Next day after dinner, when Aunt Jael had settled down for her doze, Grandmother called me upstairs to her bedroom, pulled out an old brown tin box from under the bed, unlocked it, and drew forth a large brown paper packet. We sat down, and she told me my mother's story.

"Your father belonged to a different class from us, my dear, quite to the gentlefolk of the county. Your mother met him at his cousin's, Lord Tawborough's, when she was governess there.

"This Lord Tawborough died a few years ago. The boy who now bears that name is a lad of maybe seventeen or eighteen, who I expect knows nothing about it at all, although he was very fond of your mother when she taught him as a little boy."

"Shall I ever see him?"

"No, my dear, no. You are in a different walk of life. Young squires don't come to visit us. Not that his father ever had any false pride; I know he was always very kind to me. He came to Rachel's funeral, and never had his cousin—your father, that is—inside his house after the trouble. He wanted to help us too in educating you, but I said No. I would not touch money belonging in any way to him, though I've forgiven him long ago, as I trust the Lord has. He thought I was too independent, but maybe he understood all the same. I've heard that the young boy is as good-hearted as his father. He lives at the family house over near Torribridge; he's just going up to Oxford, I believe, like his father, or maybe 'tis Cambridge—"

"What is Oxford-and-Cambridge? Brother Quappleworthy was there."

"They're two big colleges, or universities as they call them, where the gentlefolk go. Anyway, his father was always kind to us and ashamed of his cousin. He said to me when he called to see us after your dear mother's death that he felt guilty because Rachel met her husband in his house. However, there 'tis, they were married. I never took to him and your Aunt Jael could never abide the sight of him. 'Twas a cruel time. I can't tell you all now, my dearie, though one day you may know. But I'm going to read you some of the letters she wrote. Here they all are, I've not had the heart to touch this package since they were tied up ten years ago. She wasn't happy from the start, though she wrote brave letters home. We first got to know how it was with her through your great-uncle, her uncle John. She'd stayed once or twice with him in London, as a little girl, and he loved her dearly. We have never seen much of him since he first went away over fifty years ago. He and Jael don't get on together; he's an invalid too, and not able to take a journey. After your dear mother died he let me see all her letters to him, and I copied them out. Here is one of the first, written just three or four months after she was married, the 'long letter' I call it:"

The White House.
Torquay,
August 14th, 1845.

Dear Uncle John,—

Thank you for you kind letter of sympathy. Yes, I am an unhappy woman, and unhappy for life.

Perhaps it will simplify matters for me to say that he is in a very precarious mental condition. The doctor tells me he has every symptom of softening of the brain. Though the disease may not culminate for several years. He says my one object must be to keep him quiet and not oppose or excite him in any way, as that would always tend to hasten the climax, and would make things very trying for myself, especially just now; for I must tell you that something will be happening to me, about next February I think. Last week he had a dreadful turn, and said the most cruel things, shouting and sneering at me like one demented. I went off then to the doctor, really thinking myself he was there and then going or gone out of his mind. He told me what I have said, and through all subsequent improvement adheres to the same opinion; he is very kind and sympathizing to me, calls it, "a painful and extraordinary case," and tells me not to be upset when he gets into this state with me—that it is an almost invariable symptom of the disease for the patient to set upon his wife and bring against her outrageous accusations of every sort, that I must not contradict him in whatever he says, but rather "assume contrition for faults you have not committed, regarding him as an invalid that cannot be dealt with by ordinary rules." I must tell you that I have begun to doubt all this, I don't mean the doctor but my husband. He has a nervous weakness, it is true, but exaggerates this when he goes to see the doctor by getting himself into a state, then the doctor says he has softening of the brain and that will excuse all his ill-treatment to me.

That is not all, the two youths, Maurice and Trevor who are living in the house and whom he calls his "cousins," are really his illegitimate sons, he told me so outright and mocked at me when I blushed. They swear and shout at me, and he encourages them. With all this he is the leader at the Room, the meeting of the Close Brethren we go to. The Saints don't seem to like him very much. I think they know something of his goings on. My dear uncle, I charge you not to speak of all this; I should not on any account like mother to know it, it could do no good for her to worry. He may keep like this for years, or perhaps I might be taken away to the Lord first.

