie ?
Who's Tannie's darling ?"
"No ^papa's darling," said the child, with a pretty
waywardness, and then, relenting, came and laid her head
in her aunt's lap, repeating words which Hannah had for-
gotten ever having said to her, only she often murmured
her soul out over the little crib at night ; and Rosie's ob-
servation was growing so sharp, and her memory so clear.
"No papa's darling; Tannie's blessing!" Then with a
little silvery, mischievous laugh, " Blessed tild ! Rosio
blessed tild !"
Ay, she was a blessed child.
CHAPTER XV.
Alone, in a foreign land with only a child for com-
pany and a servant for protection, this, in the strange vi-
cissitudes of Hannah's life, was her position now. Acci-
dentally, rather than intentionally, for Lady Dunsmore
had taken all care of her, and meant her to be met at
Paris by Madame Arthenay, the lady to whom she sent
her, and who, with herself, was the accomplice of Hannah's
running away.
For she had literally " run away " ^by not only the con-
currence, but the compulsion of her faithful friend, who
saw that the strain was growing too hard to bear. Living
within reach of Bernard's visits, which were half a joy and
half a dread, exposed to the continual gossip of Easterham
262 HANNAH.
since, though the Moat House had entirely "cut" her,
some of the other houses did not, but continued by letter
a patronizing kindness most irritating above all, suffering
a painful inner warfare as to how far she was right in al-
lowing Bernard to come and see her, since every time he
came the cruel life of suspense he led seemed more and
more to be making him not merely wretched but some-
thing worse ; all these trials, in course of time, did their
work upon even the strong heart and healthy frame of
Hannah Thelluson.
" You are breaking down," said the countess, when one
day toward the summer's end she came to take her young
folks home. " This can not last. You must do as I once
suggested go quite away."
" I can not !" said Hannah, faintly smiling. " He would
not let me." For she felt herself gradually succumbing
to Bernard's impetuous will, and to the strength of a pas-
sion unto which impediments seemed to have given a force
and persistency that had changed his whole character.
" Not let you go away ? The tyrant ! Men are all ty-
rants, you know. Very well. Then you must run away."
" He will follow me as he once said he should wher-
ever I went."
" Indeed ! Quite right of him. Still, as I object to tyr-
anny, and as you will just now be much better without
him than with him, I mean to help you to run away."
"But the child! he will miss her so. And I must
have the child with me !"
" Of course. But do you think when a man is desper-
ately in love he troubles himself much about a child?
Hannah my dear old goose ! you will be a goose to the
end of your days. Go and cackle over your little gosling,
and leave me to manage every thing for you."
Hannah obeyed, for she had come to that pass when her
energies, and even her volition, seemed to have left her.
She submitted tacitly to the countess's plan, which was to
send her quito out of England to a distant French town,
Avranches, not easily reached, being beyond the limits of
HANNAH. 263
railways where resided a dear old friend of Lady Duus-
more's, of whom she had ofteu talked to Hannah one Ma-
dame Arthenay.
" She will be the best protection you could have, for she
herself married her sister's husband, as is constantly done
in France ; so no need of concealment, my dear. I shall
just tell her every thing. And you need not mind even if
Mr. Rivers does swoop down upon you some day after
his fashion. But he can't Avranches is too far off. Nor
-will I let him, if I can help it. I shall tell him he must
leave you in peace, to regain your strength and quiet your
nerves. Good-by now, and God bless you !"
The good countess, as she made this hurried farewell on
board the French steamboat, left them. Almost before
Hannah knew where she was, or what she had consented
to, she found herself alone with Rosie and Grace. Lady
Dunsmore did not say what deeper reason she had for thus
effecting a temporary separation, sudden and complete,
between the lovers, even though it involved what she call-
ed the " kidnapping " of little Rosie. Knowing the world,
and the men therein, a good deal better than her friend
did, she foreboded for Hannah a blow heavier than any
yet. That hapless elder brother, the present Sir Austin,
wag said to be in a dying state ; and for Sir Bernard Riv-
ers of the Moat House, the last representative of so long
a line, to contract an illegal marriage, in which his wife
would be shut out of society, and his children held by law
as illegitimate, was a sacrifice at which the most passion-
ate lover might well hesitate. While, under these, or any
circumstances, for him to doom himself for life to celibacy,
was scarcely to be expected.
Lady Dunsmore had come to know Mr. Rivers pretty
well by this time. She liked him extremely as most
women did but her liking did not blind her to a convic-
tion, founded on a certain Scotch proverb: "As the auld
cock craws, the young cock leamfii' that, when he was
put to the crucial test, the world and^s own family might
be too strong for Sir Bernard. Theretofe, on all accounts.
264 HAHTNAH.
she was glad at this time to get Hannah out of the way.
But her plans, too hastily formed, somehow miscarried;
for at Paris her two friends contrived to miss one another.
When Miss Thelluson reached Avranches, it was to find
Madame Arthenay away, and herself quite alone in that
far-away place, with only Grace and the child.
At first this loneliness was almost pleasant. Ever since
crossing the Channel she had felt lulled into a kind of stu-
por: the strange peace of those who have cut the cable
between themselves and home, left all their burdens be-
hind, and drifted away into what seems like *' another and
a better world." During her few days of traveling she
had been conscious only of a sunshiny sky and smiling
earth, of people moving about her with lively tongues and
cheerful faces. Every thing was entirely new, for she had
never been abroad oefore ; and whether the land was
France or Paradise did not much matter. She had her
child beside her, and that was enough.
She had Grace too. Many a servant is, in trouble, al-
most better than a friend, because a servant is silent
Grace was, even to a fault. Trouble had hardened her
sorely. Even when, a few months before, the last blow
had fallen, the last tie was broken between her and Jem
Dixon for their child had died poor Grace had said
only, " It is best. My boy might have grown up to blame
his mother for his existence." Words which, when Han-
nah heard, made her shiver in her inmost soul.
That the girl knew perfectly well her mistress's position
with respect to Mr. Rivers, was evident. When he came,
the nurse abstained from intruding upon them, and kept
other intruders away, in a manner which, though not ob-
noxiously shown, occasionally touched, sometimes vexed,
but always humiliated, Hannah. Still, in her sad circum-
stances, she was glad to have the protection of even this
dumb watch-dog of a faithful servant.
Grace seemed greatly relieved when the sea rolled be-
tween them and England. " It would take a good bit of
time and trouble for any body to come after us here," said
HANNAH. 265
she, as they climbed the steep hill on the top of which sits
the lovely tower of Avranches, and looked back on the
long line of straight road, miles upon miles, visible through
the green, woody country, which they had traversed in
driving from Granville. "It feels quite at the world's
end ; and, unless folk knew where we were, they might as
well seek after a needle in a hay-rick. A good job, too !"
muttered she, with a glance at the worn face of her dear
mistress, who faintly smiled.
"Nobody does know our whereabouts exactly, Grace.
We have certainly done what I often in my youth used to
long to do run away, and left no address."
" I'm glad of it, ma'am. Then you'll have a good long
rest."
She had, but in an unexpected way. They found Ma-
dame Arthenay absent, and her little house shut up.
" We must take refuge in the hotel," said Hannah, with
a weary look. " It seems a pleasant place to lie down and
rest in."
It was; and for a few hours she lingered about with
Rosie in the inn garden a green, shady, shut-in nook,
with only a stray tourist or two sitting reading on its
benches ; full of long, low espaliers, heavy with Norman-
dy pears. There were masses of brilliant autumn flowers,
French and African marigolds, zinnias, and so on treas-
ures that the child kept innocently begging for, with a pre-
cocious enjoyment of the jingle of rhyme. " Give me pret-
ty posie, to stick in Rosie 'ittle bosie !" Hannah roused
herself once or twice, to answer her little girl, and explain
that the flowers were not hers to gather, and that Rosie
must be content with a stray daisy or two, for she never
exacted blind obedience where she could find a reason in-
telligible to the little awakening soul. But when, after a
tear or two, Rosie submitted to fate, and entreated Tannic
to " come with Rosie find daisies lots of daisies !" Aunt
Hannah also succumbed,
" Tannic can't come ; she must go to her bed, my dar-
ling. Poor Tannic is so tired."
M
266 HANNAH.
And for the first time in her life she went to bed before
the child, laying her head down on the pillow with a feel-
ing as if it would be a comfort never to lift it up any
more.
After these ensued days three or four of which she
never liked to speak much afterward. She lay in a nerv-
ous fever, utterly helpless ; and when, had it not been for
the few words of French which Grace was able to recall
the Misses Melville having amused themselves once with
teaching her and the quickness, intelligence, and tender-
heartedness of the inn-servants good, simple Frenchwom-
en, with the true womanly nature which is the same all
the world over things would have gone hard with Han-
nah Thelluson.
More than once, vague and wandering as her thoughts
were, she bitterly repented having " run away ;" thereby
snatching Rosie from her natural protector, and carrying
her off into these strange lands, whence, perhaps, she might
never be able to bring her back, but herself lie down to
rise up no more. But by-and-by even this vain remorse
vanished, and she was conscious of thinking about nothing
beyond the roses on the chintz bed-curtains and the pat-
tern of the paper-hangings birds of paradise, with their
sweeping tails ; the angle which the opposite house made
against the sky, the curious shape of its tiling, and the
name of the Boutiquier inscribed thereon, the first few
letters of which were cut off by her window-ledge. So
childish had her mind grown, so calmly receptive of all
that happened, however extraordinary, that when one day
a kind-looking, elderly lady came into her room, and began
talking in broken English to Grace and the child, and to
herself, in the sweetest French she ever heard, Hannah ac-
cepted the fact at once, and took scarcely more than half
a day to get quite accustomed to Madame Arthenay.
She was one of those women, of which France may
boast so many, as unlike our English notion of a French-
woman as the caricatures of John Bull who strut about on
the French stage are like a real Briton. Feminine, do-
HANNAH. 267
mestic though, after having brought up two families, her
sister's and her own, she now lived solitary in her pretty
little nest of a house ; a strict, almost stern Protestant ;
pure alike in act, and thoughts, and words you would
hardly have believed she was born in the same land or
came of the same race as the women who figure in modem
French novels, or who are met only too often in modern
Parisian society. As Grace said of her after she had gone,
** Ma'am, I don't care how often she comes to see you, or
how long she stays. She doesn't bother me one bit. She's
just like an Englishwoman."
