 Chapter 2 Part 3 of THE BATTLE OF LIFE All still in peaceable. Nobody there. Fancy, I suppose, said Mr. Britten as he locked and barred the door. One of the effects of having a lively imagination. Hello! Why, what's the matter?" Clemency, who could not conceal the effects of her surprise and concern, was sitting in a chair, pale and trembling from head to foot. Matter! she repeated, chafing her hands and elbows nervously and looking anywhere but at him. That's good in you, Britain, that is. After going and frightening one out of one's life with noises and lanterns, and I don't know what all. Matter! Oh, yes! If you're frightened out of your life by a lantern, Clemi, said Mr. Britten, composedly blowing it out and hanging it up again, that apparitions very soon got rid of. But you're as bold as brass in general, he said, stopping to observe her. And were, after the noise and the lantern, too, what have you taken into your head? Not an idea, eh? But, as Clemency bade him good night very much after her usual fashion, and began to bustle about with a show of going to bed herself immediately, little Britain, after giving utterance to the original remark that it was impossible to account for a woman's whims, bade her good night in return, and taking up his candle, strolled drowsily away to bed. When all was quiet, Marian returned. Open the door, she said, and stand there close beside me while I speak to him outside. Timid as her manner was, it still evinced a resolute and settled purpose, such as Clemency could not resist. She softly unbarred the door, but before turning the key, looked round on the young creature waiting to issue forth when she should open it. The face was not averted or cast down, but looking full upon her in its pride of youth and beauty, some simple sense of the slightness of the barrier that interposed itself between the happy home and honoured love of the fair girl, and what might be the desolation of that home, and shipwreck of its dearest treasure, smote so keenly on the tender heart of Clemency, and so filled it to overflowing with sorrow and compassion that, bursting into tears, she threw her arms round Marian's neck. It's little that I know, my dear," cried Clemency. Very little, but I know that this should not be. Think of what you do. I have thought of it many times, said Marian gently. Once more, urged Clemency. Till to-morrow, Marian shook her head. For Mr. Alfred's sake, said Clemency, with homely earnestness, him that you used to love so dearly once. She hid her face upon the instant in her hands, repeating once as if it wrench her heart. Let me go out, said Clemency, soothing her. I'll tell him what you like. Don't cross the doorstep to-night. I'm sure no good will come of it. Oh, it was an unhappy day when Mr. Warden was ever brought here. Think of your good father, darling, of your sister. I have, said Marian, hastily raising her head. You don't know what I do. I must speak to him. You are the best and truest friend in all the world for what you have said to me. But I must take this step. Will you go with me, Clemency? She kissed her on her friendly face. Or shall I go alone? Sorrowing and wondering, Clemency turned the key and opened the door. Into the dark and doubtful night that lay beyond the threshold, Marian passed quickly, holding by her hand. In the dark night he joined her, and they spoke together earnestly and long. And the hand that held so fast by Clemency's, now trembled, now turned deadly cold, now clasped and closed on hers in the strong feeling of the speech it emphasized unconsciously. When they returned, he followed to the door, and pausing there a moment, seized the other hand and pressed it to his lips. Then stealthily withdrew. The door was barred and locked again, and once again she stood beneath her father's roof, not bowed down by the secret that she brought there, those so young, but with that same expression on her face for which I had no name before, and shining through her tears. Again she thanked and thanked her humble friend, and trusted to her, as she said, with confidence, implicitly. Her chamber safely reached, she fell upon her knees, and with her secret weighing on her heart, could pray. Could rise up from her prayers, so tranquil and serene, and bending over her fond sister in her slumber, look upon her face and smile, though sadly, murmuring as she kissed her forehead, how that Grace had been a mother to her ever, and she loved her as a child. Could draw the passive arm about her neck when lying down to rest, it seemed to cling there, of its own will, protectingly and tenderly even in sleep, and breathe upon the parted lips, God bless her. Could sink into a peaceful sleep herself, but for one dream, in which she cried out, in her innocent and touching voice, that she was quite alone, and they had all forgotten her. A month soon passes, even at its tardiest pace. The month appointed to elapse between that night and the return was quick afoot, and went by like a vapor. The day arrived. A raging winter day that shook the old house sometimes, as if it shivered in the blast. A day to make home doubly home, to give the chimney-corner new delights, to shed a ruddier glow upon the faces gathered round the hearth, and draw each fireside group into a closer and more social league against the roaring elements without. Such a wild winter day as best prepares the way for shut-out night, for curtained rooms and cheerful looks, for music, laughter, dancing, light and jovial entertainment. All these the doctor had in store to welcome Alfred back. They knew that he could not arrive till night, and they would make the night air ring, he said, as he approached. All his old friends should congregate about him. He should not miss a face that he had known in light. No! They should every one be there. So, guests were bidden, and musicians were engaged, and tables spread, and floors prepared for active feet, and bountiful provision made of every hospitable kind. Because it was the Christmas season, and his eyes were all unused to English holly and its sturdy green, the dancing-room was garlanded and hung with it, and the redberries gleamed an English welcome to him, peeping from among the leaves. It was a busy day for all of them, a busier day for none of them than Grace, who noiselessly presided everywhere, and was the cheerful mind of all the preparations. Many a time that day, as well as many a time within the fleeting month preceding it, did Clemency glance anxiously and almost fearfully at Marion. She saw her paler, perhaps, than usual, but there was a sweet composure on her face that made it lovelier than ever. At night, when she was dressed and wore upon her head a wreath that Grace had proudly twined about it, its mimic flowers were Alfred's favorites, as Grace remembered when she chose them, that old expression, pensive, almost sorrowful, and yet so spiritual, high and stirring, sat again upon her brow, enhanced a hundredfold. The next wreath I adjust on this fair head will be a marriage wreath, said Grace, or I am no true prophet, dear. Her sister smiled and held her in her arms. A moment, Grace, don't leave me yet. Are you sure that I want nothing more? Her care was not for that. It was her sister's face, she thought of, and her eyes were fixed upon it tenderly. My art, said Grace, can go no farther, dear girl, nor your beauty. I never saw you look so beautiful as now. I never was so happy. She returned. I, but there is a greater happiness in store, in such another home as cheerful and as bright as this looks now, said Grace, Alfred and his young wife will soon be living. She smiled again. It is a happy home, Grace, in your fancy. I can see it in your eyes. I know it will be happy, dear. How glad I am to know it. Well, cried the doctor, bustling in, here we are, all ready for Alfred, eh? He can't be here until pretty late, an hour or so before midnight, so there will be plenty of time for making Mary before he comes. He'll not find us with the ice unbroken, pile up the fire here, Britain. Let it shine upon the holly till it winks again. It's a world of nonsense, puss, true lovers, and all the rest of it, all nonsense, but we'll be nonsensical with the rest of them, and give our true lover a mad welcome. Upon my word, said the old doctor, looking at his daughters proudly, I'm not clear tonight, among other absurdities, but that I'm the father of two handsome girls. All that one of them has ever done, or may do, may do, may do, dearest father, to cause you pain or grief. Forgive her, said Marian. Forgive her now, when her heart is full. Say that you forgive her, that you will forgive her, that she shall always share your love, and— And the rest was not said, for her face was hidden on the old man's shoulder. T-t-t-t, said the doctor gently, Forgive! What have I to forgive? Hey, de, if our true lovers come back to flurious like this, we must hold them at a distance, we must send expresses out to stop them short upon the road, and bring them on a mile or two a day, until we're properly prepared to meet them. Kiss me, puss! Forgive! Why, what a silly child you are! If you had vexed and crossed me fifty times a day, instead of not at all, I'd forgive you everything, but such a supplication! Kiss me again, puss! There! Prospective and retrospective, a clear score between us! Pile up the fire here! Would you freeze the people on this bleak December night? Let us be light and warm and merry, or I'll not forgive some of you! So gaily the old doctor carried it, and the fire was piled up, and the lights were bright, and company arrived, and a murmuring of lively tongues began, and already there was a pleasant air of cheerful excitement stirring through all the house. More and more company came