I was glad of your loving letter; had begun to think there must be one awaiting me (from the style of your previous one) before yesterday morning confirmed it. They raise objection however at the Post Office, saying it is against the rules for residents to have them left there, so I suppose you must address to me here. Philip seems never to expect me to show him my letters. I did one a few weeks ago, in which there was some business message or statement. So you will always be safe in writing direct. It is one of his peculiarities that though he has often thrown at me my depth, "keeping matters to myself," "telling him nothing," etc. etc., yet from the very first he declined to see my letters. I used even to press him to do so but he replied one day, "I take no interest in letters from people I don't know, still less from common people" (among whom my relations are included). Then if I tried reading him any specially interesting extracts he would say it wearied him or would assure me I had read or told him all that before. Since he said one day, "Dear me, what shopkeeper's talk!" I have quite given up intruding my correspondence on him. At rock bottom it is a sort of jealousy. Some husbands seem to have the idea that their wives should throw to the winds all old ties and relationships.

As to my going home now; it is utterly out of the question. All other objections apart, I could not now take the journey. Then as to having Mother here, as things are (even if he would allow it), the worry of it would do me more harm than her presence could do me good. There might be an actual outbreak on his part, and Maurice and Trevor would give her an experience such as I would spare her at all costs. What could she do for me? Later on, I should have a nurse and of course a doctor, the kind one I spoke of, the one Philip consults. You rather mistake me as to the possible end these matters may bring. I don't mean that I should be more likely to die from what has been taking place, simply that from natural causes it is a thing that has to be faced at such a time. Many women do, who have all the love and devotion they can require, and I have all along felt (not forebodingly or morbidly, but as a matter of fact) that such an event might be of more than ordinary risk in my case. I am not very strong, and always lacking in power of endurance, and then I am so wretchedly unhappy and lonely. All my trouble and despondency will lessen the natural clinging to life and give me instead a longing to be at rest beyond it all, as far as self only is concerned. But on the other hand if the baby lives, that will be sufficient counteractive against my giving-away tendency. I shall feel more than a mother in ordinary case could do that I must try to live for its sake. Any other issue I am content to leave in God's hands but cannot face the thought of leaving the child behind me—with him. So if I should be taken, don't trouble yourself with the thought that my end has been hastened by these things that ought not to have been. For the Lord, I believe, has taken special care of me and given me more health of body than I could under ordinary circumstances have expected, to meet the extra strain laid on mind and spirit. So we may trust surely by what has gone before that He will uphold me all through with special health and strength. "He setteth His rough wind in the day of His east wind" has been constantly before me of late.

I shall not leave my husband as long as it can anyhow be avoided. Death is to me a far more welcome thought to face than being a trouble or a burden for my friends. There are troubles in which sympathy makes all the difference, but between husband and wife it is different, and the quieter one can keep things the better. Uncle, dear, don't you see that the sting and real heart-bitterness a woman must feel at wrong and unkindness from the one from whom she has expected only love and protection, can never be healed or soothed by proclaiming it to the world at large or by leaving him? It may be pride or self-respect that makes me shrink from the thought of such a thing, but have no scruples as to your responsibility in keeping it quiet, since I told you I have no bodily fear of him, and he knows it. Suppose you tell mother or any one else, if they share your view they can but repeat the same arguments, and if repeated twenty times my feelings and instincts remain the same. Say nothing, uncle, for my sake if not for his—for mother's too. It is true if I came away he could not rail at me but still that is only the outward expression of what is within and which distance would not alter, and with the baby it will be easier to bear. I shall have something to live for and comfort myself with, and considering his condition I cannot see that it would be right to leave him unless I am in danger of my life. It is a wife's duty to endure. I have thought of speaking to Mr. Frean, a leading Brother at the meetings and a very kind man. I think a fear of exposure in this quarter would have more weight with him. While he can afford to set at nought the opinions of my friends and relatives at a safe distance, he clings very tenaciously to his religious position. I should have sympathy there. I think they know I have something to put up with and they show me great kindness and would show more if I availed myself of it. Philip remarked one day it was strange that "his wife should be popular at the Room while he never had been!"

