painters. In his imaginary characters, at all events, we need suppose no bias influenced him. It was to such characters I referred when I said I believed they were now to be met; and when I said Shakspeare idealized them, I only meant that he could apprehend and seize what was really worth consideration in them, and put it forward for public observation." Helen looked thoughtful. "Worth consideration? You do not, of course, mean that only which is best in them?" "I mean rather the essential points in their characters. A small mind would probably seize, in preference, on the trivialities." "I think I understand you, and that is the true meaning of 'No man is a hero to his valet-de-chambre.' The valet is supposed to have before his eyes a weak side of humanity, and to be incapable of appreciating the nobler." "That is it. Fairly to compare the men we live among with those in story, we should bear in mind that all are subject to a large measure of common place. For instance: Bassanio might very possibly have been attacked by a mosquito while deliberating over the caskets, but how useless, and therefore impertinent, it would have been to have represented the matter! Any such trivial and inharmonious incident must be rejected from a composition, even as in real life it were best disregarded." Helen was silent for some minutes, and then resumed : "Very likely then the old times seem to me so much more delightful because I lose sight of paltry and mean things that must have been then, as now. But I am sure I have never yet seen a Bassanio, and I do not think, if I did, that I should be scared from my-my admiration of such a character by a mosquito. No, I never have, and I fear I never shall see one." "All in good time, Helen-you may yet. Meanwhile, are you going to set up for a Portia ?" "I-oh, no! Oh, dear Mrs. Gainsborough, you do not think that because I admire those noble characters, I suppose I am fit to be among them? I do admire them; I should love to see and know them, and do any kind of service for them; but-though sometimes I feel it might have been different-I know I am only a plain, rough, uneducated girl, without any one thing that made Portia so worthy to be loved." "Well, Helen, it is like Portia to say so. Do you not remember The full sum of me Is an unlesson'd girl, unschool'd, unpractis'd; Happy in this-she is not yet so old But she may learn; and happier than this, She is not bred so dull but she can learn.'" "Where does that come?" asked Helen. "Before Portia gives the ring." "I think now I remember something of it. Does she not go on to say that Bassanio is to be her guide ?" Happiest of all is, that her gentle spirit "I remember it now," said Helen. "I thought when I read it how happy it was for Portia that she was chosen by Bassanio, one she could be content to submit to with a gentle spirit." "And must not every wife do so?" Oh, Mrs. Gainsborough! Does every wife do so? Can every wife do so?" "Every good wife will try. She has bound herself to obedience, and that can scarcely be true obedience which is given with an ungentle spirit." "But how is it possible to submit the spirit -the mind-willingly to a direction we know to be wrong?" "There is no doubt a limit to even a wife's obedience. I do not by any means approve the obedience of Griselda, who gave up her children, as she supposed, to be slaughtered. Unhappy indeed must she be, who has to question whether her obedience as a wife be not disobedience as a christian woman. "But supposing that which the husband required was not anything flagrantly sinful, but venerated, and bade you give up what you felt yet lowering? If he made a jest of what you was beautiful and good, and take to pursuits your heart despised?" "That is supposing a hard case, for you do not of course mean in things trivial. Happily for me, I have had no occasion to reflect about the debatable ground of a wife's duty; but I think a woman would be bound to resist in spirit; and very unhappy she must be, resisting or obeying." "Yes," said Helen, "she must resist; if she did not, she would be only helping her husband to descend lower and lower. She must resist; and, oh, what a life it would be!" "Some women might perhaps, by seeming to submit, yet with a constant gentle protest, do much in the way of influence, if they were very loving and very good?" "Perhaps an angel might, but I know I could never bear it. I should hate what was wrong, and I must cry out against it. Oh, how true that is-happiest of all'-to have a guide whom one could really trust. Yes, it would be easy to be gentle with a Bassanio; but with-" Helen stopped suddenly, and looked confused. I supplied her with a word"With an inferior mind?" "Yes--that is it. What could even Portia have done if some one she did not respect had chosen her?" "She would doubtless have been as unfortunate as she was happy. Since she might neither choose nor refuse, her sorrow would be free from the aggravation of self-accusation. many, I