Which Madame Arthenay certainly was not, and
would have smiled at the narrow-judging, left-handed
compliment. But she was a noble type of the noblest bit
of womanly nature, which is the same, or nearly the same,
in all countries. No wonder Lady Dunsmore loved her,
or that, as she prophesied, Hannah loved her too in a
shorter time than she could have thought it possible to
love any stranger, and a foreigner likewise.
" Strangers and foreigners, so we each are to one anoth-
er," said the French lady early one morning, after she had
sat up all night with Hannah to give Grace a rest. "And
yet we do not feel so ; do we ? I think it is because we
belong to the same kingdom the kingdom of God."
For underneath all her gayety and lightness of heart,
Madame Arthenay was a very religious woman as, she
told Hannah, " we Protestants " generally were ; thorough-
ly domestic and home-loving likewise.
*' It is a mistake to suppose that we French all fall in
love with one another's wives and husbands, or that we
compel our children to make cruel manages de conve-
nance^ as you English fancy we do. My sister's was a
love-marriage, like mine, and all my children's were. You
would find us not so very different from yourselves if you
once came and settled among us. Suppose you were to
try."
So said she, looking kindly at her; but though, as both
knew, she had been told every thing, this was the first
268 HANNAH.
time Madame Arthenay had made any allusion to Miss
Thelluson's future or her own past. Besides, they did not
talk very much, she speaking chiefly in French, which
Hannah found it an effort to follow. But she loved to
read the cosmopolitan language of the sweet eyes, to ac-
cept the good offices of the tender, skillful, useful hands.
Years afterward, when all its bitterness, and pain, and ter-
ror had died out, the only thing she remembered about
that forlorn illness in a far-away French town was the
kindness of all the good French people about her, and es-
pecially of Madame Arthenay.
But when she was convalescent, Hannah's heart woke
up from the stupor into which it had fallen. She wanted
to get well all in a minute, that she might have back her
little Rosie, who had been spirited away from her by those
compassionate French mothers, and was turning into un^
petite Franpaise as fast as possible. Above all, she craved
for news from home : it was a fortnight now since she had
had one word one line. She did not wish nay, she
dreaded to have a letter from Bernard ; but she would
have liked to hear of him how he took the news of her
flight, whether he was angry with her, and whether he
missed his child. But no tidings came, and she did not
want to write till she was better. Besides, Madame Ar-
thenay took all the writing things away.
" You are my slave, my captive. Madame la Comtesse
exacts it," said she, in her pretty French, " You are not
to do a single thing, nor to stir out of your room until I
give you leave, which will likely be to-morrow. And now
I must bid you adieu, as I have a friend coming who will
stay the whole day. Could you rest here quiet, do you
think, and spare me an hour of Grace and Rosie ? I
should like to show my friend the little English rose."
Hannah promised vaguely, and was left alone to study,
as heretofore, the flowers on the chintz and the long-tailed
birds on the wall. She was getting very weary of her im-
prisonment she who had never before been confined to
her room for a whole week. It was a lovely day; she
HANNAH. 269
knew that by the bit of intensely blue sky behind the
house-tiles opposite, and the soft, sweet air that, together
with the cheerful street noises of a foreign town, entered
in at the open window. A longing to " rise up and walk"
came over her to go out and see what could be seen ;
above all, to catch a glimpse of that glorious view which
she had noticed in coming up the hill the sea view, with
Mont St. Michel in the distance ; that wonderful rock cas-
tle, dedicated to her favorite angel (in the days when she
was a poetical young lady she always had a statue of him
in her room), St. Michael, the angel of high places, the an-
gel who fights against wrong.
It was a vagary, more like a school-girl than a grown
woman ; but Hannah could not help it. She felt she must
go out must feel the fresh air and sunshine, and try if
she could walk, if there was any remnant of health and
strength left in her ; for she would need both so much.
She was already dressed, for she had insisted upon it.
Searching for her bonnet and shawl, and smiling with a
pathetic pleasure to find she really could walk pretty well
also wondering, with childish amusement, as to whether,
if Grace met her, she would not take her for a ghost Han-
nah stole down through the quiet hotel, and out into the
street that picturesque street of Avranches which leads
toward the public gardens, and the spot where, within six
square feet, is piled up the poor remnant of its once splen-
did cathedral.
Madame Arthenay had described it, and the various
features of the town, during the gentle, flowing, unexcit-
ing conversation which she pertinaciously kept up by the
invalid's bedside ; so Hannah easily found her way thith-
er, tottering a little at first, but soon drinking in the life-
giving stimulus of that freshest, purest air, blowing on a
hill-top from over the sea. All her life Hannah had loved
high places ; they feel nearer heaven somehow, and lift one
above the petty pains and groveling pleasures of this mor-
tal life. Even now, weak as she was, she was conscious
of a sensation of pleasure, as if her life were not all done.
270 HANNAH.
She wandered about, losing her way, and finding it again ;
or amusing herself by asking it of those kindly, courte-
ous French folk, who, whenever they looked in her face,
stopped, and softened their voices, as if they knew she had
been ill and in trouble. One of them a benign-looking
old gentleman, taking the air with his old wife, just like
an English Darby and Joan civilly pointed out to her the
Jardin des Plantes as being a charming place to walk in,
where madame would find easy benches to repose herself
upon, and a sea-view, with Mont St. Midiel in it, that was
truly " magnifique." Madarae's own beautiful island could
furnish nothing finer. Hannah smiled, amused at the im-
possibility of passing for any thing but an Englishwoman,
in spite of her careful French, and went thither.
It was a beautiful spot. Sick souls and weary bodies
might well repose themselves there, after the advice of the
good little fat Frenchman how fat Frenchmen do grow
sometimes ! The fine air was soft as cream and strong as
wine, and the cloudless sunshine lay round about like a
flood, over land and sea the undulating sweep of forest
country on the right hand, and on the left the bay, with
its solitary rock fortress, prison, monastery about which
Madame Arthenay, in her charming small-talk, so fitted for
a sick-room, had told stories without end.
Involuntarily, Hannah sat and thought of them now,
and not of her own troubles : these seemed to have slipped
away, as they often do in a short, sharp illness, and she
woke refreshed, as after a night's sleep, able to assume
again the burden of the day. Only she lay and medi-
tated, as one does before rising, in a dreamy sort of way,
in which her old dreams came back to her. Looking at
that lonely rock, she called up the figure of her saint the
favorite St. Michael of her girlhood, with his head bent for-
ward and his sweet mouth firmly set; his hands leaning
on his sword, ready to fight, able even to avenge, but yet
an angel always; and there came into her that saving
strength of all beaten-down, broken-hearted creatures, the
belief alas ! often so faint that God does sometimes send
271
hiB messengers to figbt against wrong; not merely to suc-
cor, bat absolatelT to fi^ht.
" Xo, I will not die ^not quite yet,^ she said to herself,
as, in this far-distant nook of Gvod^s earth, which seemed
to have his smile perpetoallT npon it, she thought of her
own ngland, made homeless to her through trouble, and
bitter with persecution. " Oh, that I had the wings of a
dove ! Here, perhaps, I might find rest. But still I will
not die : they shall not kill me. They may take my char-
acter away they may make him forsake me, as I dare say
he will ; but I have strength in my soul nevertheless. And
I will fight against their cruelty ^I will protest to the last
that I had a right to love him, a right to marry him ; that
it would have been the best thing for him, for me, and the
child. Oh, my Bernard ! there is a deal of the angel in
you ; but if there were more of the St. Michael if, instead
of submitting to wrong, you could take up your sword
and hew it down But you can not. I know, when the
time comes, you will forsake me. But still still I shall
have the child."
Thus sighed she ; and then, determined to sigh no more,
to complain no more, to any living creature, but to do her
best to get health and strength of body and mind, Hannah
rose up from the heap of stones where she had been sit-
ting. With one fond look at that glorious picture which
lay below her earth, sea, and sky, equally beautiful, and
blending together in the harmony which soothes one's
soul into harmony too she turned her steps home-
ward ; that is, " chez elle," for to poor Hannah Thelluson
there was not ^would there ever be? such a thing as
home.
As she went, she saw a figure coming toward her, walk-
ing rapidly, and looking round as if searching for some
one. Had it been possible or, rather, had not the ex-
treme improbability of such a thing made her stop a min-
ute, and draw her hand across her eyes, to make sure that
imagination was not playing her false she should have
Bidd it was Bernard.
272 HANNAH.
He saw her likewise; and the tifo ghosts ^for strangely
ghostly they both looked to one another's eyes met.
" Hannah ! how could you ^"
" Bernard ! oh, Bernard !"
She was so glad to see him ^he could not help finding
it out ; nor did she try to hide it she was too weak. She
clung to his arm, her voice choking, her tears falling fast
tears of pure helplessness, and of joy also. He had not
forsaken her.
" How could you run away in this manner ? We have
been searching for you ^Madame Arthenay, Grace, and I
^for hours."
" Not quite hours," said she, smiling at last. " It was
fully one o'clock when I left my room. Was that what
you meant by my running away?" For she was half
afraid of him, gentle as he seemed, and wished to have the
worst over at once.
Bernard shook his head.
" I can not scold you now. I am only too happy to see
you once again, my darling."
He had never called her so before ; indeed, she was the
sort of woman more to be honored and loved in a quiet,
silent way than fondled over with caressing words. Still,
the tenderness was very sweet to have sweeter because
she felt so miserably weak.
" How did you find me out ?" she said, as they walked
up the town. And it seemed as if now, for the first time,
they were free to walk together, with no cruel eyes upon
them, no backbiting tongues pursuing them.
" How did I find you ? Why, I tracked you like a Red
Indian, Of course I should ^to the world's end ! What
else did you expect, I wonder ?"
Hannah hardly knew what she had expected what
feared. In truth, she was content to bask in the present,
with"a passionate eagerness of enjoyment which those only
know who have given up the future hopelessly and en-
tirely.
In the course of the day she grew so rapidly better that,
HANNAH. 21 S
when Bernard proposed going, for an hour or two, to the
house of Madame Arthenay, she assented. He seemed
quite at home there "flirted" with the sweet old French
lady in the most charming manner. He had been with
her since yesterday, she said, and was indeed the " friend"
to whom she wished to show the little English Rose,
" Monsieur speaks French like a Frenchman, as he ought,
having been at school at Caen, he tells me, for two years.
He does credit to his Norman blood."
Which Madame Arthenay evidently thought far supe-
rior to any thing Saxon, and that the great William had
done us Britons the greatest possible honor in condescend-
ing to conquer us. But Hannah would not smile at the
dear old lady, whom, she saw, Bernard liked extremely.
