fectly clear several months before, both to | maining with him. It was, he thought, a Mr. Gladstone and to Lord Granville, mental condition analogous with walking, that he had determined to retire from the in which every step is a frustrated fall, lead, but that when the Liberal adminis- the sense of what was next to be done, tration was in process of formation, Mr. more than making up for the forgetting of Gladstone pressed on his former chief the what he had done. I set this down here, acceptance of a seat in the Cabinet with- because, when I told my uncle what John out office, which Lord Russell declined. had been saying, myself not sure that I It would perhaps be difficult to decide caught what he meant, he declared the which was most creditable, the grace of boy a philosopher of the finest grain. But the offer or the wisdom of the refusal, he warned me not to encourage his talkwhich was no unfit termination to the life ing, and especially not to ask him to exof a statesman, as to many passages in plain. There was nothing, he said, worse whose career his countrymen will no for a weak brain, than to set a strong will doubt continue to differ, and whose con- to work it. duct will be often severely criticised, but whose name must always occupy a large place in the history of England, as perhaps the last, but certainly not the least, of the succession of Whig statesmen of the school of Lord Somers, to which he above all things claimed to belong, and to whose ideas he gave an undivided allegiance. EDMOND FITZMAURICE. From The Sunday Magazine. THE FLIGHT OF THE SHADOW. BY GEORGE MACDONALD, LL.D. Author of "alec forbes," "ROBERT falconer,' ETC., ETC. CHAPTER XXII. I tried to obey him, but he grew harder and harder as the days went on. There were not many of them, however, for he recovered rapidly. When I found my uncle talked to him about any sort of thing, I took the fact for a virtual withdrawal of his prohibition, and after that spoke to John of whatever came into his or my head. It was then he told me all he could remember since the moment he left me that night with his supper in his hand. A great part of his recollection was his vision of my uncle on the moor, and afterward in the park. We did not know what to make of these visions. I should have been ,"ready to conclude at once that they were caused by the first approaches of his illness, had it not been for my remembrance of what I had seen long before in the thunderstorm; while John was willing enough to attribute the second vision to his illness, but found it impossible to con. cede that he was anything but well when walking across the moor after leaving me. I thought, however, that his having fasted from eight in the morning till ten at night, might have something to do with that, and with his illness too; and if he was in a state to see anything purely phantasmal, what shape was more likely to appear than that of my uncle. JOHN RECALLS AND REMEMBERS. WHAT a weight was off my heart! It seemed as if nothing more could go wrong. But though John was plainly happy, he did not seem quite comfortable. He worried himself trying to remember how he had come to us. The last thing he could definitely recall before finding himself with us, was seeing his mother looking at him through the dark of a night that seemed made of solid blackness, so solid that he could not think how she was able to move in it. She brought him something to He would not hear of my mentioning drink, but he fancied it blood, and would the thing to my uncle. I would for my not touch it. He thought now that, what- own part have gone to him immediately; ever it was, she must have offered it in a but could not with John's prayer in my red tumbler that stood on his washing-ears. I resolved, however, to gain his stand. He remembered nothing after, consent as soon as ever I could. except a cold wind, and a sense of utter weariness but absolute compulsion; he must keep on and on, to all eternity, till he found the gate of heaven, to which he seemed forever coming nearer. His conclusion was, that he had momentary knowledge, but no memory; everything he did was immediately forgotten, the knowledge of what he had to do next re He had by this time as great a respect for my uncle as I had myself, but he could not feel at home with him as I did; therefore he dreaded the appearance of meddling in anything in which my uncle had not invited his confidence. Whether the vision was only a vision or indeed my uncle's double, whatever a double may be, any reference to it could hardly be agree . able; and John was naturally reluctant to | for her, and so I was able to cast off her do the least thing that might hurt him. The question of course came up among the first, what he was to do when able to leave us.. He had spoken very plainly to my uncle concerning his relations with his mother had told him indeed that he could not help suspecting he owed his illness to her. My uncle thought it all over. I was nearly always present when they talked, but I particularly remember one "I think I understand my mother," said John, "but only after much thinking. I loved her when I was a child; and if she had not sent me from her for the love of greater liberty and more influence that at least is how I explain her indifference to me I might now be in the midst of a struggle