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From The Cornhill Magazine.

TWO LADIES TWO HOURS.

I

"Girl, get you in!" She went, and in one month ·
They wedded her to sixty thousand pounds,
To lands in Kent, and messuages in York,
And slight Sir Robert with his watery smile
And educated whisker.

WHAT restless genius is it that takes so malicious a pleasure in shifting and mingling the various materials of which daily life is composed? No sooner are a set of people and circumstances comfortably sorted out together, than they are suddenly engulphed, dispersed, revolved away, -no sooner are they well dispersed than all the winds, and horses, and laws of gravitation are struggling to bring them together again. Take, for instance, a colony of people living next door to each other and happily established. How long are they left in peace? One dear member crosses the sea- - another soon follows, and the remainder cannot fill up the gap. Or let us even take a company of five or six persons comfortably talking round a fire. How long will their talk last on? An hour rarely-half-an-hour, perhaps even ten minutes is something saved out of the rush of circumstance; and then a clock begins to strike any number from one to twelve; an organ to grind distractingly; a carriage to roll slowly, crushing the gravel outside. Visions flit in of expectant wives and husbands, of impatient coachmen, of other semi-circles enter Mrs. Grundy, five o'clock tea, the fire begins to smoke, or what not, and the comfortable little circles jar, break up, disperse in all directions. And, indeed, if a certain number of people are happily established together, the whole combination of accidental circumstances is against them, and nothing can happen that will not interfere more or less with their harmony.

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Years ago a little set of people had been sitting round the fire at Brand House, and had dispersed east and west, and for a dozen years, and on the day about which I am writing, some of them had come together again by an odd accident. It is true they were sitting in stiffer attitudes than when they had last assembled, and some of them

seemed to have wigs and masks on, compared to their old remembrance of each other. A little girl who was playing in her pinafore last time, is now dressed up as a real young lady, with a red petticoat, and looped grey dress, and round grey eyes, and a chignon; a young fox-hunting parson is disguised as an archdeacon; the hostess, who was a handsome and dignified person twelve years ago, has put on a black front and spectacles, which certainly do not improve her appearance; the least changed of the party is a young man, who had just come of age when they last met all together. He has grown a thick beard, he has trav elled, and learnt to smoke a narghilé since his last visit to Brand House; but, on the whole, he is not greatly altered.

They have been sitting for an hour, and reading and talking of one thing and another, while a log of wood has changed into blue and golden flames. Mrs. Brandiscombe, in the wig and spectacles, announces an arrival by the six-o'clock train. Her son-in-law, the Archdeacon, and his lady, who are returning home next day, talk about stations and cross-roads and convenient trains. The young traveller, it seems, is leaving too, and going to another country-house, called The Mount, about a mile off. The young lady is pressed to stay. "Dear Caroline (the expected guest) "would be so disappointed to miss her." The girl hesitates, blushes up, says she thinks she must go home with her uncle the Archdeacon; she shall see her friend at dinner; she cannot accept the Merediths' invitation to The Mount; she is wanted at home. They all try to persuade her to change her mind; and just as she is giving way the carriage is announced. Mrs. Brandiscombe instantly rises to get ready, and they all disperse; some go to their rooms, some out into the cold dim December world all round about; their voices die away on the staircase and passages, and everything is silent.

Janet Ireton, the young lady in the chignon, is delayed in the hall for a minute by Mr. Hollis of the beard, who asks her if she is going to walk with her uncle. Janet answers shyly and quickly, and springs upstairs lightfooted. She comes upon the two elder ladies leisurely proceeding down the

passage.

uncle was waiting for her in the hall, rolling an umbrella, and prepared to start. Janet walked away still disturbed in her mind.

"What has become of Mr. Hollis?" said the Archdeacon, looking up and down the misty garden. "He promised to wait for us here."

"Who wants Mr. Hollis?" said Janet. "He is most to blame, if those are his real" Come along, uncle John; we shall lose intentions," says Mrs. Brandiscombe. "He the best part of the day." should not cause a young girl to be remarked upon; it is not the first time."

