Hannah/Chapter 6

Hannah was fond of the Moat House; in the way that we are often fond of people thrown temporarily in our way, thinking, "I should like you if I knew you," but well aware that this will never happen. Often, as in her walks she passed by the gray old walls, she could quite understand Mr. Rivers's strong clinging to the only home he ever knew the resting-place of his family for generations. She sympathized keenly in his admiration for its quaint ​nooks and corners within—its quainter aspect without; for the moat had been drained, and turned into a terraced garden, and the old draw-bridge into a bridge leading to it; so that it was the most original and interesting house possible.

Miss Thelluson would have gone there often, but for a conviction that its inhabitants did not approve of this. Wide as their circle was, and endless as were their entertainments, it was not what Hannah called a hospitable house. That is, it opened its doors wide at stated times; gave the most splendid dinners and balls; but if you went in accidentally or uninvited, you were received both by the family and servants with civil surprise. Hannah was once calling of an evening after an early dinner, when the effort to get her an egg to her tea seemed to throw the whole establishment, from the butler downward, into such dire confusion that she never owned to being "hungry" at the Moat House again.

Nor was it a place to bring a child to. Rosie, always good at home, was sure to be naughty at the Moat House; and then grandmamma and aunts always told papa of it, and papa came back and complained to Aunt Hannah; and Aunt Hannah was sometimes sorry, sometimes indignant. So the end was that she and the child never went there unless specially invited; and that paradise of most little people—"grandmamma's house" and "grandmamma's garden"—was to Rosie Rivers a perfect blank.

Nevertheless, Aunt Hannah never looked at the lovely old house without a sense of tender regret: for it was so very lovely, and might have been so dear. Perhaps it would be, one day, when Rosie, its heir's sole heiress, reigned as mistress there. A change which another ten or fifteen years were likely enough to bring about, as Sir Austin was an old man, and young Austin, the hapless eldest son, would never inherit any thing. Every body knew, though nobody said it, that the Reverend Bernard Rivers would be in reality his father's successor. Even Lady Rivers, who was a rich young widow when she be​came Sir Austin's wife, and had a comfortable jointure house in another county, openly referred to that time, and as openly regretted that her step-son did not turn his thoughts to a second marriage.

"But he will soon, of course; and you ought to take every opportunity of suggesting it to him, Miss Thelluson; for, in his position, it is really his duty, and he says one of the great advantages you are to him is that you always keep him up to his duty."

To these remarks Hannah seldom answered more than a polite smile. She made a point of never discussing Mr. Rivers's marriage; first, because if his family had no delicacy on the subject, she had; and second, because every day convinced her more and more that he was sincere when he told her he had no present intention of the kind.

Yet he was perfectly cheerful now—not exactly in his old buoyant fashion, but in a contented, equable way, that Hannah, at least, liked much better. Theirs was a cheerful house, too. "Use hospitality without grudging" was Bernard's motto; and he used it, as she once suggested to him, principally to those "who can not repay thee." So the House on the Hill—the clergyman's house—was seldom empty, but had always bed and board at the service of any who required it or enjoyed it. Still this kind of hospitality, simple as it was, kept Hannah very busy always. Not that she objected to it—nay, she rather liked it; it roused her dormant social qualities, made her talk more and look brighter and better—indeed, some people congratulated her on having grown ten years younger since she came to Easterham. She felt so herself, at any rate.

Besides the outside cheerfulness in their daily life, she and her brother-in-law, since their quarrel and its making-up, seemed to have got on together better than ever. Her mind was settled on the marriage question; she dreaded no immediate changes, and he seemed to respect her all the more for having "shown fight" on the question of Grace Dixon—alas! Mrs. Dixon no longer now—​she took off her wedding-ring, and was called plain Grace; she had no right to any other name.

"And my boy has no name either," she said once, with a pale, patient face, when, the worst of her sorrow having spent itself, she went about her duties, outwardly resigned.

"Never mind!" Hannah replied, with a choke in her throat. "He must make himself one." And then they laid the subject aside, and discussed it no more.

