No more invitations came for her from the gay world. Not that she would have accepted them. For the short time the Chenevix family remained in town after the outbreak, cards would come in, bidding Lord and Lady Acorn and their daughter Grace to this entertainment and to that; but never a one came for Lady Adela Grubb. She might have passed out of existence for all the notice taken of her. Mr. Grubb had suggested to her father that she should have her own carriage. She did not set one up; she would have had no use for it, had it been set up for her. They went to their seat in Oxfordshire, carrying her with them. Lord Acorn returned to town in a day or two; Grace went on to Colonel Hope's place near Cheltenham, to stay with her sisters, Sarah and Frances. This left Adela and Lady Acorn alone; and her ladyship pretty nearly drove the girl wild with her tartness. She would have driven her quite wild had Adela's spirit been what it used to be; but it was altogether subdued. "Mamma," said Adela to her one day, after some mutual bickering, "do you want me to die?" "Don't talk like a simpleton," retorted Lady Acorn. "I think I shall die-if I have to lead this life much longer." "You are as likely to die as I am. What do you mean?" "I mean what I say. I think I must-must kill myself, or something. Take a dose of opium, perhaps." "You wicked girl! Running on in that false manner! Whatever your life may be, you have brought it upon yourself." "Yes," thought Adela, "there lies the sting." "What's the matter with your life?" tartly resumed her mother. "It is so weary. And there's no hope left in it." "It would not be weary if you chose to exert yourself. You might do many things. Get music-books-work. Look at Grace, how busy she is when we are staying here, with her sick-clubs, and her poor cottagers, and her schools." Lady Adela turned up her pretty nose. "Sick-clubs and schools! Yes, that suits Grace." "At all events, it keeps her from being dreary. What do you do all day long? Just sit with your head bent on your hand, or mope about the rooms like one demented! It gives me the fidgets to look at you ! You should rouse yourself, Adela." "Rouse myself to what?" she faintly asked. rouse myself to." "There's nothing to No life is open to "Make something; some interest for yourself. you now, save a quiet one. Even were it possible that you could wish for any other, I and your father would take care you did not enter on it. But quiet lives may be made full of interest, if we so will; a great deal more full than noisy ones." Good advice no doubt: perhaps the only advice open to La Adela now. She did not profit by it. The weary time went on and on, she growing more weary day by day. Lady Acorn called her obstinate; sometimes Adela retaliated. At last, the Countess, losing all patience, wrote to Margery Upton to say she should send her for a little change to Court Netherleigh; she being quite unaware of the critical state of Miss Upton's health. And this was the first time, this morning when we see Miss Upton and Adela sitting together, that any special conversation had been held between them. The previous day had been one of Miss Margery's "bad days," when she was confined to the sofa in her chamber, and she had only been able to see Adela for a minute or two, to bid her welcome. Miss Upton, criticising Adela's appearance by the morning light, found her looking very poorly, but she quite believed her to be just as graceless as ever. "Times and things change for all of us, Adela," observed she, continuing the conversation. 'They have changed very especially for you." 66 Lady Adela raised her face, something like defiance in it. Was the miserable past to be recalled to her here, as well as at home? — was she going to be perpetually lectured upon its fruits, as her mother lectured her? She was wretched enough herself about it, heaven knew, and would undo it if she could; but that was no reason why all the world should be for ever casting it in her teeth. She answered tartly. "The past is over, Aunt Margery, and the less said about it the better. To be told of it will do me no good." Aunt Margery did not like the tone. Could this mistaken girl— she really looked but as a girl-be extenuating the past, and her own conduct in it? "Do you know what I said, child, when the news reached me of all you had done, and I thought of the consequences to you it might involve? I said—and I spoke truly-that I would rather have seen you in your grave." "Said it to mamma, I suppose?" "No. I tried to excuse you to her. I said it to your husband." "Oh-to him," said Adela, assuming an indifference she did not feel. "And I am not sure but death might have been a happier fate for you than this that you have brought upon yourself-disgrace, the neglect of the world, and a dreary, purposeless, aimless life." It might have been. Adela felt it so to her heart's core. She bit her lips to conceal their trembling. "All the same, Aunt Margery, he was harsher than he need have been." "Who was?" "Mr Grubb." "Do you think so, Adela―remembering your scorn and cruelty? My only wonder was, that he had not emancipated himself from it long before." Adela flushed, and began to tap her foot on the carpet in incipient rebellion. Of all things, she hated to be reminded of that mistake of the long-continued years. Miss Margery noted the signs. "Child, I do not wish to pain you unnecessarily but, as the topic has come up, I cannot mince matters, or allow you to mistake my opinion. You had a prince of a husband; a man