for my personal freedom, instead of having had it over long ago." "There are women," returned my uncle, "and some of them are among the most admired and sought, who are enslaved by nothing less than a demoniacal love of power. The very pleasure of their consciousness consists in the knowledge that they have power not power to do things, but power to make other people do things. It is an insanity, a devilishly immoral and hateful one. I do not say this about the lady in question, for I have never seen her; I only say that I have known such a disposition." John replied that certainly the love of power was his mother's special insanity. She was spoiled when a child, he had been told; had never expressed a wish without effort being made to procure her what she desired; which ruinous mismanagement sprang from the self-same ambition, in another form, on the part of her mother- -the longing, namely, to secure her child's supreme affection-with the natural consequence that they came to hate one another. John's father and she had been married but fifteen months when he died from a fall when following the hounds. Within six months his mother was engaged to be married again, but the engagement was broken off, and she went abroad, leaving her only child behind her. She married Lord Cairnedge in Venice, and returned to England when John was three years of age, and had no recollection of her. His stepfather was good to him, but died when he was about eight. His mother was very severe. Her object plainly was to ground her authority so deeply that he should never think of disputing her will. 66 But," said John, "she ruined my love 3793 LIVING AGE. VOL. LXXIII. voke." "The world would fare worse, I fancy,” remarked my uncle, "if violent women bore patient children. The evil would become irremediable. The children might not be ruined, but they would bring no discipline to the mother." "Her servants," continued John, " obey her implicitly, except when they are sure she will never know. She treats them so well that they admire her, and are proud to have such a mistress; while there is something in her that makes the very notion of offending her a terror. I dare not say to what point they would not obey her." "As witness the other day, when, but for uncle, they would have broken into the house to carry you off," I said. "She is convinced at last, I believe," continued John, "that she will never get me to do just as she pleases; and therefore hates me so heartily, that she can hardly keep her ladylike hands off me. I do not think I have been unreasonable; I have not found it difficult to obey others that were set over me; but when I found almost her every requirement part of a system for reducing me to a slavish obedience, I began to lay down lines of my own. I resolved to do whatever she asked me at once, whether pleasant to me or not, so long as I saw no reason why it should not be done; and I was surprised to find how seldom I had to make a stand against her wishes. At the same time the mode in which she conveyed her pleasure, was invariably such as made a pretty strong effort of the will necessary for compliance. But the effort to do what she wanted against the difficulty caused by her manner, was just what developed in me the strength to resist when I saw it was not right to yield. By far the most serious difference we had yet had arose about six months ago, when she insisted I should make myself agreeable to a certain lady whom I by no means disliked, but whom she had made up her mind I was to marry. She had planned the mar riage, I believe, as one of her parallels in the siege of the lady's noble father, who became a widower a year ago. But there I stood stock still. I told her I would not lay myself out to please any lady except I wanted to marry her. should you not marry her?' she returned. I answered that I did not love her, and would not marry until I saw the woman I could not be happy without, and she accepted me. She went into a terrible pas And why, pray, sion, but I found myself quite unmoved by it; it is a wonderful heartener to know yourself not merely standing up for a right, but for the right to do the right thing. 'You wouldn't surely have me marry a woman I don't care a straw for in that !' I said. way Quench my soul!' she cried I have often wondered where she learned the oath what mighty matter is that? She won't in any way care a straw for you in a month!' 'Why should I marry her then?' 'Because your mother wishes it,' she answered, and began her march from the room as if that settled the difference, and no more was to be said. But I saw it would save trouble and worse, to prevent her carrying with her such a mistaken notion. Mother!' I cried, I will not marry the lady. I will not pay her the least attention that could be mistaken to mean such a possibility.' She turned upon me. I have just respect enough left for her, not to say what her face suggested to me. She was pale as a corpse; her very lips were colorless; and her eyes but no, I will not go on. 