Soon they settled, amicably and gayly, to the most de-
licious of coffee and the feeblest of tea, in Madame Arthe-
nay's cottage a series of rooms all on the ground-floor,
and all opening into one another and into the garden sa-
lon, salle-2t-manger, two bed-chambers, and a kitchen, half
of which was covered by a sort of loft, up which the one
servant a faithful old soul, who could do any thing and
put up with any thing mounted of nights to her bed : a
mknage essentially French, with not a fragment of wealth
or show about it, but all was so pretty, so tasteful, so suit-
able. It felt like living in a bird's nest, with green leaves
outside and moss within a nest one could live in like the
birds, as innocently and merrily a veritable bit of Arca-
dia. Mr. Rivers said so.
"Ah, you should come and live among us," said Ma-
dame Arthenay. " In this our Normandy, though we may
be a century behind you in civilization, I sometimes think
we are a century nearer than you are to the long-past
Golden Age. We lead simpler lives, we honor our fathers
and mothers, and look after our children ourselves. Then,
too, our servants are not held so wide apart from us as
you hold yours. Old Jeanne, for instance, is quite a friend
of mine."
" So is Grace," Hannah said.
M2
214 HANNAH.
"Ah, yes; poor Grace! she one day told me her story."
And then, turning suddenly to Bernard, " I assure you, we
are very good people here in Normandy. You might like
us if you knew us. Monsieur Rivers, why not come among
us and resume the old name, and be Monsieur de la Ri-
viere ?"
Bernard started, looked earnestly at her, to see if any
deeper meaning lurked under her pleasantry.
" Take care," he said ; " many a true word is spoken in
jest." And then he suddenly changed the conversation
and asked about an old Chateau de Saint Roque, which
some one had told him was well worth seeing, and might
be seen easily, as it was on sale.
" I know the present owner, a Lyons merchant, finds it
dull. He bought it from the last propri^taire, to whom it
had descended in a direct line, people say, ever since the
Crusades ; and such a curious coincidence, monsieur
the family were named De la Riviere. Who knows but
you may be revisiting the cradle of your ancestors ? If
Miss Thelluson is able, you ought certainly to go and
see it."
Bernard assented, and all was soon arranged. He was
in one of his happiest moods, Hannah saw. He, like her-
self, felt the influence of the sunshiny atmosphere, within
and without, in this pleasant nook of pleasant France the
distance from home sorrows, the ease and freedom of in-
tercourse with Madame Arthenay, who knew every thing
and blamed nothing. When, next day, they all met, and
drove together across the smiling country, amusing them-
selves with the big blue-bloused Norman peasant, who
kept cracking his long whip and conversing with his
hoi*ses in shrill patois that resounded even above the jin-
gle of their bells, Hannah thought she had seldom, in all
the time they had known one another, seen him looking
so gay.
Saint Roque was one of those chateaux of which there
are many in Normandy, built about the time of the Cru-
sades half mansion, half fortress. It was situated in a
UANNAII. i^Jv
little valley, almost English in its charaotor, ttiih iY^j-
cows basking in the meadows, and black Wm^ --- ^siKJk
blackberries as little Rosie screamed at with doU^hi^ iJ^^y
were so large and fine hanging on the hodjyi^s^ wul hift-
eysuckle, sweet as English honeysuckle, porfluuiujit ^v^tjr
step of the road. Suddenly they came \ipou thi* miui^^
ture mediaeval castle, with its four towcre rclUctc\l iw iW
deep clear water of the moat, which they ci\wo\l by 41
draw-bridge and then were all at once carried ft\^u \^Kl
romance to modem comfort, but piotui^cBquc HtilK
Hannah thought she had never seen a nwootor |^l^c\
"I only wish I were rich and couUl buy \U \ \\\\\\k 1
could live content here all my dayn," paid nhc to tho lj^-
ons merchant's wife, whom Madame Arthonny kucw^ \t
who, with her black-eyed boy clinging to lior ^owi^ \\(s-
litely showed her every thing.
"Did you mean what you said?" whispoivd HonmiM)
eagerly. And then he drew back, and, without wnllln|;t
for her answer, began talking to Madame Arlhonay.
That night, when he took them safe to the hotel dooi\
he detained Hannah, and asked her if nhe would not come
round the garden with him in the moonlight.
"The air is soft as a summer night; it will do you no
harm. We may have no better chance of talk, and 1 want
to speak to you."
Tet for many minutes he said nothing. The night wan
so still, the garden so entirely deserted, that they seemed
to have for once the world to themselves. In this far-
away spot it felt as if they had left all the bitterness of
their life behind them as if they had a right to be lovers,
and to treat one another as such. Bernard put his arm
round her as they sat ; and though there was a solemnity
in his caresses, and a tender sadness in her reception of
them which marked them as people who had known sor-
row, very different from boy and girl lovers, still love was
very sweet implying deep content, thankful rest.
"Hannah," he said at last, "I have never yet scolded
you properly for your running away with Lady Duns-
276 HANNAH.
more aiding and abetting you. She would scarcely tell
me where you were, until I hinted that, as a father, I had
a right to get possession of my child. Why did you do
such a thing ? You must never do it again."
She laughed, but said nothing. In truth, they were both
too happy for either anger or contrition.
" Dearest," he whispered, " we must be married. I
shall never have any rest till you are wholly and lawfully
mine."
" Oh, Bernard ! if that could ever be !"
" It shall be. I have been talking to Madame Arthenay
about it, as Lady Dunsmore charged me to do. She loves
you well, Hannah ; and the dear old French lady loves
you too already. Every body loves you, and would like
to see you happy."
" Happy !" And it seemed as if happiness would never
come any nearer to her than now, when she sat as if in a
dream, and watched the moon sailing over the sky, just as
she had done in her girlhood and ever since, only now she
was lonely no more, but deeply and faithfully loved ; lov-
ing, too, as she never thought it was in her to love any
man. " Happy ! I am so happy now that I almost wish
I could die."
"Hush!" Bernard said, with a shiver. "Come down
from the clouds, my love, and listen to me to my plain,
rough common sense, for two minutes."
Then he explained that the jest about his becoming
Monsieur de la Riviere was not entirely a jest that in
talking with Madame Arthenay she had told him how,
upon giving notice to the French Government, and re-
siding three years in France, he would become a natural-
ized French citizen, enjoying all the benefits of French
laws, including that which, by obtaining a "dispensation"
seldom or never refused legalizes marriage with a de-
ceased wife's sister. And such a marriage, Madame Ar-
thenay believed, being contracted by them in the charac-
ter of French subjects, would be held legal any where, as
her own had been.
HANNAH. 277
A futare, tbe bare cbance of wbicb made Ilannab feel
like a new creature. To be Bernard's bappy, bonored
wife, Rosie'S rigbtful motber ; to enter joyfully upon tbat
life wbicb to every bome- loving woman is tbe utmost
craving of ber nature ; sbe could bardly believe it true,
or tbat, if possible, it bad not been tbougbt of before
until a sadder tbougbt occurred to ber.
" Wbat does ' naturalization ' mean? Becoming a Frencli-
man?'*
" Yes ; also, tbat I must * cbange my domicile,' as law-
yers call it, publicly and permanently let it be clearly
known tbat I never mean to live in England again."
" Never again ! That would involve giving up much.
How mucb ?"
" Every tbing !" he answered, bitterly. " Home, friends,
profession, position; all the ambitions I ever bad in my
life, and I have had some. Still," added he was it ten-
derly or only kindly ? as if be feared ho had hurt her,
"still, Hannah, I should have you."
" Yes," said Hannah, and fell into deep thought.
How much is a woman to a man say, the noblest wom-
an to the best and truest man ? How far can she replace
to him every tbing, supply every thing ? A great deal,
no doubt ; and men in love say she can do all. But is it
true ? Does after-experience prove it true ? And it muRt
be remembered that in this case the woman's cxpericnco
of the man was close, domestic more like that which
comes after marriage than before. She knew Mr. Kivcrs
perfectly well as a brother before she ever thought of him
as any tbing else. Loving him, she loved him open-eyed,
seeing all his weak as well as bis strong points as clearly
as he saw hers.
Hannah was neither an over-conceited nor an over-hum-
ble person. She knew perfectly well her own deserts and
requirements Bernard's too. She was well aware tbat
the ties of bome, of kindred, of old associations, were with
bim passionately strong. Also, tbat be was, as he said,
an ambitions man tbat the worid bad a larger place in
278 HANNAH.
his heart than it had ever had in hers. She began to
tremble.
" Tell me," said she, " tell me the exact truth. Do you
think you could do this ? Would it not be a sacrifice so
painful, so diflScult, as to be almost impossible ?"
" You are right," he answered in a low voice, and turn-
ing his head away ; " I fear it would be impossible."
Hannah knew it, and yet she wished he had not said it.
To her, with her ideal of love, nothing, except sin, would
ever have been found impossible.
Tliey sat silent a while. Then Bernard, assuming a
cheerful tone, continued
"But, my dearest, there is a medium course. Why
should we not, without being absolutely naturalized, take
up our abode in France, where such marriages as ours are
universally recognized ? We might live here the greater
part of the year, and only go to England occasionally.
Even then we need not mingle in English society. The
curate I have lately taken would be left in charge of my
parish, so that I need scarcely ever go to Easterham."
" That means," said Hannah, slowly, " that you could
never take me to Easterham. Our marriage, after all,
would be like the other foreign marriages of which we
have spoken, which at home are no marriages at all.
Abroad, I might be held as your wife; in England, I
should be only "
" No, no, no !" broke in Bernard, impetuously, " do not
wound me by the cruel word. It is not true. People
could not be so harsh, so wicked. And if they were, why
need we care, when our own consciences are satisfied?
Oh, my love, my love, why can not we be happy ? Is it
not right to be happy in this short, sad life of ours, which
may end at any time ? Besides," and his voice altered so
that Hannah scarcely knew it, " you are not aware what
harm you are doing me. This suspense drives me nearly
wild. I can settle to nothing, accomplish nothing. My
life is wasting away. I am growing a worse man every
day ; more unworthy of you, of my child, of" hero he
HAXXAH. 279
Stopped and looked upward solemnly " of her Trliom I
never forget, my child's mother. Oh, EEannah, listen to
me this once, this last time. Here, where it can so easily
be done, marry me. For Grod's sake marry me and at
once V^
It was an awful straggle. Worse even than that which
she had gone through when he was ill, and of which he
never knew. The questions she had put to herself then
she repeated now arguing them over and over with a
resolute will, that tried to judge every thing impartially,
and not with relation to herself at all. Other arguments,
too, came back upon her mind, arguments belonging to the
great conflict of her youth, of which this one seemed to be
such a cruel repetition with a difierence. For the mar*
riage with her cousin would have risked only physical
evils, but no moral sufiering or social disgrace to any hu-
man being ; while this marriage, which the law would nev-
er recognize as such, risked much more. All her father
had then said to her her dear dead father, so tender and
wise of the rights of the unborn generation, of the cruel-
ty of entailing upon them the penalty of our joy, if that
can be true joy which is so dearly bought seemed to re-
turn word by word, and burn themselves into her brain.
