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THE COMMONER'S

DAUGHTER.

66

a visitor was shown into the apartment which, having in it the best piano, did duty as a musicroom as well as show-parlour. The lady talked so loud to a small and particularly youthfullooking male companion who was with her, that' I was compelled to suspend my labours. She turned round-perhaps to apologise-and I instantly, to my great dismay, recognized Miss Jukes. She knew me in an instant. 'My!" she exclaimed, with her old transatlantic intonation exaggerated, "I reckon I hardly knew you; you air grown quite tall and spry-you air that now, I tell you. Hav'n't left school yet! well, I guess British females are like British oaks-they take a long time to reach maturity; they just do now. American young ladies spring into perfection all at once. 'Ain't I right, Theophilus P. Spriggins?"

The individual so addressed, and who wore spectacles, was absorbed in Mr. Candy's lastpublished volume of sermons: he uttered some response, in a thin, querulous voice. The lady went on: "Of course you have heard that I am no longer Miss Jukes, but Mrs. Theophilus Prince Spriggins? Oh yes, it's a genuine fact— this gentleman is my better half!"

Although I had at parting, hastily written my address on a card, and given it to Lord Tarragon, I did not, as I fondly anticipated, receive a letter from him. And a new source of distress had arisen since this meeting. Benvolere's health, broken and shattered, now threatened to reduce him altogether to an entirely invalid condition. If I lost him, where should I find protection? Madame Theresa would probably not long survive her brother, and I should be shut out, not merely from my proper station, but from what was worse-love, companionship, and friendship. For my dear master's sake I was content to put up with those airs of patronage which people, especially people of mediocre position, think it necessary to bestow on those less fortunate beings who stand in the relation of teachers. I frankly confess, that the conditions which were attached to the work I should else have valued for its own sake, were greatly opposed to that failing of pride which had become strangely and wonderfully developed in my new sphere of existence. Humility was easy enough to the unloved daughter of Mr. De Trevor Castlebrook, but the pride of the sensitive teacher rebelled hourly and daily. I had many petty trials to undergo, such as If he were so, he decidedly did himself inappertain indeed, to every woman who dares justice by his looks, which proclaimed him not venture forth single-handed in that great battle-only his lady's inferior in size, but also in age field the world, and who must perforce engage in some of its strifes. Well for those who can don the armour of gentleness and patience, that has been well assayed in the fiery furnace; but I was still very young, of a hasty temperament, and possessed of a nature too impulsive to be very prudent. When, therefore, I was sometimes regarded scornfully by vulgar young ladies, or domineered over by their mammas, I was extremely apt to express my contempt, not in words, but in a mode significant enough, even for the perception of common-place and arrogant minds. I became suspiciously susceptible about my dignity, and even fancied good Mrs. Candy made a distinction between Miss Castlebrook and Mdlle. Montafauconi. I wronged the kind-hearted but fidgetty lady; she had her own troubles, and keeping a "select school, with the expenses inevitable to gentility, was not among the least of them.

I was teaching at her house one afternoon, when

by a good dozen years-not that I presume to infer that Mrs. Theophilus was stout, but there was a certain lanky amplitude, a large, though bony development of person, which obscured her insignificant partner's appearance, quite as much as if she had been obese.

I congratulated the late Miss Jukes, as evidently I was expected to do, on her change of condition. Luckily she was so busy in talking about her own fortunes, that she forgot to inquire about mine. In her own delightful mode of expression, she told me she had given up conducting the education of young females; that Theophilus P. Spriggins was the editor of a thriving New York journal, under the resonant title of "The Consolidated American Ladies' Emporium!" and that Mrs. Spriggins assisted the learned Theophilus in his editorial labours. They visited, she informed me, in the first circles of New York, and she was just giving me an invitation to the United States, as it would seem,

my preserver was joined by new aid, and that Mr. Quaintly's villains had jumped into their own equipage and were driving off.

"Of trophies that are valuable I have two obtained," cried Mr. Quaintly, waving white handkerchiefs triumphantly above his head.

to take tea in a friendly way, when Mrs. Candying in tearing off my encumbrances, I found entered, and presently, to my great satisfaction, removed her guests to her family sitting-room. My lessons having been thus delayed, it was nearly dusk when I left the school to return home. Mary Thornmead accompanied me to the door, and said she had hoped Russell would have called that afternoon, "And then, dear Miss Isabella," said the little girl, "he could have seen you home." Feeling quite as well pleased that the young manufacturer was absent, I asked, as I stooped to kiss the child, how it was that her brother did not return home. She shook her head in the vague manner children sometimes have, and said she believed he had business in London which would keep him some time.