'Your father all over!' she said, with an expression of fierce loathing, and turned again and went. If I do not quite think my mother, at present, would murder me, I do think she would do anything short of murder to gain her ends with me. But do not be afraid; I am afraid of her enough to be on my guard against her. 66 My father was a rich man, and left my mother very comfortable; there was no occasion for her to marry again, except she were in love, and that I don't believe she was, with Lord Cairnedge. Now for a third husband she has that lady's father in her eye. She is my natural guardian, of course, though I do not know how much legal authority she has over me; but anyhow I shall be free when I come of age. The moment I am one-and-twenty I shall be my own master, but hardly the more Belorba's servant, whether you, sir, count me far enough from unworthy, or not. One thing I am determined upon: my mother shall not cross my threshold but at my wife's invitation; and I shall never ask my wife to invite her. She is too dangerous. "We had another dispute about Miss Miles an hour or two before I saw Orba for the first time, and I was thinking far from pleasantly about it as I rode, when I caught sight of her over the wall. It was a leap out of hell into paradise. The glimpse of such a face, without shadow of scheme or plan or selfish end, was salvation to me. I thank God!" Perhaps I ought not to let the words stand, but they are what he said. He had talked too long for his condition, and fell back in his chair. The tears began to gather in his eyes. My uncle rose, put his arm about me, and led me to the study. "Let him rest a bit, little one," he said, as we entered. "It is long since we had a good talk." He seated himself in his think-chaira name which, when a child, I had given it, and I slid to the floor at his feet. "I cannot help thinking, little one," he began, "that you are going to be a happy woman. I do believe that is a man to be trusted. As for the mother, there is no occasion to think of her now, beyond being on your guard. You will have no trouble with her after you are married. Do not let John make any vow or promise about her." "I never meant to do so, uncle. But I cannot help a dread that she will do us a mischief." "That is but natural a reaction from your gladness. Take it as a reminder that we have no power in ourselves to order events. Sir Philip Sidney says · I forget his very words, but they come to this-that as we are only bound to act wisely, and are not responsible for results, we are never to trouble ourselves about chance. Trust in God first, and then in John Day." "I was sure you would like him, uncle," said, with a flutter of loving triumph. I "I was nearly as sure myself - such confidence had I in the instinct of my little one. I think that I, of the two of us, have the greater claim to the righteousness of faith!" "You are always before me, uncle," I said. "I only follow where you lead the way. But what do you think the woman will do next?" as we sat at breakfast, which I seemed to know as from her. He looked very hard at the address- -as if he would read the letter without opening it, and frowned very dark, but I could not read the frown. Then his countenance cleared a little; he opened and read it, and immediately handed it to me. "Don't she make strange s's?" said John, looking at the S in "Dear Sir." "Does she always make them so?" asked my uncle. "Always like a snake just going to strike." My uncle's face grew ghastly white. He almost snatched the letter out of John's hand, looked at it, gave it back to him, and, to our dismay, left the room. "What can be the matter, John?" I said, my heart sinking within me. "Go to him," said John. "You see the track my mother is mak Lady Cairnedge hoped Mr. Whichcote would excuse one who had so lately come to the neighborhood, that, until an hour ago she knew nothing of the position and character of the gentleman in whose house her son had, in a momentary but alas not But I dared not. I had often seen him unaccustomed aberration, sought shelter, look like that before walking out into the and found generous hospitality. She apol-night, but I had never seen him look so ogized heartily for the unceremonious way ill-as if some terrible suspicion were in which she had sent for him. In her suddenly confirmed. anxiety to have him home, if possible, before he should realize his awkward posi-ing!" said John. "You have now to tion in the house of a stranger, she had been inconsiderate. She left it to the judgment of his kind host whether she should herself come to fetch him, or send her carriage with the medical man who usually attended him. In either case her servants must accompany the carriage, as he would probably object to being removed. He might, however, be perfectly reasonable, and give no occasion for compulsion even in its mildest shape, for he was usually the gentlest creature in the world. believe her, that I am subject to fits of insanity, or to believe me, that there is nothing short of murder she will not risk to get her way." "Her object is clear," I replied. "But if she thinks to fool my uncle, she will find herself mistaken!" Why should she not hope to fool both you and your uncle?" he rejoined. "She will prove me mad in doing the one wise thing-coming to you. My word in the matter is of course worth nothing. Everybody knows how cunning madmen are. If any one heard me say so, she would make a whole jury see in the remark the cunning of my madness. You cannot know that I am not mad- or at least subject to attacks of madness." cried. "There! you are not sure about it! It