fear, either wilfully deceive themselves Too or let far other considerations guide them than whether to 'love, honour, and obey,' is to be a delight or a hard task. No woman ought to undertake that promise who has doubts whether it will be right or possible to fulfil it." "I have always felt that strongly, but I am very glad you are so sure of it too; one is so apt to mistrust one's own judgment when it stands alone, and somehow it never presented itself in a positive form. Whatever motives urge, it cannot be right to undertake duties we have no reasonable hope of fulfilling." I thought it best to let the argument stand when Helen had arrived at this conclusion. For some time she sat looking intently into the fire. I rang for Susan to light the lamp; and I think our next conversation was on Berlin work. CHAP. VI. | "a merry heart doeth good like a medicine;" I have not felt so positively light-hearted, since Richard left, as I have since this dreaded visit. I quite enjoyed bustling over my little shoppings afterwards, and my ride home. How very pretty the country will look in a few weeks! Even now there is a tinge of green on the hedges. I arrived home about two o'clock, By three I had dined, and was pronouncing my parlour sofa a very comfortable one, and feeling it was rather pleasant to have nothing particular to do, when Susan announced a visitor-Mr. Littington. I did not remember the name, but surmised it might be some neighbour; perhaps the curate, as the vicar had called one day when I was out. On his entrance, however, I perceived his aspect to be rather military than clerical. It was quite a discovery, and a pleasant one, to find in him a rather near relative. I remember to have heard my mother speak of an Aunt Mildred, who, some years before I was born, went out to India to be married to a gentleman UNEXPECTED CLAIMS OF RELATIONSHIP. she had been many years engaged to. I do not HELEN IS CONFIDENTIAL, A nice, clean, bright little town Tudfield is. I rode into it this morning in company with Miss Dalziel; very glad to avail myself of her offer to be my guide on this, my first visit. The young lady was very desirous of adjusting her pace to mine'; but as I did not wish to cause her to be late at school, I endeavoured to keep up at a brisk rate, and though Paddy my pony is no match for her black mare, I flatter myself we did pretty well. By the bye, Helen was rather shocked at my supposing she called her mare "Hecate"-"Proserpine is her right name;" she said, "only those who cannot ride her, call her Hecate." think I'ever heard of her children; but this Mr. Littington was one, and he had a sister, married, in this neighbourhood, who he assures me will be delighted to claim me as a relative. Should she prove as pleasant as he is, I shall have great need to congratulate myself. I fancy there are some little queer corners about his character, but am sure he is kind-hearted and estimable. He had been calling on Mr. Wainwright, and heard of me from him. His eister's husband, Mr. Ainslie, is solicitor to the old squire. While in India Mr. Littington was in the civil service. Mr. Ainslie, he said, had taken the trouble to go out to the same region in order to secure his conjugal happiness, having become attached to Miss Littington during the years her education was being completed under the charge of a friend of her mother's near Marsham. He had carried on his profession with some success in India for nearly ten years, and it was fifteen since they had returned together to England; my aunt and her husband having died within a few months of each other. He assured me they had made particular enquiries respecting my how-mother, but all they could gather was that she had died in or near London, having previously lost her husband and several children. I had looked forward to my visit to Tudfield with dread on one account; and, as sometimes happens, the matter has proved different to what I had apprehended. I promised my husband that the first time I went there, I would call on Harry Markland's mother. I knew it must stir up the poor woman's grief to see me; and when I told her who I was, and that the Captain had before called when she chanced to be absent, she gave way to some tears. Presently, ever, the good soul dried her eyes, and seemed to think more of my case than her own. "Dear me, ma'am," she said; "you must think me very foolish to make such a fuss at my great strong lad being knocked about the world, when there's your little baby-girl that's in a like case. But never fear, ma'am; Harry's not the boy to let the little dear want. Why, bless you, ma'am, only to see the way he'd dandle little Kitty-that's my daughter's baby when he was last at home; and how he'd watch all her little ways! And I'm sure, after all the kindness Captain Gainsborough has shown him, I wouldn't call him my own boy, if he wasn't ready to lay down his life for him and his." I told him how we had been situated; how my mother had been