to be kind, since she must come and it could not be helped. Christina was very slight, but, as her brother had said, she was almost as tall as herself, and she held her head like a queen, and she looked straight into Miss Cleasby's eyes with the candid inquiring look of one who for her part, has nothing to conceal. And then she glanced round the luxurious room, at the mirrors and the cabinets and the gilded furniture, with admiration, and no awe. "How pretty it all is," she said: and she looked round with the open admiration of a child. She "Yes," said Augusta, vaguely. was astonished, and had not quite recovered herself, and she sat down again and looked at Christina much as Christina looked at the new surroundings, only in her look surprise predominated. And she was much more sorry for Christina than she had been before; she was not a little, vain girl as she had imagined, but perhaps that made it worse she would not be so easily consoled; and she was not a child, to be played with and put aside at pleasure. think of it at all. She was too proud and too unconscious, perhaps too careless of other people's opinion. She could not have been ashamed of their position, as her mother was, poor woman; but then she had no regrets to weigh her down, nor thoughts of what might have been. She cared little for her own beauty, but yet she knew that she was pretty, and perhaps the consciousness added something to her courage. But in spite of all this, in spite of her enterprise and frank simplicity, she would not have gone so easily to the Park if Captain Cleasby had been at home. She knew him, and she did not know his sister, but yet she preferred to introduce herself. This afternoon it was not until she had watched him drive past the White House on his way to Overton that she laid aside her work and announced her intention of going to the Park that afternoon. She had not asked herself why it was so; she would seek his sister, but she would not seek him. She had told her grandfather that she wished to be friends, but she felt whilst she said it that for some reason or other she could not be friends with Captain Cleasby. Perhaps, after all, her mother was right, and there was a gulf between them which could not be passed; perhaps it was true that a barrier had been raised between prosperity and poverty, between them and people of the world. Only she had not felt it so much at first, and she did not feel it now when she thought of his sister. But she knew it was otherwise with Captain Cleasby; if he came she would be glad to see him, only she could no longer be as friendly as she had liked to be; and though she was not used to being afraid, she was afraid to go to the Park if he were to be there. He was not there to-day, however, as she knew, so she followed the butler across the great stone hall, with the glass doors opening on to the garden, and the flowering shrubs blossoming in the stands; and though her eyes were full of light, and the colour was glowing in her cheeks when the drawing-room door was thrown open for her to pass in, it was only because she was a little excited by the novelty of the thing. Miss Cleasby was sitting at her writing table at the further end of the room, but she rose when Christina came in, and went forward to meet her, and held out her soft, shapely hand, and looked down at her, not tenderly, but with a generous dispassion-ple's toes," ate gaze, and was struck, as she could not help being struck, by her beauty. This was not the little, shrinking, village girl she had expected, to whom she had meant Augusta was a woman of the world, and perhaps even a little blasée, but it had never been her habit to trouble herself to find conversation, and as she had nothing particular to say she kept silence, and leant back in her chair and twisted her pen about in her fingers. And then Christina came to an end of her survey of the room, and turned her eyes upon her again. "I believe I am in your way; don't you want to finish your letters?" she asked; but even now there was no shyness or awkwardness in her manner. "Not in the least; my letters will wait. It is too hot to be busy, and I am very glad of an excuse to be idle. Won't you take off your hat and stay with me, if you have nothing better to do? You know we shall live here perhaps for ever and ever, and I want somebody very much to tell me all about everything, and who are the good people who expect to be asked to dinner, and who are the people who won't come to meet them; and who is the young lady that likes to be asked to sing and who is the young gentleman that likes to listen to her. You must tell me what the politics of the place are, you know, that I may not be treading on peo "But I don't really know anything about it, Miss Cleasby. You know grandpapa is getting old, and we see hardly anybody at all. We know so few of the Overton people, and we have no one to dinner except Mr. Warde now and then." "Oh yes, the clergyman. Of course one's clergyman one always respects. I think I generally respect them too much to ask them to dinner. Somehow, it detracts from their dignity to see them eat; and then, I don't know anything about schools, aud district visiting, and poor people. I am afraid I am not capable of clerical conversation." "I don't know about conversation," said Christina; but I don't think you would laugh at Mr. Warde if you knew all the good he does. You should hear the people speak of him. And it isn't because of what he gives; he makes them independent enough, only they know that if they are starving he