Neither did she and her brother-in-law open it up again, It was one of the sore inevitables, the painful awkwardnesses, best not talked about. In truth—in the position in which she and Mr. Rivers stood to one another—how could they talk about it?

The Rivers family did sometimes; they had a genius for discussing unpleasant topics. But happily the approaching marriage of Mr. Melville and Adeline annihilated this one.

"Under the circumstances nobody could speak to him about it, you know; it might hurt his feelings," said the happy bride elect. "And pray keep Grace out of his way, for he knows her well; she was brought up in his family. A very nice family, are they not?"

Hannah allowed they were. She sometimes watched the dowager Mrs. Melville among her tribe of step-daughters, whom she had brought up, and who returned her care with unwonted tenderness, thought of poor Grace, and—sighed.

Adeline's marriage was carried out without delay. It seemed a great satisfaction to every body, and a relief likewise. Young Mr. Melville, who was rather of a butterfly temperament, had fluttered about this nosegay of pretty girls for the last ten years. He had, in fact, loved through the family, beginning with the eldest, when they were playfellows, then transferring his affections to Helen, and being supposed to receive a death-blow on her engagement; which, however, he speedily recovered, to carry on a long flirtation with the handsome Bertha; finally, to ​every body's wonder, he settled down to Adeline, who was the quietest, the least pretty, and the only one out of the four who really loved him.

Bertha was vexed at first, but soon took consolation. "After all, I only cared to flirt with him, and I can do it just as well when he is my brother-in-law. Brothers are so stupid; but a brother-in-law, of one's own age, will be so. very convenient. Miss Thelluson, don't you find it so?"

Hannah scarcely answered this—one of the many odd things which she often heard said at the Moat House. However, she did not consider it her province to notice them. The Riverses were Bernard's "people," as he affectionately called them, and his loving eye saw all their faults very small, and their virtues very large. Hannah tried, for his sake, to do the same. Only, the better she knew them the more she determined on one thing—to hold firmly to her point, that she, and she alone, should have the bringing up of little Rosie.

"I dare say you will think me very conceited," she said one night to Rosie's father—the winter evenings were drawing in again, and they were sitting together talking, in that peaceful hour after "the children are asleep"—"but I do believe that I, her mother's sister, can bring up Rosie better than any body else. First, because I love her best, she being of my own blood; secondly, because not all women, not even all mothers, have the real motherly heart. Shall I tell you a story I heard to-day, and Lady Rivers instanced it as 'right discipline?' But it is only a baby story; it may weary you."

"Nothing ever wearies me that concerns Rosie—and you."

"Well, then, there is an Easterham lady—you meet her often at dinner-parties—young and pretty, and capital at talking of maternal duties. She has a little girl of six, and the little girl did wrong in some small way, and was told to say she was sorry. 'I have said it, mamma, seventy times seven—to myself.' (A queer speech; but children do say such queer things sometimes; Rosie does already.) ​'But you must say it to me,' said mamma. 'I won't,' said the child. And then the mother stood, beating and shaking her, at intervals, for nearly an hour. At last the little thing fell into convulsions of sobbing. 'Fetch me the water-jug, and I'll pour it over her.' (Which she did, wetting her through.) 'This is the way I conquer my children.' Now," said Hannah Thelluson, with flashing eyes, "if any strange woman were ever to try to conquer my child—"

"Keep yourself quiet, Hannah," said Mr. Rivers, half smiling, and gently patting her hand. "No 'strange woman' shall ever interfere between you and Rosie."

"And you will promise never to send her to school at Paris or anywhere else, as Lady Rivers proposed the other day, when she is old enough? Oh, papa" (she sometimes called him "papa," as a compromise between "Bernard," which he wished, and "Mr. Rivers"), "I think I should go frantic if any body were to take my child away from me."

"Nobody ever shall," said he, earnestly pressing her hand, which he had not yet let go. Then, after a pause, and a troubled stirring of the fire—his habit when he was perplexed—he added, "Hannah, do you ever look into the future at all?"

