CHAPTER III.

IDUNA'S GRove.

MR. WEST was accustomed to have to wait even on cold evenings a long time at his own door before it was opened to him, and he had learned to shut his ears, when at last he was admitted, to a good many sounds of scuffling feet and sharp voices, which told of hasty preparations to receive him. He did not care now to probe beyond the outside surface of decorum and order, which was indeed too thin to deceive eyes that did not court deception. There had been a time when he had stood up for his right to know everything that passed in his own house, and devoutly believed in his power to regulate all in his own way, and carry out his wishes to the minutest point. He had been a martinet when nothing had opposed him but the wills of people weaker than himself. Lately, circumstances and, as it had seemed to him, the whole course of nature had declared against him; and, being continually more and more worsted in his combats with these, he had withdrawn himself gradually into closer and closer entrenchments, abandoning the outworks in despair, but always struggling to keep some little kingdom where his will might be supreme, and whose minute details he might regulate. The management of his family and household had baffled him now for some time, and he was at present, with the energy of despair, holding on to the attempt to maintain his own personal surroundings precisely as they used to be in the days of his prosperity. Even this possibility was daily slipping away, in spite of the efforts of his wife and elder children to keep this last strong hold of his injured

dignity intact. They were wondering with sick hearts what hold on life he would have when the thin appearance of past gentility they were holding up before his eyes had at length melted away.

Emmie had time to restore the jewel-box to its usual place before Mary Anne had made herself fit to open the door for master, and her next movement was a hasty flight up two staircases to the threshold of "Air Throne." Thence she watched her father's entrance into the house, peeping at him over the balusters of the highest staircase of the high house. She was not at any time given to make the worst of appearances, but to-day she was struck with the dejection written on her father's face, and expressed by his whole figure, as he wearily mounted the first flight to his own bedroom; the nerveless hand clinging to the balusters, the trailing footstep, the bowed head, the grey, still face, that had perhaps been handsome and dignified once, but that seemed now petrified to an image of sullen, outraged pride, brooding on itself. Emmie sighed and shivered a little as she looked. It was just as if the fog outside had gathered itself up into a visible shape, and stalked into the house to put out all the lights, and hang a dead weight on every one's breathing. But it was her father, and she must not grudge him the privilege of bringing what atmosphere he liked into the house, during the few hours he was in it, even if it was an atmosphere of chill, gloomy reserve, in which the most modest little household joys withered, or had to hide themselves away. Her mother was unfortunately the chief sufferer, for she had to sit in the very thickest of the fog the whole evening. To the

other members of the family it made itself felt more or less distinctly, hushing fresh voices, putting clogs on springing steps, checking with a dull hand the eager beating of young, hopeful hearts. But (and Emmie's sensitive conscience reproached her a little for finding relief in this thought) there were spots even under this roof whence the dark influence was successfully shut out-pleasant nookswhen, by just opening and shutting a door, one could find oneself breathing fresh air and morally basking in sunshine. As this thought rose to comfort her, she turned and looked down a dark passage, at the end of which a faint stream of light issued from the crevices of a low door. Behind it was "Air Throne," and from thence a crisp, cheerful sound, like the rippling of a little river, reached Emmie where she stood; a pleasant sound of two gay voices in continuous chatter, broken now by a musical laugh-Christabel's laugh, that was music itself-ringing from the low-roofed attic down the dark, cold passage, and warming Emmie's heart. Well that it was such a big house, and the attics far enough removed from the groundfloor for people to dare to laugh freely there without fear of being thought hard-hearted.

Looking down the balusters towards a lower story, she could see a half-opened door, from which another wider and brighter stream of light came. Emmie could have wished that door were shut, for her father would pass it in going down stairs, and the lavish light would bring him a reminder that would not please him. That, however, was the "Land of Beulah," and Mrs. Urquhart, the kind-hearted old lady, who, with her son Dr. Urquhart, rented all the best rooms in the house, was too important a person to be dictated to as to when she should shut or open her drawing-room door. The door was left ajar because Dr. Urquhart had not yet returned from his afternoon round of visits to his patients,

and his mother was listening for his ring at the bell. Emmie knew just how she looked as she sat listening, for she had lately shared the watch once or twice; not anxious, only pleasantly expectant; and she knew too how the comely old face would broaden into smiles of perfect content, when the quick, business-like knock and ring came. followed by a springy step on the stairs that all the household knew. The drawing-room door was always close shut after that for the rest of the evening; but though it shut in long intervals of silence, there was no gloom. Emmie could not continue the scene; but if she had been clairvoyante, and had watched the occupants of the "Land of Beulah" till bed-time, she would only have seen pictures that would have confirmed her pleasant thoughts of the place. The old mother nodding over her parti-coloured knitting, when the cosy meal was over; the son with his books and papers and shaded reading-lamp at a table writing, covering his eyes to think a minute, and then rapidly dashing off a page or two with nervous fingers pressed on the pen, and knitted brow under the thick fair hair that had tumbled in disorder over it; aware, however, all the time, of every movement in the chair by the fire, and quite ready, when the signal came, to jump up, thrust his long fingers through his hair, clearing his brow of thought and frowns with the movement, and come forward to the fire for a comfortable half-hour's chat with his mother before she retired to bed.