With Rosie, even, it might one day be a diflSculty when
the young grown-up girl came to discover that her father's
wife was not really his wife, but only regarded as such out
of courtesy or pity. And what if Kosio should not al-
ways be the only child ?
Sitting there, Hannah shuddered like a person in an
ague ; and then all feeling seemed to leave her, as if she
were a dead woman, unconscious of the living arms that
were trying to warm her into living life.
" You are agitated, my own love !" Bernard whispered.
''Take time; do not answer me quickly. Think it well
over before you answer at all."
"I have thought it over," said she, looking mournfully
in his face, and clinging to his hands, as those cling who
know they are putting away from them every happincm
280 HANNAH.
of this world. " Not now only, but many a time before, I
have asked myself the same question, and found the same
answer. No, Bernard, for God's sake, as you say, which
includes all other sakes, I will not marry you."
Perhaps they ought to have parted then and there
Hannah thought afterward it had been better if they had ;
kinder to him and to herself if she had fled away on the
spot, nor remained to have to endure and to remember
those bitter words which miserable people speak in haste,
and which are so very hard to be forgotten afterward
words which are heard afterward like ghostly voices in
the silence of separation, making one feel that a parting,
if it must be, had better be like an execution one blow,
severing soul and body; then nothingness.
That nothingness, that quiet death, that absence of all
sensation, which she had felt more than once in her life, af-
ter great anguish, would have been bliss itself to the feel-
ing which came over her when, having pleaded his utmost,
and reproached her his worst, Bernard rose up, to part from
her in the soft moonlight of that pleasant garden, as those
part who never mean to meet again.
" My wife you must be or nothing," he had said, pas-
sionately, and she had answered with an icy conviction
that it must be so that it had best be so. " Yes, that is
true a wife or nothing." And then the lurking "devil"
which we all have in us, liable to be roused on occasion,
was roused, and she said a few words which, the next min-
ute, she would have given worlds to have left unsaid. For
the same minute there came to him, put into his hands by
Madame Arthenay's Jeanne, a letter, an English letter,
with a broad black edge.
Bernard took it with a start not of sorrow exactly,
but of shocked surprise.
" I must go homo at once. In truth, I ought never to
have left home; but I thought of nothing, remembered
nothing, except you, Hannah. And this is how you have
requited me."
" Hush, and read your letter."
HAISTNAH. 281
She dared not look over his shoulder and read it with
him dared not even inquire what the sorrow was which
she had now no right to share.
Nor did he tell it ; but, folding up the letter, stood in
deep thought for a minute or two, then turned to her cold-
ly, as coldly as if she had been any stranger lady, to whom
lie gave the merest courtesy which ladyhood demanded
from a gentleman no more.
" I must beg you to make my excuses to Madame Ar-
thenay, and tell her that I am summoned home I can
hardly say unexpectedly, and yet it feels so. Death al-
ways feels sudden at last."
He put his hand over his eyes, as if he were trying to
realize something, to collect himself after some great
shock. Hannah said a broken word or two of regret, but
he repelled them at once.
" No ; this death needs no condolence. It is no sorrow
if death ever is a sorrow so bitter as life, which I begin
to doubt. But it alters every thing for me, and for Rosie.
Poor Austin is gone I am Sir Bernard Rivers."
Was there pride in his tone that hard, bitter pride
which so often creeps into a heart from which love has
been ruthlessly driven ? Hannah could not tell ; but when
they parted, as they did a few minutes after, coldly shak-
ing hands like common acquaintances, she felt that it was
really a parting, such an one as they had never had be-
fore; a separation of souls, which in all this world might
never be united again.
CHAPTER XVI.
" This is the end the end of all."
So Hannah said to herself when Bernard had left, and
she realized that they had truly parted parted in anger
and coldness, after many bitter words spoken on both sides.
She repeated it, morning after morning, as days went wea-
rily by ; and no letter came ^he who was always so punc-
282 HANNAH.
tual in writing. Evidently, then, he meant the parting to
be final. He had thrust her entirely out of his new life,
in which she could henceforward have no part or lot.
This, under the circumstances, was so inevitable, that at
first she scarcely blamed him. She only blamed herself
for not having long ago foreseen that out of their utterly
false position no good end could come no end but that,
indeed, which had come. She had lost him in every rela-
tion as lover as brother even as- friend. It was sure
to be sooner or later ; and yet when the blow did fell,
it was a very heavy one ; and many times a day she bent
under the weight of it in complete abandonment of sor-
row.
Not for long, however; women with children can not
afford to grieve for long. The very first morning, when
she had to explain to Rosie that papa was gone away
home, and would not come back again for a good while
(she did it in Grace's presence, who opened wide eyes, but
said nothing), there was something in the bright face of
her " sunshiny child " which soothed her pain. And when,
in the strange way that children say the most opportune
as well as inopportune things, Rosie sidled up to her, whis-
pering, "Tannic not going away and leave Rosie ^Tan-
nic never leave Rosie," she clasped her to her breast in a
passion of tenderness, which was only checked by Rosie's
distressed discovery of "Tannic tying."
Of course Tannic immediately dried her eyes, and cried
no more in the child's sight, at any rate.
Nor in any body's sight, for she was one of those who
find it not only best but easiest, to " die and make no sign."
Uncovering her wounds would only have made them bleed
the more. Besides, what good would it have done ? What
help could come ? Unless the law was altered, the only
possibility of marriage for her and Bernard lay in that
course which Madame Arthenay had suggested, and which
he, with his strong English feeling, and the intensity of all
his home affections and associations, had at once set aside
as "impossible;" and, knowing him as she did, Hannah
HANNAH. 283
agreed that it was impossible. But she would not have
him judged or criticised by others who knew him less than
she. If there was one little sore place in her heart, she
would plaster it over ^hide it until it was healed.
Therefore, when Madame Arthenay came as usual, she
delivered, in carefully-planned phrases, the message Sir Ber-
nard had left ; and though the good old lady looked sur-
prised, and evidently guessed no woman with common
womanly penetration could help guessing that something
painful had happened ; still, as Hannah said nothing, she
inquired nothing, but gave, with a tact and delicacy that
won her new friend's love for her whole future life, the best
sympathy that even old friends can give sometimes the
sympathy of silence.
They fell back into their old ways, and after a few days,
this brief, bright visit of Sir Beraard's might never have
been, so completely did it cease to be spoken of. Some-
times, in the midst of her innocent play, little Rosie would
make a passing reference to " papa," which Aunt Hannah
answered with a heart that first leaped wildly, and then
sank down, aching with a dull, continual pain. Evident-
ly, not even for his child's sake would Sir Bernard write
to her or have any thing to do with her. He had pushed
out of his new and prosperous life not only her, but poor
Rosie, whom he had left without asking for one good-
by kiss. Even the father in him was destroyed by his
wretched position with regard to herself, and would be
more and more so as time went on. Perhaps it was bet-
ter, even for that, that the end had come that there could
be no doubt as to their future relations any more.
She thought so she forced herself to think so when at
last the long-expected letter arrived. It was very brief;
and he used to write whole sheets to her every week!
And upon its courteously formal tone could be put but
one interpretation.
" My dear Hannah, I send the usual monthly check
doubled, that you and my daughter may have every lux-
284 HANNAH.
ury that Avranches affords, and which, indeed, my new
circumstances make desirable and necessary.
" If you do not dislike the place, I should like you to
winter there ; and, with the friendship and protection of
good Madame Arthenay, to try and make it your home
as much home as you can.
" I will say no more at present, being fully occupied
with family affairs, and with others which time will dis-
close, but of which I do not wish to speak till they are
more matured. In the mean time I remain always your
sincere friend, Bebnaed Rivers."
That was all. No anger, no reproaches, no love. No,
not a particle of either lover's love or brother's love of
all that she had become so used to, gradually growing and
growing, that how she should live on without it she did
not know. Kind he was, kind and thoughtful still it
was his nature, he could not be otherwise but all per-
sonal feeling seemed obliterated. It often happens so
with men at least Hannah had heard of such things
when thwarted passion suddenly cools down, like red-hot
iron under a stream of water, and hardens into something
totally unlike its old self, the impress of which it ever af-
ter retains. This is the only way of accounting for many
things especially for one thing which women can not
understand that sudden marriage after a disappointed
love, which is so common and so fatal.
Evidently he could not forgive her; could not restore
her to even her old sisterly place with him. He had
dropped her as completely out of his life as a weed out
of his garden, now only an incumbrance and a reproach.
Well, so it must be. Hannah wondered how she ever
could have expected any thing else. She felt just a little
sorry for herself in a vague, abstract way and fancied
other people might be too, if they knew it all. Madame
Arthenay, unto whom to save all explanations she gave
Sir Bernard's letter (alas, all the world might have read
it !) Lady Dunsmore, whose correspondence was as regn-
HANNAH. 285
lar and affectionate as ever, but who now never mentioned
the name of Rivers ; and, lastly, poor faithful Grace, who
followed her mistress with yearning eyes, doing every
thing that humble devotion could do to give her pleasure
or to save her pain, but never saying one single word.
These two Pariahs of society as Hannah sometimes in
her heart bitterly called herself and her servant clung to
one another with a silent trust which was a comfort to
both.
But their greatest comfort was the child. Rosie flour-
ished like a flower. Every day in her young life brought
some new and wonderful development. That miraculous
study of a growing human soul lay patent before Hannah
every day, soothing, calming, and interesting her, till some-
times she became almost reconciled to her pain. It was
not the sharp agony of youth she was accustomed to
sorrow but this sorrow had come too late to be cured.
She knew it would not kill her; but she also knew that it
would last her life. She had been a long time in loving
Bernard ; but now that she did love him, it was with a
depth and intensity which those only know to whom love
is the last remnant of that dolce primavera that sweet
heart-spring time after which nothing can be looked for
but winter and old age.