"It is his way, mamma," says Mrs. Debenham, the Archdeacon's second wife. "The Archdeacon won't believe me. What does it matter? he is very nice. I assure you, he means nothing. Don't you remember how he flirted with me and with Oh, Janet, I didn't hear you."

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Hmah! - girls cannot be too careful," says Mrs. Brandiscombe, turning into her room, while Janet, with tingling ears and cheeks, flies down a side passage. The coachman, to his indignation, is actually kept waiting ten minutes.

II.

WHO does not know the look of furniture in a room lately vacated, as it stands about the chimney-piece in confidential proximity? A sort of faint image of the people who are gone is still in the deserted chamber. Stuffed arm-chairs with sprawling castored legs turned towards each other, a duchesse with a grand lace back in an affected attitude by the table, a sprinkling of light bachelor cane-chairs joining into the conversation, and then the hostess's state chair in its chintz dressing-gown by the chimney corner, with its work-basket, its paper-cutter, and its book by its side. The book at Brand House is Early Years of the Prince Consort. There is a lozenge and a coat of arms upon the paper-cutter. One of the castored chairs has been reading the Guardian, which is now lying in a dead faint upon the floor all doubled over. On the grand lace-covered cushion rests a little green book of poetry, with a sprig of holly to mark the place. Everything is quite silent, and a coal falls into the fender, which conscientiously reflects the fire. There is a distant roll (not so loud as that which announces the arrival of the carriage on the "Almost quite," Janet said, wistfully, stage), then more silence; some one walking looking into the old lady's wrinkled face. in the garden looks in through the tall win“I have had a delightful holiday. Every-dow. You may see through the glass that body has been so kind - I don't

Janet, who is in her great room at the end of the passage, fastening a black hat, with a smart red feather, becomingly on the top of her chignon, is surprised by a tap at the door, and an apparition of Mrs. Brandiscombe herself, ready veiled, and gloved, and caped, and prepared for her daily airing in the close carriage.

"Although it is against my custom to keep the horses waiting," says the old lady, "it has occurred to me that, as I am going to call upon Mrs. Meredith, you might like to send some message. Are you quite determined to return home to-morrow?"

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"I merely wished to ascertain your intentions," said the shrouded figure, preparing to go." We are only too glad to keep you, Janet; although I cannot but agree with my daughter in her opinion of our guest. He has, if I don't mistake, a very special reason for wishing to prolong his stay in this neighbourhood a lady whom he knew.. But I am not at liberty- I merely wish to express a hope that your name may not be coupled with his, and to approve of your self-respect and prudent consideration for other people's opinion."

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Mrs. Brandiscombe had been uttering dark oracles ever since Janet's arrival, but none so definite as this. The girl listened, half angry, half incredulous, half indignant. Then she ran downstairs in no very amiable frame of mind. Mr. Hollis was gone. Her

it is the gentleman with the black beard and black eyes and country leggings who was lately established by the lace chair.

He walks away and disappears behind a laurel-bush, and then nothing more happens till the clock begins to strike. With the last stroke of four comes a sound of voices, a rustling of silks. The door opens wide, and a lady is standing in the middle of the room, looking curiously up and down with bright slow glances. Her glances are those of a well-esteemed and well-satisfied person. People look what they are, gazing at other lives; they look what they feel when they are sitting being gazed at. It is curious to note the different expressions with which people see the daily life-pictures that pass before them, the long portrait-galleries, the pictures of still life for housekeepers, the tableaux de genre in our homes. Some look criti

