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CHAPTER XI.

ARGARET COURTENAY had said truly that she hated mysteries, especially such as created a feeling of doubt towards those whom it was necessary to her happiness that she should implicitly believe, and entirely trust. Yet it seemed, just at this period of her life, as if her appointed and peculiar trial was to be surrounded by mysteries. Archy Dunlop had been a mystery to her. The reports which she was continually hearing about his brother were a still greater mystery. She was beginning to understand the former case-the latter remained inexplicable. Again and again Margaret had turned a deaf ear to these reports, and when compelled to hear, had cast them from her, and mentally trampled them under foot. But they rose again; and now the letter with the well-known handwriting which she had seen with her own eyes-that also must be got rid of as evidence against her friend; for why should he not write to the young woman with directions for her journey, without culpability on his part, or shame on hers?

In this state of mind, and without the least ray of light having been thrown upon. the subject, Margaret was obliged again to leave the place where alone she could expect to obtain any explanation of this, the grand mystery of all. But although she did so with feelings much disturbed, her faith was still unshaken. It was not possible that it

THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND," ETC.

should be shaken except by evidence which had not yet been manifest to her, that Harry Dunlop was capable of base and deliberate deception.

Thus, then, there lay before her all the long months of another autumn, winter, and spring, to be spent not in the most congenial companionship, and during which she knew that she would be continually subjected to the annoyance of hearing what she did not want to hear of listening to injurious and unfounded surmises which she had no sufficient means of disproving.

Perhaps there is no human condition more trying to the temper or more injurious to the disposition than this; and Margaret, if not really irritable, was naturally impetuous and indignant whenever she was placed in contact with injustice and wrong. How, then, through all the long months-the winter months which lay before her, was she to keep up the sunshine of her life under these circumstances?

Happily Margaret found something to do. Not long after leaving Eastwick, at the end of the summer, she received a long confidential letter from Archy Dunlop. It was discontented and querulous in its tone, as if the writer considered himself the most unfortunate of human beings-as if all things were against him--as if nothing in his case was or could be of any use. But all this, uncomfortable as it was in the reading, did not deter Margaret from answering the letter freely and fully; for so long as Archy would

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pour out his heart in his letters to her, she felt it her bounden duty to keep up the correspondence in the same frank and earnest manner. Indeed, each succeeding letter, sad as it was, afforded her hope; and that hope by degrees assumed the character of faith-faith that he who had been so cared for in early life, so prayed for in the simplicity and tenderness of parental love, would not be left in his hour of darkness to sink lower and lower until past recovery.

Here, also, Margaret had faith; and all through the time of separation she made this her chief duty, to deal as kindly as she could, and yet firmly and faithfully, with this poor troubled heart and broken spirit, in order to bring about again a cheerful appreciation of the wise and merciful government of God in His dealings with His rebellious children. Here indeed faith was especially needed, as all can testify who have made the experiment of labouring to bring about this desired result with a diseased mind, and verted understanding.

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Inexperienced as Margaret was in dealing with any great variety of mental disorder, it was both a surprise and a disappointment to her to find that Archy-the gentle, tenderspirited Archy-should be so difficult to persuade; in the first place, that he had himself been seriously culpable, and in the second, that there must be no excuses and no half-measures in his return to uprightness and peace. Yet all who have had much to do with characters like Archy's must have found that, the influence of praise and blame having once led them wrong, they seem to enter into a perfect labyrinth of false reasoning, and mixed motives, every attempt at disentanglement from which appears only to plunge them deeper into hopeless confusion.

Such, however, is the result of mere human effort-of reasoning-of persuasion -even of plain dealing as with a rational being. Happily, there is other and more powerful help always at hand. And in treating this most perplexing case, Margaret was brought more earnestly than ever in her life before to seek that higher help without which she did not venture to expect success.

We are seldom long unhappy when trying

to do good; and with this subject occupying many of her graver moments, Margaret did not find the winter pass so wearily as she at first anticipated. Indeed, such is the effect of all earnest endeavours to serve our fellowbeings, especially to serve them where their highest interests are concerned, that a certain cheerfulness attends our labours, and even a peace of mind beyond what any out. ward circumstances could produce.

Thus months and weeks passed on; and when at last the actual time seemed approaching very near for the Andersons again to make their summer visit to the seacoast, Margaret began secretly both to hope and to fear what this visit might bring to light. Mr. and Mrs. Anderson liked the place so well, that subsequently to their last visit they had purchased a small house situ ated very near the rectory; and consequently it was no longer a matter of doubtful con sultation as to where they should spend their summer months. Hitherto the weather had almost always been favourable during their stay at Eastwick. Had they known what storms were sometimes experienced there, long before the time when visitors generally begin to think of winter, they would probably have been more cautious in laying out their money upon a tenement so exposed to the north and east. This year they were des tined to understand the climate and the situation better. The summer throughout was ungenial, and Mr. Anderson, having early caught a rheumatic cold, became a confirmed invalid, unable to leave the house.