"Rosie's future? Yes, often."

"No; your own."

"I think—not much," Hannah replied, after slight hesitation, and trying to be as truthful as she could. "When first I came here I was doubtful how our plan would answer; but it has answered admirably. I desire no change, I am only too happy in my present life."

"Perfectly happy? Are you quite sure?"

"Quite sure."

"Then I suppose I ought to be."

Yet he sighed, and very soon after he rose with some excuse about a sermon he had to look over; went into his study, whence, contrary to his custom, he did not emerge for the rest of the evening.

​Hannah sat alone, and rather uncomfortable. Had she vexed him in any way? Was he not glad she declared herself happy, since, of necessity, his kindness helped to make her so? For months now there had never come a cloud between them. Their first quarrel was also their last. By this time they had, of course, grown perfectly used to one another's ways; their life flowed on in its even course—a pleasant river, busy as it was smooth. Upon its surface floated peacefully that happy, childish life, developing into more beauty every day. Rosie was not exactly a baby now; and often when she trotted along the broad garden walk, holding tightly papa's hand on one side and auntie's on the other, there came into Hannah's mind that lovely picture of Tennyson's:

That was the picture which she saw in a vision, and had referred to—why had it vexed the father? Did he think she "spoiled" Rosie? But love never spoils any child, and Aunt Hannah could be stern too, if necessary. She made as few laws as possible; but those she did make were irrevocable, and Rosie knew this already. She never cried for a thing twice over—and, oh, how touching was her trust, how patient her resigning!

"I don't know how far you will educate your little niece," wrote Lady Dunsmore, in the early days of Hannah's willing task; "but I am quite certain she will educate you."

So she did; and Hannah continually watched in wonder the little new-born soul, growing as fast as the body, and spreading out its wings daily in farther and fairer flights, learning, she knew not how, more things than she had taught it, or could teach.

Then Rosie comforted her aunt so—with the same sweet, dumb comfort that Hannah used to get from flowers and birds and trees. But here was a living flower, which God ​had given her to train up into beauty, blessing her with twice the blessedness she gave. In all her little household worries, Rosie's unconscious and perpetual well-spring of happiness soothed Hannah indescribably, and never more so than in some bitter days which followed that day, when Mr. Rivers seemed to have suddenly returned to his own miserable self, and to be dissatisfied with every thing and every body.

Even herself. She could not guess why; but sometimes her brother-in-law actually scolded her, or, what was worse, he scolded Rosie; quite needlessly, for the child was an exccedingly good child. And then Aunt Hannah's indignation was roused. More than once she thought of giving him a severe lecture, as she had occasionally done before, and he declared it did him good. But a certain diffidence restrained her. What right, indeed, had she to "pitch into him," as he had laughingly called it, when they were no blood relations?—if blood gives the right of fault-finding, which some people suppose. Good friends, as she and Mr. Rivers were, Hannah scrupled to claim more than the rights of friendship, which scarcely justify a lady in saying to a gentleman in his own house, "You are growing a perfect bear, and I would much rather have your room than your company."

Which was the truth. Just now, if she had not had Rosie's nursery to take refuge in, and Rosie's little bosom to fly to, burying her head there oftentimes, and drying her wet eyes upon the baby pinafore, Aunt Hannah would have had a sore time of it.

And yet she was so sorry for him—so sorry! If the old cloud were permanently to return, what should she do? What possible influence had she over him? She was neither his mother nor sister, if, indeed, either of those ties permanently affect a man who has once been married, and known the closest sympathy, the strongest influence a man can know. Many a time, when he was very disagreeable, her heart sank down like lead; she would carry Rosie sorrowfully out of papa's way, lest she should vex him, or be ​made naughty by him; conscious, as she clasped the child to her bosom, of that dangerous feeling which men sometimes rouse in women—even fathers in mothers—that their children are much pleasanter company than themselves.