flocking in, bright eyes sparkled upon Marion, smiling lips gave her joy of his return, sage mothers fan themselves, and hoped she mightn't be too youthful and inconstant for the quiet round of home. Impetuous fathers fell into disgrace for too much exaltation of her beauty, daughters envied her, sons envied him, innumerable pairs of lovers profited by the occasion, all were interested, animated, and expectant. Mr. and Mrs. Craggs came arm in arm, but Mrs. Snitchie came alone. Why, what's become of him? inquired the doctor. The feather of a bird of paradise, and Mrs. Snitchie's turban, trembled as if the bird of paradise were alive again, when she said that doubtless Mr. Craggs knew. She was never told. That nasty office, said Mrs. Craggs. I wish it was burnt down, said Mrs. Snitchie. He's—he's—there's a little matter of business that keeps my partner rather late, said Mr. Craggs, looking uneasily about him. Oh, business, don't tell me, said Mrs. Snitchie. We know what business means, said Mrs. Craggs, but there not knowing what it meant was perhaps the reason why Mrs. Snitchie's bird of paradise feather quivered so portentously, and why all the pendant bits on Mrs. Cragg's earrings shook like little bells. I wonder you could come away, Mr. Craggs, said his wife. Mr. Craggs is fortunate, I'm sure, said Mrs. Snitchie. That office so engrosses them, said Mrs. Craggs. A person within office has no business to be married at all, said Mrs. Snitchie. Then Mrs. Snitchie said within herself that that look of hers had pierced to Craggs' soul, and he knew it, and Mrs. Craggs observed to Craggs that his Snitchie's were deceiving him behind his back, and he would find it out when it was too late. Still, Mr. Craggs, without much heeding these remarks, looked uneasily about until his eye rested on Grace, to whom he immediately presented himself. Good evening, ma'am, said Craggs. You look charmingly. Your—Miss— Your sister, Miss Marion, is she— Oh, she's quite well, Mr. Craggs. Yes, I— Is she here? asked Craggs. Here. Don't you see her yonder? Going to dance? said Grace. Mr. Craggs put on his spectacles to see the better, looked at her through them for some time, coughed, and put them with an air of satisfaction in their sheath again and in his pocket. Now the music struck up and the dance commenced. The bright fire crackled and sparkled, rose and fell, as though it joined the dance itself, in right good fellowship. Sometimes it roared as if it would make music, too. Sometimes it flashed and beamed as if it were the eye of the old room. It winked, too, sometimes, like a knowing patriarch, upon the youthful whispers and corners. Sometimes it sported with the holly-bows, and shining on the leaves by fits and starts made them look as if they were in the cold winter night again and fluttering in the wind. Sometimes its genial humour grew obstreperous and past all bounds, and then it cast into the room, among the twinkling feet, with a loud burst, a shower of harmless little sparks, and in its exultation leaped and bounded like a mad thing up the broad old chimney. Another dance was near its close, when Mr. Snitchie touched his partner, who was looking on, upon the arm. Mr. Cragg started as if his familiar had been a spectre. Is he gone? he asked. Hush! He has been with me, said Snitchie, for three hours and more. He went over everything. He looked into all our arrangements for him, and was very particular indeed. The dance was finished. Maryon passed close before him, as he spoke. She did not observe him or his partner, but looked over her shoulder towards her sister in the distance as she slowly made her way into the crowd and passed out of their view. You see, all safe and well, said Mr. Craggs. He didn't recur to that subject, I suppose. Not a word. And is he really gone? Is he safe away? He keeps to his word. He drops down the river with a tide in that shell of a boat of his, and so goes out to sea on this dark night. A daredevil he is, before the wind. There's no such lonely road anywhere else. That's one thing. The tide flows, he says, an hour before midnight, about this time. I'm glad it's over. Mr. Snitchy wiped his forehead, which looked hot and anxious. What do you think, said Mr. Craggs, about? Hush! replied his cautious partner, looking straight before him. I understand you. Don't mention names, and don't let us seem to be talking secrets. I don't know what to think, and to tell you the truth I don't care now. It's a great relief. His self-love deceived him, I suppose. Perhaps the young lady coquetted a little. The evidence would seem to point that way. Alfred not arrived? Not yet, said Mr. Craggs. Expected every minute. Good! Mr. Snitchy wiped his forehead again. It's a great relief. I haven't been so nervous since we've been in partnership. I intend to spend the evening now, Mr. Craggs. Mrs. Craggs and Mrs. Snitchy joined them as he announced this intention. The bird of paradise was in a state of extreme vibration, and the little bells were ringing quite audibly. It has been the theme of general comment, Mr. Snitchy, said Mrs. Snitchy. I hope the office is satisfied. Satisfied with what, my dear? asked Mr. Snitchy. With the exposure of a defenseless woman to ridicule and remark, returned his wife, that is quite in the way of the office, that is. I really myself, said Mrs. Craggs, had been so long accustomed to connect the office with everything opposed to domesticity that I am glad to know it as the avowed enemy of my peace. There is something honest in that at all events. My dear, urged Mr. Craggs, your good opinion is invaluable, but I never avowed that the office was the enemy of your peace. No, said Mrs. Craggs, ringing a perfect peel upon the little bells. Not you, indeed! You wouldn't be worthy of the office if you had the candor, too. As to my having been away to-night, my dear, said Mr. Snitchy, giving her his arm. The deprivation has been mine, I'm sure. But, as Mr. Craggs knows, Mrs. Snitchy cut this reference very short by hitching her husband to a distance and asking him to look at that man, to do her the favor to look at him. At which man, my dear? said Mr. Snitchy. Your chosen companion, I am no companion to you, Mr. Snitchy. Yes, yes, you are, my dear, he interposed. No, no, I'm not, said Mrs. Snitchy, with a majestic smile. I know my station. Will you look at your chosen companion, Mr. Snitchy, at your referee, at the keeper of your secrets, at the man you trust, at your other self in short? The habitual association of self with Craggs occasioned Mr. Snitchy to look in that direction. If you can look that man in the eye this night, said Mrs. Snitchy, and not know that you are deluded, practiced upon, made the victim of his arts, and bent down prostrate to his will, by some unaccountable fascination which it is impossible to explain, and against which no warning of mine is the least avail, all I can say is, I pity you. At the very same moment Mrs. Craggs was oracular on the cross subject. Was it possible, she said, that Craggs could so blind himself to his Snitchies, as not to feel his true position? Did he mean to say that he had seen his Snitchies come into that room, and didn't plainly see that there was reservation, cunning, treachery in the man? Would he tell her that his very action, when he wiped his forehead and looked so stealthily about him, didn't show that there was something weighing on the conscience of his precious Snitchies, if he had a conscience, that wouldn't bear the light? Did anybody but his Snitchies come to festive entertainment like a burglar? Which, by the way, was hardly a clear illustration of the case, as he had walked in very mildly at the door. And would he still assert to her at noonday, it being nearly midnight, that his Snitchies were to be justified through thick and thin against all facts and reason and experience? Neither Snitchie nor Craggs openly attempted to steer the current which had thus set in, but both were content to be carried gently along it until its force abated. This happened at about the same time as a general movement for a country dance, which Mr. Snitchie proposed himself as a partner to Mrs. Craggs, and Mr. Craggs gallantly offered himself to Mrs. Snitchie, and after some slight evasions as, Why don't you ask somebody else? And you'll be glad I know if I decline, and I wonder you can dance out of the office, but this jocosly now, each lady graciously accepted and took her place. It was an old custom among them indeed to do so, and to pair off in like manner at dinners and suppers, for they were excellent friends, and on a footing of easy familiarity. Perhaps the false Craggs and the wicked Snitchie were a recognized fiction with the two wives, as Doe and Roe, incessantly running up and down bailowics, were with the two husbands. Or perhaps the ladies had instituted, and taken upon themselves, these two shares in the business, rather than be left out of it altogether. But, certain it is, that each wife went as gravely and steadily to work in her vocation as her husband did in his, and would have considered it almost impossible for the firm to maintain a successful and respectable existence without her laudable exertions. But now the bird of paradise was seen to flutter down the middle, and the little bells began to bounce and jingle in pussette, and the doctor's rosy face spun round and round, like an expressive pegtop highly varnished, and breathless Mr. Craggs began to doubt already whether country dancing had been made too easy, like the rest of life, and Mr. Snitchie, with his nimble cuts and capers, footed it for self and crags, and half a dozen more. Now, too, the fire took fresh courage, favoured by the lively wind the dance awakened, and burnt clear and high. It was the