will go without his dinner any day for their sake, and he doesn't care what he does if it is for their good. He takes half of the parish work in Overton, because the Vicar is an old man and doesn't care much about things; and many nights, I know, he is called up to sick people miles away from here because they like him so." "Don't be indignant," said Augusta, lazily; "I have no doubt he is a hero. And it is fine too, when one comes to think of it, to give up one's life for people who are so far off from one, or to give up one's life for anyone at all. I wonder why he thinks it worth while." "It is not the reward," said Christina, still a little indignant. No, I suppose it is not the reward: I don't quite see what reward he could look to. And yet there can be no enthusiasm to carry him on: it is not like mission work, where there is some excitement and a chance of martyrdom. It is this plodding work among carters and turnip-fields that must be so disheartening. I wonder why he thinks it worth while." "The people like him, and that must be something," said Christina; “but I believe he would do it all the same if they did not. It is rather curious, but I believe he does it just because he thinks it right. And after all, the carters are just as nice as other people, or nicer; I don't know why you say that they are far off." "Yes, I know; I can talk about liberty and equality and universal brotherhood too, sometimes. I don't quarrel with you for that. By all means let the ploughmen have their right, and let us share our bread and butter with them-there is enough for all. But don't think it will bring them nearer. They won't understand us, nor shall we understand them." "Do people ever understand each other?" said Christina. She began to think how little she could conceive of the feelings of those nearest to her, of those with whom she had always lived. How inexplicable to her was her grandfather's bitterness and her mother's despondency, - and she sighed as she thought of it. "Do we ever understand ourselves?" said Miss Cleasby: and then she paused, and her moralizing ended in sudden laughter. "We are growing dreadfully metaphysical," she said, "discoursing in this way of social questions and human nature. But seriously, is the career of a district visitor the only one that is open to one here? because your Mr. Warde seems to expect me to go and tell his little boys all about Joseph and his brothers on Sunday afternoons, and I do not feel that my capabilities are strong in that line." "I don't know why you call him my Mr. Warde," said Christina, “and I am afraid I can't tell you much about the parish. Of course I know the people, at least a great many of them; but I don't go to the school, because I don't know how to teach." "Poor Mr. Warde, I begin to commiserate him," said Miss Cleasby; "he has evidently no sympathy or assistance. I do believe that I shall be obliged to offer my valuable help, after all.” From that they went on to other subjects. Miss Cleasby spoke of her life abroad, the things she had done and the people she had seen, but all the time no word was said of Captain Cleasby or of his acquaintance with Christina. Perhaps in each of their minds there was an unconscious reference to him in his connection with the other: Christina's predominant feeling was that her new acquaintance was his sister, and Miss Cleas by looked at her visitor not as at a casual stranger, but as at the girl that Walter was amusing himself with. Yet they both started when suddenly a shadow darkened the window, coming between them and the level rays of the afternoon sunshine, and Captain Cleasby stepped into the room. He stepped in from the terrace, and took off his hat and held out his hand to Christina. "So you are here at last," he said with a smile. His manners were as easy and unembarrassed as ever, and his entrance was no unnatural interruption to their conversation, and yet, thongh he had been in their thoughts, his presence changed the aspect of things and caused a revulsion in each of their minds. Augusta leant back in her chair, rather taking the attitude of a spectator, and Christina drew a little away from her, and sent her quick, startled glances about the room, as if seeking for a subject of conversation or a pretext for departure. "Do you remember the house at all?" said Captain Cleasby; "I suppose it has been a good deal altered, but you know you are visiting your own ancestral halls." He had sat down on the end of the sofa opposite to his sister and Christina, and looked at them both as if he were a little curious as to the mutual relations which the visit had brought about between them. "I remember very little about it," said Christina; "I was only three years old, I think, when we went away, no, I must have been older, but I don't remember it well. I recognized the staircase, because I tumbled all the way down that flight of stairs into the hall; and I remember the passages just beyond, because Bernard, my cousin, and I used to play hide-and-seek there, but I believe that is nearly all." "That is very disappointing. I hoped you would have all kinds of associations, and have been able to hand down to us the traditions of the place. It seems to me you are very hard-hearted." "No, I am not; only I forget. I suppose, if I remembered, I should be unhappy at having to see strangers here; but I forget, and so it doesn't matter to me." "And now you have said the unkindest thing of all," said Captain Cleasby. And whilst they were speaking, Miss Cleasby sat watching, lazily leaning back