Poor Bernard! poor Hannah! Perhaps the former should have been wiser, the latter more quick-sighted. But men are not always Solons; and Hannah was a rather peculiar sort of woman. She had so completely taken her own measure, and settled her voluntary destiny, that it never occurred to her she was not quite the old maid she thought herself, or that, like other mortal creatures, her lot, as well as her individuality, was liable to be modified by circumstances. When Bernard once told her she was a well-liked person, growing very popular at Easterham, she smiled, rather pleased than not; but when he hinted that an elderly rector, a rich widower, who had lately taken to visiting constantly at the House on the Hill, did not visit there on his account, but hers, Miss Thelluson at first looked innocently uncomprehending, then annoyed, as if her brother-in-law had made an unseemly jest. He never made it again. And soon afterward, either from her extreme coldness of manner, or some other cause, the rector suddenly vanished, and was no more seen.

Presently, and just at the time when she would have been most glad of visitors to cheer up her brother-in-law, their house seemed to grow strangely empty. Invitations ceased, even those at the Moat House being fewer and more formal. And in one of her rare visits there Lady Rivers had much annoyed her by dragging in—apropos of Adeline's marriage, and the great advantage it was for girls to get early settled in life—a pointed allusion to the aforesaid rector, and his persistent attentions.

"Which, of course, every body noticed, my dear. Every body notices every thing in Easterham. And allow me to say that if he does mean any thing, you may count on my best wishes. Indeed, I think, all things considered, to marry him would be the very best thing you could do."

​"Thank you; but I have not the slightest intention of doing it."

"Then do you never mean to marry at all?"

"Probably not," replied Hannah, trying hard to keep up that air of smiling politeness, which she had hitherto found as repellent as a crystal wall against impertinent intrusiveness. "But, really, these things can not possibly interest any one but myself. Not even benevolent Easterham."

"Pardon me. Benevolent Easterham is taking far too much interest in the matter, and in yourself, too, I am sorry to say," observed Lady Rivers, mysteriously. "But, of course, it is no business of mine."

And with a displeased look the old lady disappeared to other guests, giving Hannah unmistakably "the cold shoulder" for the remainder of the evening.

This did not afflict her much, for she was used to it. Of far greater consequence was it when, a little while after, she saw by Bernard's looks that his spirits had risen, and he was almost his old self again. It always pleased him when his sister-in-law was invited to the Moat House, and made herself agreeable there, as she resolutely did. The habit of accepting a man's bread and salt, and then making one's self disagreeable in the eating of it, or abusing it afterward, was a phase of fashionable morality not yet attained to by Miss Thelluson. She did not care to visit much; but when she did go out, she enjoyed herself as much as possible.

"Yes, it has been a very pleasant evening; quite lively—for the Moat House," she would have added, but checked herself. It was touching to see Bernard's innocent admiration of every thing at the Moat House. The only occasions when it vexed her was when they showed so little appreciation of him.

"Oh, why can he not always be as good as he is tonight!" thought Hannah, when, as they walked home together, which they did sometimes of fine evenings instead of ordering the carriage, he talked pleasantly and cheer​fully the whole way. They passed through the silent, shut-up village, and up the equally silent hill-road to the smooth "down" at its top. There the extreme quietness and loneliness, and the mysterious beauty of the frosty starlight, seemed to soothe him into a more earnest mood, imparting something of the feeling which bright winter nights always gave to Hannah—that sense of nearness to the invisible which levels all human griefs, and comforts all mortal pain.

"Perhaps, after all," said he, when they had been speaking on this subject, "it does not so very much matter whether one is happy or miserable during one's short life here; or one is inclined to feel so on a night like this, and talking together as you and I do now. The only thing of moment seems to be to have patience and do one's duty."

"I think it does matter," Hannah answered; but gently, so as not to frighten away the good angel which she rejoiced to see returning. "People do their duty much better when they are happy. I can not imagine a God who could accept only the sacrifices of the miserable. We must all suffer, less or more; but I never would suffer one whit more, or longer, than I could help."

"Would you not?"