On one point your anxiety is needless. I have what I wish for in the shape of nourishment. Was never a large or extravagant eater, but what I want I have. Was reflecting only a day or two ago that this is the one point on which he uniformly shows me consideration. In fact, I think he does this on purpose to salve his conscience, and to have something to throw back at me. Once when I said "Oh, Philip, don't be so unkind to me," he replied, "Unkind? Damn you, I don't see what you have to complain of, you're living on the fat of the land, better than with your shopkeeper friends." Sometimes, you know, I believe he imagines he loves me; perhaps he does as much as he would any wife, but I have told him he does not know what love is. Love!

The only thing which sometimes nearly drives me to the breaking point is this; he praises my amiability, meekness, wifeliness, obedience, and says "you are different from most women who are always either nagging and answering back or gloomy and sulky." I am "so much better than he ever expected." When he talks like that I feel stirred up to say some pretty plain things to him, and clear my mind at all costs, but then if I do I might excite him and bring on a fit of apoplexy or paralysis as the doctor said. If I say the least little word he holds this over my head. I wonder now, after only a few short months, why I ever married him. I have spoilt my whole life. Two years ago, I was a happy young woman; and now— Don't write to him, don't threaten him, and don't come near here, it can do no good. Good-bye, Uncle dear.

Your ever loving
Rachel.

My Grandmother paused. I know what I thought—I can live my feelings again at this moment, forty years later.

"At the time," said my Grandmother, "Rachel said very little to me. I knew it was difficult, but not as unhappy as it was. In the March of the next year a baby boy was born. You're not old enough, my dear, to know what it is to be a mother when her baby comes; a man should be good and kind to his wife more than at any time, and thank the Lord most of 'em are. He was wicked. May the Lord in his mercy forgive him. Still, the baby made her happier. Here is a letter she wrote to me a month or two after it was born."

The White House.
Torquay,
May 20th, 1846.

My Dearest Mother,—

Thank you for all the loving sympathy from all. Am getting on well, though the heat has been trying me greatly. I came downstairs yesterday. I cannot stand a minute without help, as the lying in bed has made me so weak. Baby is doing first-rate, grows more engaging every day. It was rather too bad of you to rejoice in my disappointment, especially as the little girl was to have been named after my dear mother. What is the supposed advantage you see in a boy? Why is a boy thought more of than a girl? Perhaps you are proud of having a grandson; I certainly have centred all my ideas on a girl; I have always had an idea that the child I should have that would be most like me, and who would do what I might have done if I had been happier, would be a girl. I feel so still; though I can't tell you why.

But this is a dear little man and I should not like to spare him now he has come. He never squeals but stares the whole time; the doctor says he is big enough for five or six months old. After the miserable state I've been in, I rather wondered whether his brain would be right, but he is certainly "all there," and a bit over, if it comes to that. He is very sharp. But he is very good at night and has slept seven hours right off for five nights past. He notices everything, his little eyes will dance round after any one who notices him and when the door one day suddenly rattled with the wind he turned his eyes towards it with a look of inquiry and astonishment. Some wagging ends on Nurse's cap are a source of unfailing interest. He has not a flaw or even a sore upon him, has a nice little round, comfortable, sensible face, just plump enough to be well conditioned but not coarse. I think he is something like Martha. He has nice eyes, dark blue, which when closed take rather a Japanese curve, the Traies' snub nose, a pretty little mouth, large hands, very long fingers with pretty little filbert nails. He is more like his father than anybody in face. He is full of pretty little antics, will clasp his hands as if in prayer, or shade one over his eyes with a thumb extended, exactly like "saying grace." Will labour hard sometimes to stuff both fists into his mouth at once, it is amusing to see his wriggles and struggles, getting quite angry, till at last he gets hold of some knuckle or thumb and settles down to enjoy it. He wants his milk very irregularly, but so far I've kept pace with him.... We have not yet decided on his name. Not Philip, I think, for I don't like the "big Bessie, little Bessie, old George, young George" plan. I should like Harold or Edgar, or perhaps Christian—by the way I'm sorry to hear that Chrissie is still so weak, give him my best love. Do you know that baby's birth made me want to like Philip more than ever? I told him so the other day, he just sneered. It's hard, mother, isn't it? But I must not worry you, or make you think he is really treating me so very badly, he sees that I get all the food and nourishment I need. Don't believe all Uncle John says!