instrumental in procuring a good berth at sea for one Master Richard Gainsborough, and how he had afterwards sought me out and made me his wife. Mr. Littington was a kind and interested listener, and certainly left me much the happier for his visit. What a deal I shall have to tell Richard about! He will be pleased to hear of this. And now I am expecting Helen; for just as we had shaken hands at Mrs. Thomason's gate, she turned again and said hurriedly-" Mrs. I came that time, I did at first think him imGainsborough, shall you be disengaged about four o'clock? I should like, if you can spare time, to speak to you for half-an-hour." I consented willingly of course. "I wanted to speak to you, dear Mrs. borough," Helen began, "because you are the only person I can hope will give me any sort of support in what I am sure is right. I am afraid I ought not to trouble you, but will you be so kind as to hear what I have to tell, and say, if you were I, would you not do the same?" proved; I was silly and knew nothing. I fancied because he looked manly, and rode gracefully, and had a daring way with him, that he wasI never felt sure, but I did think perhaps he was Gains--what I could like. I have been trying strictly to recall all that happened at that time, while I was under the delusion; but I cannot accuse myself of having said, or looked, or done, anything that could be construed into even a tacit consent to marry him.” This little speech was made in a hurried, forced sort of way; as if she had made up her mind to do what was unusual to her-to speak about her affairs to a new acquaintance. "Tell me anything you please, Helen; I suppose you agree that if I think you wrong I must say so?" 'Oh, yes!-for I really want to know whether you think me right. I do not mean that I have done right all along-not, that is, quite as I ought to have done; but I meant it, indeed." I took Helen's hat off, placed her beside me on the sofa, with her back to the light. She drew off her gloves, clasped her hands tightly together, and resting her eyes upon them, recommenced: "When I was about twelve years old, Grant Wainwright came to Darliston to spend his midsummer holidays. He was fourteen, and a great boy for his age; rather a nice boy, at all events he seemed so to me. I was a merry child, very little for twelve; and we got on together very well. He was very fond of playing with me, and called me his little wife, for which I used to box his ears if I could, and, to say the truth, thought it rather good fun. sure I do not think it was wrong of me that I used to talk afterwards a good deal about him to grandfather, and wish that he would come again; do you think it was?" I am "Quite natural, of course Helen, and not at all wrong; for I suppose, as you say he was a nice boy, he did not lead you into any particular mischief?" Oh, no! he made me a swing, and would take me on a big horse with him. He taught me to draw on a slate, and to dance the polka. Grandfather knew all about it." Very well, dear; all right so far, I am sure." "It was five years before he came again, and his visit was a short one. I was seventeen, and of course it was very different to meet him then ?" "But you were pleased?" "Yes, dear Mrs. Gainsborough, I was pleased" -Helen hesitated. "You found him improved?" I suggested. She looked up, sighed, and shook her head. "No; oh, no! he is not, I wish he were more like my old playfellow; but he has learnt to like other company than that of merry little children. Dear Mrs. Gainsborough, I wish to tell you all the truth. When my cousin "Then you are not engaged?" "No, Mrs. Gainsborough. Can I be engaged, when I have never, never consented to any such thing?” 66 Scarcely, I think. Does he claim any engagement?" "Oh, if you had heard him this morning! I'm not one to be frightened; he is not the first Wainwright I have had to do with. Yes, he says the engagement was a settled thing when he came to the Rood Farm, and that nothing, nothing shall make him give it up. And if you had heard him Mrs. Gainsborough"-Helen went on with some excitement-"I am sure you would have said that a man who could swear so frightfully in the presence of a girl he pretended to love, and at his age too, he's not oneand-twenty, would be a nice sort of a husband! a proper person to love, honour, and obey! No, I feel I've got spirit in me not to be stormed into anything, much less anything so serious. I'm something of a Wainwright too, but when I marry I hope to marry some one who is worthy to be obeyed-not a racing, dog-fighting, swearing stupid lout! a companion of grooms and low ruffians! I would not marry him for anything now-not if my grandfather were to turn me out of doors! I'd go and be a nursemaid, or a housekeeper, or I'd teach ladies to ride: I could do that! I don't care what he says; if my grandfather promised, he undertook more than he ought; and I am sure now that he is more than half-sorry he promised anything." "Helen, may I ask if it is long since you made up your mind that you certainly would not marry your cousin ?" 