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By this time I became aware that the person who supported me-for, by reason of a not unnatural tremor and agitation, I needed support-was also known to me. It was, indeed, Mr. Thornmead, who personally seemed much more agitated than even the occasion warranted. He seized one of the handkerchiefs, and by the light of the dismal oil-lamp examined it.

"I thought so," he exclaimed "cursed, thrice-cursed villain! is he always thus to cross my path?"

"Of ciphers that are royal," observed Mr. Quaintly, "this appears to be one."

And it was not merely appearance. "G. P." was interwoven in a very unmistakable manner. My surmise had been correct, and the Regent was even personally concerned in this disgraceful business. I turned to Mr. Quaintly, and, thanking him for his interference, I begged he would go home with me, and explain to Mr. Benvolere the accident by which I had been delayed. As I said this, an idea seemed suddenly to strike Mr. Quaintly with some astonishment. He put his forefinger on his lip, in his usual oracular manner. "Of mistakes that are curious this seems one," he said.

"There was no mistake in the matter," said my junior champion. "Royalty had seen a simple wayside flower, and desired to place it among his own sickly exotics of beautyfaugh!"

All these matters delayed time; and though I made haste to get home, it was nearly dark when I reached the grove, which I have before said led to my home. I observed a carriage waiting at one end of this avenue, where few people were in the habit of passing; but I thought little of the circumstance, until I felt "By a name scarcely common he called myself muffled in a cloak, and became aware you," said pertinacious Mr. Quaintly. "Casthat one or more persons were forcibly drag-tlebrook,' I heard the stout man say, and yours ging me towards the place where the conveyance stood, to the driver of which they shouted to come up!"

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As I struggled, the voice of one of these persons sounded strangely familiar to my ear. Twice in my life I had heard those tones, and the individual they belonged to was- the Prince Regent! The instant this conviction came, it brought another with it, viz., that I was lost, unless some special Providence rescued me. I got my mouth free just as the "illustrious " person named, addressed me as "beautiful and beloved Miss Castlebrook!" and then with all the power of my lungs I uttered three or four loud screams.

With a coarse oath the principal personage in this affair desired some one whom he called "Mac" to stifle my cries, which was done, and I was just on the point of being lifted into the carriage, when I was wrested from my abductors by a powerful arm, and a form of speech came on my ears, which I had little thought would ever sound so grateful.

"Of villains that are infernal you seem to be the worst!"

There ensued a violent struggle, and succeed

is—”

"Some mistake, doubtless," in as careless a manner as I could assume. "But it grows late: Mr. Quaintly, I will not refuse your

arm."

Mr. Quaintly still mused, though we walked quickly on. Presently he again commenced his notes and queries.

"But of names remarkable Isabella is one! He called you so."

"Oh, but that name is common enough," and with some confusion I saw Mr. Thornmead examining my face, which glowed with consciousness.

"Of coincidences that are odd--"

"Here we are, thank beaven, at home!"

But within there was confusion; voices rapidly speaking, feet running hither and thither. I was kept waiting till, impatiently, I rang louder at the gate, which in the evening was always locked. Our little maid-servant came presently, not in haste though, but sadly, and with a face pale as ashes-a face looking ghastly, as the candle she held flared beneath it. She saw my companions. "Oh, Miss, are you ill? Stay a moment."

"What for, Martha?" don't you see I am

not well?"

"Master! Oh, sir, tell Miss Isabella, I-" Mr. Thornmead stepped forward; his intelligence divined at once the fact, which, speechless with sudden terror, I dared not ask for. "Mr. Benvolere is ill?" “Yes, sir, but—”

The truth, spite of her caution, was written on the girl's face, though her tongue strove to soften the fact. I flew past all restraining power, and rushed into the house. No light was in the usually cheerful sitting-room. I ran to that which was Benvolere's; it was scarcely silent, but on the bed there lay a form I knew too well-senseless, motionless; and some persons, all strangers except Madame Theresa, were busied around in sad, but unavailing offices.

They told me he had only fainted. I frantically threw myself beside the couch, and up. braided the bystanders with giving no aid. As I raised the dear, dear form-as I held my hand to the noble, generous heart, which alone in life had loved me truly-as I pressed my lips to the forehead, even then damp with the recent agony, I felt the dread certainty that here was the solemn, irrevocable presence of Death-that presence men call an enemy, but whom reason and reflection tell the soul is rather a messenger of peace-so should we meet it.