of rare merit; he has, I truly believe, scarcely his equal in the world—” "I know you always thought him perfection," interrupted Adela. "I found him so. As near perfection as mortal man may be here." "Including his name," she put in, with a touch of her old sauci ness. Miss Upton made no reply in words: she simply looked at her. It was a long, steady, and very peculiar look, one that Adela did not understand, and it passed away with a half smile. "For true nobility of mind," resumed Miss Margery, "for rectitude of life, for goodness of heart, who is like him? Look at his generosity to all and everyone. Recal one slight recent act of his-what he did for that fantastically foolish lad, Charles Cleveland. Most men, provoked as Mr. Grubb had been by you, and in a degree also by Charles, would have abandoned him to his fate afterwards. Not he. That is not his way. When the poor Rector was fretting himself to discover what was next to be done with Charles, and the young fellow was mooning about Netherleigh, his hands in his pockets, trying to make up his mind to go and enlist, for he saw no other opening, there came a letter to the Rector from Mr. Grubb. He had interested himself with his correspondents in Calcutta-I'm not sure but it is a branch of his own house—and had got Charles a place, out there, at just double the salary he enjoyed here." "And Charley is half way over the seas on his voyage to it," lightly remarked Adela. "Charley was a goose, Aunt Margery." "You cannot say that of your husband," sharply returned Miss Margery, not approving of the light tone. "Unless it was in his love for you. Your husband was fond of you to folly; he indulged your every whim; he would have liked to make your life happy as one long dream of Paradise. And how did you requite him?” No answer. The rebellious tapping of the foot had ceased. "It has been a sad, cruel business altogether," sighed Miss Upton: "both for him and for you. It has blighted his life; taken all the sunshine out of it. And what has it done for yours?" What indeed? Adela pushed back her pretty brown hair with both hands from her feverish forehead. “Any way, the blight does not seem to have sensibly affected him, Aunt Margery. One hears of him here, there, and everywhere. You can't take up a newspaper but you see his name reiterated in it— Grubb, Grubb, Grubb!" She threw a vast amount of scorn into the name. Margery Upton sighed. "I am grieved to see you in this frame of mind, Adela." "Frame of mind! I am only saying what's true, Aunt Margery. I'm sure one would think he had taken the whole business of the world upon his shoulders. He is being asked to stand for some county or other now." "Yes, he is playing an active part on the world's stage," assented Miss Margery. "All honour to him that it is so ! Do you suppose that one, wise and conscientious as he is, would put aside his duties to God and man because his heart has been well-nigh broken by a heartless wife? Rather would he be the more earnest in fulfilling them. Busy occupation will enable him to forget the past sooner and more effectually than anything else would." "To forget me, I suppose you mean, Aunt Margery." "Would you wish him to remember you, Adela-and what you have been to him? I tell you, child, that my whole heart aches for your husband; it ached long before you left him; while-I must say it-it was full of condemnatory resentment against you. I am very sorry for you, Adela; you are my god-daughter, and I will try my best, while you stay with me, to soothe your wounds and reconcile you to this inevitable change. It has tried you; I see that in spite of your pretended carelessness; you appear to me to be anything but strong." "I am not strong, Aunt Margery. And if I dwindle away into the grave, I don't suppose anybody will miss me or regret me." "The best thing for her, perhaps, poor child-that she should be removed from this hopelessly blighted life by her compassionate Heavenly Father to the bright and beautiful life above! And her husband, released from his trammels, would then probably find that comfort in a second wife which he missed in her. Who knows but this may be God's purpose? He is over all." Was Margery Upton unaware that these words were spoken in a murmur-not mentally thought? Most probably. They reached Adela; and a keen, curious pang shot through her heart. But the butler came into the room at the moment to interrupt, bringing a message to his mistress. One of her tenants had called and wished very much to be allowed a short interview with her. And Miss Upton, who was still able to attend at times to worldly matters, quitted the room at once. A faint cry escaped Lady Adela as the door closed. She turned her face upon the sofa cushion, and burst into a flood of distressing tears. (To be continued.) 185 THE WIND ON THE HILL. O SWEET is the summer air Which steals down the Chestnut Walk, But the wind on the hill for me, And ships coming home to the town! O merry the sunny strand, Where waves wash in at one's feet, But the wind on the hill for me, O stately the castle tower, 'Mid its cedars, dark and still, Where ghosts come back at midnight hour, And the wild light over the sea, And ships coming home to the town! And solemn the gray church spire With its weather vane tipped with fire, But the wind on the hill for me, There's a grave by the old church door Though the light is sad on the sea, I should like to die on the hill, Some day as the sun goes down, And the wind, blowing strong and chill, ISABELLA FYVIE MAYO. |