cally, secure of their own standing, though | troubles all whirl past. People are not it may be on a different level; others, wist- only their present selves but all their own fully, feeling that they have no share, and selves at the same time-sometimes one are always looking on; others and to this and sometimes another comes uppermost; class my lady belongs with a half-sympa- and Caroline Rowland is one particular self thy and a half-indifference. She does not of a dozen years ago at this minute, an old care to feel a whole sympathy, her life has sad childish self with an odd prescience of been too complete and calm for that; and the future. Other spirits are there too, yet its very completeness and calmness, dressed in their old-fashioned dresses. which have left no room for some things she Some are alive, some are dead people. may once have dreamt of, prevent her from The spirit of poor Mr. Brandiscombe is feeling the whole indifference of very happy evoked; she can see him in his big chair as people; and now and then she gives a glance he sits nodding off to sleep. Mrs. Branfrom her sheltered bower at the sun and the discombe has cast away her front, Fanny winds in which others are struggling in the (she is married to the Archdeacon now: plains without. she married a year after her cousin) is sitSlow as these glances are, they have noted ting at the piano singing Theckla's Soreverything; the chairs, the tall windows, rows,' set to music. How she used to across one of which gusty branches were sing, rolling her little fat body from side to brushing; she sees the distant corners of side, and winking her little pig's eyes! .. the room reflected in the dim looking- With all this rush of old emotion more glasses; she looks back to know if the but-visions come, bringing a faint blush into the fer has followed her, and then moves, with widow's cheek. One of them is the remema smile, towards the farthest window, pass- brance of a young man. It comes striding ing, reflected on from one grim looking- across the room saying good-by in a quick, glass to another (sometimes sideways, some-impatient voice.

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times crossing some distant room in a con- She remembers looking up in a bewiltrary direction to that in which she is really dered incredulous way, and turning and almoving), and at last she stops in the shad- most blinded by what she saw, she could owy darkness and light of the farthest win- not meet his parting looks, they seemed to dow. She can see the grey garden through kill her as she stood beneath them; she its panes, the black trees and blue dull could not speak nor cry before them all. lawn, the boughs all swaying, the mists She remembered holding on tight by the hanging from the creaking branches or marble table: all the rest of the room was heaped up at the end of the long alleys; swinging before her meanwhile in tune to only towards the sea the heavy clouds are Fanny Brandiscombe's screams. "Why rent, and a pale grey gleam lights up the do people remember such things?" says silver and steel of the waters beyond the poor Caroline, protesting. oak-tree glade. Mist and sea and land without, the familiar streaks and shadows and reflections within. It is a dozen years since she last saw it all; more than that.

My lady, whose name is Caroline, is about thirty years old, a soft happy-looking woman, with brown bright hair, with dimpled cheeks and pretty white hands, on which flash and twinkle a great many diamond rings as she unhooks the clasp of her red gipsy cloak. It slides along her black silk folds and falls in a comfortable purple red heap all round about her feet. So she stands, taking in every indication of what now is, and of what is left since the last time when she stood in this very corner; the same woman, looking out at the same sea and sky and rustling trees, so unchanged did it all seem to her, so unchanged did she feel. For in two minutes the circles have turned inversely: she has travelled back, beginning at the nearest end of her life: her return, her wanderings, her widowhood, her children, her marriage, her early

Fanny Brandiscombe would have been flattered if she could have known how many years that song would go on ringing in her cousin's ears. Sometimes people quite unconsciously do something, say something, that is to last another person's lifetime. Sometimes it is, alas! their own lifetime that they put into a passing moment-a minute that never ceases for them. It goes on through life, and beyond life, perhaps, to that other life where how many of us, if the choice were ours, would not gladly carry the sorrows and remembrances of this one? It was a minute like this that Caroline was remembering. To-day, loved and trusted and independent of others, and wellconsidered by the world, and on good terms with herself, she felt as if she could almost envy her girlish humility and innocent helplessness. Now, her standard might be a little wider perhaps, but it was not so high; now she might be happier, perhaps, but not so happy-sorrier, but never so sorry.

The things that she had hoped for of late

seemed sordid and small compared to the Brandiscombe always likes to open them old dreams of her youth. Men and women herself." are not stocks and stones looking on unaltered at events as they go by; one's life must affect one in the end. One of the many voices that are in the silence says to Mrs. Rowland: " Yours is an easy life now; your old one was hard and sad and unselfish; the old one was best- -the old one was the best."