Here I must conclude as I'm not yet strong enough to write more. Give my love to Aunt Jael, and to Hannah, and my respects to Mr. Greeber, when you write. With my dearest love to you mother, I remain

Your loving
Rachel.

"Here is one she wrote to her Uncle about the same time:"

The White House.
Torquay,
June 24th, 1846.

My dearest Uncle John,—

Many thanks for your kind and prompt reply to my note. My reason for requiring a promise was that I feared that on knowing how things stood you might be unwilling still to do nothing, as I know you have even as much of the outspoken Vickary disposition as Aunt Jael! You will be sorry if not surprised when I tell you that my husband leads me a more trying life than ever. I cannot repeat or write the words he uses or the things he abuses his position as a husband to do. My little boy is the only earthly comfort I have, and but for him and the dear Lord I don't think I could have borne up at all. I have kept it carefully from my own family all along, it is not my fault that mother knows as much as she does. I hate her to have to hear my troubles. Then, too, I've excused things on the ground of disease, for his mind is disordered, but still he is nothing like so far gone but that he could behave better if he chose. I am surer than ever that he deceives the doctor so that he can use the bad view of his health which the doctor takes, as a cloak for all his cruelty. 'Tis very good of you to assure me of your help but I will still try to stay with him, and so far he has not used actual bodily violence. He has gone the length of threatening it, of lifting up his foot as though to kick me and shaking his fist in my face but stopped short each time, saying he was "not such a —— fool as to give me a chance of getting the law for him!" I will promise this: to make your silence conditioned on his behaviour not getting worse. That may have some effect on him. But mother must not be worried. In any case it would not be worth while to try to come here to see him, he has threatened he will set the dogs on them if he finds any of my relatives "prowling about the place."

Don't worry about me. Now that I have my little boy to kiss and comfort me I can put up with everything.

Your loving niece,
Rachel.

"And here is another to me:"

The White House,
Torquay.
Aug. 20th, 1846.

My dear Mother,—

Many thanks for kindly sending on the vests, they are (both sizes) a nice easy fit, and I'm very pleased with them. I am feeling better, though Torquay is very relaxing and in the summer, at times, unbearable.

Now that Uncle John seems to have told you all it is no good pretending any longer that I am anything but absolutely wretched. Believe me, mother, it was not dishonesty but for your sake only that I said so little. Now it is getting so bad that I should not have been able to keep it from you longer. They are all behaving disgracefully, worse than ever. Not only all the family, the two boys Maurice and Trevor, I mean, but all the servants too, and the very errand lads who come to the house are encouraged to be insulting. I'm really afraid to go about the house and when keeping in my own immediate quarters am shouted at and annoyed from stairs and windows. He and Maurice attacked me together last week, or rather he called Maurice to join in, and the two called forth the most unprovoked and outrageous insolence while the scullery maid shrieked with delight and clapped her hands at the fun. Another day, the cook threw a cabbage root at me when I went into the kitchen, hitting me on the neck. Mr. Traies' only redress when I turned to him was "That's nothing, you shouldn't go into quarters where you're not wanted. A wife in her kitchen, indeed! what are we coming to?" It is something sickening the whole time; I know I shall go mad before long. Have run right out of the house twice lately but the poor child drags me back. I don't know that you can do anything beyond plainly speaking your mind, or threatening to expose him right and left if that would do any good. There certainly ought to be some law to prevent a woman being hounded out of her life by the very servants in the house. If I say the least word or attempt to expostulate he puts his hand up to his forehead, begins to moan and say "the doctor said I was on no account to have opposition, he said it might bring on a fit, indeed I think it is coming." The wretched man—is there no law in England to save a woman from cruelty far worse than the things for which she can get the courts for her? Last week, he actually laughed in my face, "Your heart is breaking I suppose," he sneered. I said "Yes," looking him straight in the face. "It's a damned long time about it," he said. Yet I can do nothing; that is not cruelty! I do wish he would do me some real bodily harm that would give me a hold over him as long as he didn't permanently incapacitate me. I have thought of asking Brother Frean at the Meeting to find me a safe temporary lodging where I could go, and say I would not return until he dismissed these insolent maids. That would be at least one point gained. But until he sent Maurice away there would be no real improvement. You cannot imagine, mother the filthy things he says, and does before me. They have made a complete tool of the new servant too. She has been very unsatisfactory in every way, refusing to get up in the morning and shouting at me. However she kept within bounds till I gave her a week's notice last Wednesday. Immediately he came and raved and sneered at me: "Come, come, the mistress of the house dismissing a housemaid, surely this is going a little too far," and he ordered her to stay. Since then she has behaved shamefully, they all of course upholding and cheering her, making her presents, etc. Today I have proved her having stolen some silk handkerchiefs of mine, in even this he upholds her. "Freely ye have received, freely give," he said! Yesterday it reached the climax. The whole pack were howling at me, he, looking on and mocking and encouraging them. Then Maurice tripped me up as I was going out of the room, and I went full length on the floor. In my weak state, I nearly fainted. He laughed. I still want to hold out; I will never leave him unless it is to come home and die. All I have to comfort me is your sympathy, my little baby and the love of Christ.