This was the crowning cup of pleasure in the tranquil days Mrs. Urquhart shared with her now prosperous son;-days that were a sojourning in the "Land of Beulah" to her at the end of a stormy life, as she often told Emmie. It was talk that had no pain, and not much excitement in it, over the happy events of each successful day, flavoured sometimes with a mild joke or two about the young ladystudents up stairs, whom Dr. Urquhart

came across sometimes in lecturerooms; in whose company (he said) he felt puzzled as to whether he should treat them as comrades or as young ladies, and against whose possible designs on her son's heart Mrs. Urquhart, generous in everything else, watched jealously. Perhaps there would be a little sham quarrel when Mrs. Urquhart would maliciously repeat some gossip about the Moores she had learned from Emmie, and Dr. Urquhart would pretend a great deal of excitement in defending them; all to be ended by a tenderer than usual good-night kiss.

Yes there was pleasant talk from happy hearts in that room every evening, but the gay atmosphere never penetrated to the parlour just beneath, where Mr. and Mrs. West spent their evenings alone; she lying on the high-backed sofa by the wall, he seated upright on a chair beside her, their hands clasped together, not talking much, not often even looking at each other, but mutely interchanging pain, and lessening it perhaps by such silent partnership; she suffering only for him, he for himself chiefly, but also for all the others dependent upon him whom he had dragged down into what looked to him an abyss of shame and ruin. was like a shipwrecked mariner on a raft in a wide sea-the sea of his own bitter thoughts-clinging to the one comrade who had courage to embark with him on its salt, desolate waves, but separated from all other help. Yet if he could but have cleared his eyes from the mists of tears that pride would never let him weep away, he might have seen that the storms which to his thought had shattered his whole existence, had but carried off a few useless spars and a little over-crowded canvas, and that all his real treasures were still preserved to him, and were lying unheeded at his feet.

He

Emmie stood leaning her arms on the balusters, and looking down into the hall, till she had seen her father recross it and shut himself up in the

She

dining-room, and then she too ran lightly down. A thought had struck her while waiting which had changed her intention of going immediately to "Air Throne," to tell the story of the jewel-case to Katherine Moore. must find out from Harry whether there was to his knowledge any fresh cause for the additional shade of misery she had read on her father's face, or whether it was only one of those chance thickenings of the fog of gloom in his mind, which they had learnt to expect as certainly, and endure as patiently as January snow storms, or east winds in March. Harry had come home as usual a quarter of an hour after Mr. West, and had made the most of the interval before dinner, while his father was up stairs, to bring the brightness no one could help feeling in his presence, to bear upon his mother; but when Emmie found him he had retreated to the little tea-room, once a butler's pantry, where noise being fortunately shut in by double doors, the younger members of the family were accustomed to congregate in the evening. Mr. West had not been known to put his head inside the green-baize doors for years; and Mrs. West, since Dr. Urquhart had one day spoken gravely to her on the necessity of sparing herself fatigue whenever she could, had paid it few visits. It was the spot which, according to Alma, had played an important part in turning Constance Rivers into Lady Forest; but less fastidious and more imaginative persons might have seen a “Temple of Youth," or even an 66 Iduna's Grove," within the four dingily-papered walls, cumbered with faded furniture. was the one place in the house where the naturally high spirits of the young Wests had free play, and managed to bubble up above the dull crust of care which extinguished them outside the sanctuary. Old Mary Ann, whose forty years of domestic service had left more poetry in her than three London seasons had left to Constance, was capable of disentangling the genius of the place from the moth-holes and

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weather-stains of the furniture, and used of evenings to steal up from her cleaning in desolate regions below, where hungry winds moaned through empty cellars and larders. to refresh herself by standing between the double doors, and listening to the gay racket of voices within. It sent her back to her cogitations as to how to dish up two mutton cutlets to look as if they were five with renewed courage, convinced that there were still members of the West family worth cooking for, at reduced wages. Emmie closed the double doors quickly behind her, however, mindful of ears in the house that had a right to complain of hubbub; for as she had been longer absent from the juvenile party than usual, there was of course a great outcry to greet her reappearance-everybody speaking at the top of their voices and at once.

"Where have you been all the afternoon, Emmie? Have you heard about the row on the stairs when the boys came home at five o'clock?"

"Casabianca and the Gentle Lamb would play at 'tig' on the stairs, thinking everybody was out, and they quarrelled and fought on the landing, till Casabianca knocked the Gentle Lamb right into the 'Land of Beulah.' Two old ladies were drinking tea with Mrs. Urquhart, and you should have seen their faces when the Gentle Lamb came rolling through, and fell with his head among the tea cups."