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"What is the use of thinking about it!" says Mrs. Rowland, impatient even from the heights of her serene indifference, and she moves back impatiently to the fire again, glad to escape into to-day once more. "How cold it is. I suppose aunt Brandiscombe still locks up the coal? No one should leave anything unlocked, not even a coal-cellar. It was a shame, wasn't it?" (the widow is appealing to her own face in the glass: it looks so sympathizing that she bursts out laughing). "How I cried that night going to bed in the moonlight, and Fanny Brandiscombe cried too. I wonder why she cried? I think if any young man ever empties the cream-jug into my little Kitty's tea as George Hollis did into mine, I should expect him to come forward, and not to go away for ever without a word. I was civil enough when we met at Florence, and John asked him to dinner."

I think it was to escape from spells of her own fancy, and to feel herself safe in commonplace again, that this modern Melusina rang the bell violently, pulling at a great limp worsted-work arm with a huge brazen band.

"Will you bring me some tea, if you please," says Mrs. Rowland to a butler, who appeared in answer to the pull, and whose calm, clerical appearance dispersed the ghosts that had been disporting themselves. The butler looks puzzled.

"Mrs. Brandiscombe will be in to tea at five o'clock," he says, doubtfully. "She has given orders to get everything ready for five, but, of course

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Oh, very well," says Mrs. Rowland, I'll wait. Is there anybody staying in the

house ?"

"The Archdeacon and Mrs. Debenham are staying till to-morrow, and Miss Ireton remains, I believe," says the butler. "Mr. Hollis is just gone his luggage is to follow him to the Mount - Mr. Franks left yesterday."

"It is very cold," says Mrs. Rowland, with a little start and shiver; "could you put a log on the fire; and—and bring me a paper, if you please?"

To-day's papers are only just come," says the butler, respectfully; "and Mrs. VOL. XVII. 756

LIVING AGE

Any other time Caroline Rowland would have laughed outright at the old well-remembered cranks, that had lasted out so many better things; but to-day all this thinking and remembering have sobered her usual bright spirits; a sort of uneasy doubt has taken hold of her; a sort of self-reproach that had been waiting for her for years; lurking patiently in wait in that dim corner yonder, while other feelings and events came and passed, and time and place shifted, and sorrows changed, and melted into peace.

What had she done? Could she forgive herself now? Not quite. Going back into that old corner, it had seemed to her as if her old conscience had laid hands on her - At last I hold you- at last! Why did you try to escape from me? What have you been about? Why had you so little patience? Why did you flirt with poor John when you loved George Hollis? was that why he was angry? A thought of what might have been-of a union of true hearts, a vision so different from what its reality had been seemed to pass before her. "Forgive me, dear John," she was saying in her heart all the time. And perhaps she loved her husband most at this very instant, when she told herself how little she had loved him. Caroline was a woman who, if need be, could put her conscience into another person's keeping; and in John's lifetime he had been purse-bearer and conscience-keeper for them both; and she had but to look nice, and keep within her allowance, and attend to her children, and nurse him when he had the gout, and never think of the past-that, you know, would have been wrong for a married woman; but for a widow-for a widow it was very silly.

It was odd and unexpected and uncomfortable altogether, and that odd chance mention of a name had chilled her; and if she had known she was going to feel like this, nothing would have induced her to come; but soon the widow calmed down, and the fire burnt warm, and she pulled her knitting from her pocket, and in putting the little loops together on the needles she found distraction. In Villette the impetuous Emanuel desires Lucy Snow to drop every stitch of work that is not intended specially for him. Many people would have to go bare-shod if all the stitches were dropped that are not theirs by right. If the moment's of distraction, of despondency, that are knitted into even rows were to be taken away from the wearers of the silken chains, and purses, and woollen socks - the hopeless regrets knitted away in dumb records