66 felt certain about it, I fear you will suppose that and I suppose I was then somehow thrown into | I did come to something like a resolution that I the bargain." "But did you not soon suspect there was such an understanding?" "No, not very soon. Grant came to the Rood farm, and of course he was much at Darliston. It seemed quite natural. I was pleased that he should come and talk over the news and farming affairs with my grandfather; he was useful to him in many ways that I could not be, and such help seemed really desirable. Then it came as a matter of course that Grant and I should sometimes ride together; and I certainly was desirous he should go to church with me. However, I don't think he had been a week at the Rood before I was quite certain and positive he was not the sort of person I had dreamt he might be. My illusion was effectually dispelled and at once." "I suppose, Helen, like most girls your imagination was adoring a hero of its own creation. Then perhaps, in those days of illusion, your conduct flattered his hopes?" "I cannot say. I do not think it likely. Certainly my conduct was different to what it has been since. Then I was only fearful I was not worthy of the happiness I dreamt of. I was afraid he would find it out before I had time to amend; and so I was naturally silent and timid. All that passed away, of course, when I found he was different; and as I grew at ease towards him, he threw off more and more of the outward show of courtesy and respect; and we just went on quarrelling and making it up." "What need was there to quarrel, Helen ?" "As I said, he did not show sufficient respect to me; that was one thing; and I think I have a right to quarrel with any man on that score." "Well, dear; it was better to quarrel than to suffer it. Go on." "At last, one day I found it all out. I suppose suspicion of the state of things had been dawning upon me for some time, but it came upon me as if it had been all at once. I saw my grandfather wished to keep his property in the family, that he liked to have Grant at hand in case his health failed, and that he was uneasy at the idea of leaving me in the world without a protector. I saw that Grant in his way had a fancy for me; a strange way, for I do believe he takes more pleasure in angering me than | anything else; and that if he were crossed, all my grandfather's plans would fall to the ground. Then I had a great battle with myself. "I thought it was my duty to try and like Grant. I thought I had been acting selfishly, in thinking of my own dreams. I called to mind that if Grant was rude and faulty, I was so too. Was it likely my dream of what my lord should be, would ever be realised? If such a being even came within my acquaintance, would he not be disgusted with such a rough, uneducated stupid, ugly girl as me? "I thought of all these things until it seemed my heart would break. True, my dreams were but dreams, but still they were precious-as I felt when I thought of having to give them up. ought to try to give them up; that as I was not likely to be a poet, or a writer, they could be of no real use to me, but rather a hindrance to my duty. "So I tried to like Grant. It only made me miserable. I could not. I felt the more I knew him how impossible it was that he and I should ever agree. I tried to be gentle with him; I tried to lead him to take pleasure in a better sort of reading than he accustomed himself to; it was just casting pearls before swine. I only felt hurt and mortified; for he either. would presume upon it, or else made game of what I delighted in. "I have felt it was a hopeless task for some time, but especially of late, on account of one or two things. I never, however, felt my reason convinced that it was not my duty to get over my own feelings till quite lately. Indeed I think it was hearing you talk about the duty of a wife made me quite certain about it." "Well, Helen; judging from all you have told me, I certainly think your resolution is a right one. But now-about your grandfather; you said just now you thought he half-regretted any promise he might have made concerning you. Perhaps he too has not so good an opinion of Mr. Grant as at first?" "I know that he is far from satisfied with him, though he will not complain before me. But, dear Mrs. Gainsborough, time is going, and I must be home to make the tea. I have yet one thing I really wish to speak to you of. It's a sort of secret. That is to say it is only a suspicion, but it is not right always to speak our suspicions. I feel I can safely trust to your discretion, and you may advise me." "I think you may trust to my discretion, but I am averse to secrets, and do not like binding myself by promises." He You "Ah, but I know you will do what is right. I ought to tell you first that Grant has made this burglary a reason for urging our marriage, and wanted it to take place immediately. came upon the