PART I.

MRS. CLIFFORD'S MARRIAGE.

CHAPTER I.

THE LADIES' OPINION.

"You don't mean to say she's going to be married-not Mary? I don't believe a word of it. She was too fond of her poor husband who put such trust in her. No, no, childdon't tell such nonsense to me."

Do

"O, Miss Amelia, don't be so cruel," cried the little wife. "I should die. you think I could ever endure to live without Julius? I don't understand what people's hearts are made of that can do such things; but then," added the little woman, wiping her bright eyes, "Mr. Clifford was not like So said old Miss Harwood when the dread- my husband. He was very good, I dare say, ful intelligence was first communicated to and all that-but he wasn't- Well, I her. The two old sisters, who were both don't think he was a taking man. He used charitable old souls, and liked to think the to sit such a long time after dinner. He best of everybody, were equally distressed used to- it's very wicked to be unkind to about this piece of village scandal. "I don't the dead—but he wasn't the sort of man a say anything about her poor husband-he woman could break her heart for, you was a fool to trust so much to a woman of know." her age," said Miss Amelia; "but in my "I should like to know who is," said Miss opinion Mary Clifford has sense to know Amelia. "He left her everything, without when she's well off." The very idea made making provision for one of the children. the sisters angry; a woman with five thou- He gave her the entire power, like a fool, at sand a year, with five fine children, with the her age. He did not deserve anything bethandsomest house and most perfect little es- ter; but it appears to me that Mary Clifford tablishment within twenty miles of Summer- has the sense to know when she's well off." hayes; a widow, with nobody to cross or contradict her, with her own way and will to her heart's content-young enough to be still admired and paid attention to, and old enough to indulge in those female pleasures without any harm coming of it; to think of a woman in such exceptionally blessed circumstances stooping her head under the yoke, and yielding a second time to the subjection of marriage, was more than either of the Miss Harwoods could believe.

"But I believe it's quite true-indeed, I know it's quite true," said the curate's little wife. "Mr. Spencer heard it first from the Miss Summerhayes, who did not know what to think—their own brother, you know; and yet they couldn't forget that poor dear Mr. Clifford was their cousin; and then they are neither of them married themselves, poor dears, which makes them harder upon her." “We have never been married," said Miss Amelia; "I don't see what difference that makes. It is amusing to see the airs you little creatures give yourselves on the strength of being married. I suppose you think it's all right—it's a compliment to her first husband, eh? and shows she was happy with him?—that's what the men say when they take a second wife; that's how you would do I suppose, if

"Well, well!" said old Miss Harwood, "I couldn't have believed it, but now as you go on discussing, I dare say it'll turn out true. When a thing comes so far as to be discussed, it's going to happen. I've always found it so. Well, well! love has gone out of fashion now-a-days. When I was a girl things were different. We did not talk about it half so much, nor read novels. But we had the right feelings. I dare say she will be just as affectionate to Tom Summerhayes as she was to her poor, dear husband. O, my dear, it's very sad—I think it's very sad

five fine children, and she can't be content with that. It'll turn out badly, dear, and that you'll see."

"He'll swindle her out of all her money," said Miss Amelia.

"Oh, don't say such dreadful things,' cried the curate's little wife, getting up hastily. "I am sure I hope they'll be happy - that is, as happy as they can be," she added, with a touch of candid disapproval. "I must run away to baby now; the poor dear children!-I must say I am sorry for them-to have another man brought in in their poor papa's place; but oh, I must run away, else I shall be saying cruel things too."

The two Miss Harwoods discussed this in

consciously into each other's faces when the ladies of the manor-house came to the door. These ladies were no longer young, but they were far from having reached the venerable certainty of old-maidenhood which

tage. They were still in the fidgety, unsettled state of unweddedness-women who had fallen out of their occupation, and were subject to little tempers and vapors, not from real ill-humor or sourness, but simply by reason of the vacancy and unsatisfaction of their lives. The Miss Summerhayes often enough did not know what to do with themselves, and being unphilosophical, as women naturally are, they set down this restless condition of mind, not to the account of human nature generally, and of female impatience in particular, but to their own single and unwedded condition-a matter which still seemed capable of remedy; so that the fact must be admitted, that Miss Laura and Miss Lydia were sometimes a little flighty and uncertain in their temper; sometimes a little harsh in their judgments; and, in short, in most matters betrayed a certain unsettledness and impatience in their minds, as people generally do, in every condition of existence, when they are discontented with their lot. The chances are that nothing would have pleased them better than to have plunged into an immediate discussion of all the circumstances of this strange piece of news with which Summerhayes was ringing; but the position was complicated by the fact that they were accompanied by little Louisa Clifford, who was old enough to understand all that was said, and quick enough to guess at any allusion which might be made to her mother, however skilfully veiled; so that, on the whole, the situation was as difficult a one for the four ladies, burning to speak but yet incapable of utterance, as can well be conceived.