genius of the room, and present everywhere. It shone in people's eyes. It sparkled in the jewels on the snowy necks of girls. It twinkled at their ears as if it whispered to them slyly. It flashed about their waists. It flickered on the ground and made it rosy for their feet. It bloomed upon the ceiling that its glow might set off their bright faces, and it kindled up a general illumination in Mrs. Craggs's little belfry. Now, too, the lively air that fanned it grew less gentle as the music quickened and the dance proceeded with new spirit, and a breeze arose that made the leaves and berries dance upon the wall, as they had often done upon the trees, and the breeze rustled in the room as if an invisible company of fairies, treading in the footsteps of the good substantial revelers, were whirling after them. Now, too, no feature of the doctor's face could be distinguished as he spun and spun, and now there seemed a dozen birds of paradise in fitful flight, and now there were a thousand little bells at work, and now a fleet of flying skirts was ruffled by a little tempest when the music gave in and the dance was over. Hot and breathless as the doctor was, it only made him the more impatient for Alfred's coming. Anything been seen, Britain? Anything been heard? Too dark to see far, sir. Too much noise inside the house to hear. That's right, the gayer welcomed for him. How goes the time? Just twelve, sir. He can't be long, sir. Stir up the fire and throw another log upon it, said the doctor. Let him see his welcome pleasing out upon the night. Good boy, as he comes along. He saw it. Yes, from the shez he caught the light as he turned the corner by the old church. He knew the room from which it shone. He saw the wintry branches of the old trees between the light and him. He knew that one of those trees rustled musically in the summer time at the window of Marion's chamber. The tears were in his eyes, his heart throbbed so violently that he could hardly bear his happiness. How often he had thought of this time, pictured it under all circumstances, feared that it might never come, yearned and wearied for it far away. Again the light, distinct and ruddy, kindled he knew to give him welcome and to speed him home. He beckoned with his hand and waved his hat and cheered out loud as if the light were they, and they could see and hear him as he dashed towards them through the mud and mire triumphantly. Stop! He knew the doctor and understood what he had done. He would not let it be a surprise to them. But he could make it one yet by going forward on foot. If the orchard gate were open he could enter there. If not the wall was easily climbed as he knew of old and he would be among them in an instant. He dismounted from the shez and telling the driver, even that was not easy in his agitation, to remain behind for a few minutes and then to follow slowly, ran on with exceeding swiftness, tried the gate, scaled the wall, jumped down on the other side and stood panting in the old orchard. There was a frosty rhyme upon the trees, which, in the faint light of the clouded moon, hung upon the smaller branches like dead garlands. Withered leaves crackled and snapped beneath his feet as he crept softly on towards the house. The desolation of a winter night sat brooding on the earth and in the sky. But the red light came cheerly towards him from the windows. Figures passed and repast there and the humming murmur of voices greeted his ear sweetly. Listening for hers, attempting as he crept on to detach it from the rest, and half believing that he heard it, he had nearly reached the door when it was abruptly opened and a figure coming out encountered his. It instantly recoiled with a half suppressed cry. Clemency, he said, don't you know me? Don't come in, she answered, pushing him back. Go away. Don't ask me why. Don't come in. What is the matter? he exclaimed. I don't know. I'm afraid to think. Go back. Hark! There was a sudden tumult in the house. She put her hands upon her ears. A wild scream such as no hands could shut out was heard, and Grace, distraction in her looks and manner, rushed out at the door. Grace, he caught her in his arms. What is it? Is she dead? She disengaged herself as if to recognize his face and fell down at his feet. A crowd of figures came about them from the house. Among them was her father with a paper in his hand. What is it? cried Alfred, grasping his hair with his hands, and looking in an agony from face to face as he bent upon his knee beside the insensible girl. Will no one look at me? Will no one speak to me? Does no one know me? Is there no voice among you all to tell me what it is? There was a murmur among them. She is gone. Gone, he echoed. Fled, my dear Alfred, said the doctor in a broken voice, and with his hands before his face. Gone from her home and us, to-night. She writes that she has made her innocent and blameless choice, in treats that we will forgive her, praise that we will not forget her, and is gone. With whom? Where? He started up as if to follow in pursuit, but when they gave way to let him pass, looked wildly round upon them, staggered back, and sunk down in his former attitude, clasping one of Grace's cold hands in his own. There was a hurried running to and fro, confusion, noise, disorder, and no purpose. Some proceeded to disperse themselves about the roads, and some took horse, and some got lights, and some conversed together, urging that there was no trace or track to follow. Some approached him kindly, with a view of offering consolation. Some admonished him that Grace must be removed into the house, and that he prevented it. He never heard them, and he never moved. The snow fell fast and thick. He looked up for a moment in the air, and thought that those white ashes strewn upon his hopes and misery were suited to them well. He looked round on the whitening ground, and thought how Marion's footprints would be hushed and covered up as soon as made, and even that remembrance of her blotted out. But he never felt the weather, and he never stirred. The world had grown six years older since that night of the return. It was a warm autumn afternoon, and there had been heavy rain. The sun burst suddenly from among the clouds, and the old battleground, sparkling brilliantly and cheerfully at sight of it in one green place, flashed a responsive welcome there, which spread along the countryside, as if a joyful beacon had been lighted up, and answered from a thousand stations. How beautiful the landscape kindling in the light, and that luxuriant influence passing on like a celestial presence brightening everything. The wood, a somber mass before, revealed its varied tints of yellow, green, brown, red, its different forms of trees, with raindrops glittering on their leaves and twinkling as they fell. The verdant meadowland, bright and glowing, seemed as if it had been blind a minute since, and now had found a sense of sight wherewith to look up at the shining sky. Cornfields, hedgerows, fences, homesteads, and clustered roofs, the steeple of the church, the stream, the water mill, all sprang out of the gloomy darkness, smiling. Birds sang sweetly, flowers raised their drooping heads, fresh scents arose from the invigorated ground, the blue expanse above extended and diffused itself, already the sun's slanting rays pierced mortally the sullen bank of cloud that lingered in its flight, and a rainbow, spirit of all the colors that adorn the earth and sky, spanned the whole arch with its triumphant glory. At such a time, one little roadside inn, snugly sheltered behind a great elm tree with a rare seat for idlers encircling its capacious bowl, addressed a cheerful front towards the traveller as a house of entertainment ought, and tempted him with many mute but significant assurances of a comfortable welcome. The ruddy signboard perched up in the tree, with its golden letters winking in the sun, ogled the passerby from among the green leaves like a jolly face, and promised good cheer. The horse trough full of clear fresh water, and the ground below it sprinkled with droppings of fragrant hay, made every horse that passed prick up his ears. The crimson curtains in the lower rooms, and the pure white hangings in the little bed chambers above, beckoned, come in with every breath of air. Upon the bright green shutters there were golden legends about beer and ale, and neat wines and good beds, and an affecting picture of a brown jug frothing over at the top. Upon the window-sills were flowering plants in bright red pots, which made a lively show against the white front of the house, and in the darkness of the doorway there were streaks of light, which glanced off from the surfaces of bottles and tankards. On the doorstep appeared a proper figure of a landlord, too, for, though he was a short man, he was round and broad, and stood with his hands in his pockets, and his legs just wide enough apart to express a mind at rest upon the subject of the cellar, and an easy confidence, too calm and virtuous to become a swagger, in the general resources of the inn. The superabundant moisture, trickling from everything after the late rain, set him off well. Nothing near him was thirsty. Certain top-heavy delias, looking over the palings of his neat well-ordered garden, had swilled as much as they could carry, perhaps a trifle more, and may have been the worse for liquor. But the sweetbrier, roses, wall-flowers, the plants at the windows, and the leaves on the old tree, were in the beaming state of moderate company that had taken no more than was wholesome for them, and had served to develop their best qualities. Sprinkling dewy drops about them on the ground, they seemed profuse of innocent and sparkling mirth, that did good where it lighted, softening