In haste, your loving daughter,
Rachel.

My throat was very dry, I could not trust myself to speak.

"Soon after," went on my Grandmother, "the little baby boy died, and then we persuaded her to take a holiday. At least we put it to her that we thought we hoped it might be bringing her away from him for good. She came home, spending November and December of 1846 with us at home in the old house in the High Street, and then went to her Uncle John's in London for the first few weeks of '47. When your mother left her uncle, she came to us again for a few days and then decided to go back to her husband. Jael was against it, but she was sure it was her duty to the Lord, and I would not persuade her though my heart sank when she left us. He behaved worse than before. The last few months at Torquay were beyond her endurance and she began to sink away. Now here is a letter your great-uncle wrote me just before she left him, when things had reached their worst."

Messrs Vibart & Vickary,
Mincing Lane,
London.
Jan. 3rd, 1848.

Dear Hannah,—

I have been out of patience with you as you will know. Since last March when she stayed with you and you allowed her to go back to the fellow. If I don't hear definitely that she has left him within the next ten days, infirm though I am, I shall take the coach to Exeter and on to Torquay taking a friend with me, and if we have any trouble whatever with Traies he will get such a thrashing that he will not be able to appear in public for some time. If ever there was a cruel, damned scoundrel who deserved shooting he does, and should not in the least mind putting a few bullets into him. What annoys me more than anything is that you should encourage the poor girl, agreeing with her that it is her Christian duty to remain there all this time and put up with such diabolical cruelty; worst of all now that there is another child on the way.

Let me know at once that she has left him or I shall act without delay.

Your affectionate brother
John.

"And here is the last letter she ever wrote me herself. It was snowing the day it reached me:"

The White House.
Torquay,
Jany 7th, 1848.

My dearest Mother,—

Your kind and loving letter came yesterday. Well, mother dear, I have given in. I have decided to go away. I am weaker now, broken in body and spirit, and if I stay here with his taunts and ill-treatment I shall go mad or die. In any case I think it is the latter; but now that there is a child coming, for its sake I must go where I shall have more peace. My life is a broken failure. Four short years ago what a happy girl I was at the Hall with kind people around me, a loving little boy as my daily companion, and I was a credit and pride to you all. I know you never wanted me to marry him. I chose my way and I have failed utterly. Yes I know, mother, I know with a positive assurance that I could have loved a good and loving husband as much as any woman in the world; it was in me. Well, it is no good talking of that now, for I have not very long before me now. Today I told him I was leaving him for the last time. He mocked in his usual sort of way, but I am beyond minding that. He is too much of a coward, I have come to know, to prevent my leaving by physical force. I hope to get away tomorrow, and am already halfway through my packing, so expect me very soon.

Your loving
Rachel.