in her chair, and with her eyelids half lowered over her eyes; but she roused herself and spoke, before Christina could answer her brother's last speech, which indeed she had not thought to answer. "We were discoursing of much pleasanter and more profitable things before you came in, Walter," she said; "men always will be so personal. Now just observe the difference: we had been considering the condition of the poor, the constitution of society, the means of reform and their effects, not to speak of human nature in all its aspects; you come idly sauntering in at the window, the idea of the most expeditious way of reaching the sofa the prominent one in your mind; and, instead of applying yourself to the solution of these weighty problems, you immediately engage us in frivolous speculations as to our individual past." "Which at least is a subject upon which we are qualified to speak, my dear Augusta, and it is nonsense to call personal talk frivolous. When we talk of ourselves, are we not talking of the subject that lies nearest to our hearts?" "That is your personal experience, I suppose." "Captain Cleasby does not mean that we can get rid of other people or other things," said Christina; "at least I suppose not; he only means that they are interesting in their connection with ourselves." "That is only another form of selfishness." "If you like to say so, though, considering our relationship, the doctrine has its advantages for you; for of course the consanguinity enhances the interest, and in my eyes invests you with many imaginary charms: but I will not give it up, simply because it would be an impossibility. Why are our possessions dear to us, but because they are our own? Why may we not have a peculiar affection for the places in which we have been born and bred? Why may I not take pleasure in thinking that Miss North has run about my passages and stood at my table to taste the wine in her grandfather's glass?" said Captain Cleasby, a little pathetically; but though he addressed his sister, he was looking at Christina. "You may be right," said Miss Cleasby; and, though she was vexed at his speech, she showed no annoyance. "I suppose we do regard our belongings, whether things or people, as worthy of more honor because of their connection with ourselves. That is why we put our great aunt Rachel in a frame and hang her up over the mantelpiece with the other family miniatures, although, unless the artist did her great injustice, she must have been one of the plainest young women ever seen. Have you looked at her, Miss North? She hangs just between my grandmother (taken, I believe, in the character of Amaryllis) and my brother as a little boy." 66 Yes, I see," said Christina: and she went to the mantelpiece, and stood looking at the miniatures hanging there by their faded ribbons on the back-ground of crimson velvet, as they had hung before the Cleasbys went abroad, when some of the men and women who looked out from their frames in the freshness of youth were still looking back to that time and growing old and grayheaded. lieve, when he was only five-and-twenty. | have put from him, but which would not Then there is his hrother George, that be dismissed. It was the picture of a child in a scarlet blouse, with his fair hair cut in a straight line across his forehead, and falling down upon his shoulders. He was a delicatelooking boy, and even now there was a likeness to Captain Cleasby, in the rather deep-set eyes and in the sensitive lines about the mouth. square-looking man: he was a physician, There are light natures which yet have and older than Charlie, but he only died the power of conceiving and in some sort two years ago. There was one other comprehending passions which they have brother, Uncle Robert, and he is alive still, never experienced and depths which they and the only really rich one among us. have never sounded. What they see is The girl there is their mother: she was strange, it is sometimes ridiculous, and pretty, I believe. Oh, do you think the yet they feel in themselves that it exists. little head below like Walter? It was Faintly and dimly was borne in upon Waldone when he was six years old." ter Cleasby, through the sensitive fibre of his artistic perceptions, a sense of something which moved and stirred Christina's being, and vibrated through all the jarring discords with which her life was filled. He did not seek to analyze it, he strove rather to put away from himself the knowledge of its existence; but nevertheless the sense of it would at times flash across his spirit, mingled with a fear of coming perplexity and trouble. He was not a vain man, and Christina certainly had given him no cause for vanity: she had not sought him; when he had crossed her path she had met him with a friendly frankness which had no coquetry in it; but now, though she was frank as ever, there was a certain shy excitement underlying her manner which troubled him a little. "Yes, I think it is like him," said Christina, smiling. "I must be going home," said Christina, turning from the chimney-piece and taking up her hat. There was nothing in the words; but somehow it seemed to him that the tone of her voice had changed. Christina. And all this time Captain Cleasby had taken no part in what was said, for, naturally, the repetition of his family history had no interest for him; and the only thing of which he was distinctly conscious was Christina, standing before him on the rug, resting one hand on the mantlepiece as she looked at the miniatures. And now he knew that his sister had