neglected corners which the steady rain could seldom reach, and hurting nothing. This village inn had assumed on being established an uncommon sign, it was called The Nutmeg Greater, and underneath that household word was inscribed, up in the tree, on the same flaming board, and in the like-golden characters, by Benjamin Britten. At a second glance, and on a more minute examination of his face, you might have known that it was no other than Benjamin Britten himself who stood in the doorway, reasonably changed by time, but for the better, a very comfortable host indeed. Mrs. B., said Mr. Britten, looking down the road, he's rather late, it's tea time. As there was no Mrs. Britten coming, he strolled leisurely out into the road, and looked up at the house, very much to his satisfaction. It's just a sort of house, said Benjamin. I should wish to stop at, if I didn't keep it. Then he strolled towards the garden, pailing, and took a look at the dahlias. They looked over at him, with a helpless drowsy hanging of their heads, which bobbed again as the heavy drops of wet dripped off them. You must be looked after, said Benjamin. Memorandum. Not to forget to tell her so. She's a long time coming. Mr. Britten's better half seemed to be by so very much his better half, that his own moiety of himself was utterly cast away and helpless without her. She hadn't much to do, I think, said Ben. There were a few little matters of business after market, but not many. Ah, here we are at last! A shescart, driven by a boy, came clattering along the road, and seated in it, in a chair, with a large, well-saturated umbrella spread out to dry behind her, was the plump figure of a matronly woman, with her bare arms folded across a basket which she carried on her knee, several other baskets and parcels lying crowded around her, and a certain bright good nature in her face and contented awkwardness in her manner, as she jogged to and fro with the motion of her carriage, which smacked of old times, even in the distance. Upon her nearer approach, this relish of bygone days was not diminished, and when the cart stopped at the nutmeg greater door, a pair of shoes alighting from it, slipped nimbly through Mr. Britten's open arms, and came down with a substantial weight upon the pathway, which shoes could hardly have belonged to any one but Clemency Newcomb. In fact, they did belong to her, and she stood in them, and a rosy, comfortable-looking soul she was, with as much soap on her glossy face as in times of yore, but with whole elbows now, that had grown quite dippled in her improved condition. You're late, Clemi, said Mr. Britten. Why, you see, Ben, I've had a deal to do. She replied, looking busily after the safe removal into the house of all the packages and baskets. Eight, nine, ten? Where's eleven? Oh, my basket's eleven. It's all right. Put the horse up, Harry, and if he coughs again, give him a warm mash to-night. Eight, nine, ten? Why, where's eleven? Oh, forgot, it's all right. How's the children, Ben? Hearty, Clemi, hearty! Bless their precious faces, said Mrs. Britten, unbonneting her own round countenance, for she and her husband were by this time in the bar, and smoothing her hair with her open hands. Give us a kiss, old man! Mr. Britten promptly complied. I think, said Mrs. Britten, applying herself to her pockets and drawing forth an immense bulk of thin books and crumpled papers, a very kennel of dog-seers. I've done everything. Bills all settled, turnips sold, brewer's account looked into, and paid. Back-up pipes ordered. Seventeen pound four paid into the bank. Dr. Heathfield's charge for little Clem. You'll guess what that is. Dr. Heathfield won't take nothing again, Ben. I thought he wouldn't. Returned Ben. No, he says whatever family you was to have, Ben, he'd never put you to the cost of a half-penny, not if you was to have twenty. Mr. Britten's face assumed a serious expression, and he looked hard at the wall. Ain't it kind of him? Said Clemency. Very, returned Mr. Britten. It's just sort of kindness that I wouldn't presume upon on any account. No, retorted Clemency. Of course not. Then there's the pony. He fetched eight pound two, and that ain't bad, is it? It's very good, said Ben. I'm glad you're pleased, exclaimed his wife. I thought you would be, and I think that's all, and so no more at present from yours, et cetera, see Britten. There! Take all the papers and lock them up. Oh, wait a minute. Here's a printed bill to stick on the wall. Wet from the printers. How nice it smells. What's this? Said Ben, looking over the document. I don't know, replied his wife. I haven't read a word of it. To be sold by auction. Read the host of the Nutmeg Grader. Unless previously disposed of by private contract. They always put that, said Clemency. Yes, but they don't always put this. He returned. Look here. Mansion, et cetera. Offices, et cetera. Shrubberies, et cetera. Ring fence, et cetera. Monsieur's snitchy and crags, et cetera. Ornamental portion of the unencumbered freehold property of Michael Warden Esquire, intending to continue to reside abroad. Intending to continue to reside abroad. Repeated Clemency. Here it is, said Britten. Look. And it was only this very day that I heard it whispered at the old house that better and plainer news had been half-promised of her soon. Said Clemency, shaking her head sorrowfully and patting her elbows as if the recollection of old times unconsciously awakened her old habits. Dear, dear, dear. There'll be heavy hearts, Ben, yonder. Mr. Britten heaved a sigh and shook his head, and said he couldn't make it out. He had left off trying long ago. With that remark he applied himself to putting up the bill just inside the bar window. Clemency, after meditating in silence for a few moments, roused herself, cleared her thoughtful brow, and bustled off to look after the children. Though the host of the nutmeg-grader had a lively regard for his good wife, it was of the old patronizing kind, and she amused him mightily. Nothing would have astonished him so much as to have known for certain from any third party that it was she who managed the whole house and made him, by her plain straightforward thrift, good humor, honesty, and industry, a thriving man. So easy it is, in any degree of life, as the world very often finds it, to take those cheerful natures that never assert their merit at their own modest valuation, and to conceive a flippant liking of people for their outward oddities and eccentricities, whose innate worth, if we would look so far, might make us blush in the comparison. It was comfortable to Mr. Britain to think of his own condescension in having married Clemency. She was a perpetual testimony to him of the goodness of his heart, and the kindness of his disposition, and he felt that her being an excellent wife was an illustration of the old precept that virtue is its own reward. He had finished wafering up the bill, and had locked the vouchers for her day's proceedings in the cupboard, chuckling all the time over her capacity for business, when, returning with the news that the two master Britons were playing in the coach-house under the superintendents of one Betsy, and that little Clem was sleeping like a picture, she sat down to tea which had awaited her arrival on a little table. It was a very neat little bar, with the usual display of bottles and glasses, a sedate clock right to the minute it was half-past five, everything in its place, and everything firmished and polished up to the very utmost. It's the first time I've sat down quietly to-day, I declare, said Mrs. Britain, taking a long breath, as if she had sat down for the night, but getting up again immediately to hand her husband his tea, and cut him his bread and butter. How that bill does set me thinking of old times! Ah! said Mr. Britain, handling his saucer like an oyster, and disposing of its contents on the same principle. That same Mr. Michael Warden, said Clemency, shaking her head at the notice of sale, lost me my old place, and got you your husband, said Mr. Britain. Well, so he did, retorted Clemency, and many thanks to him. Man's the creature of habit, said Mr. Britain, surveying her over his saucer. I had somehow got used to you, Clem, and I found I shouldn't be able to get on without you. So we went and got made man and wife. Wee! Who'd have thought it? Who indeed! cried Clemency. It was very good of you, Ben. No, no, no! replied Mr. Britain, with an air of self-denial. Nothing worth mentioning. Oh, yes it was, Ben, said his wife, with great simplicity. I'm sure I think so, and am very much obliged to you. Ah! looking again at the bill. When she was known to be gone and out of reach, dear girl, I couldn't help telling, for her sake quite as much as theirs, what I knew, could I? You told it anyhow, observed her husband. And Dr. Jettler pursued Clemency, putting down her teacup, and looking thoughtfully at the bill. In his grief and passion turned me out of house and home. I never had been so glad of anything in all my life, as that I didn't say an angry word to him, and hadn't any angry feeling towards him even then. For he repented that truly, afterwards. How often he has sat in this room, and told me over and over again he was sorry for it. The last time only yesterday, when you were out. How often he has sat in this room, and talked to me, hour after hour, about one thing and another, in which he may believe to be interested. But only for the sake of the days that are gone by, and because he knows she used to like me, Ben. Why, how did you ever come to catch a glimpse of that, Clem? asked her husband, astonished that she should have a distinct perception of a truth which had only dimly suggested itself to his inquiring mind. I don't