My Grandmother spoke in a calm way, much sadder than any sobbing or crying. Here for the only time she put her handkerchief to her eyes for a moment. "Just at the time your dear mother came back to us to die, my little boy Christian was dying too. The day after we buried him you were born, then seven days later your mother died. Your Great-Aunt was a good sister to me, she took turns at sitting with your mother every night; saw the friends who called and wrote all the letters. Here is a copy of what she wrote to your Great-Uncle:

Northgate House,
High Street,
Tawborough.
March 2nd, 1848.

Dear Brother,—

You will be glad of a line to tell you a fine girl was born this morning at half past five; the baby is doing splendidly, but Rachel is very weak. Nurse and doctor are in constant attendance. Hannah stays with her all the time and doesn't go downstairs. With young Christian just buried the Lord is trying us hard. We are truly passing through the waters of affliction. Hannah is too busy to write herself or I should not be writing to you, the first time I think for nearly thirty years.

Your affectionate sister,
Jael Vickary.

"Here is your Great-Uncle's reply, addressed to me:"

London.

In haste.

Dear Hannah,—

Do everything possible for dear Rachel as regards nursing and doctors that money can command. I pay everything.

John.

"And two more letters your Great-Aunt wrote to your Great-Uncle will tell how your dear mother died:"

Northgate House,
High Street,
Tawborough.
March 8th, 1848.

Dear Brother,—

I write again to give you news of Rachel. Upon receiving your kind note we decided on calling in Doctor Little but I don't think he can do more than Dr. Le Mesurier has, he has been unremitting in attention but there will be nothing to regret in having had further advice. Nurse Baker looks after the baby, she is a very nice child and is doing well. Hannah is wonderfully sustained, she sat with Rachel last night, I was with her the night before. It would make things very much easier if Martha would come over from Torribridge but Mr. Greeber, her husband, will not allow it, pleading their own child who is as healthy as he is ugly and now quite a year old. Rachel has been wandering today, sewing and arranging garments for the child. She suffers badly. The doctor thinks it is peritonitis. I fear it will be but a few days more, it wrings my heart to write it.

I have just taken the liberty of writing a note to Lord Tawborough to ask him to use his influence with his cousin that the child may remain to be brought up by us in case of Rachel being removed from this world. He replies he will insist on it. It has comforted Rachel greatly. I wrote to Mr. Traies a few lines on the day she was confined to state the fact of a girl being born and that his wife was not doing too well, commencing "Dear Sir" (being civil). I am glad it was done, although he did not respond; we have done our part and shall not write to him again until she ceases to be his wife. Oh brother, when I think of how the wretched man has hounded her and brought her down in health and strength to an early grave (for the doctor says she had not the strength to go through her confinement because of the harass and ill-treatment that preceded) I feel he will have a recompense even in this world for his cruelty ... God's vengeance is sure, and He will avenge. The doctor now says twenty-four hours will decide. We give her Valentine's extract of milk and ice which she takes every half hour ... nothing has been left undone. May God bless the means and give us grace to bear His will.

Regret you are not well enough to travel. If you had been well enough to come I need not say that for Hannah's and Rachel's sake I would have let by gones be by gones, so with our united love, I remain,

Your affectionate sister,
Jael Vickary.

Northgate House,
High Street,
Tawborough.
March 9th, 1848.

Dear Brother,—

Dear Rachel was unconscious all the night but didn't seem to suffer. She gradually sank and peacefully departed at a quarter past ten. I know you will not be able to come to the funeral but we know all your love to your beloved niece during her life. Hannah scarcely realizes it as yet. Dear Rachel wished the baby to be called Mary. She gave a few directions most calmly and quietly, and wished the text, if we had cards, to be "Made meet to be partakers of the inheritance of the Saints in light," or else "These are they which came out of great tribulation." Hannah is hearing up well, sustained by the Lord's grace. Thy will be done.

With our united love,
Your affectionate sister,
Jael Vickary.

* * * * * * *

"And so she died," concluded my Grandmother, "and left you to me."

I wanted to hear more. "And the man?"

"What man?"

"My—father." It was one of the hardest things I ever did to utter that word. I felt foolish, flushed, and somehow wicked. The word was unfamiliar, and it was vile.