She wondered how her years would pass the years
which would make little Rosie into a woman. And she
wondered very much about the child, how she should be
educated, and where. Sir Bernard only spoke of their
wintering at Avranches having no farther plans for Ro-
sie's future ; nor had he ever had any that Hannah knew
of. He had seemed to take it for granted that they three
she, himself, and the child would always be together,
and that there was no need to decide any thing. In what
manner he might wish his daughter an important per-
sonage now, as Miss Rivers of the Moat House to be
brought up, Hannah had not the slightest idea.
However, one day, when they were driving througti this
smiling Norman country, where the long lines of poplars
286 HANNAH.
had not yet dropped a single leaf, and the quaint old trees
of the endless apple-orchards stood each with a glowing
heap of dropped fruit round its feet, making Rosie clap
her hands in delight, the little woman herself settled that
question.
" Lots of apples I Rosie likes apples. Rosie stay here
always, and get lots of apples."
A sentence which startled Hannah into deeper and more
anxious thought than she had yet expended on her child's
future. Truly her child's ; she had now none of her own.
She never for a moment deceived hersielf that to her hap-
piness would ever come that happiness which had fled
from her all her life like a beautiful mirage. Only, by the
mercy of God, she had been made as she sometimes
thought, with that bitter laugh that is akin to tears a
rugged old camel, who could bear endless burdens, endure
weariness and hunger and thirst. The desert would be
crossed some day, and she shoi^d lie down and rest.
But, in the mean time, would it be good for Rosie to re-
main in France, ignorant of her English ties ignorant,
above all, of her father, whom already, with the easy for-
getfulness of her age, she seldom spoke about ? What
seemed at first a relief became to Hannah by-and-by a
serious care.
Would she be quite right in binding Sir Bernard to the
promise which she knew he himself would never break
that Rosie should be with her always ? In the years to
come, might not this deprive both father and daughter of
the greatest blessing of their lives ?
Hannah remembered in the utter blotting out of hope
it was now doubly sweet to remember ^how tenderly she
had loved her own father; how after her mother's death
she had been his constant companion and friend, with a
tie so close that even his disapproval of the attachment
between her and Arthur could not break it. This tie
the love between father and eldest daughter Rosie would
in all human probability never know.
Then, too, around Bernard, so young a man still, would
HANNAH. 287
soon spring up not only new interests, but new ties. She
tried to fancy him Sir Bernard Rivers, master of the Moat
House and what a noble master he would make! ^be-
loved by all the country-side, bringing to it in due time a
new Lady Rivers, fair and sweet as his fii-st wife had been,
and perhaps raising up in honor and happiness a numer-
ous family ^Rosie's brothers and sisters to whom poor
Rosie would be even less than she was to her father a
stranger, an interloper, unto whom the dear associations of
kindred blood were only a name.
Forecasting all this, seeing it with a cruelly clear pre-
cision, as the inevitable result of things, Hannah, even
while she clasped her darling to her bosom, sometimes
doubted whether hers were not a fatal love, which might
one day overcloud, instead of brightening, the future of
this her " sunshiny child."
" I may hiave to do it some time," she said to herself,
not daring even in thought to particularize what "it"
meant. " But I can't do it yet not yet. My one bless-
ing the only bit of blessedness left me in this world !"
And night after night, when she lay listening to the
soft breathing, thanking God that her treasure was still
hers, close beside her, looking to her, and her alone, for the
providing of every pleasure, the defense from every ill that
the innocent young life could know, Hannah wetted her
pillow with her tears,
" I can not do it ; even if I ought, I can not," she
moaned; and then let the struggle cease. She was not
strong enough to struggle now. She rather let herself
drift, without oar or sail, just where the waters carried
her. Bitter waters they were, but she knew they were
carrying her slowly and surely home.
In this dreamy state she remained during the whole of
the brief, bright lull of the St. Martin's summer, which
lasted longer than usual in Normandy this year, busying
herself chiefly in planning pleasures for the two on whom
life's burdens had either not yet fallen, or were near be-
ing laid down the old lady and the child. With them,
288 HANNAH.
and Grace, she wandered every where near Avranches,
and made herself familiar with every nook of this pleasant
country, which Bernard in his letter had suggested she
should try to substitute for " home." Well, what did it
matter? It was little consequence where she and Rosie
lived, so that they were far away from him. This must
have been what he meant, and she accepted it as such.
With her usual habit of what he had sometimes called
" horrid resignation," she had almost grown fond of the
place, and even, in a sense, was happy in it, when one day
there arose upon the strange, stupor-like peace of her dai-
ly life one of those sudden blasts of fate like the equi-
noctial wind in which the St. Martin's summer ended a
storm noted in this neighborhood for years by the destruc-
tion which it had spread. Hannah never heard it spoken
of afterward without recalling that particular day, and all
that happened thereon.
The hurricane had lasted for twenty-four hours, and was
still unabated, when, restless with staying in-doors, she
went out alone, of course which was unusual ; but any
danger there might be must not happen to the child. For
herself, she used once rather to enjoy danger, to exult in
a high wind, as being something to fight against; but
now, when she passed out of the town, and saw the deso-
lation that a few hours had made tall poplars, snapped
like straws, lying prone at the roadside ; apple-orchards,
in which there was scarcely a tree not mutilated, and many
were torn up completely by the roots she ceased to de-
light in the storm. She battled with it, however, as long
as she could, though it was almost like beating against a
stone wall ; and then, unable to fight more, s^ sank, ex-
hausted, in the first sheltered comer she could find.
" How weak I must be growing !" said poor Hannah to
herself; and, catching sight of her favorite Mont St. Mi-
chel, the solitary rock, with its castled crown, looking sea-
ward over its long stretch of sandy bay, the tears sprang to
her eyes. Alas ! there was no St. Michael to fight for her
no strong archangel to unsheathe his glittering sword
HANNAH. 289
in defense of right or in destruction of wrong. She was a
lonely woman, with not a creature to defend her neither
father, brother, husband, nor lover. Also, she was power-
less to defend herself; she knew she felt that her fight-
ing days were all gone. That ghostly gleam of love and
hope which had brightened her life, had passed away even
like this St. Martin's summer, in storm and tempest, and
would never come back any more.
Tired so tired that she could scarcely crawl ^Hannah
retraced her steps, hastening them a little, as she found it
was near post-time, and then smiling sadly at hereelf for
so doing. What could the post bring her? Nothing, of
course. Her last letter to Sir Bernard, a mere imitation
of his own, acknowledgmg his money which she had no
conscience-stings about taking, for she spent it all upon
Rosie and agreeing to his proposal of their wintering at
Avranches, had remained now three weeks unanswered.
Better so, perhaps. Total silence was far less painful than
such a correspondence.
There was one English letter for Grace which, as it
bore the Easterham post - mark, she took to her herself,
and lingered half involuntarily w;hile it was opened and
read.
" No bad news, I trust ?" for Grace had uttered an ex-
clamation, and seemed a good deal disturbed. " No harm
happened to to any one belonging to you ?"
For though Grace now seldom mentioned Jem Dixon's
name, they both knew that he was still at Easterham,
slowly drinking himself to death partly, he declared, be-
cause since Grace lefl him he had such a wretched home.
Continually, there was the chance of hearing that he had
come to some ill end, and Hannah was uncertain how
much Grace might feel it, or whether, in that case, she
"would not desire to go back at once to her sister's chil-
dren, for whom she had had so strong an affection.
" No, ma'am," she said, looking at Miss Thelluson half
inquisitively, half compassionately, " it's no harm, so to
speak, come to any body. It's only a wedding that they
N
290 HANNAH.
tell me of a wedding I didn't expect ; and I'm very sorry
for it."
" Of some friend or relation of yours ^and you don't
quite like it, I see ? Never mind ; it may turn out better
than you think : marriages sometimes do, I suppose."
A commonplace, absently-uttered sentiment; but Han-
nah was often very absent now. Life and its interests
seemed fading daily from her, as from people who are go-
ing to die, and from whom, mercifully perhaps, all the out-
er world gradually recedes, growing indistinct and color-
less, as at twilight-time ; but also calm very calm. She
could not rouse herself even into her old quick sympathy
with other people's troubles, though she saw that Grace
was very much troubled about this letter, and continued
so all day. Once upon a time the kind mistress would
have questioned her about it, but now she took no notice,
not till the two were together in the nursery, sharing the
little bit of innocent fun with which Rosie always con-
cluded their day. For Rosie was the drollest little wom-
an at her bed-time, playing such antics in her bath, and
carrying on the most amusing conversation while she
ate her supper, that neither aunt nor nurse could forbear
laughing. But to-night it was different, and the sharp lit-
tle eyes soon detected that.
"Look, Tannic," she whispered mysteriously, "Dacie
'tying. Dacie hurt herself, p'raps. Poor Dacie 'tying."
And in truth Grace, who stood behind her mistress and
the child, had just wiped her eyes upon the towel she held.
" No ; I haven't hurt myself, and it isn't myself I'm cry-
ing for. Never mind me, Miss Rosie."
"But we do mind, don't we?" and Miss Thelluson put
her hand kindly on the nurse's shoulder as she knelt
" You shall tell me all about it presently. In the mean
time, don't vex yourself more than you can help. Noth-
ing in life is worth grieving for very much at least, I oft-
en think so." And Hannah sighed. " We have but to do
our duty, and be as content as we can. Every thing is
passing away soon passing away."
HANNAH. 291
Gi-ace's tears fell only the faster. "It isn't myself,
ma'am oh, please don't think that I I am not unhappy
now. You are so kind to me, and then I have Miss Kosie ;
but what vexes me is this wedding Fve heard about, and
how people will take it, and "
" Oh, I dare say it will all come right soon," said Han-
nah, listlessly, rocking her little one in her arms, and feel-
ing that love and lovers and weddings were things belong-
ing to a phase of existence as far back as the world be-
fore the flood. " Who may the people be ? Any body I
know ?"
Grace stopped a minute before she answered, and then
said, dropping her eyes, "Is it possible, ma'am, that you*
don't know ?"
" How should I know ?"
"I thought I have been thinking all day surely ho
must have told you."
" Who told me ?"
" Master Sir Bernard. It's his wedding that my sister
tells me about. Oh dear ! oh dear !"
All the blood in Hannah's heart stood still. Had it not
been for the unmistakable meaning of Grace's sorrow, and
the necessity of self-command that it enforced, she might
have fainted ; but her strong will conquered. She did not
" give way," as women call it, by any outward sign.
"Is Sir Bernard mari'ied? There must be some mis-
take. He would, as you say, certainly have told me."
