CHAPTER VII.

ALONE IN THE WORLD.

WHEN We speak of natural beauty, it is generally the face which we have in our eye or in our mind's eye: it is only a few enthusiasts who rave about a woman's ears or the nape of her neck; we even say the face of nature' when extolling the charms of a landscape. But in England, at least, there is one exception to this general rule, namely the Isle of Wight. In that case our admiration is always reserved for the back of the island.' The few miles of road that lie between Blackgang and Sandown Bay form a sort of marine Fairyland. Its loveliness is undeniable, but it is Lilliputian. The romances which are enacted there lie in a nutshell, but they are very numerous. It is sometimes called the Garden of England, but, if so, it is the back garden-as immortalised in the lives of Vilikins and his Dinah: a charming plot of ground, removed from the madding crowd, and open only to the sea and sky, but of very limited extent. Within this enchanted area lies Sandybeach. I suppose more happy brides have dated their first letters to the objects of their eternal school-friendships from Sandybeach than from any place of ten times its size within Her Majesty's dominions. Cupid hovers everywhere; over the level sands, over the sparkling sea, over the wooded cliffs, as though he were the

reverse, some cynics whisper, of his usual character-a gull. At all seasons his victims are seen arm-in-arm, or hand-in-hand, or even still more tenderly connected, parading the shore, or strolling through the pocket wilderness of the Undercliff. Life is an idyll in this exquisite village, and endures for a month exactly. I know an old gentleman who has been three times a Benedict, who has always spent his honeymoons in this sweet spot, and still cordially recommends it to friends about to marry. It is also by reason of its quiet and seclusion frequented by the afflicted in mind. So soon as her gentle guest began to gather strength after the double blow that cruel fate had dealt her, Mrs. Wardlaw said to her husband, John, we must take Nelly to Sandy beach.' And they took her.

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The poor girl did not herself care where she went; it seemed to her that all places were alike now-all darkened by the shadow of death and environed by the waters of bitterness; but the sunshine and the sea had balm in them. In a few days that first oppression of grief which seems almost to threaten physical suffocation, as well as to sink the heart down to bottomless depths, was mitigated. The clouds lifted a little from her mental view, and through the misty grey of life shone here and there a speck of blue.

Ralph Pennicuick's letter, strange to say, had done her good. It had roused her from the lethargy of grief, by compelling a reply to him, and at the same time had given her a rough reminder of the immediate necessity for exertion. She positively declined his offer of pecuniary aid. She had no doubt of the propriety of that course of action, but perhaps she would have been puzzled to account for all the causes that led her to adopt it. His proposal was

kind- if there was some lack of kindliness in the terms in which it was conveyed-and certainly liberal; she acknowledged that very readily; she had certainly no claim upon Mr. Pennicuick's purse, and he had opened it freely, but, somehow, she felt, even if she were ailing in health, and unfit to gain her own living, that she could never have touched the contents of it. He had been her father's friend, it was true; and his present generosity would seem to prove that that friendship had been genuine: yet, somehow, it failed to do so. So far from accepting the gift for her father's sake, her very love for her father would have urged her to decline it, even had there not been more cogent reasons for her refusal. Her mother's dislike to Ralph Pennicuick was a still more unsurmountable barrier. The bounty her mother had refused she for her part could certainly not have accepted in any case. This consideration was of course final and sufficient for her: but she also felt a secret disinclination to become the pensioner of Raymond's father. It behoved her in all things to be independent, but above all things to be independent of any bond with Raymond or Raymond's belongings. It made no difference that certain phrases in the elder Pennicuick's letter had their full significance for her: that she quite perceived that his offer covered a tacit understanding that his son and she should be no more than friends; the words, as she read them, had called up a blush of indignation into her cheeks, as well as innocent shame. But she was not going to be bribed into discarding Raymond, though she was quite resolved not to permit him to become her suitor. Perhaps she experienced a little satisfaction in the thought that her rejection of Ralph Pennicuick's bounty would give him some alarm upon his son's account though there would be no cause for it. And yet his letter

had not wholly failed in its intention. She had been resolved before that she would never disclose her tenderness for Raymond, however persevering might be his importunity, but now she was doubly sure of herself; for that her weakness in this respect would be a cause of quarrel between his father and himself was now made known to her for certain.

She had taken her time-an interval of at least two days-in writing her reply to Ralph Pennicuick; a circumstance that had given him great disquietude, for he had at once pictured her to himself as communicating his offer to Raymond and consulting with him upon its acceptance, or perhaps even arranging with him some common plan of action. Her reason for the delay, however, was simply that her would-be benefactor should understand that her rejection of his offer was deliberate, and therefore final. She thanked him, of course, but without effusion; nor did she hint at any of the reasons which, in truth, actuated her conduct, with the exception of her wish for independence. 'I feel,' she wrote, 'that there is now no happiness for me but in work; and for that I must have the incentive of necessity.'

She did not consult with either her host or hostess, but told them all about it when she had settled the matter.

"Well, my dear, I think you have been a little too sensitive," said Mrs. Wardlaw (who, however, had not seen Mr. Pennicuick's letter). 'The man is rolling in wealth, and keeps his only son as short as though he had a dozen of them. What could he do better with his hoarded money than give you some of it? He evidently thinks you have some claim

'Nay,' interrupted Nelly, that is not so. I have no claim

whatever; and indeed he expressly stated so on another occasion'

(she was alluding to that of the inquest). I think you are scarcely just to him.'

'Well, you know, my dear, I hate him,' said Mrs. Wardlaw frankly. I think him a selfish, bad man. His treatment of his son is alone a proof of it, if there were no other. When people are rich and mean, it is quite right to get everything out of them we can. It is like so much saved out of a fire.'

'But I should not like to take that sort of salvage,' said Nelly, smiling.

'Well, perhaps not, though I should like to see it taken. But this case is different. If conscience induces such a man in any one thing to act handsomely and honourably, I think it is your duty—your moral duty-to let him do it. It will probably be his last endeavour to perform a good action of any kind.'

'I don't see how his conscience can have anything to do with it, my dear Mrs. Wardlaw. He is simply moved by a kind impulse, though he does not express it, perhaps, in the most gracious manner.'

How should he?' returned Mrs. Wardlaw. He does not know how, because this is his first attempt. However, as you have said "No," so let it be. Fortunately we are not dependent on him, my darling.'

She stooped down and gave Nelly, who was at her easel, a hearty kiss. The use of the word 'we' was very delicate; it signified that the girl was as a daughter of their own, and as such entitled to her share of their prosperity. Nelly understood it thoroughly, but, except for the tender tones of her reply, ignored it.

'Yes, dear Mrs. Wardlaw, I feel that I do not need much