"Well, I wrote him a letter saying I forgave him for everything—"

"Forgave him, Grandmother!" I cried. "That was wicked!"

"I forgave him as I hoped the Lord would too. I just told him in the letter about her funeral and how it had passed off."

"Did he write back?"

"Yes, and in all his life there was nothing so cruel as the reply he sent me. Here it is. I know the foreign note-paper; for he went abroad straight away to avoid the scandal and trouble, though the Saints at Torquay publicly expelled him from their Meeting when they knew the facts. Listen:—

Hotel Meurice, Paris.
March 31st, 1848.

Madam,—

Your letter apprehending me of my late wife's funeral has been forwarded to me. If you imagine this thinly veiled hint that I should bear the funeral expenses will succeed, you are singularly mistaken. For such a wife, nominally Christian, who deserted her husband, I propose to do nothing of the kind. You may sue me at law, of course; but pause for a moment: would your dead daughter have wished you to?

Yours truly,
Philip A. G. Traies.

"May God in His mercy forgive him for writing that. It took me years to be able to. I have never heard from him since. I heard he sold the house in Torquay and lives mostly abroad. That, my dearie, is the end of a long story. Always love the memory of your dear, good mother and try if you can to forgive your father, for whatever he has done, he is your father."

"I will never forgive him, it would be wrong to forgive people who have done things to you like that. Never!"

"It's the only true forgiveness, my dear, to forgive those who wrong you cruelly."

"I shall forgive every one in the world; but him, never."

* * * * * * *

I don't think these events are told out of their place. It was at this stage of my life that all these past doings entered my life; it is here they should be told. For me they took place now; from now onwards they influenced my life and thoughts. Of the impressions I received, pity and love for my mother, and hate and loathing for my father ranked equally. I thought of her still as an angel, but her eyes were sadder. As for him, I vowed to myself that afternoon, that some day in some way I would avenge my mother. How I kept that vow is another story; till then this resolve had a constant place in my life and imagination. It did a good deal to embitter a view of the world already gloomy enough for ten years old.

These were not the only emotions rushing through my heart that afternoon. There was admiration and love of my Grandmother; how greatly she had suffered, how little she complained, how heroically she forgave. There was a new reluctant respect for Aunt Jael; and a quickening affection for all who had been good to my mother, chiefly for Great-Uncle John, who in two short hours had been transformed for me from a shadowy name into a warm and noble reality; for others also who took a lesser part, such as the kind people where she had been governess and the little boy who loved her; for Brother Frean and the sympathetic Saints at Torquay. While I sat biting my nails and thinking a hundred new things, some kind, some sad, some hideous and bitter, Grandmother was still rummaging among the letters.

"Why, here's a bundle of those she wrote when she was at Woolthy Hall, in her first happy days there. Listen, my dear, I'll read you the first she wrote:"—

Woolthy Hall,
North Devon.
Friday.

Dearest Mother,—

I hope you got my first note saying I had arrived safely. I am very happy here, I have a nice little room to myself commanding a lovely view of the Park. I went to see Lord Tawborough in his study the same night that I arrived, and he was very kind. There will be no invidious treatment here, of the kind you hear governesses sometimes have to put up with. The work will be pleasant, the little boy took to me at once. He has brown eyes and a frank little face, rather solemn for his age, indeed I think he likes reading books too much and not too little. The meals are of course very good and I never felt better. Yesterday we went a carriage drive to Northbury, and picked primroses in the woods there, five huge bunches. The spring is a lovely time. It makes me happy because it is the beginning of the year and promises so much, just as I am at a new beginning of my life here, feeling sure I shall have a very happy time. Send the cotton blouses and straw hat, for there's a fine summer ahead!

With love to Aunt Jael and very much to your dear self from

Your loving
Rachel.

As Grandmother finished reading, I sobbed as though my heart would break, for that happy letter was the saddest of them all. I have read somewhere that with old letters, the happier they are, the more full of hope and life the writers, the more vivid and intense and joyful the sense of the present time the more melancholy they are to read in later years. The hopes then so warm and fresh seem now so far away. Men and women who when they wrote were hoping and planning are now but hollow-eyed and rotting dust. Vanity of vanities, saith the Preacher, all is vanity.