" No ; I didn't mean that he was exactly married, but
that he is going to be. All the village says it. And to
the last person Vd ever have thought he would marry
Miss Alice Melville."
" Hush I" said Hannah, glancing at the child ; for Rosic,
already growing a dangerous little person to speak before,
was listening with all her eyes and ears. Happily, in the
silence into which his name had fallen, she had not yet
learned to identify "papa" with " Sir Bernard," so that as
soon as she had got over her natural indignation at seeing
aunt and nurse speaking of something which did not in-
292 HANNAH.
elude her, who at this hour especially was always their
sole object of attention, she curled sleepily down in Tan-
nie's arms, a round little ball, with the pink toes sticking
out from under the white night-gown begging earnestly
for " ' Four-and-twenty blackbirds baked in a pie,' just
once, once more."
And Hannah sang it without a mistake, which the small
listener would have detected immediately without a
break in her voice either. For Grace also was listening
Grace, who might go back to Easterham any day, and
tell Easterham any thing. Not that she thought Grace
would, but she might. And now, above all, whatever
Easterham guessed, it must never be given the slightest
certainty that Sir Bernard had ever been aught to her ex-
cept a brother-in-law.
Therefore Hannah laid Rosie peacefully in her crib,
going through all the little ceremonies of tucking in and
smoothing down, the " one, one more 'ittle song," and the
" two tisses," which had been their mutual nightly delight
for so long. Then she left her darling happy and at rest,
and walked slowly down stairs, Grace following. Thank-
fully would she have fled away, and hidden herself any
where out of sight, but this could not be. So she looked
steadily in her servant's face.
" Now tell me all about this report concerning Sir Ber-
nard."
It was a very natural and probable one, as reports go,
and seemed to have been generally accepted at Easter-
ham. The two were continually seen together at the
Grange and the Moat House, and it was said they only
waited for their mutual mourning to end, in order to fix
their wedding-day. More especially as, many years ago,
when they were mere boy and girl, they were supposed
to have been fond of one another.
" She was fond of him, at any rate," Grace declared.
" We servants all thought so when I lived at the Grange-
She was a nice, pretty young lady, too. But she isn't
young now, of course; not pretty either; only she is
H^yyAH. 293
very, very good capital aboot parish things, and so on ;
and the kindest heart in tKe worid to poor folks^s chil-
dren. She was so kind to mine,^ added Grace, with a
sob.
Hannah asrain laid her hands soothin^lv on her servants
shoulder, bnt with a strangely absent look.
" Not yonng ^not pretty only very good. She would
make a good wife to him, no doabt.'*
" Yes," said Grace, hesitating. " Only ^whoM ever have
thought of master's wanting her ? I didn't, Fm sure. Why,
nice as she is, she isn't fit to hold a candle to ^"
Hannah stopped her, terrified. " Hush, you forget your-
self "Sir Bernard's servant has no right to discuss his fu-
ture wife. You will displease me exceedingly if you say
another word on the subject."
Had there been the slightest betrayal on Hannah's part,
the poor nurse's heart would have overflowed. As it was,
she was simply bewildered.
" I beg your pardon, Miss Thelluson. Us poor servants
have no right, I suppose, to be sorry for our betters. But
I was sorry many a time, because I thought ^"
" Think nothing at all, say nothing at all, either to mo
or to any one. My sister has been dead three years ; her
husband is at perfect liberty to marry again as soon as
he chooses. And he could hardly marry a better person
than Miss Melville. I am very glad."
"Are you?" said Grace, looking at her very eametly.
And then Hannah, driven to bay, and feeling the fierco
necessity of the moment, looked back at Grace and, al
most for the first time in her life, acted a lie.
" Certainly. Why shoald I not be gla/1 of my brothcT*
in-law's marriage ?"
There was no answer, of coare, Oraije, compUH/rly
puzzled, ventured no more ; bat putting Ih^j UftUit in
her pocket, beggd pardon onee AicXttt^ and, iti^hin^, watii
away.
So iar,thenf Hannah wait ia6r. HU: h%A ^M/rtt^ ty^ h]//w^
nor allowed Imt ervafit t/j ftm^pe^rt wkat a 4^:^ilyhl^/w h
294 HANNAH.
was ; nay, she had even succeeded in concealing the fact
that it had come upon her unawares. Poor innocent hyp-
ocrite I the lessons taught by the last bitter year and a
half had not been lost upon her. But when Grace was
gone she sat utterly paralyzed.
Over and over again she had repeated to herself that
all was at an end between her and Bernard ; but she had
never contemplated such an end as this. So sudden, too
scarcely six weeks from the time she had parted from
him when he had been her ardent, despairing, desperate
lover ; furious because she would not sacrifice every thing
for him, as he said he was ready to do for her. And now
he was quite ready to marry another woman. Could it
be true ? Was it probable possible ?
Something in Hannah's secret heart whispered that it
was ; that his impulsiveness of temperament, his extreme
affectionateness and corresponding need of affection, made
a hasty marriage like this, to one whom he knew well,
and who had always been fond of him, not incomprehen-
sible even to her. And yet and yet
"He might have waited just a little while; have
mourned for me just for a few weeks a few months as
he did for my poor Rosa."
And her tears dropped fast fast; not the scalding
tears of youth, but very bitter tears, nevertheless. She
had loved him so well, had endured so much for him, had
had such a bright dream of what she was to him. Could
it have been only a dream ? Would any other woman be
just as dear to him as she? And though she did not
faint, or shriek, or moan, or do any of those desperate
things which tragic heroines are supposed to indulge in
upon hearing of the marriage of their lovers ; though she
went to bed and slept, and rose next morning just as if
nothing had happened, still Hannah felt that something
had happened something which would make the world
look never quite the same as it looked yesterday.
That yesterday was the last day she crossed the thresh-
old for two whole weeks. The doctor said she ought not
HANNAH. 295
to have gone out in the high wind ; that, out of health as
she was before, it had caught her in some way, affected her
breathing, smitten her at her heart. At which Miss Thel-
luson smiled. She knew she was "smitten to the heart."
But it was very convenient this illness. It saved her
from all need of physical exertion, even of talking. She
could just turn her face to the wall, and lie quiet, and do
nothing. She felt for the first time in her life not the
slightest inclination to do any thing. Even when she rose
from her bed the same incapacity continued, till sometimes
Rosie's innocent prattle was almost too much for her, and
she felt herself turning sick and faint, and saw, with a
dread indescribable, Madame Arthenay or Grace carry the
child away from her, and keep her out of her sight for
hours at a time.
" What if, by-and-by, this were to be constantly the case ?
What if this condition of hers was the forerunner of long
and serious illness perhaps the consumption which was
said to be in the family, though in this generation her
cousin Arthur had been its only victim? Suppose she
were to fall sick and die ? She began to have a feeling
was it sweet or sad ? that she could die, and that of mere
sorrow. And, then, what would become of the child ?
" Oh, my Rosie, if ever there should come a time when
you were left forlorn with nobody to love you, when you
might blame poor Tannic for having stolen you and kept
you away from all those who might have loved you I K
ever Tannic should die !"
" Tannic die ? What's dat ? Rosie don't like it 1" said
the little thing to whom she had been talking. She had
two ways of talking to her darling. One which Rosie
could perfectly comprehend: long conversations about
flowers, and beasts, and people, and things, and all sorts of
subjects, in which the child's intelligence was receptive to
a degree that sometimes utterly amazed the grown woman.
The other was a trick she had of speaking simply for her
own relief, in a fashion that Rosie could not comprehend
at all But, baby as she was, she comprehended the anx-
m
iouB face, the tremulous voice, and repeated, with that pa-
thetic droop of the lips that always foreboded tears,"Ro-
aie don't like it."
Hannah changed her tone imnied lately. " Come here,
my pet; Tannic won't die, then. She couldn't afford it
just yet. But listen a minute. Would Rosie like to go
and see papa ? Be papa's girl again, and play about in
the pretty garden, and the greenhouse, and the nursery ?
Rosie remembers them all ?"
"Yes," said the little decisive voice Rosie never had
the slightest doubt in her own baby mind about any thing.
"Rosio will go and see papa soon, very soon. Taonie
come too."
llannah turned away, and could not answer at
Then she said, " But perhaps Tannic might uot come
Rosie would he content with papa?"
"No" there was entire decision in this likewise
"Rosie not go to papa unless Tannic come too. Rosie
don't want papa. Rosie will stop with Tannic."
And the little womao, squatting down on Tannie'a pil-
low with an air of having quite settled the whole aSsir,
turned her whole undivided attention to a doll, whoso eyes
wonld open and shut, and who was much more interi
to her than any papa in the world.
But Rosie's unconscious words aroused in her
dread that had once awakened and been silenced
that, as time went on, this complete severance w
dnce its natural result; the child would become indiffer-
ent to the father, and the father to the child. For, let
people talk as they will about the ties of blood, it is asso-
ciation which really produces the feeling which is termed
"natural affection." Deprived of this, and then deprived
of herself, Rosie might in a few years be left as lonely a
~ (ature, save for money, as her annt Hannah once had
ay, and was now, save for this one darling, the boIo
e saved out of her wrecked life. But was it lav^
,ly and righteously hers?
There is a story,! believe a true one most worat
mnie
;ee-^^
Rosie
3 pil-
iffsir,
oso eyes
eres tiifl, (_%
tb^^^l
JuldjH^^
HANNAH. 297
feel that it might have been true of a Highland mother, '
who, traveling from one glen to another, was caught in a
snow-storm, and lost for twenty-four hours. When found
that is, her body was found she had stripped off every
thing but her shift to cover the child. It was alive still,
just alive ; but the mother, of course, was dead.
Hannah Thelluson, as she lay awake all through this
night, the first night that they brought back Hosiers cnb
to its old place by her bedside for she insisted she could
sleep better if they did so was not unlike that poor High-
land woman.
Next morning she said, in a quiet, almost cheerful tone,
" Grace, do you think you could pack up all our things in
a day ? For I want, if possible, to go back to England to-
morrow."
" Go back to England !"
" Yes. What do you say to that, Rosie ?" fixing her
eyes on the child's face ; and then, as a sudden gush blind-
ed them, turning away, and contenting herself with feeling
the soft cheeks and the rings of silky hair as that High-
land mother might have done when the death-mists were
gathering over her eyes. "Will Rosie go back and see
papa, and be papa's own little girl again ? Papa will be
BO fond of her."
" Yes," assented the little oracle, and immediately proved
her recollection of her father and her lively appreciation
of his paternal duties by breaking her doll's head against
the bed-post, and then saying in a satisfied tone, " Never
mind. AH right. Rosie take dolly to papa. Papa will
mend it !"