teresting subject largely after Mrs. Spencer had gone. The Summerhayes people had been, on the whole, wonderfully merciful to Mrs. Clifford during her five years' solitary reign at Fontanel. She had been an affectionate wife-she was a good mother-she possessed the atmosphere of Woodbine Cothad worn the weeds of her widowhood seriously, and had not plunged into any indiscreet gayeties when she took them off; while, at the same time, she had emerged sufficiently from her seclusion to restore Fontanel to its old position as one of the pleasantest houses in the county. What could woman do more? Tom Summerhayes was her husband's cousin; he had been brought up to the law, and naturally understood affairs in general better than she did. Everybody knew that he was an idle fellow. After old Mr. Summerhayes died, everybody quite expected that Tom would settle down in the old manor, and live an agreeable useless life, instead of toiling himself to death in hopes of one day being lord chancellor a very unlikely chance at the best; and events came about exactly as everybody had predicted. At the same time, the entire neighborhood allowed that Tom had exerted himself quite beyond all precedent on behalf of his cousin's widow. Poor Mary Clifford had a great deal too much on her hands, he was always saying. It was a selfish sort of kindness to crush down a poor little woman under all that weight of wealth and responsibility; and so, at last, here was what had come of it. The Miss Harwoods sat and talked it all over that cold day in the drawing-room of Woodbine Cottage, which had one window looking to the village green, and another, a large, round, bright bowwindow, opening to the garden. The fire was more agreeable than the garden that day. Miss Harwood sat knitting in her easychair, while Miss Amelia occupied herself in ticketing all that miscellaneous basket of articles destined for the bazaar of ladies' work to be held in Summerhayes in February; but work advanced slowly under the influence of such an inducement to talk. The old ladies, as may be supposed, came to a sudden pause and looked confused and guilty when the door opened and the Miss Summerhayes were "All the news, I am sure," said Miss announced. Perhaps the new visitors might Lydia; "we, of course, never hear anything even have heard something of the conversation which was going on with so much animation. Certainly it came to a most abrupt conclusion, and the Miss Harwoods looked

“Oh, how far on you are," cried Miss Laura; “I have not got in half the work that has been promised to me; but you always are first with everything-first in gardening, first in working, first in

till it has happened. Provoking! Loo, shouldn't you like to go to Miss Harwood's maid, and ask her to show you the chickens? She has a perfect genius for poultry, though

has such loves of dorkings. We sha'n't be leaving for half an hour; now go, there's a dear!"

she is such a little thing; and Miss Amelia | brother; and if poor Harry could rise from his grave, what would he say! "' concluded Miss Lydia, who took up the strain without any intervals of punctuation. "I begin to think it's all true the gentlemen say about women's inconstancy; that is, your common style of women," ran on the elder, without any pause; "and poor, dear Tom, who might have married any one," cried the younger, out of breath.

"Thank you, Cousin Lydia, I'd rather look at the things for the bazaar," returned Loo, lifting a pair of acute, suspicious eyes; a pale-faced little creature, sharp-witted and vigilant, instinctively conscious why her amusement was thus carefully provided for -Loo did not choose to go.

"Such a nuisance!" said Miss Laura; "I say we are just far enough off at the manor to be out of the reach of everything except the bores and the troubles. You always think of us when you have stupid visitors, but you keep all that's exciting to yourselves. Loo, darling the Miss Harwoods' violets are always out earlier than any one else's. I have such a passion for violets! Do run out, dear, and see if you can find one for me yonder under the hedge."

“I will ask mamma to send you some tomorrow, Cousin Laura,” said the determined little Loo.

"Then I perceive," said Miss Amelia Harwood, "it's true? Well, I don't see much harm, for my part, if they have everything properly settled first. Poor Harry was all very well, I dare say, but he was a great fool not to provide for his children. Your brother said so at the time; but I did think, for my part, that Mary Clifford had the sense to know when she was well off."