I was no stranger to this visitor: I had seen my own mother shrouded, and Susan Liscombe on her early death-bed-Miss Norman, my revered teacher, in her coffin: but this last warning fell on me even still more heavily. I, who so needed a friend and adviser-I, who even now began to feel the strife of passion, knew that a colder, calmer guidance was needed for me than my own impulsive feelings and unrestrained love. "Save me from myself," had been my prayer for many, many weeks, when self-knowledge told me I was pursuing that tortuous path which leads far from duty, far from peace, farther still from heaven.

Those women who have ever loved unworthy objects, will know how difficult it is to cease loving the sinner, even when we suspect his proneness to sin. I knew of no positive crime, or even fault, Lord Tarragon had committed: but I had the innate, solemn, sure conviction that he deserved no good woman's love, a conviction which, whether it be instinct or prevision, is so often the mirror which reflects a first passion in the female breast.

In that hour of agony, as these thoughts came rushing over my soul, with the strange pertinacity which thoughts, foreign to the calamity suffered under, so often exercise, I felt, rather than perceived, that there was an influence in the chamber of death which was quietly as. suming a power over all. I was gently, but firmly told that all hope was over-had been, indeed, for two or three hours; and then-I knew not how-I was guided out of the room. Doctors had been brought, one after the other, without avail, and now noiselessly, without

troubling the helpless mourners, needful aid came to perform the last sad duties the living can pay. Then, as Madame Theresa and I sat weeping, and bowed to the awful sanctity of the hour, Russell Thornmead, with quiet unobtrusiveness, came and sat with us. He was the Influence I spoke of, and by him, we were saved the distracting cares which come so inopportunely to grief. When Madame Theresa became a little composed, she related her brother's seizure. He had complained, after my departure. How well I then remembered that, as I left him in the noon, he had called me back, and solemnly blessed me for my cares, and the trials which he said I went forth to brave for the old man! He had felt a pain at his heart, and begged his sister to lead him to his bed. She had scarcely done so, when he gave a sigh, and so departed-departed in perfect peace: such peace we trusted the good man had now, as passeth all understanding-peace which only crowns a life of virtue. No priest was in time to shrive my master in the moment of extremity; but the hearts of those who loved him had faith in that High Priest who, humbly adored and obeyed, is sufficient for the salvation of all his creatures who love him. We felt, a life so innocent and blameless could be trusted to the mercy of his God.

Grief is mostly unreserved. Although Madame Theresa knew Mr. Thornmead only by name, and from my previous descriptions, she seemed to cling to him as if he had been some new-found son. He was so thoughtful and suggestive, that he was of real value; and intense sorrow is, perhaps, somewhat selfish, and thinks little of any trouble but its own. I fear mine was so. In the indiscretion of the hour, he learned, indeed, that which, engrossed as I was, I could yet perceive shocked and amazed him-the fact that I was not related by ties of consanguinity to the family. But Russell Thornmead, with manners quite remote from the polish of drawing-rooms, was yet that truest gentlemanNature's own. He had too much delicacy to pry into a matter with which he had no business.. When he told Madame Theresa of the attack I had encountered, and saw her look at me significantly, I could perceive that he was suspicious I had some previous knowledge of the persons who had made it; and this seemed to create in him more annoyance than really belonged to the occasion. Poor Madame Theresa, forgetful in her sorrow, and with her sudden confidence in Mr. Thornmead, quite lost sight of his not being in mine, and, clasping her arms round me, said, "I fear, my dearest Miss Castlebrook, your abode here has been discovered and betrayed." I could almost have felt anger with the sister of my departed friend, when I saw the start with which her utterance of my name recalled to Russell Thornmead's memory, Mr. Quaintly's previous remarks: but now anger and every other feeling was swallowed in one master-grief.

As for Mr. Quaintly himself, he had, I was afterwards told, left the house directly he heard

of his old friend's demise-left it, too, with one of his idiomatic remarks: "Of deaths unexpected," he said, "this has been the inost sudden for long years encountered!"

Late that night, Russell Thornmead, who refused to leave the cottage while his presence could contribute to our comfort or consolation, led Madame Theresa and myself into the chamber where my dear master, clad in the last garments needed for earth, rested with a heavenly calm on his face. Sobbing and shuddering we fell on our knees, beside the still form, knowing the Inevitable Guest was there, full of unchangeable awe; and the dread Mystery, never to be explained till we ourselves resemble the dead, came over us with its shadow, bidding our human grief rest and be still.