In a week from that time, traveling as fast as her
strength allowed, yet haunted by a vague dread that it
would not last her till she reached England, Hannah ar-
rived in London.
Only in London, at a hotel ; for she had no house to go
to no friend. Lady Dunsmore happened to be at a coun-
try seat ; but, even if not, it would have been all the same.
What she had to do no one could help her in no one
N2
298 HANNAH.
could advise her upon ; it must be solely between herself
and Bernard. And the sooner it was done the better.
She felt this more and more every hour. The struggle
was growing frightful.
" I was right," she said to herself, when, as soon as the
need for exertion was over, she sank, utterly exhausted,
and was obliged to leave to Grace the whole charge of
every thing, including the child, and lie, listening to the
roll of endless wheels below the hotel-window as cease-
less as the roar of the sea, and as melancholy " I was
quite right ! It is best to resign every thing. I can not
trust myself any more."
The first minute that her hands ceased from shaking,
she wrote the decisive letter.
"Deae Feiend" (she first put " Bernard," then "broth-
er," finally " friend." He was that still ; at least she had
never given him cause to be the contrary), "I have,
against your wish, returned to England, though only for a
few days' stay, in consequence of having accidentally dis-
covered the matter to which I suppose your last letter re-
ferred ; though, as you have never plainly told me, I will
not refer to it here. But I think it ought to modify our
future arrangements, which I should like to talk over with
you. If you will come and see me here, me and Rosie,
half an hour would, I think, suffice to decide all, and I
could go back to France at once.
" I remain, with every wish for your happiness in your
new life, your affectionate friend,
" Hannah Tuelluson."
After that she had nothing more to do but to wait, and
watch day darken into night, and night brighten back
into day the dreary London day, all loneliness and noise
till Sir Bernard came.
He came earlier than she could have believed it possi-
ble. He must at once have taken a night train from ast-
erham, which he owned he had ; but, though he looked
HANNAH. 299
very tired, he was neither so agitated nor so confused as
he might naturally have been under the circumstances.
" Why in the world did you take such a journey, Han-
nah ?" was all he said, on entering ; then, perceiving Grace
and the child, he stepped back, and caught his little
daughter in his arms.
"My pretty one! Run away, nurse, and leave her to
me. I want to have her all to myself What, Rosie!
Has she forgotten papa! Two tisses! lots of tisses!
Papa's darling I Papa's lamb !"
Of one thing Hannah was certain, Sir Bernard was un-
feignedly glad to see his child. No lack of fatherly love,
even though he was going to be married. It gave that
poor heart which he had forsaken a thrill of joy to see
how tenderly he caressed his little " lamb " the mother-
less lamb, that might have perished but for her, and which
her care had now nurtured into a creature that, among
any number of children, would be always the flower of
the flock, so pretty had she grown, so winning, so clever,
and withal such a good and loving child. Any father
might be proud of Rosie. And as she clung about Sir Ber-
nard, remembering all his old tricks with her, as if they
had only parted last week, the two seemed perfectly hap-
py together, and even like one another with that strange
family likeness which comes and goes in little faces, but
which Hannah saw now as she had never seen before.
Yes, Rosie was decidedly like him, and they would grow
up to be a true father and daughter one of the dearest
and sweetest bonds that human nature can know.
She had quite forgotten herself a trick she had, poor
Hannah I in watching them, and speculating upon them
and their future when she felt both her hands taken, one
by her child's soft little fingers, the other by the strong
clasp. of a man.
" Hannah, can you forgive me ? I have sometimes feared
you never would !"
"What for?"
"For my unreasoning anger my frantic love; above
I nlL f
all, for having asked of you a eacrifice which no man
should ask or accept fi'om any woman. I knew this, felt
it, tho instant I came to my right senses, wliich was i
soon 39 ever you were out of sight ; but it was too late to
tell you BO, Forgive me. Ton will have no need to for-
give me any thing again."
" I know that," said Hannah, slowly, and waited for the
nest words he would say words which woold sni-ely bo
confirmation of all she had heard. So sure was she of it,
that she did not withdraw her hand ; she even, seeing that
his manner was not agitated, but even cheerful, began to
think whether now it would not be possible to go back,
in degree, to their old cordial relations ; whether he could
not be again lier brother-in-law and Alice Melville's hus-
band. Still, something in her manner seemed to startle
him.
" Know ? What can you know ? Not, surely, any thing
about these future plans of mine, which, for Loth our sakes,
I have carried out, unknown to you, until now ?"
"Nevertheless, I have found them out," said Hannah,
with a faint smile. "In these things, you see, a bird of
the air often carries the matter. I am aware of it alL"
" Of it all ? Who could have told you ? And what Y*'
"That you are going to be married."
Sir Bernard started ; then half smiled. But he
not the slightest contradiction.
Hannah, perfectly convinced, conscious of only o
impulse to get through what she had to say, that it mk
be all over and done, went on speaking,
"Married, as I hear, to Alice Melville, which is a chfflj
that must satisfy every body. That is the r
back to England. She is a good woman, who would t
good mother to ray child. And I feel very weak an '
I have been ill "
"My poor Hannah ! And yon never told meP'
"Why should I? I only tell you now because itfi
ens me about Kosie's future. She ought to have i
protection than mine. She ought to have a brighter
HANNAH. 301
than any I can give her. So I came to say" ^Hannah
drew her breath hard and fast " if you want her back, I
will give her up to you and Alice. Only, first I must
epeak to Alice must make her promise ^"
Just then tiny fingers ringed themselves round Hannah's
cold hand, against which Rosie laid her cheek, in a caress-
ing way she had. It was to* much the strong heart al-
together gave way, and she sat down sobbing.
Sir Bernard had listened, quite confounded at first, then
silently watched her.
" Oh Hannah, you good, good woman 1" was all he said,
and, taking out of her arms little Rosie, now sobbing as
piteously as she, disappeared from the room with the child.
Then it was really true, this marriage : he did not deny
it. And he accepted her sacrifice of her darling. Well,
once made, she could not retract it, even had she desired
to do so. But she did not desire. She only wished to see
Rosie' safe, and then go away and die. This once, once
more, for the last time in her life, she accepted the inevita-
ble. It was God's will, and it must be.
Long before Sir Bernard came back she had dried her
eyes, and waited, as she thought she ought to wait, for any
thing he had to say any final arrangements they might
require to make. There was a chair opposite, but he sat
down beside her and took her hand.
" Hannah, I want to speak h^f a dozen quiet words to
you, which I should not have said till spring, but I had bet-
ter say them now. It is quite true I am going to be mar-
ried, and as soon as I possibly can. I am not fitted for a
lonely life. Mine will be worthless to myself, my fellow-
creatures, my God, unless I accept the blessing He offers
me, and marry the woman I love. But that woman is
not Alice Melville."
" Not Alice Melville !"
" How could you ever think it was ? She is very good,
and we are fast friends indeed, she has advised with me
in all my plans, and we have been very much together of
late, which may account for this report. How could you
F
' belie
believe it ?" and lie smiled his old, winning, half-mischiev-
ous smile, "As Rosio would say by-the-bye, how she
has grown, that dear little girl of ours ' papa don't like
it.' "
Hannah had borne soitow but she could not bear joy;
she was too weat for it. Her lips tried to Bpeak, and, fail-
ing that, to smile, but it wa in vain. She sank, quite in-
BcnBiblc, in Bernard's anne.
It was a good many hours before she was able to hear
those "half a dozen quiet words" which were to change
the whole current of her life of both their lives.
The plan which Madame Arthenay had first suggested
of naturalizing himself in France, changing his domicile,
and marrying as a French citizen, according to French law
had, immediately after his parting from Hannah, recurred
again and again to Sir Bernard's mind as the only solution
of their difficulty. On consulting the Dunsmores on the
subject, they also had seen the matter in the same 'light.
Though session after session Lord Dunsmore determined
to bi-ing forward his favorite Bill, still years might elapse
before it was passed and became law, and until then thero
was no hope of marriage in Englaad for Ilannah and Ber-
nard.
" You mustn't ask it, or desire it," said Lady Dunsmore,
ignorant and she always remained ignorant that he
ever had asked it, "A woman like her would never con-
sent And she is right. To break yonr oonntry's laws,
however nnjust they may be, and then expect its protec-
tion, is like disobeying one's father. We must do it if
compelled by his unjust exactions but we ought to qnit
his house first,"
So there was no alternative but for Sir Bernard to make
the sacrifice as hard for him as Hannah's rennnciation
of Rosie had been for hei- and give up England forever.
His profession likewise since no man with a conscience
could break tho canon law, and yet remain a clergyman.
" And I have a conscience, though they do not think. a
the Moat House," said he, faintly smiling. That B
HANNAH. 303
and his worn looks alone betrayed to Hannah the suffer-
ings he must have gone through in making up his plans
now all decided, and set in train. In fact he had already
renounced every thing, and prepared himself to begin a
new career in a foreign- land.
" I can do it, in one sense," he continued, " easier than
most men because of my large private fortune. I mean
to buy the Chateau St. Roque, which you liked so much.
Did you not say you could cheerfully spend your whole
life there ? Perhaps you may."
Hannah smiled ; and there came across her memory a
trembling flash of that pleasant place with the four tow-
ers looking at themselves in the water, and the green up-
land gardens and meadows on either hand.
" Yes," she whispered, " we could be very happy there.
It would not be so very dreadful to live in France, would
it?"
" At least, we must not say so to our good friend, Ma-
dame Arthenay, or to our new compatriots. - And I hope
I am not so very insular as to see charms in no country
except my own. Besides, am I not replanting my family
tree where its old roots came from ? Who knows ? Yeare
hence I may revive the glory of my Norman ancestors by
making a speech, in my very best French, before the
Chamber of Deputies. \Vhat say you, Hannah ? Shall
we shake British dust entirely off our feet, and start
afresh as Monsieur and Madame de la Riviere? Great
fun that !"
The boyish phrase and the almost boyish laugh that
accompanied it comforted Hannah more than he knew.
Heavy as his heart was now, and sore with his hard re-
nunciations, there was in him that elastic nature which,
grief once overpast, refuses to dwell upon it ^but lives in
the present and enjoys the future. And he was still young
enough to have a future to open up new paths for him-
self, and carry them out nobly ; to live in content and die
in honor, even though it was far away from the dear En-
gland where he was bom.
304 HANNAH.
" But it costs you so much ah, so much !" said Hannah,
mournfully.