know, I'm sure, said Clemency, blowing her tea to cool it. Bless you, I couldn't tell you, if you was to offer me a reward of a hundred pound. He might have pursued this metaphysical subject, but for her catching a glimpse of a substantial fact behind him, in the shape of a gentleman attired in mourning, and cloaked and booted, like a rider on horseback, who stood at the bar door. He seemed attentive to their conversation, and not at all impatient to interrupt it. Clemency hastily arose at this site. Mr. Britton also rose and saluted the guest. Were you pleased to walk upstairs, sir? There's a very nice room upstairs, sir. Thank you, said the stranger, looking earnestly at Mr. Britton's wife. May I come in here? Oh, surely if you like, sir, returned Clemency, admitting him. What would you please to want, sir? The bill had caught his eye, and he was reading it. Excellent property that, sir, observed Mr. Britton. He made no answer, but turning round, when he had finished reading, looked at Clemency with the same observing curiosity as before. You were asking me, he said, still looking at her. What you would please to take, sir? Answered Clemency, stealing a glance at him in return. If you will let me have a draft of ale, he said, moving to a table by the window, and will let me have it here, without being any interruption to your meal, I shall be much obliged to you. He sat down as he spoke, without any further parlay, and looked out at the prospect. He was an easy, well-knit figure of a man in the prime of life. His face, much browned by the sun, was shaded by a quantity of dark hair, and he wore a mustache. His beer being set before him, he filled out a glass, and drank good humoredly to the house, adding, as he put the tumbler down again, It's a new house, is it not? Not particularly new, sir, replied Mr. Britain. Between five and six years old, said Clemency, speaking very distinctly, I think I heard you mention Dr. Jedler's name as I came in, inquired the stranger. That bill reminds me of him, for I happen to know something of that story, by hearsay, and through certain connections of mine. Is the old man living? Yes, he's living, sir, said Clemency. Much changed? Since when, sir, returned Clemency with remarkable emphasis and expression, since his daughter went away? Yes, he's greatly changed since then, said Clemency. He's gray and old, and hasn't the same way with him at all, but I think he's happy now. He has taken on with his sister since then, and goes to see her very often. That did him good directly. At first, he was sadly broken down, and he was enough to make one's heart bleed to see him wandering about, railing at the world. But a great change for the better came over him after a year or two, and then he began to talk about his lost daughter and to praise her, I and the world too, and was never tired of saying with the tears in his poor eyes how beautiful and good she was. He had forgiven her then. That was about the same time as Miss Grace's marriage. Britain, you remember? Mr. Britain remembered very well. The sister is married then, returned the stranger. He paused for some time before he asked, to whom? Clemency narrowly escaped oversetting the teaboard in her emotion at this question. Did you never hear? she said. I should like to hear. He replied as he filled his glass again and raised it to his lips. Ah! it would be a long story if it was properly told, said Clemency resting her chin on the palm of her left hand, and supporting that elbow on her right hand as she shook her head, and looked back through the intervening years as if she were looking at a fire. It would be a long story, I'm sure. But, told as a short one, suggested the stranger. Told as a short one, repeated Clemency in the same thoughtful tone, and without any apparent reference to him or consciousness of having auditors, what would there be to tell? That they grieved together and remembered her together like a person dead? That they were so tender of her, never would reproach her, called her back to one another as she used to be, and found excuses for her? Everyone knows that. I'm sure I do. No one better! added Clemency, wiping her eyes with her hand. And so, suggested the stranger. And so, said Clemency, taking him up mechanically, and without any change in her attitude or manner, they at last were married. They were married on her birthday. It comes round again tomorrow. Very quiet, very humble-like. But very happy. Mr. Alfred said, one night when they were walking in the orchard, Grace, shall our wedding day be Marion's birthday? And it was. And they have lived happily together, said the stranger. I, said Clemency, know two people ever more so. They have had no sorrow but this. She raised her head as with a sudden attention to the circumstances under which she was recalling these events, and looked quickly at the stranger. Seeing that his face was turned towards the window, and that he seemed intent upon the prospect, she made some eager signs to her husband and pointed to the bill, and moved her mouth as if she were repeating with great energy one word or phrase to him over and over again. As she uttered no sound, and as her dumb motions like most of her gestures were of a very extraordinary kind, this unintelligible conduct reduced Mr. Britain to the confines of despair. He stared at the table, at the stranger, at the spoons, at his wife, followed her pantomime with looks of deep amazement and perplexity, asked in the same language was it property in danger, was it he in danger, was it she? She answered her signals with other signals, expressive of the deepest distress and confusion, followed the motions of her lips, guessed half a loud milk and water, monthly warning, mice and walnuts, and couldn't approach her meaning. Clemency gave it up at last as a hopeless attempt, and moving her chair by very slow degrees a little nearer to the stranger, sat with her eyes apparently cast down but glancing sharply at him now and then, waiting until he should ask some other question. She had not to wait long, for he said presently, and what is the after-history of the young lady who went away? They know it, I suppose. Clemency shook her head. I've heard, she said, that Dr. Jettler is thought to know more of it than he tells. Miss Grace has had letters from her sister, saying that she was well and happy, and made much happier by her being married to Mr. Alfred, and has written letters back. But there's a mystery about her life and fortunes altogether, which nothing has cleared up to this hour and which— She faltered here and stopped. And which, repeated the stranger, Which only one other person, I believe, could explain, said Clemency, drawing her breath quickly. Who may that be? asked the stranger. Mr. Michael Warden! answered Clemency, almost in a shriek, at once conveying to her husband what she would have had him understand before, and letting Michael Warden know that he was recognized. You remember me, sir? said Clemency, trembling with emotion. I saw just now you did. You remember me? That night in the garden. I was with her. Yes, you were, he said. Yes, sir, returned Clemency. Yes, to be sure. This is my husband, if you please. Ben, my dear Ben, run to Miss Grace, run to Mr. Alfred, run somewhere, Ben. Bring somebody here directly. Stay! said Michael Warden, quietly interposing himself between the door in Britain. What would you do? Let them know that you are here, sir. Answered Clemency, clapping her hands in sheer agitation. Let them know that they may hear of her, from your own lips. Let them know that she is not quite lost to them, but that she will come home again yet to bless her father and her loving sister, even her old servant, even me. She struck herself upon the breast with both hands, with a sight of her sweet face. Run, Ben, run! And still she pressed him on towards the door, and still Mr. Warden stood before it, with his hands stretched out, not angrily, but sorrowfully. Or perhaps, said Clemency, running past her husband, and catching in her emotion at Mr. Warden's cloak, perhaps she's here now. Perhaps she's close by. I think from your manner she is. Let me see her, sir, if you please. I waited on her when she was a little child. I saw her grow to be the pride of all this place. I knew her when she was Mr. Alfred's promised wife. I tried to warn her when you tempted her away. I know what her old home was when she was like the soul of it, and how it changed when she was gone and lost. Let me speak to her, if you please. He gazed at her with compassion, not unmixed with wonder, but he made no gesture of a scent. I don't think she can know, pursued Clemency, how truly they forgive her, how they love her, what joy it would be to them to see her once more. She may be timorous of going home. Perhaps, if she sees me, it may give her new heart. Only tell me truly, Mr. Warden, is she with you? She is not. He answered, shaking his head. This answer and his manner and his black dress, and his coming back so quietly, and his announced intention of continuing to live abroad, explained it all. Marion was dead. He didn't contradict her. Yes, she was dead. Clemency sat down, hid her face upon the table, and cried. At that moment a gray-headed old gentleman came running in, quite out of breath, and panting so much that his voice was scarcely to be recognized as the voice of Mr. Snitchy. Good heaven, Mr. Warden! said the lawyer, taking him aside. What wind has blown! He was so blown himself that he couldn't get on any further until after a pause, when he added feebly, You hear! An ill wind, I'm afraid, he answered. If you could have heard what has just passed, how I have been besought and entreated to perform impossibilities, what confusion and affliction