"No, nor would I make others suffer. What do you think the child said to me yesterday, when I was removing her playthings at bed-time? I suppose I looked grave, for she said, 'Poor Tannie! Isn't Tannie sorry to take away Rosie's toys?' Tannie was sorry, and would gladly have given them all back again if she could. Don't you think," and Hannah lifted her soft, gray, truthful eyes to the winter sky, "that if Tannie feels thus, so surely must God?"

Mr. Rivers said nothing; but he pressed slightly the arm within his, and they walked on, taking the "sweet counsel together" which is the best privilege of real friends. It was like old days come back again, and Hannah felt so glad.

"Now you may perceive," Bernard said, after a little, ​apropos of nothing, "why the charming young ladies who come about my sisters, and whom they think I don't admire half enough, do not attract me as I suppose they ought to do. They might have done so once, before I had known sorrow; but now they seem to me so 'young,' shallow, and small. One half of me—the deepest half—they never touch; nor do my own people either. For instance, the things we have been talking of to-night I should never dream of speaking about to any body—except you."

"Thank you," replied Hannah, gratified.

Had she thought herself bound to tell the full truth, she might have confessed that there was a time when she, on her part, thought Mr. Rivers, as he thought these girls, "young, shallow, and small." She did not now. Either he had altered very much, or she had much misjudged him. Probably both was the case. He had grown older, graver, more earnest. She did not feel the least like his mother now; he was often much wiser than she, and she gladly owned this. It would have relieved her honest mind to own likewise a few other trifles on which she had been egregiously mistaken. But in some things, and especially those which concerned herself and her own feelings, Hannah was still a very shy woman.

"Not that I have a word to say against those charming girls," continued he, relapsing into his gay mood. No doubt they are very charming, the Misses Melville and the rest.

may find enough to admire in them. Only—only—you remember the last verse?" And he repeated it, with a tender intonation that rather surprised Hannah—

That is my theory of loving—is it yours?"

​"I should fancy it is most people's who have ever deeply thought about the matter."

"Another theory I have, too," he went on, apparently half in earnest, half in jest, "that the passion comes to different people, and at different times of their lives, in very contrary ways. Some 'fall' in love as I did, at first sight, with my lost darling"—he paused a full minute. "Others walk into love deliberately, with their eyes open; while a few creep into it blindfold, and know not where they are going till the bandage drops, and then—"

"And which of these do you suppose was the case of Adeline and Mr. Melville?"

"Good Heavens! I was not thinking of Adeline and Mr. Melville at all."

He spoke with such needless acerbity that Hannah actually laughed, and then begged his pardon, which seemed to offend him only the more. She did not know how to take him, his moods were so various and unaccountable. But whatever they were, or whatever he was, she felt bound to put up with him; nay, she was happier with him in any mood than when far apart from him, as when he had held himself aloof from her of late.

"You are very cross to me," said she, simply, "but I do not mind it. I know you have many things to vex you; only do please try to be as good as you can. And you might as well as not be good to me."

"Be good to you!"

"Yes; for though I may vex you sometimes, as I seem to have done lately, I do not really mean any harm."

"Harm! Poor Hannah! Why, you wouldn't harm a fly. And yet"—he stopped suddenly, took both her hands, and looked her hard in the face—"there are times when I feel as if I hated the very sight of you."

Hannah stood aghast. Such unkind, causelessly unkind words! Hate her—why? Because she reminded him of his wife? And yet, except for a certain occasional "family" look, no two sisters could be more unlike than she and ​Rosa. Even were it not so, what a silly, nay, cruel reason for disliking her! And why had not the dislike shown itself months ago, when he seemed to prize her all the more for belonging to the departed one, whom he still fondly called his "lost darling?"

Miss Thelluson could not understand it at all. She was first startled; then inexpressibly pained. The tears came and choked her. She would have run away if she could; but as she could not, she walked on, saying nothing, for she literally had not a word to say.

Mr. Rivers walked after her. "I beg your pardon. I have spoken wildly, ridiculously. You must forgive. You see I am not such a calm, even temperament as you. Oh, Hannah, do forgive me. I did not mean what I said—I did not, indeed."