"Oh, she shows that," cried Lydia Summerhayes, with a little toss of her head; "widows are so designing; they know the ways of men, and how to manage them, very differently from any of us— -if we could stoop to such a thing, which of course, we wouldn't. Oh, yes, Mary Clifford knows very well what she's about. I am sure I have told Tom he was her honorary secretary for many a day. I thought she was just making use of him to serve her own purpose; I never thought how far her wiles went. If it had been her lawyer, or the curate, or any humble person; but Tom! He might have done so much better," said Laura, chiming in at some imperceptible point, so that it was impossible to tell where one voice ended and the other be

"Did you ever hear anything like it?" said Miss Lydia, in a half-whisper. "Loo!" “Loo will carry this basket up-stairs for me to my room," said Miss Harwood, " and ask Harriet to show you the things in my cupboard, dear. All the prettiest things are there, and such a very grand cushion that I mean to make your mamma buy. Tell Harriet to show you everything; there's a darling! That is a very bright little girl, my dears," said the old lady, when Loo withdrew, reluctant but dutiful. "I hope noth-gan. ing will ever be done to crush her spirit. I 'Well, I must say I am disappointed in suppose you must have both come to tell us Mary Clifford," said Miss Harwood, "she it's not true." was always such an affectionate creature. That's why it is, I dare say. These affectionate people can't do without an object; but her five children

"Oh, you mean about my brother and Mary Clifford," cried out both sisters in a breath. "O, Miss Harwood, did you ever hear of such a thing? Did you ever know anything so dreadful? Tom, that might have married anybody!" cried Miss Lydia; "and Mary Clifford, that was so inconsolable, and pretended to have broken her heart!" cried the younger sister. They were both in a flutter of eagerness, neither permitting the other to speak.

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"Ah! yes, her five children," exclaimed the Miss Summerhayes; "only imagine dear Tom making such a marriage! Why, Charley Clifford has been at Eton ever so long; he is fifteen. And dear Tom is quite a young man, and might have married anybody," said the last of the two, taking up the chorus: “it is too dreadful to think of it-such a cutting blow to us."

"I can't see how it is so very bad for you," said Miss Amelia Harwood; "of course they will live at Fontanel, and you will still keep

the manor-housc. I think it's rather a good Such was the character of the comments thing for you for my part. Hush! there's upon Mrs. Clifford's marriage when it was the child again-clever little thing-she first talked of, in Woodbine Cottage, and knows quite well what we've been talking of. generally among all the female portion of soMy dear, I hope Harriet showed you all the ciety as it existed in Summerhayes. things-and isn't that a pretty cushion? Tell your mamma I mean to make her buy it, as she is the richest lady I know."

CHAPTER II.

WHAT THE GENTLEMEN SAID.

"Are you going, my dears?" said the THE rector of Summerhayes was the Miss elder old lady. "I am sorry you have so lit-Harwoods' brother, much younger however, tle time to stay-I hope you will find things unmarried, and rather a fine man in his way. arrange themselves comfortably, and that He had a little dinner, as it happened, the everybody will be happy. Don't get excited same evening. His table only held six, Mr. --it's astonishing how everything settles down. Harwood said. The rectory was an old-fashYou want to speak to me, Loo," said Miss ioned house, and the dining-room would have Harwood, starting a little when she had just quite admitted a table which could dine twenty reseated herself in her easy-chair after dis--but such were not the rector's inclinations. missing her visitors. "Certainly, dear; I suppose you have set your little heart on one of the pretty pincushions up-stairs."

"No, indeed, nothing of the sort-I hope I know better than to care for such trumpery," said Loo, with an angry glow on her little pale face. "I stopped behind to say, that whatever mamma pleases to do, we mean to stand by her," cried poor Mary Clifford's only champion. "I'm not sure whether I shall like it or not for myself-but we have made up our minds to stand by mamma, and so we will, as long as we live; and she shall do what she likes!" cried the little heroine. Two big tears were in those brown eyes, which looked twice as bright and as big through those great dewdrops which Loo would not for the world have allowed to fall. She opened her eyelids wider and wider to re-absorb the untimely tears, and looked full, with childish defiance, in Miss Harwood's face.

There are enough men in the neighborhood of Summerhayes to make it very possible to vary your parties pleasantly when you have a table that only holds six, whereas with a large number you can only have the same people over and over again; and Mr. Harwood did not like to be bored. He had a friend with him from town, as he always had on such occasions. He had his curate, and young Chesterfield from Dalton, and Major Aldborough, and Dr. Gossett; rather a village party-as he explained to Mr. Temple, the stranger-but not bad company. The dinner was a very good one, like all the reotor's little dinners, and was consumed with that judicious reticence in the way of talk, and wise suspension of wit, which is only practicable in a party composed of men. By means of this sensible quietness, the dinner was done full justice to, and the company expanded into full force over their wine. Then “Loo, you are a dear!" said prompt Miss the conversation became animated. The reoAmelia, kissing the child; you shall have tor, it is true, indulged in ten minutes' parthe prettiest pincushion in all my basket." ish talk with the doctor, while Mr. Temple The little girl vanished suddenly after this and Major Aldborough opened the first parspeech, half in indignation at the promise, allel of a political duel, and young Chesterhalf because the tears would not be disposed field discoursed on the last Meet to poor Mr. of otherwise, and it was necessary to rush Spencer, who, reduced into curatehood and outside to conceal their dropping. "Ah! economy, still felt his mouth water over such Amelia," said kind old Miss Harwood, "I'm forbidden pleasures. Then Mr. Harwood sorry for poor Mary in my heart-but I'd himself introduced the subject which at that rather have that child's love than Tom Sum-time reigned paramount over all other submerhayes."