I carry with me. I can guess it all, but why did you ever come here, my good sir? Retorted Snitchy. Come! How should I know who kept the house? When I sent my servant on to you, I strolled in here because the place was new to me, and I had a natural curiosity and everything new and old in these old scenes, and it was outside the town. I wanted to communicate with you first before appearing there. I wanted to know what people would say to me. I see, by your manner, that you can tell me. If it were not for your confounded caution, I should have been possessed of everything long ago. Our caution, returned the lawyer, speaking for self and crags, deceased. Here Mr. Snitchy, glancing at his hat-band, shook his head. How can you reasonably blame us, Mr. Warden? It was understood between us that the subject was never to be renewed, and that it wasn't a subject on which grave and sober men like us, I made a note of your observations at the time, could interfere. Our caution, too. When Mr. Cragg, sir, went down to his respected grave in the full belief, I had given a solemn promise of silence until I should return, whenever that might be. Interrupted Mr. Warden, and I have kept it. Well, sir, and I repeat it, returned Mr. Snitchy. We were bound to silence, too. We were bound to silence in our duty towards ourselves, and in our duty towards a variety of clients, you among them, who were as close as wax. It was not our place to make inquiries of you on such a delicate subject. I had my suspicion, sir, but it is not six months since I have known the truth, and been assured that you lost her. By whom? inquired his client. By Dr. Jedler himself, sir, who at last reposed that confidence in me voluntarily. He, and only he, has known the whole truth years and years. And you know it, said his client. I do, sir, replied Snitchy, and I have also reasoned to know that it will be broken to her sister tomorrow evening. They have given her that promise. In the meantime, perhaps she'll give me the honour of your company at my house, being unexpected at your own. But not to run the chance of any more such difficulties as you have had here, in case you should be recognised. Though you're a good deal changed, I think I might have passed you myself, Mr. Warden. We had better dine here, and walk on in the evening. It's a very good place to dine at, Mr. Warden. Your own property, by the by. Self and crags, deceased, took a chop here sometimes, and had it very comfortably served. Mr. Craig, sir, said Snitchy, shutting his eyes tight for an instant, and opening them again, was struck off the role of life too soon. Heaven forgive me for not condoling with you. Returned Michael Warden, passing his hand across his forehead. But I'm like a man in a dream at present. I seem to want my wits. Mr. Craggs. Yes. I am very sorry we have lost Mr. Craggs. But he looked at clemency as he said it, and seemed to sympathise with Ben, consoling her. Mr. Cragg, sir, observed Snitchy, didn't find life, I regret to say, as easy to have and to hold as his theory made it out, or he would have been among us now. It's a great loss to me. He was my right arm, my right leg, my right ear, my right eye, was Mr. Craggs. I am paralytic without him. He bequeathed to share of the business to Mrs. Craggs, her executors, administrators, and ass-signs. His name remains in the firm to this hour. I try, in a childish sort of a way, to make believe sometimes he's alive. You may observe that I speak for self and Craggs. Deceased, sir, deceased," said the tender-hearted attorney, waving his pocket handkerchief. Michael Warden, who had still been observant of clemency, turned to Mr. Snitchy when he ceased to speak, and whispered in his ear. Ah, poor thing, said Snitchy, shaking his head. Yes, she was always very faithful to Marion. She was always very fond of her. Pretty Marion. Poor Marion. Cheer up, mistress. You are married now, you know, clemency. Clemency only sighed and shook her head. Well, well, wait till tomorrow, said the lawyer kindly. Tomorrow can't bring back the dead to life, Mr. said clemency, sobbing. No, it can't do that, or it would bring back Mr. Craggs. Deceased, returned the lawyer. But it may bring some soothing circumstances. It may bring some comfort. Wait till tomorrow. So clemency, shaking his proffered hand, said she would, and Britain, who had been terribly cast down at sight of his despondent wife, which was like the business hanging its head, said that was right, and Mr. Snitchy and Michael Warden went upstairs, and there they were soon engaged in a conversation so cautiously conducted that no murmur of it was audible above the clatter of plates and dishes, the hissing of the frying pan, the bubbling of saucepans, the low monotonous waltzing of the jack, with a dreadful click every now and then as if it had met with some mortal accident to its head in a fit of giddiness, and all the other preparations in the kitchen for their dinner. End of Part 1 of Chapter 3 Part 2 of Chapter 3 The Final Chapter of THE BATTLE OF LIFE This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, and is read by Mark Smith of Simpsville, South Carolina. THE BATTLE OF LIFE by Charles Dickens Chapter 3 Part 2 Tomorrow was a bright and peaceful day, and nowhere were the autumn tints more beautifully seen than from the quiet orchard of the doctor's house. The snows of many winter nights had melted from that ground the withered leaves of many summer times had rustled there since she had fled. The honeysuckle porch was green again. The trees cast bountiful and changing shadows on the grass. The landscape was as tranquil and serene as it had ever been. But where was she? Not there. Not there. She would have been a stranger sight in her old home now, even that that home had been at first without her. But a lady sat in the familiar place, from whose heart she had never passed away, and whose true memory she lived, unchanging, youthful, radiant with all promise and all hope, in whose affection—and it was a mother's now, there was a cherished little daughter playing by her side—she had no rival, no successor, upon whose gentle lips her name was trembling then. The spirit of the lost girl looked out of those eyes—those eyes of Grace, her sister, sitting with her husband in the orchard, on their wedding-day, and his and Marion's birthday. He had not become a great man. He had not grown rich. He had not forgotten the scenes and friends of his youth. He had not fulfilled any one of the doctor's old predictions. But, in his useful, patient, unknown visiting of poor men's homes, and in his watching of sick beds, and in his daily knowledge of the gentleness and goodness flowering the bypass of this world, not to be trodden down beneath the heavy foot of poverty, but springing up elastic in its track and making its way beautiful, he had better learned and proved in each succeeding year the truth of his old faith. The manner of his life, though quiet and remote, had shown him how often men still entertained angels unawares as in the olden time, and how the most unlikely forms, even some that were mean and ugly to the view and poorly clad, became irradiated by the couch of sorrow, want, and pain, and changed to ministering spirits with a glory round their heads. He lived a better purpose on the altered battle-ground, perhaps, than if he had contended restlessly in more ambitious lists, and he was happy with his wife, dear Grace. And Marion, had he forgotten her? The time has flown, dear Grace, he said, since then, the had been talking of that night, and yet it seems a long, long while ago. We count by changes and events within us, not by years. Yet we have years to count by, too, since Marion was with us. Returned, Grace, six times, dear husband, counting to-night as one, we have sat here on her birthday, and spoken together of that happy return, so eagerly expected and so long deferred. Ah, when will it be? When will it be? Her husband attentively observed her, as the tears collected in her eyes, and drawing nearer said, But Marion told you, in that farewell letter which she left upon you upon your table-love, and which you read so often, that years must pass away before it could be. Did she not? She took a letter from her breast and kissed it, and said, Yes. That through these intervening years, however happy she might be, she would look forward to the time when you would meet again, and all would be made clear, and that she prayed you trustfully and hopefully to do the same. The letter runs so, does it not, my dear? Yes, Alfred. And every other letter she has written since? Accept the last, some months ago, in which she spoke of you, and what you then knew, and what I was to learn to-night. He looked towards the sun, then fast declining, and said that the appointed time was sunset. Alfred, said Grace, laying her hand upon his shoulder earnestly, there is something in this letter, this old letter which you say I read so often, that I have never told you. But to-night, dear husband, with that sunset drawing near, and all our life seeming disoffened and become hushed with the departing day, I cannot keep it secret. What is it, love? When Marianne went away, she wrote me here that you had once left her a sacred trust to me, and that now she left you, Alfred, such a trust in my hands, praying and beseeching me, as I loved her, and as I loved you, not to reject the affection she believed, she knew, she said, you would transfer to me when the new wound was healed, but to encourage and return it. And make me a proud and happy man again, Grace. Did she say so? She meant to make myself so blessed and honoured in your love. Was his wife's answer as he held her in his arms? Hear me, my dear, he said. No, hear me so. And as he spoke, he