subject just as if it had been all along an understood thing, and was mighty indignant when I told him my ideas were opposed to it. Then the more Í endeavoured to convince him it could never be, the more violent he became. However, for this secret. must know that one of my chief objections to Grant is on account of the company he keeps ; and this I believe is also the greatest source of disquiet to my grandfather. It is natural he should desire that the property he has been so many years improving should fall into good hands. He does not object to Grant's going to races; but he does strongly to his associating with low betting men; and I believe if he thought his chosen companions were really of such a class he would never desire that either Darliston or myself should be entrusted to him. Grant sometimes has visitors at the Rood, and about the new year grandfather intimated to him that he should like to see some of them at the hall. They came to dinner. One of them made himself very agreeable, and grandfather was better satisfied than he had been. I did not like any of them, but found the one I have spoken of very courteous. He listened to my music with attention, and attempted a duet with me. He restricted his conversation to such subjects as might be supposed to interest me and my grandfather; appeared to find much to admire in the old hall, and even the furniture; saying he was considered to be a connoisseur in such matters. Dear Mrs. Gainsborough, I may be mistaken, but I have a strong feeling that . that man was one of the three that came to rob us!" "Do you mean the one Mrs. Cargill calls the polite man?" "Yes; he with the white hands; voice and figure and manner, something more that I cannot define-all combined to give me the impression at the time. Remember the men were evidently well acquainted with the house, and this friend of Grant's made his taste for antiquities an excuse for particular notice of the place. Another thing strikes me as possible, but as we stand I cannot well question Grant about it, whether he was not induced by this man to take Nero away?" Certainly it occurred to me, knowing the cause of your cousin's leaving with the dog, that the fight and the robbery might have been planned in connection. Still, dear Helen, I must think it very probable you are mistaken in regard to the individual." "I am so far uncertain, that I doubt its being right to act upon the suspicion in any way; but if you can think of anything that might be done to clear it up, without bringing anything disagreeable on this person if he is innocent, I should be very glad. You will be sure to come to morrow if it does not rain ?" 66 Yes, I will be with you about three." "That will help to keep my spirits up of course I am looking for a storm from my grandfather. He went to Marsham early this morning." "Well, dear, I wish you safe through it. Be firm, but be gentle too." "I will be firm. As for being gentle, I am afraid neither my grandfather nor my cousin would understand me; they would think I was not in earnest." But you will be guarded, and not say anything you would regret after?" "I don't think I shall. To a certain extent I always do keep my temper. I believe, Mrs. Gainsborough, my temper does not like my black mare-enjoys a good gallop sometimes, but don't quite run away with me." Nothing in life, after honour and health, can be prized above self-cultivation, and nothing lies open at so cheap a rate to us all. The chief quality it asks is self-denial; the chief outlay time-a possession we may throw away, but we cannot lay up. TREU UND FEST. BY LILY SHORTHOUSE. Frank, old friend, sit down beside me: See how dark the shadows fall, Downward from the stately beeches, On the stern and ancient hall. Do you envy me my mansion? Fifteen years ago my pride Drove the sunlight from its portals, And my Alice from my side. What a lifetime seems between us ! See, I have her portrait smiling, All unconscious of the smart, That for years has lain beneath it, As I wear it on my heart. Alice was the Rector's daughter. Many a time, in days gone by, Here we played beneath the beech-trees, She, her brother, Maud, and I. Sister Maud was dark, and stately: With her thoughtless, childish glee. Through my college-days unchanging, Still my boyish love remained; Then I sought my much-loved playmate, And her gentle heart I gained. Still I wear the ring I gave her, With the Charlton's falcon crest, And beneath her favourite legend Was the motto, "Treu und fest." Ernest was my sister's lover, And, as in the days gone by, Here we sat once more togetherMaud and Alice, he and I. Then a heavy cloud upon us— Blighting all the future-came, Branding, with a dark suspicion, Ernest with a forger's name! Maud and Alice clung together, All unshaken in their trust; But I thought myself far wiser, To my boyhood's friend unjust. When my little Alice told me, Sadly, through her falling tears, That her sorrow should not darken With its cloud my future years, |