Endurance is yet a greater trial than sudden grief. There was no rest that night, nothing but speechless woe. Mr. Thornmead left us at last. Two or three brief hours, had converted the acquaintance of yesterday into the friend to whose presence and counsel two helpless women clung. My hand at parting was placed in his unasked, and, save for a flush and a slight pressure, it was an acknowledgment scarcely returned. He asked permission to come in the morning, which Madame Theresa eagerly accorded, and to which I made no opposition. My situation now was peculiar, and, apart from its sorrowful aspect, embarrassing, and I clung to the hope that even one so young might prove a friend.

I will pass over the details of that first night of bereavement. The oblivion produced every now and then by exhausted energies, the waking starts, which brought renewed grief, with a keener sting-all such feelings are in the experience of those who have suffered: they need no description.

Very early next morning Mr. Thornmead returned. He had taken care to send those who were to arrange the interment, and with the greatest forethought, had provided for every exigency. But now I began to feel much uneasiness about pecuniary matters. I took occasion, when we were alone, to name to him expenses which had, I felt assured, been contracted on the preceding night-the women, who professionally attend the dead; the under takers, who require security before they will build the last, narrow house-Oh grief! Oh human needs! I roused myself sufficiently for inquiry. I knew it would be selfish and inconsiderate to burthen a stranger with the consequences of our loss. How much money was in the house I knew not. We had lived simply, and my income had been paid pretty regularly. I had only retained sufficient to dress plainly, yet in good style; but now, amidst my anguish for the dead, anxiety began to intrude, speculating about the future of the living.

I had some money in my purse, which I had received for private lessons on the previous day; I therefore insisted on Mr. Thornmead giving me the sum total of the monies he had expended

on our behalf, and took out my purse to repay him.

His usual bluntness came to his aid then. "I kept no account," he said, "and such trifles are beneath your notice or mine. Miss"a pause, and fixing his eye on mine—“ MissIsabella-well that is your name, I believe-my father is a rich man, I never knew the want of money in my life, and I have always been taught that its true use was to assist those who did. I have found that is not a general opinion, but I hope it is yours; you work for your daily bread, so forgive me. You can hardly be rich, except in doing your duty: there I believe you are richer than I am."

"Nay, I am sure you wrong yourself. Mr. Thornmead, you have not asked my confidence, nor under ordinary circumstances should I proffer it; but minutes sometimes make people better acquainted than years. Last night no brother could be kinder; to-day, let me tell you that, which no one who was not related by blood, or, better still, kind deeds, would ever hear from me. You know my name is not Montafauconi: Mr. Benvolere was no relative, only a dear friend of my childhood - a childhood which but for him would have been friendless and well nigh loveless. He held another tie also, he was the dear friend of a beloved mother. Accident led me to him when I sought protection from a deep wrong: he was then in penury and sickness-I, an idle creature in the scheme of Providence. I have felt grateful that I was of use to his declining years: it is the sole thought, indeed, that gives me any comfort now; for the future, I fear, has little of the hope or happiness to which youth naturally looks forward. I am the daughter of a gentleman, who never regarded me as anything but a burden. I have a step-mother, whom no effort of mine could conciliate. I can never return home unasked, because I left it in wrath. I am called Isabella Castlebrook, and to your honour I leave all that is secret in my existence."

I uttered this long explanation much faster than I can write it. Russell Thornmead listened gravely and thoughtfully.

"You were not, then, brought up to work for your living?" he observed, when I had finished.

"No; I was a purposeless being, viewed only as a slave to expediency, or to be got rid of as soon as possible.'

"Got rid of?"

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"Yes, by an ill-assorted marriage. I was commanded to marry one to whom my heart could never have been attached. How much better is work, with independence-even work not quite congenial-than uncongenial wedlock!"

"Young, indeed, for a sacrifice. Youryour heart was your own to give?"

I coloured. The answer did not come readily.

"Miss Castlebrook, forgive me: I felt I was far removed from you before, but now I hear it

is in station also. I am the grandson of a ragdealer, you the daughter possibly of an ancient line. That all men are equal is-psha!-a vain dream, the fancy of a poet's brain."

"He who lies there," I said, pointing to the chamber of the Silent Presence, that filled the poor cottage, "can tell now, if such dreams are vain, or such fancies idle. If I ever showed symptoms of a pride, baser than any base-born human creature, forgive me. It is levelled now in the dust, to which we must all return."