gently laid the head she had raised, again upon his shoulder. I know why I have never heard this passage in the letter until now. I know why no trace of it ever showed itself in any word or look of yours at that time. I know why Grace, although so true a friend to me, was hard to win to be my wife. And knowing it, my own, I know the priceless value of the heart I gird within my arms, and thank God for the rich possession. She wept but not for sorrow as he pressed her to his heart. After a brief space, he looked down at the child who was sitting at their feet, playing with a little basket of flowers, and bade her look how golden and how red the sun was. Alfred, said Grace, raising her head quickly at these words, the sun is going down. You have not forgotten what I am to know before it sets. You are to know the truth of Marion's history, my love. He answered. All the truth, she said imploringly, nothing veiled from me any more. That was the promise. Was it not? It was. He answered. Before the sun went down on Marion's birthday, and you see it, Alfred, it is sinking fast. He put his arm about her waist, and, looking steadily into her eyes, rejoined, That truth is not reserved so long for me to tell, dear Grace. It is to come from other lips. From other lips, she faintly echoed. Yes. I know your constant heart. I know how brave you are. I know that to you a word of preparation is enough. You have said, truly, that the time has come. It is. Tell me that you have present fortitude to bear a trial, a surprise, a shock, and the messenger is waiting at the gate. What messenger, she said, and what intelligence does he bring? I am pledged, he answered her, preserving his steady look, to say no more. Do you think you understand me? I am afraid to think, she said. There was that emotion in his face, despite its steady gaze, which frightened her. Again she hid her own face on his shoulder, trembling, and entreated him to pause a moment. Courage, my wife, when you have firmness to receive the messenger, the messenger is waiting at the gate. The sun is setting on Marion's birthday. Courage. Courage, Grace. She raised her head, and looking at him told him she was ready. As she stood and looked upon him going away, her face was so like Marion's as it had been in her later days at home, that it was wonderful to see. He took the child with him. She called her back. She bore the lost girl's name, and pressed her to her bosom. The little creature, being released again, sped after him, and Grace was left alone. She knew not what she dreaded, or what hoped, but remained there motionless, looking at the porch by which they had disappeared. Ah, what was that, emerging from its shadow, standing on its threshold? That figure, with its white garments rustling in the evening air, its head laid down upon her father's breast, and pressed against it to his loving heart. Oh, God! Was it a vision that came bursting from the old man's arms, and with a cry, and with a waving of its hands, and with a wild precipitation of itself upon her in its boundless love, sank down in her embrace? Oh, Marion! Marion! Oh, my sister! Oh, my heart's dear love! Oh, joy and happiness unutterable! So to meet again! It was no dream, no phantom conjured up by hope and fear, but Marion, sweet Marion, so beautiful, so happy, so unalloyed by care and trial, so elevated and exalted in her loveliness, that as the setting sun shone brightly on her upturned face, she might have been a spirit visiting the earth upon some healing mission. Clinging to her sister, who had dropped upon a seat and bent down over her, and smiling through her tears, and kneeling close before her, with both arms twining round her, and never turning for an instant from her face, and with the glory of the setting sun upon her brow, and with the soft tranquility of evening gathering round them, Marion at length broke silence, her voice so calm, low, clear and pleasant, well-tuned to the time. When this was my dear home, Grace, as it will be now again. Stay, my sweet love, a moment! Oh, Marion, to hear you speak again! She could not bear the voice she loved so well at first. When this was my dear home, Grace, as it will be now again, I loved him from my soul. I loved him most devotedly. I would have died for him, though I was so young. I never slighted his affection in my secret breast for one brief instant. It was far beyond all price to me. Although it is so long ago, and past and gone, and everything is wholly changed, I could not bear to think that you, who loved so well, should think I did not truly love him once. I never loved him better, Grace, than when he left this very scene upon this very day. I never loved him better, dear one, than I did that night when I left here. Her sister, bending over her, could look into her face and hold her fast. But he had gained unconsciously, said Marion with a gentle smile, another heart, before I knew that I had one to give him. That heart, yours, my sister, was so yielded up in all its other tenderness to me, was so devoted, and so noble, that it plucked its love away and kept its secret from all eyes but mine. Ah, what other eyes were quickened by such tenderness and gratitude, and was content to sacrifice itself to me. But I knew something of its depths. I knew the struggle it had made. I knew its high, inestimable worth to him, and his appreciation of it, let him love me as he would. I knew the debt I owed it. I had its great example every day before me. What you had done for me I knew that I could do, Grace, if I would, for you. I never laid my head down on my pillow, but I prayed with tears to do it. I never laid my head down on my pillow, but I thought of Alford's own words on the day of his departure, and how truly he had said, for I knew that, knowing you, that there were victories gained every day in struggling hearts to which these fields of battle were nothing. Thinking more and more upon the great endurance cheerfully sustained, and never known or cared for, that there must be, every day and hour, in that great strife of which he spoke, my trials seem to grow light and easy. And he, who knows our hearts, my dearest, at this moment, and who knows that there is no drop of bitterness or grief, of anything but unmixed happiness, in mine enabled me to make the resolution that I never would be Alford's wife, that he should be my brother, and your husband, if the course I took could bring that happy end to pass, and that I never would, Grace, I then loved him dearly, dearly, be his wife. Oh, Marian! Oh, Marian! I had tried to seem indifferent to him, and she pressed her sister's face against her own. But that was hard, and you were always his true advocate. I had tried to tell you of my resolution, but you would never hear me, you would never understand me. The time was drawing near for his return. I felt that I must act before the daily intercourse between us was renewed. I knew that one great pang, undergone at that time, would save a lengthened agony to all of us. I knew that if I went away then, that end must follow which has followed, and which has made us both so happy, Grace. I wrote to Good Aunt Martha, for our refuge in her house. I did not then tell her all but something of my story, and she freely promised it. While I was contesting that step with myself, and with my love of you and home, Mr. Warden, brought here by an accident, became for some time our companion. I have sometimes feared of late years that this might have been, exclaimed her sister, and her countenance was ashy pale. You never loved him, and you married him in your self-sacrifice to me. He was then, said Marian, drawing her sister closer to her, on the eve of going secretly away for a long time. He wrote to me, after leaving here, told me what his condition and prospects really were, and offered me his hand. He told me he had seen I was not happy in the prospect of Alfred's return. I believe he thought my heart had no part in that contract. Perhaps thought I might have loved him once, and did not then. Perhaps thought that when I tried to seem indifferent, I tried to hide indifference. I cannot tell. But I wish that you should feel me wholly lost to Alfred, hopeless to him, dead. Do you understand me, love? Her sister looked into her face attentively. She seemed in doubt. I saw Mr. Warden, and confided in his honour, charged him with my secret on the eve of his and my departure. He kept it. Do you understand me, dear? Grace looked confusedly upon her. She scarcely seemed to hear. My love, my sister, said Marian, recall your thoughts a moment. Listen to me. Do not look so strangely on me. There are countries, dearest, where those who would abjure a misplaced passion, or would strive against some cherished feeling of their hearts and conquer it, retire into a hopeless solitude, and close the world against themselves and worldly loves and hopes for ever. When women do so, they assume that name which is so dear to you and me, and call each other sisters. But there may be sisters, Grace, who in the broad world out of doors, and underneath its free sky and in its crowded places, and among its busy life, and trying to assist and cheer it and to do some good, learn the same lesson. And who, with hearts still fresh and young, and open to all happiness and means of happiness, can say the battle is long past, the victory long won. And such a one am I. You understand me now? Still, she looked fixedly upon her and made no reply. Oh, Grace, dear Grace, said Marian, clinging yet more tenderly and fondly to that breast from which she had been so long exiled. If you were not a happy wife and mother, if I had no little namesake here, if Alfred, my kind brother, were not your own fond husband, from whence could I derive the