All things externally looked dreary in the extreme; and not only was there but little sunshine on the landscape and the sea, but no light had yet dawned upon Margaret's mystery. Rather the contrary, for fresh clouds had gathered, and even the Godwins scarcely spoke of Harry Dunlop now.

"You see, my dear," said Mrs. Godwin, when talking confidentially one day with Margaret, "I could have withstood anything but this. But one day when Mr. Godwin called to see James Halliday, who has been ailing a good deal lately, and certainly is not the man he was, he showed him part of a letter from his niece, which

stated that on her arrival at New York, Harry Dunlop met her on board the vessel, and took, as she said, the kindest care of her and her things."

it otherwise. It was even bad that Harry Dunlop, her hero, should choose a wife from a social position so much beneath his own; only, whenever she turned this over in her

Why should he, my dear? Why should the girl go to New York at all, only by his directions, as her uncle says she did. And why should James Halliday smile and chuckle, and look significantly when he showed the letter, if there was nothing in it ?"

"Because," said Margaret, "he is a storytelling, mischief-making, and altogether horrid man!"

"My dear girl," said Mrs. Godwin, laying her hand reprovingly upon Margaret's arm, "you must not be so hasty. Remember that Mr. Godwin saw the letter himself."

"Saw part of a letter," replied Margaret. "The other part," said Mrs. Godwin, "he was told related only to family matters. Besides, was not what he did see quite enough?"

"I do not pretend to understand the exact facts," Margaret said, after considering a little while; "but I feel as sure as I ever did that Harry stands clear of all treachery and meanness. Indeed, if he were guilty, do you believe the girl would have betrayed even so much as that part of the letter disclosed ?"

"If it was all so arranged as that they should be married immediately on Nelly's arrival, it would not matter," observed Mrs. Godwin, not appearing to notice the sudden start which Margaret gave when she said. this. "You see, there might be nothing really bad, as the world judges of people's actions, in the transaction. Tom Lawson might have given the girl up; and if she is now the wife of Harry Dunlop, the less we say, and the less we think about it, the better."

"Decidedly," said Margaret, very promptly, and then she became silent, for she at least had no wish to hear more. It was of no use saying, "If they were married," or, "Tom Lawson might have given the girl up." It was bad to Margaret, and she could not see

such a wife might possibly be more suitable to a farmer than a lady would be; and let us not judge her hardly if, when this thought presented itself, she sometimes said to herself, with a slight touch of bitterness"But why not have both? There are hands that would have worked for him amongst those whose companionship he could not have despised." Not that her faith was giving way. As tenaciously as ever she held by the belief that Harry Dunlop was honourable, just, and true. Yet still, when alone, the question would come again and again-" But why did he go on board that ship to meet the girl himself? Why not send the man to meet her who was to be her husband ?"

Such thoughts, though womanly, were certainly not wise, and Margaret struggled hard to drive them away, often rousing herself by a determined effort to do some present duty, which is always the sure defence against troublesome and useless thoughts. And in a high degree Margaret possessed the happy art of finding many duties. She could associate herself closely, and with a real interest, with all human beings whose companionship was neither repulsive nor degrading. Thus she became the confidant of many, and in this close intercourse found the way to help them.

Mrs. Godwin was always glad of help in her parish duties amongst the ignorant and the poor, and Margaret found a wide sphere of usefulness here. Agnes was especially thankful for help, and Margaret's stronger and more decided character afforded her the kind of encouragement and support which she most needed. But especially poor Archy wanted help, and Margaret's cheerful, healthy tone of conversation had the happy effect of rousing him out of that despondency which seemed to have been settling upon him during the time which had elapsed since she saw him last.

But beyond the hope of help which

Margaret's companionship always afforded, there was something about her which drew out the close secrets connected with the inner life of those with whom she lived on familiar terms; and she had not been long at Eastwick before Archy laid before her, in the deepest confidence, a little romance of his own life which had been the cause of a tender melancholy still brooding over his spirit, and, as he believed, destined to brood there for ever.

Deprived, as he had been for many months, of the accustomed exercises necessary to healthy youth, confined in great measure to the house, and to the society of gentlespirited and amiable women, he had very naturally nursed his old partiality for Agnes Godwin into a warmer attachment; and in an unguarded moment, when her manner towards him appeared more tender than usual, he had told her of his love.

But this disclosure had not been received even with compassion. Agnes was surprised at his folly, and she showed that she was so. Nay, there was something bordering on contempt in her manner, which poor Archy, attributing it entirely to his lameness and to the crippled appearance he must always make, laid afresh to his sad heart, until he was thrown back into a state of despondency from which it seemed impossible to rouse him.

In telling his tale to Margaret, which he did with a simplicity which almost betrayed her into smiling, while Archy looked as if he expected her to weep, he added, in tones of the deepest melancholy, "I might have known, if I had not been the greatest simpleton alive, that no woman would ever marry a poor disfigured object like me; only I fancied in my folly that some women were heroic enough even for that."