The speaker of the last sentence was Mildred West, a tall energetic looking girl of fourteen, somewhat given to domineering, and nick-named Mildie by the rest of the family, in the exercise of a peculiar style of wit prevalent in Iduna's Grove, which consisted in calling everything by the least appropriate name that could be found for it. The fun of these names might not be apparent to outsiders, but they afforded great satisfaction to the young Wests, and were in fact the chief weapons by which they held the troubles of life at bay, and so to speak, kept their heads above water. A new privation or grievance always seeming to

lose its sting with these young people as soon one of their number had invented a by-word to fling at it.

Emmie shook her head at the two offenders, who were now struggling for possession of the least rickety of the school-room chairs, and said to her sister

"But what were you doing to let them fight on Mrs. Urquhart's landing, Mildie?"

"My Physics," said Mildie, loftily; "I was in the middle of a proposition; and I think with Katherine Moore, that a girl's studies are too important for her to allow them to be interrupted by the folly of boys. Women are the students of the future, Katherine says, and I mean to do credit to my family, whatever becomes of the others."

Of course this speech was a signal for a general onslaught of the boys on Mildie; but Harry, who did not seem quite in his usual spirits to-night, checked the skirmish peremptorily; and while the rest of the party were taking their seats round the tea-table, Emmie found the opportunity she wanted of drawing him aside to ask her question.

"Anything happened to-day?" she whispered.

"Bad-do you mean?"

"Oh, my dear Harry, of course I meant to papa; and does anything good ever happen to him-should I expect that?

"The poor Governor," said Harry, with a good deal more compassion in his voice than there had been in Emmie's. "He certainly is unlucky, poor old chap; he always does contrive to get himself into every mess that's going: If he could but stick to what he's told to do, and not put his unlucky oar in where it's not wanted, he might at least drudge on without being noticed, like the rest of us. But I suppose it is difficult for him to forget the time when he was one of the heads, and ordered as he liked, and to remember that he's nothing in the new house but an old supernumerary clerk, kept on sufferance. It must be hard."

“But has anything more-than usual happened to-day to annoy him, do you suppose?"

"Mr. Cummins sent for him to his private room to speak about his having taken more upon himself than he ought in a business matter that came under his eye, and, of course, muddled it. Their voices got so loud, for you know when the Governor's pride is thoroughly stung he can speak, and Cummins is an insolent brute, that a good deal was overheard in the clerks' room. I can tell you, Emmie, I sat trembling, for every minute I expected, and at last hoped, that the Governor would end the lecture he was getting by throwing up his place and mine, and vowing never to make a pen-stroke in the old hole again. I wonder how he helped it. I wonder how he ever swallowed his pride and rage, so as to get out of that room without a regular flare up; and how he bore to walk back to his place, with the other clerks staring at him. All of them young fellows like myself, except two superannuated old chaps, who began in grandpapa's time I believe, and who like old idiots as they are, tried to show they pitied him. It was an awful time for us both I can tell you, I daren't so much as look at him, to see how he was taking it, but I could feel the desk we were both writing at tremble when he leaned upon it again and took up his pen. Poor old chap!"

"If he should quarrel with Mr. Cummins some day and throw up his post and yours, what would become of us?"

"I daresay I should get employment somewhere else; but wherever he went it would be the same storythe impossibility it is with him to act as a subordinate, and his ill-luck. I am afraid he is not of much use where he is, and that though Cummins can't turn him out, for it was agreed he was to have a post in the office when the old firm was broken up; he is trying all he can to provoke him to resign."

"We should still have the house and the lodgers."

“The lease will be out the year after next."

"Poor mother," said Emmie, softly. "Poor old Governor," said Harry, passing his hand quickly over his frank boyish eyes. "Well, he fought

a good fight to-day, to hold back the words that would have made us all beggars; and if I can only keep a sharp look out over him, and stop him from running off the lines again, things may never really be as bad as we are imagining. I believe the Governor would rather blow out his brains any day than stand Cummins' bullying: but he will bear a great deal for the mother and us; and I must keep my eyes about me, without his knowing it, and nip in the bud any fresh designs of his that won't hold water."

"I thought you said that Mr. Cummins was the new youngish partner, who had taken a liking to you, and who invited you to dine with him at his club one day?"

"Yes," said Harry, "and what do you think one of the clerks overheard him saying he did it for?—because though my father was an old dolt, and I something of a cub, I had a confoundedly pretty sister."

Me? Oh,

"What did he mean? Harry!" cried Emmie, taking her hands from Harry's shoulders where she had been resting them confidingly, and covering her face, while, in a minute, a dark flood of angry crimson glowed above the white finger tips to the roots of her dark hair, and invaded the small lobes of the little ears that showed beneath its coils. "He meant me!"

Harry put his arm round her and drew her close to him, his face glowing too with a proud sense of brotherly protection and superior worldly wisdom.

"Why, Emmie, what signifies what a fool of a fellow like that says? I would not have repeated his idiotic words, if I thought you'd have cared a rush about them.”

"To be talked about like that from one person to another," said Emmie, slowly uncovering her eyes, which to