been wrong in her anticipations. Christina might be different from other girls, but nothing could detract from her charm and her beauty. Augusta had been quite wrong. She was perhaps a little shy, her looks "Oh, don't go yet," said Captain Cleaswere a little startled, but there was noth-by; "wait a little longer. I am sure they ing awkward in the touch of shyness; per- can do without you for one afternoon. haps it was more attractive than the per- You go away just as I come home." fect confidence she had shown at first, and "But I must go," said he felt instinctively that it was not caused" Good-bye, Miss Cleasby." by her position in the house, nor by the "Thank you for coming," said Miss sight of what he had called their magnifi- Cleasby. "Good-bye. You will not excence, nor by anything so external to her-pect me to come to your house; you know self. She was beautiful, but that was not all. Her voice was sweet and low, but it was a voice that could ring out at times, and her smile was sudden and vivid: and as to her dress, his sister was always well dressed; she was magnificent even in her mourning; but nothing could be more graceful than the soft folds of Christina's muslin. He noticed it all, even the little hand hanging down by her side. It was not so white as his sister's, it was slighter and narrower, but yet there was force about it. The misgivings his sister had raised up in his mind faded completely as he looked at Christina, standing there in her unconscious grace, frankly looking round at all there was to see; but another misgiving had arisen mingled with pleas- You will come again," Captain Cleasby ure and pain, a misgiving which he would 'said to Christina, as they parted at the that I go nowhere now:" and she did not ask Christina to come again, though she was very different from what she had expected, and her visit had been an amusement and interest to her. "We will come to the gate with you," said Captain Cleasby, "if you will allow Augusta time to make up her mind and get up from her chair. Come, Gusty, the sun is quite low, and it will do you good to get a little air." "Will it?" said his sister, rather doubtfully; but she did get up from her seat and consented to walk down the hill to the gate, all three talking together of indifferent things, and loitering in the evening sunshine. gate; but Christina made no direct anneither did his sister second his re swer, quest. Why could you not be a little more friendly?" he said, as he turned back towards the house with his sister. "No one asks you to put yourself out of the way; but, if you like her, why not be friendly?" "Are we to go all over the old ground again, Walter? You know very well why. She is quite unlike what I expected. I won't call her a poor little thing any long. er; but I am just as sorry for her as I was before, and I know very well what it means when you are so anxious that I should be kind to my neighbours." "I should feel just the same about it if I were at Kamschatka. It has nothing to do with me; I can see her as much as I like without your having anything to do with it. And, after all, I am not an Apollo. You are quite ridiculous about it, Augusta!" No, I am not. I know you are not an Apollo, that is nothing to the purpose; and as to your seeing her, of course you could see her; but what you want me to do is to take the responsibility off your hands, and that is an office I decline." And then they talked of other things, and did not, as some people might have done, come to a quarrel on the subject. The Cleasbys were a sweet-tempered race -and perhaps they neither of them thought it worth while. From The Gentleman's Magazine. crous imageries, oddly-combined contrasts, Not I noticed also that Hood was a gentleman in two essential points: he was no egoist, he made no more allusion to himself and his sayings and doings than if he had been a second-ledger clerk in a banking-house, and he might be pronounced the most mechanical of "writers," after the paste-and-scissors author of history. only did Hood hint no reference to himself, but he extended to others the full privileges of conversation; he never interrupted, and he listened with Spartan patience to every one, and it was apparent to the commonest observer that not a speech, not an action made by any of the company escaped him. These I presume to be essential qualities to constitute a gentleman in society. THE first and (to my regret) the only time I ever was in company with Thomas Hood, occurred one evening at the house of a mutual friend, residing at Walworth. As he entered the room my first impression was that of slight disappointment. I had not then seen any portrait of him, and my imagination had depicted a man of the under size, with a humourous and mobile mouth, and with sharp, twinkling, and investigating eyes. When, therefore, a rather tall and attenuated figure presented itself before me, with grave aspect and dressed in black; and after, when scrutinizing his features I noticed those dark, sad eyes, set In canvassing his intellectual accomin that pale and pain-worn, yet tranquil plishments, it appears clear that the readface, and saw the expression of that suffer- ing public have bestowed the almost undiing mouth, telling how sickness, with its vided suffrage of their approbation upon stern plough, had driven its silent share his talent for humourous, even ludicrous through that slender frame, all the long combination, to the neglect of, or tacit intrain of quaint and curious fancies, ludi-difference for his sedate writings. 1213 |