"Poor Mary! for my part, I have no patience with her," said the practical Miss Amelia; "a woman come to her time of life ought to have the sense to know when she's well off."

jects at Summerhayes.

"So Tom Summerhayes is going to marry little Mrs. Clifford," said the rector; "hadn't you heard of it? Yes, these grapes are from Fontanel. She has a capital gardener, and her conservatories are the finest in the coun

what Mrs. Clifford wanted with that new set of stables. She said they were preparing against Charley's growing up. I thought somehow Summerhayes must have a hand in it, and it's plain enough now.”

ty. A very pleasant little house altogether, what he's doing. Last time I was at Fontathough there are some particulars about her nel, I couldn't make out for the life of me table which one feels to be feeble. Her dinners are always a little defective since poor Clifford's death-too mild, you know-too sweet-want the severer taste of a man. "Mrs. Clifford- -a pretty little woman with brown eyes?" said Mr. Temple. "I've met her somewhere. So she gives dinners, does she? When I saw her she was in the recluse line. I suppose that didn't last.”

"It lasted quite long enough," said Dr. Gossett; "nothing could be more proper, or more lady-like, or more satisfactory in every way. If I had a wife and were unluckily to die, I should wish her just to wear her weeds and so forth like Mrs. Clifford—a charming woman; what should we do without her in the parish? but as for Tom Summerhayes"

"Well, he has done a great deal for her," said the rector; "he's been a sort of unpaid steward at Fontanel. I dare say she didn't know how to reward him otherwise. I believe that's the handiest way of making it up to a man in a lady's fancy. It's a dangerous kind of business to go on long; but I don't know that there's anything to find fault with. She's pretty and he's not young ;—well, not exactly a young fellow, I mean," said the rector, with a half apology. "I dare say they'll do very well together. If poor Clifford had only made a sensible will-but for that nobody would have had any right to talk."

"He's an ass," growled the major. "What's he got to do burdening himself with other people's children. Why, there's "And what was poor Clifford's will?" five of 'em, sir! They'll hate him like poi- asked the stranger, with a polite yawn; son-they'll think he's in no end of conspir-" men don't generally study their wife's conacies to shut them out of their fortune. By Jove! if he knew as much about other people's children as I do. I've had two families consigned to me from India-as if I were a reformatory, or a schoolmaster, by Jove! She's all very well, as women go; but I wouldn't marry that family,-no, not for twenty-five thousand a-year.”

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"I confess I think it's a pity," said Mr. Spencer, playing with the Fontanel grapes. The curate perhaps was thinking in his heart that such delicate little souvenirs might have gone quite as appropriately to his own little ménage as to the rector's, who lacked for nothing. "It's like going into life at second-hand, you know. I shouldn't like it, for my part. The children are a drawback, to be sure; but that's not the greatest, to my mind; they are nice enough children."

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venience in a second marriage, in that document; has the defunct been harder upon this lively lady than most husbands, or what's wrong about his will?”

"Deuced fool, sir," cried the major; "left her every farthing he had in the world, without settling a penny on those deuced children, or binding her up anyhow; left her at thirty or so, I suppose, with every penny he had in her hands. Never heard of such an ass. course that's what Summerhayes means, but I can tell him it wont be a bed of roses. They'll hate him like poison, these brats will

Of

they'll make parties against him—they'll serve him so that he'll be sick of his life. I know the whole business. He's well enough off now, with his old father's savings, and the manor-house, and nothing to do; but he'll be a wretched man, mark my words, if he marries Fontanel with five children in it. It's the maddest thing he ever did in his life.”

"The poor lady doesn't seem to count for much," said Mr. Temple. "She's a pretty nobody, I suppose."

Well, it aint much in my line to say what Upon which vehement disclaimers rose from a fellow ought or oughtn't to do," said young all the convives. "No, she was a charming Chesterfield. "I'm not a marrying man my-woman," Gossett said. "A dear, kindself. I don't pretend to understand that sort hearted, good little soul," said the rector. of thing you know. But Summerhayes aint a "Very well, as women go," the major adspoon, as everybody will allow. He knows mitted; while the two young men added