" Yes, but I have counted the cost ; and if you will
not scold me for saying so I think you worth it all.
Many men become voluntary exiles for the sake of wealth,
convenience, or whim : why should not I for love ? Love
which is duty also, when one is loved back again."
Hannah smiled, knowing he was one of those whom it
makes not conceited or tyrannical, but strong and happy,
to be "loved back again."
^ Besides," he continued, "I have not much love to leave
behind: my sisters are all married Bertha will be next
spring. No one will miss mej nor perhaps shall I soon
come to miss any thing except a few graves in Easter-
ham church-yard."
He stopped, and that last bitterness of exile the cling-
ing to the very sod of one's own land, the sod which cov-
ers our dead came over him sad and sore. Those graves
^buried in them lay all his childhood, his youth, his brief,
happy married life with the wife whom though he sel-
dom spoke of her now Hannah knew he had no more for-
gotten than she had forgotten her lost Arthur. Time had
healed all wounds : life and its duties had strengthened
them both strengthened them into that calm happiness
which sometimes, after much sorrow, God sees fit to send,
and which it is good to accept and be thankful for. But
as for forgetting ! she said nothing, only drew Bernard's
head softly to her shoulder, and let him there weep the
tears of which no man need be ashamed.
By-and-by she asked about Bertha's marriage, which was
to a gentleman in the neighborhood whom she had refused
several times, but accepted at last. He was very rich, if
not very clever or very wise.
" Still, she might have done worse. He is a good fel-
low, and we all like the match, except, perhaps, Melville,
who speaks sharply about it sometimes ; but Bertha only
laughs at him, and says she shall please herself, in spite of
brothers-in-law."
HANNAH. 305
Hannah looked keenly at Bernard while he spoke ; but
he did so in utter unsuspiciousness. Evidently he had
never guessed, in the smallest degree, the secret grief of
his sister Adeline, the canker of her married life, that jeal-
ousy of her sister, from which all the restrictions of the
law could not save her, no more than the terror of the Di-
vorce Court can save poor miserable souls to whom vice is
pleasanter than virtue. But to this right-minded, honest
man, intrenched within the sacredness of a happy mar-
riage, the one idea would have been almost as untenable
as the other. Hannah was certain that, dearly as Bernard
loved her now, had Rosa lived, she might have come about
their house continually, and he would have had no sort of
feeling for her beyond the affectionate interest that a man
may justly take in his wife's sister, or cousin, or friend
the honorable, chivalric tenderness for all women which
only proves how deeply the one woman he has chosen is
enshrined in his heart.
So what he had never once suspected she never told
him and no one else was ever likely to do so. Adeline's
sufferings were buried with her. So best.
"And now," said Bernard, "I must say good-by. And
I shall not see you again till we meet on board the Havre
steamer to-morrow."
For he had arranged already that she should go back
at once avoiding the very appearance of evil and re-
main with Madame Arthenay until he came to marry her,
which, if possible, should be in the spring.
" I shall come, like Napoleon, with the violets, and by
then we must have these thin cheeks rounded, and these
grave eyes looking as bright and merry as Rosie's. I
used to say, you knowj there was no telling which was
most of a baby. Tannic or Rosie. By-the-bye, she must
cease to say * Tannic ' and learn to say ' mamma.' "
Hannah burst into tears.
" Yes, there is one thing I am not afraid of," said she,
when her full heart had a little relieved itself of its fe-
licity. " I know I shall be a good mother to your child.
306 HANNAH.
What I am afraid of is whether I shall be a sufficiently
good wife to you. You might have married almost any
woman you liked young, rich, pretty; while I look
here, Bernard."
She lifted up her hair, and showed him the long stripes
of gray already coming faster than ever since the trou-
ble of the last two years ; but he only kissed the place, re-
peating Cowper's lines, which he reminded her they had
often read together in those long, quiet evenings which
would all come back again when the one deep and lasting
bliss of married life, companionship, would be theirs with-
out alloy companionship, which even in friendship alone,
without marriage, had been so sweet :
((
Thy silver locks, once anbnm bright,
Are still as lovely to my sight
As golden beams of orient light
My Mary.
If
" No, Hannah," he said, " I am not afraid neither of our
new life nor of ourselves. I know what a man marries a
woman for not for this beauty or that, this quality or
that peculiarity ; but because she suits him, sympathizes
with him, is able to make him a better man than he ever
was before as you have made me. If I had let you go, I
should have been not only a coward, but a fool. I take
you just as you are, * with all your imperfections on your
head,' as I hope you will take me ?"
" Yes," she said, laughing, though the tears were in her
eyea
" Very well, then. Let us be content."
He put his arms about her, and stood looking deep down
into her eyes. He was much handsomer than she, bright-
er, and younger-looking ; yet there was something in Han-
nah's face which, with all its handsomeness, his had not
a certain spiritual charm, which, when a man once recog-
nizes it in a woman, is an attraction as mysterious as it is
irresistible makes him crave for her as the one necessity
of his existence, risk every thing in order to win her, and,
having won her, love her to the last with a passion that
HAKNTAH. 307
survives all change, all decay. What this charm was, prob-
ably Bernard himself could not have told ; but Lady Duns-
more, speaking of Hannah, once characterized it as being
" a combination of the angel and the child."
CHAPTER XVn.
There is a picture familiar to many, for it was in the
Great Exhibition of 1851, and few stopped to look at it
without tears " The Last Look of Home," by Ford Madox
Browne. Merely a bit of a ship's side one of those emi-
grant ships such as are constantly seen at Liverpool, or
other ports whence they sail with its long rows of dang-
ling cabbages, and its utter confusion of cargo and passen-
gers. There, indifferent to all, and intently gazing on the
receding shore, sit two persons undoubtedly a man and
his wife emigrants and bidding adieu to home forever.
The man is quite broken down ; but the woman, sad as she
looks, has hope and courage in her face. Why not ? In
one hand she firmly clasps her husband's the other sup-
ports her sleeping babe. She is not disconsolate, for she
carries her " home " with her.
In the picture the man is not at all like Bernard, cer-
tainly, but the woman is exceedingly like Hannah in ex-
pression at least as she sat on the deck of the French
steamer, taking her last look of dear old England, with its
white cliffs glimmering in the moonlight fainter and faint-
er every minute across the long reach of Southampton
Water.
Bernard sat beside her ^but he too was very silent. He
meant to go back again as soon as he had seen her and
Rosie and Grace safely landed at Havre; but he knew
that to Hannah this farewell of her native land was, in all
human probability, a farewell " for good."
Ay ^for good ^in the fullest sense ; and she believed it
believed that they were both doing right, and that God's
bleasiog would follow them wherever they went; yet she
could uot choose but he a little sad, until ehe felt the touch
of the small, soft hand which now, as ever, was coDtinii-
ously creeping into Tannie'e. Then she was content. If
it had been God's will to give her no future of her own at
all, she could have rested happily in that of the child and
the child's father.
It happened to be a most beautiful night for crossing
the sea calm as glass, and the air mild as summer, though
it was in the beginning of November. Hannah could not
bear to go below, but with Rosie and Grace occupied one
of those pleasant cabins upon deck sheltered on three
sides, open on the fourth. There, wrapped in countless
rugs and shawls, Rosie being in an ecstasy at the idea of
going to bed in her clothes, "all under the tars" ("a" was
Btill an impossible first consonant to the baby tongue), she
settled down for the night, with her child in her arms, and
her faithful servant at her feet.
Sir Bernard made them all as comfortable .^nd as Tvarm
as he could kissed his child, and Hannah too, in Grace's
presence. For he liad himself informed the nurse ho*
matters stood, and told her that in his house she shonld
have a home for life, in a country where marriages such as
hers were considered honorable, natural, and right. Then
he bade them all good-night, and went to the cabin below.
Hannah could not sleep; but she rested quiet and hap-
py. Even happiness could not make her physically strong ;
but she left all her days to come in God's hands to be
many or few, as he thought best. The others fell sound
asleep, one at her bosom, the other at her feet ; but she lay
wide awake, listening to the lap-lap of the water against
the boat, and watching the night sky, so thick with stars.
At length the moon came too, and looked in upon them
like a sweet, calm face, resembling a dead face in its nn-
ehangeable peace ; so much so, that when Hannah dropped
at last into a confused doze, she dreamed it was the face of
her sister Rosa smiling down out of heaven upon them.
When she woke it was no longer moonlight, but
light at least day-break; for she could discern the dark
outline of the man at the wheel, the only person on deck.
The boat seemed to be passing, swiftly and silently, as a
phantom ship through a phantom ocean : she hardly knew
whether she was awake or asleep, dead or alive, till she
felt the soft breathing of the child in her arms, and, with a
passion of joy, remembered all.
A few minutes after, Hannah, raising her head as high
as she could without disturbing Rosie, saw a sight which
she never saw before, and never in all her life may see
again, but will remember to the end of her days.
Just where sea and sky met was a long, broad line of
most brilliant amber, gradually widening and widening, as
the sun lifted himself out of the water and shot his rays,
in the form of a crown, right up into the still dark zenith.
Then, as he climbed higher, every floating cloud and the
horizon seemed full of them became of a brilliant rose-
hue, until the whole heaven blazed with color and light.
In the midst of it all, dim as a dream, but with all these
lovely tints flitting over it, Hannah saw, far in the dis-
tance, the line of the French shore.
It was her welcome to her new country and new life
the life which was truly like being born again into anoth-
er world. She accepted the omen, and, clasping her child
to her bosom, closed her eyes and praised God.
All this happened long ago, and Monsieur and Madame
de la Riviere have never returned to England. They still
inhabit the Chi-teau de Saint Roque, beloved and honored
far and wide in the land of their adoption, and finding, af-
ter all, that the human heart beats much alike, whether
with French blood or English, and that there is something
wonderfully noble and lovable about that fine old Norman
race which (as Madame Arthenay long delighted in im-
pressing upon her dear neighbors, and upon the many En-
glish friends who visited them in their pleasant foreign
home) once came over and conquered, and civilized, xm
rude Saxons and Britons.
310 HANNAH.
Whether the master and mistress of Saint Roque will
ever return to England, or whether little Austin, the eld-
est of their three sons ^Rosie is still the only daughter
will ever become not only the heir of their French estates
and name, but one day Sir Austin Rivers of the Moat
House, remains to be proved. At any rate, they mourn
little after that old home, being so thoroughly happy in
their new one as those deserve to be who have sacrificed
for one another almost every thing except what they felt
to be right. But they are happy ^and what more can
they or any one desire ?