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of grey, and red, and white wool little is a consciousness with a strain in it, an imTom Rowland, for one, would have his toes petuous, and yet self-doubtful nature. No through. But by degrees, as she worked one would have suspected it, seeing the tall on, his mother grew more quiet and more erect figure, the firm striding step. For calm; her flushed face softened to its usual my own part, I believe that strain to be the placid sweetness; the lights of the fire were saving of an overbearing character. Hollis shining on her hair; the comfortable warmth was not quite true to himself or to his own soothed and tranquillized her; and she sat theories sceptical as he was by way of at last, working much as usual,. the very being, self-interested as he announced himpersonification of rippling silken prosperity, self, hasty in conclusion as he was; this installed by the fire in Mrs. Brandiscombe's mental reservation seemed to be a chink in own chair, the deep folds of shining black, the wall through which the light might penwarm in the red firelight, the needles gleam-etrate. The little rift may be for good as ing as they criscrossed each other on their journey.

III.

well as for bad. Mr. Hollis, seeing a red dab of colour and a black dab through the mist, hurried along as quickly as he could, with his faults and virtues, crossing stones and ruts and rucks on his way, and vaulting over a stile, and he soon approached the

rently, but in reality straggling off to very distant cities and thoroughfares, and talking to each other in two different languages that neither could understand.

"I am very sorry, Janet," the Archdeacon was saying, with his nose up in the air (it was not unlike his niece's). You do not suppose that I have not weighed it well over in my mind? It gives me the greatest concern to refuse you, and I heartily hope that no other vacancy will ever fall to my gift. Your father, with all his good qualities, is not the man for this one. There would be a general outcry; he would be the last person to wish me to act against my CONVICTIONS." The Archdeacon stepped out briskly, but his companion kept well up with him.

MEANWHILE a grey December day is mistily spreading over the great bare plain in front of the house, across which Mrs. Bran-pair, who were proceeding together appadiscombe's fat horses trot daily. It is all sandy and furze-grown, with pools gleaming black and white, and dull green prickly things growing. The roads travelling across the plain go floundering from white sand into yellow mud. Here and there in the mist some stunted slate-tiled house is standing. It may be warm within and dry and light; from without those lonely tenements look like little coffins lying unburied. The clouds are hanging over the plain; towards the sea they seem to break, and some of their misty veils are parting and swinging on a low gusty wind. Two figures are trudging along the road-two people, tired of sitting at home, who have come out to refresh themselves with clouds and stormy shadows, and rain-gusts, and dead furze. One of these people - the Archdeacon who "He would," she was saying; "he never married Fanny Brandiscombe walks reg-thinks of himself. But you know how good ularly for a constitutional; he has an objec- he is, uncle John, and your own convictions tion to getting over-stout. His companion, can't be changed by outery. And truth is Miss Janet of the red petticoat, is the truth, and if I were an archdeacon, and you daughter of a less prosperous parson were papa, I wouldn't mind what a few than himself, who married the Archdeacon's spiteful, stupid, narrow-minded people sister twenty years before. As the girl said,” cried the girl, more and more excited. walks along her quick feet almost the pass "I am very sorry, my dear, but it is my heavy-gaitered steps: all the damp grey duty," began her uncle. fogs and mist seem turning to roses on her cheeks; she has high arched eyebrows, stiff hair, circling grey eyes. Far off in the distance comes a third person pursuing them: the gentleman in the country gaiters, who is trying to meet them at the cross-road. He had come out oppressed by a sort of day-mare of chairs and tables; and by the exhausted atmosphere of human sameness pent up for twenty-four hours in Mrs. Brandiscombe's country-house, and by the thought of a meeting that seemed to him very ill-timed, and for which he did not feel prepared just at that special moment. His

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Oh, uncle John, are you quite sure it is your duty," implored the girl, eagerly, and not that you are afraid? God gives one one's relations

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"And a conscience too," cried the Archdeacon, with a stride, angrily," though you seem to have none. Enough of this, Janet. You can reserve your persuasions for Hollis; he is not a churchman, and may consult his inclinations. Ask him; Holmsdale is in his gift."

Janet blushed up, a deep red furious blush, and jumped, with a bitter pain suddenly in her heart, right away from her un

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