seemed cruel of him to tease me so; but I saw presently why he did it; he thought his mother's letter had waked a doubt in my uncle; and he wanted me not to be vexed with my uncle, even if he deserted him and went over to his mother's side. "I love your uncle," he said. "I know he's a true man. I will not be angry with him though my mother do lead him astray. The time will come when he will know the truth. It must come out at last. I shall have to fight her alone - that's all. It will be hard to leave the house at once, though as I must if he thinks with my mother. If only somebody would sell my horse for me!" I guessed right that his mother kept him short of money, to have him the more "Will you read it, and tell me what an- in her power, and remembered with gladswer you would like me to return?" ness that I was not quite penniless at the moment. But where was the good of set- | stouter than suited her age and style. Her tling what to do in circumstances that face was pale, but she seemed in perfect might never arrive. To trust quietly until health. When I saw her closer, I found the moment for action comes, is the way to get heart and brain ready to act. This is a higher wisdom than straining after foresight. John required little persuading to quiescence until we should know certainly what my uncle was, thinking; and it was well, for something very different was in his mind from what John feared. Within half an hour I caught a glimpse of him riding out of the yard on old Death, jubilant at having his master once more upon his back. I ran to a window from which I could see the edge of the moor, and presently saw him cross that edge at an uphill gallop. He was gone about four hours, and when he came back, went straight to his own room. Not until nine o'clock did I go to him, and then he came with me to supper. He was very pale, but as kind and genial as usual. He made up his mind what to do. After supper he sent for Dick, and told him to ride to Rising the first thing in the morning, with a letter he would find on the hall table. This letter he read to John and me before we parted for the night. It was all we could have wished. He wrote that he could not allow a guest to be interfered with. He was of the same mind as every Arab; while a man was his guest, he be longed to that man. She had, however, a perfect right to see her son, and would be welcome; only the decision as to his returning or remaining must rest with the young man himself. If he chose to go with his mother, well and good! though he would be sorry to lose his company. If he declined to return, he and his house continued at his service. CHAPTER XXIV. HAND TO HAND. We looked for Lady Cairnedge all day. John was up, and ready to receive her in the drawing-room; he would not see her in his bedroom. But the hours passed and she did not appear. In the evening, however, when the twilight was thickening about the house, and already all was dark as night in the alleys of the garden, her carriage drove quietly up with a startling scramble of arrest at the door. The same servants were outside, and a very handsome dame within. As she descended I saw that she was tall, and, if rather stout, neither taller nor - her features the most regular I had ever seen. Had the soul within it filled the mould of that face, it would have been beautiful. As it was, it was only handsome to me repulsive. The moment I saw it, I knew myself in the presence of a masked battery. My uncle had insisted that she should be received where we usually sat, and had given Penny orders to show her into the hall kitchen. I was alone there, preparing something for John, when she arrived. We were not expecting her, for it seemed now too late to dream of removing an invalid. My uncle was in the study, and Martha somewhere about the house. My heart sank as I turned from the window to meet her, and sank yet lower as she appeared in the open doorway of the kitchen. But as I advanced, to my great comfort I caught sight of my uncle, and stepped forward more boldly to meet the enemy. He had come quietly down his stair, and had just stepped into a clear blaze of light which that moment burst from the wood I had some time ago laid damp upon the fire. The same moment Lady Cairnedge's countenance turned ghastly with terror. As she was looking over my shoulder, I turned, but saw nothing, save that my uncle had disappeared. I was left to face the woman alone. When I turned again toward her, there was but a remnant of her fright visible. I offered her my hand - for she was John's mother, but she did not take it. She scanned me from head to foot. " I am Lady Cairnedge," she said. "Where is my son?" I turned yet again. My uncle had not come back. I was not prepared to take a part. I was bewildered. A dead silence fell. I had looked to my uncle to do everything. For the first time in my life, he seemed to have deserted me, and at the moment when most I needed him. I turned once more to the lady, and said, hardly knowing what, "You wish to see Mr. Day?" She answered me with a stare of cold surprise. "I will go and tell him you are here!" I faltered, and passing her, sped along the passage to the little drawing-room. "John!" I cried, bursting in, "she's come. Do you still mean to see her? Are you able? Uncle There I stopped, for his eyes had grown |