"Oh, Archy," Margaret exclaimed, "it was not that at all! I don't believe Agnes even thought of your lameness. Besides, it really is nothing, or next to nothing, in the way of disfigurement. If you would exert yourself a little more, and try to walk, and not lie brooding over your miseries as you do, I believe you would almost forget it yourself, and I am sure I should."

"Do you think Agnes would?"

Certainly she would. But, Archy, you must not misunderstand me. Shall I tell you a very plain truth?"

"Tell me anything. You cannot make me more unhappy than I am."

"Well, then, I must speak out fully what I have often hinted before. Agnes knew of that sad fall of yours, by hearing it described in the worst and most ungenerous manner. I do not mean the mere bodily fall which caused your lameness, but your moral fall-all the degrading circumstances by which it was attended when you lost your hold of what was true and just and noble, and associated yourself with unprincipled companions, and tried to win their favour, and delighted in their praise. I call this your fall; but, thank God, it is not a fall beyond recovery. Agnes knew of all this, and you are aware how she had been brought up to love and reverence all that is pure and good. No wonder if she saw you in a light even more unfavourable than you deserved-no wonder if she cannot see you again as you used to be."

"Ah, that is what I am continually grieving over-if I could only be again as I used to be!"

"Don't distress yourself about that, Archy. It is impossible. But I can tell you of something better than that-something better, and yet quite attainable."

"I wonder what. But you are an enthusiast, Margaret, and talk of things possible to others, yet impossible to me."

"No; I mean what is quite possible to you. I mean that you shall gather, as it were, your better self up again-that you shall be all the stronger and the wiser for what has passed."

"But not the same."

"No, certainly, not the same; nor is it altogether desirable that you should be the same, for now we know how much vanity and weakness there was in your character."

"And yet how many friends I had then, whose good opinion was the joy of my life."

"Still, Archy, we did not thoroughly know you. You did not know yourself. The facts of your school-life, however pain

ful and humiliating-nay, however wrong in themselves—have done this good,-they have brought the truth to light; they have proved how weak you are-I may say how weak we all are, when we take our affairs into our own hands-when we put away the thought of Him who is the only safe Guide, and submit our actions only to the praise and blame of those who are as weak, and perhaps more wicked, than we are ourselves. Perhaps, Archy, you only seemed a good boy before this happened. You must have been a weak, vain boy, or you would scarcely have been overcome by temptation as you were. Suppose you rise up now, and, with the strength that God will give you, become stronger from the knowledge of yourself and of the world which you have obtained by this sad experience-strong for duty and help and Christian service; and the more strong, because you will be humble now. Yes, Archy, we are never really strong until we have learned to walk humbly before God; and perhaps this is what you were not doing before your fall. But come, we have talked long enough for this morning. What do you say to a walk with me on the seashore?"

"I walk so slowly, nobody likes to walk with me."

"Yes, I do, Archy. I like it very much. I like it for your own sake; and I like to think that those good parents and relatives of yours, who cannot help you themselves, would like that you should have a sister in me. For you know I have neither parents nor brothers nor sisters myself. You must, therefore, believe me, dear Archy, that I am happy walking ever so slowly with you, for I know the fresh air does you good; and if you do feel a little tired sometimes, it is better than this idle brooding over past miseries, which brings no good either to yourself or to any one else."

Margaret was so intent upon drawing her companion out into the fresh air, and at the same time making the walk easy and pleasant to him, that she paid little attention to the direction which their steps were taking. It was enough for her that they led down to the beach, where a fresh, healthy breeze was

blowing, and dashing up the waves in a long line of rolling billows and snowy foam. Archy managed extremely well. He could walk a great deal better than he thought he could; and Margaret was more than ever convinced that a little bodily as well as mental rousing would be the thing to do him good.

Occupied with these thoughts, and with a pleasant kind of chat, by which she endeavoured to beguile the time, so as to lead her companion on, she became at length aware that they were approaching a little sheltered hollow lying under the cliff, where James Halliday's cottage was situated, and where other boats beside his own were drawn up on the beach, this being a favourite spot with the fishermen, who were now beginning to look anxiously at the weather, and the more so as the summer months seemed to be passing without much hope of their accustomed harvest of the sea.

"I did not observe where we were going," said Margaret, suddenly recollecting that of all men James Halliday was the one least agreeable for her to meet. "Perhaps we had better turn back before you are too tired, Archy."

"I am too tired already," replied her companion. "I must ask James Halliday to let me rest in his cottage. I have often rested there, or in his old boat, where I used to sit watching him at his nets."

"I don't think I should like to do either," said Margaret.

"Why not?" Archy asked, with perfect simplicity. "Harry used to come here. James Halliday and he were great friends; and Nelly Armstrong and he were great friends too. I want to ask after Nelly; it is so long since I heard about her."

Margaret, turning away her face to hide. the expression which she could not otherwise conceal, was on the point of saying that she, at any rate, must return. But while thinking of the means of escape, James Halliday himself overtook them, and with a cordial recognition of Archy, asked him to go into the house and rest awhile, for "to sit in the boat," he said, "with such a wind blowing, might not be so pleasant as it used to be