ecstasy I feel to-night? But as I left here, so have I returned. My heart has known no other love, my hand has never been bestowed apart from it. I am still your maiden sister, unmarried, unbetrothed, your own loving old Marian, in whose affection you exist alone and have no partner, Grace. She understood her now, her face relaxed, sobs came to her relief, and falling on her neck, she wept and wept, and fondled her as if she were a child again. When they were more composed they found that the doctor and his sister Good Aunt Martha were standing near at hand with Alfred. This is a weary day for me, said Good Aunt Martha, smiling through her tears as she embraced her nieces. For I lose my dear companion in making you all happy. And what can you give me in return for my Marian? A converted brother, said the doctor. That's something, to be sure, retorted Aunt Martha, in such a far says, No, pray don't, said the doctor penitently. Well, I won't, replied Aunt Martha. But I consider myself ill-used. I don't know what's to become of me without my Marian after we have lived together half a dozen years. You must come and live here, I suppose, replied the doctor. We shan't quarrel now, Martha. Or you must get married, Aunt, said Alfred. Indeed, returned the old lady. I think it might be a good speculation if I were to set my cap at Michael Warden, who I hear is come home much the better for his absence, it all respects. But as I knew him when he was a boy, and I was not a very young woman then, perhaps he mightn't respond. So I'll make up my mind to go and live with Marian when she marries, and until then it will not be very long, I daresay, to live alone. What do you say, brother? I've a great mind to say it's a ridiculous world altogether, and there's nothing serious in it. Observe the poor old doctor. You might take twenty affidavits of it if you chose, Anthony, said his sister. But nobody would believe you with such eyes as those. It's a world full of hearts, said the doctor, hugging his youngest daughter, and bending across her to hug Grace, for he couldn't separate the sisters. And a serious world with all its folly, even with mine, which was enough to asswamp the whole globe, and it is a world on which the sun never rises but it looks upon a thousand bloodless battles that are some set off against the miseries and wickedness of battlefields. And it is a world we need be careful how we libel, heaven forgive us, for it is a world of sacred mysteries, and its creator only knows what lies beneath the surface of his lightest image. You would not be the better pleas with my rude pen, if it dissected and laid open to your view the transports of this family, long severed, and now reunited. Therefore I will not follow the poor doctor through his humbled recollection of the sorrow he had had when Marion was lost to him. Nor will I tell how serious he had found that world to be, in which some love, deep anchored, is the portion of all human creatures, nor how such a trifle as the absence of one little unit in the great absurd account had stricken him to the ground. Nor how, in compassion for his distress, his sister had, long ago, revealed the truth to him by slow degrees, and brought him to the knowledge of the heart of his self-banished daughter, and to that daughter's side. Nor how Alfred Heathfield had been told the truth, too, in the course of that then current year, and Marion had seen him and had promised him as her brother, that on her birthday, in the evening, Grace should know it from her lips at last. I beg your pardon, doctor, said Mr. Snitchie, looking into the orchard, but have I the liberty to come in? Without waiting for permission he came straight to Marion and kissed her hand quite joyfully. If Mr. Craggs had been alive, my dear Miss Marion, said Mr. Snitchie, he would have had great interest in this occasion. It might have suggested to him, Mr. Alfred, that our life is not too easy, perhaps, that taken all together it will bear any little smoothing we can give it. But Mr. Craggs was a man who could endure to be convinced, sir. He was always open to conviction. If he were open to conviction now, this is weakness, Mrs. Snitchie, my dear. At his summons that lady appeared from behind the door, you are among old friends. Mrs. Snitchie, having delivered her congratulations, took her husband aside. One moment, Mr. Snitchie, said that lady, it is not in my nature to rake up the ashes of the departed. No, my dear, returned her husband. Mr. Craggs is—yes, my dear, he is deceased, said Snitchie. But I ask you if you recollect, pursued his wife, that evening of the ball, I only ask you that. If you do, and if your memory has not entirely failed you, Mr. Snitchie, and if you are not absolutely in your dotage, I ask you to connect this time with that, to remember how I begged and prayed you on my knees. Upon your knees, my dear, said Mr. Snitchie. Yes, said Mrs. Snitchie confidently, and you know it, to be aware of that man, to observe his eye, and now to tell me whether I was right, and whether at that moment he knew secrets which he didn't choose to tell. Mrs. Snitchie returned her husband in her ear. Madam, did you ever observe anything in my eye? No, said Mrs. Snitchie sharply, don't flatter yourself. Because, Madam, that night, he continued, twitching her by the sleeve, it happens that we both knew secrets which we didn't choose to tell, and both knew just the same professionally. And so the less you say about such things, the better, Mrs. Snitchie, and take this as a warning to have wiser and more charitable eyes another time. Miss Marion, I brought a friend of yours along with me. Here, Mistress! Poor clemency, with her apron to her eyes, came slowly in, escorted by her husband, the latter doleful with the presentiment that if she abandoned herself to grief, the nutmeg greater was done for. Now, Mistress, said the lawyer, checking Marion as she ran towards her, and interposing himself between them, what's the matter with you? Thou matter, cried poor clemency, when, looking up in wonder and in indignant remonstrance, and in the added emotion of a great roar from Mr. Britain, and seeing that sweet face so well remembered close before her, she stared, sobbed, laughed, cried, screamed, embraced her, held her fast, released her, fell on Mr. Snitchie and embraced him, much to Mrs. Snitchie's indignation, fell on the doctor and embraced him, fell on Mr. Britain and embraced him, and concluding by embracing herself, throwing her apron over her head and going into hysterics behind it. A stranger had come into the orchard after Mr. Snitchie, and had remained apart near the gate, without being observed by any of the group, for they had little spare attention to bestow, and that had been monopolized by the ecstasies of clemency. He did not appear to wish to be observed, but stood alone, with downcast eyes, and there was an air of dejection about him, though he was a gentleman of a gallant appearance, which the general happiness rendered more remarkable. None but the quick eyes of Aunt Martha, however, remarked him at all. But, almost as soon as she aspired him, she was in conversation with him. Presently, going to where Marian stood with grace and her little namesake, she whispered something in Marian's ear, at which she started and appeared surprised. But soon recovering from her confusion, she timidly approached the stranger in Aunt Martha's company, and engaged in conversation with him too. Mr. Britain, said the lawyer, putting his hand in his pocket, and bringing out a legal-looking document while this was going on, I congratulate you, you are now the whole and sole proprietor of that freehold tenement, at present occupied and held by yourself as a licensed tavern, or house of public entertainment, and commonly called or known by the sign of the nutmeg greater. Your wife lost one house through my client Mr. Michael Warden, and now gains another. I shall have the pleasure of canvassing you for the county one of these fine mornings. Would it make any difference in devotee if the sign was altered, sir? asked Britain. Not in the least, replied the lawyer. Then, said Mr. Britain, handing him back the conveyance, just clapping the words, and thimble, would you be so good, and I'll have the two mottos painted up in the parlour instead of my wife's portrait. And let me, said a voice behind them, it was the strangers, Michael Warden's, let me claim the benefit of those inscriptions. Mr. Heathfield and Dr. Jettler, I might have deeply wronged you both, that I did not is no virtue of my own. I will not say that I am six years wiser than I was, or better, but I have known at any rate that term of self-reproach. I can urge no reason why you should deal gently with me. I abuse the hospitality of this house, and learnt by my own demerits with a shame I never have forgotten, yet with some profit too I would feign hope from one, he glanced at Marion, to whom I made my humble sublication for forgiveness, when I knew her merit and my deep unworthiness. In a few days I shall quit this place forever. I entreat your pardon. Do as you would be done by, forget and forgive. Time. From whom I had the latter portion of this story, and with whom I have the pleasure of a personal acquaintance of some five and thirty years duration, informed me, leaning easily upon his scythe, that Michael Warden never went away again, and never sold his house but opened it afresh, maintained a golden means of hospitality, and had a wife the pride and honour of that countryside, whose name was Marion. But, as I have observed that time confuses facts occasionally, I hardly know what way to give to his authority. This is the end of Chapter 3 and the end of The Battle of Life. Thank you for listening.