I bowed my head, and my hand-that hand once so unwilling-was taken again, not now though with the ardent impulse that before offended me. I felt humbled and abashed in this man's presence, as one who recognizes the power of a superior nature, to which her own spirit bows. I had never thus recognized moral force in Vincent Tarragon.

Oh! If he had been like Russell Thornmead! If he had been the true friend, aiding and helping with all his might, yet silent! Vain dream!

There was yet another thought recurring ever and again with terrible force-Who betrayed to the Regent and his vile pander my abode? Who, indeed, knew it, save one?

CHAP. VIII.

How drearily the next five days passed, when, the first acute anguish of bereavement exhausted, the heart yet preyed on the tortured mind! Mr. Thornmead called every day, but no further confidential conversation passed. He wrote notes, in my name, to the schools and families in which I taught, to inform them of my inevitable absence from my duties duties which henceforth would lack the motive-power that had hitherto enabled me to conquer the difficulties accompanying them. As I looked on Madame Theresa, who, undemonstrative in her grief, had yet grown feeble and more aged in a few days, I thought of life passing away, and ending in a dull succession of irksome routine.

Mrs. Candy called one day. She was very kind, but had little sympathy with my acute grief at the loss of Mr. Benvolere. She came, however, to make a proposal which considerably alleviated one part of my anxiety. She was acquainted with a Catholic lady, elderly and rich, who needed a companion to superintend her household, and chat with her. Mrs. Candy's motive for her visit was twofold-to offer consolation and to ascertain if the situation would suit Madame Montafauconi. Theresa eagerly expressed her willingness to go. The salary was small, but the duties would suit her, "And, my dear child, I shall no longer be a burden to you, which indeed has been a terrible thought." I kissed her, and begged she would not take that into consideration; but she seemed quite happy in the prospect, and thanked Mrs. Candy over and over again. On hearing of Mr. Thornmead's great friendship and services in our ffliction, Mrs. Candy quite brightened up, and

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looked at me so significantly that I was forced to turn away lest my embarrassment should confirm that worthy lady in a mistake which I perceived she had taken up, and would be loath to part with.

"Ah, my dear," she said, at parting, "gentility is a duty, but it is a sad trial at times. Mary Thornmead's bills are always paid directly they are sent in, and no extras grumbled at. I wish I could say as much of some young ladies' accounts, whose birth and connexions are very much superior to the Manchester family. However, you know the rag-ancestor was two generations back. Why there might even be a title some day-money can do such things."

I hoped Mr. Thornmead might rise in the social scale, if he wished it; but I did not think he cared for titles.

"No, my dear; but if he married into a good family, it would be an advantage. Good bye. Mary desired her best love. How fond that child is of you! Quite sisterly in affection, I protest. Well, no, thank you, Madame Montafauconi. I had rather not see poor Mr. Benvolere. My nerves, goodness knows, are tried enough, one way or other. I wish sometimes I was only a poor teacher again; but, there-one must make sacrifices in this world, and keeping school as the wife of a clergyman is, you know, one of the most genteel things in the world."

She kissed me, shook hands kindly with my companion, and departed in the fly, in which to drive about was-she thought, dear lady-the very acmé of gentility.

Then came the solemn task of committing our dead into the bosom of the earth. It was, of course, a rite performed in Benvolere's own communion, and, with some of my dear master's old acquaintances, and Russell Thornmead for mourners, he was placed in his last rest, with every form of respect.

When we had returned home (for women followed funerals at that time), and the guests, after some slight refreshment, had left us with our saddened memories, Russell Thornmead begged permission to remain with us for half-an-hour; the tea had been brought in, and I was not really sorry to have an opportunity of conversing with him. Madame Theresa made our tea, and, with tender regret, we spoke of him whose presence had so lately cheered our every meal. carriage was heard to stop at the gate. A loud peal was rung. The little maid, Martha, in her new mourning and weepers, ran out to open it. There was a bustle; heavy footsteps came up the gravelled walk; the parlour-door was violently thrown open, and-Mr. Castlebrook stood before us!

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Two of our little party rose up. As for my. self, I covered my face with my hands, as one on whom a terrible sight had fallen. If I had tried to shut out the fact of my father's arrival, he himself soon confirmed it, by the harsh tones of a voice which, even in its mildest accents, had always inspired me with dread. At present it assumed the form of sarcastic anger,

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