"What did you mean, then?"

A question which some people, well versed in the science which Mr. Rivers had just been so eloquently discussing, may consider foolish in the extreme, showing Hannah to have been, not merely the least self-conscious, but the most purblind of her sex. She was neither. But there are natures so exceedingly single-minded and straight-forward that what seems to them not a right or fitting thing to be done they no more think of doing themselves, or of suspecting others of doing, than of performing that celebrated feat of "jumping over the moon." Besides, her idea of herself was, in many ways, as purely imaginary as her idea of her brother-in-law. The known, notable fact that "hate" is often only the agonized expression of a very opposite feeling never once suggested itself to the innocent mind of Hannah Thelluson.

They had by this time reached their own gate. Her hand was on the latch, not reluctantly. He took it off.

"Don't go in—not just this moment, when you are displeased with me. The night is so fine, and there is nobody about." (What would that matter? Hannah thought.) "Just walk a few steps further, while I say to you something which I have had on my mind to say for ​weeks past: a message—no, not a message, but a sort of commission from a friend of mine."

By his hesitation, his extreme awkwardness and uncomfortableness of manner, Hannah guessed directly what it was. "Et tu, Brute!" she could have bitterly said, remembering the annoyance to which she had been just subjected by Lady Rivers, whom she had seen afterward in close conclave with Bernard. Had he, then, been enlisted on the same side—of the obnoxious rector? Well, what matter? She had better hear all, and have done with it.

But there was delay, and for fully ten minutes; first by Bernard's silence, out of which she was determined not to help him in the least; and secondly, by their encountering a couple out walking like themselves, the village apothecary and the village milliner—known well to be lovers—who looked equally shy at being met by, and astonished at meeting, their clergyman and his sister-in-law out on the hill at that late hour. Mr. Rivers himself looked much vexed, and hastily proposed turning homeward, as if forgetting altogether what they had to say, till they once more reached the gate.

"Just one turn in the garden, Hannah—I must deliver my message, and do my duty, as Lady Rivers says I ought. I beg your pardon," he added formally; "it is trenching on delicate ground; but my friend, Mr. Morecamb, has asked me confidentially to tell him whether you have any objection to his visiting our house."

"Our house? Certainly not."

"But the house means you—visits paid to you with a certain definite end. In plain terms, he wishes to marry you."

"And has confided that intention to you, and to all Easterham! How very kind! But would it not have been kinder to put the question to me himself, instead of making it public through a third party?"

"If by the 'third party' you mean me, I assure you I was no willing party; and also that I have sedulously kept the secret forced upon me. Even to-night, when ​Lady Rivers was questioning me on the subject, I was careful not to let her suspect, in the smallest degree, that there was any foundation for the report beyond Easterham gossip at Morecamb's frequent visits. I kept my own counsel, ay, and submitted to be rated roundly for my indifference to your interests, and told that I was hindering you from making a good marriage. Is it so?"

"You ought to have known me better than to suppose I should ever make a 'good' marriage, which means, in Lady Rivers's vocabulary, a marriage of convenience. She is very kind to take my affairs so completely into her own hands. I am deeply indebted to her—and to you."

The tone was so bitter and satirical, so unlike herself, that Bernard turned to look at her in the starlight-the pale, pure face, neither young nor old, which, he sometimes said, never would be either younger or older, because no wear and tear of human passion troubled its celestial peace.

"I have offended you, I see. Can it be possible that—"

"Nothing is impossible, apparently. But I should have supposed that you yourself would have been the first to put down all remarks of this kind; aware that it was, at least, highly improbable I could have any feeling concerning Mr. Morecamb—unless it was resentment at his having made me a public talk in this way."

"He could not help it, I suppose."

"He ought to have helped it. Any man who really loves a woman will hide her under a bushel, so to speak—shelter her from the faintest breath of gossip, take any trouble, any blame even, upon himself, rather than let her be talked about. At least that is how I should feel if I were a man and loved a woman. But I don't understand you men—less and less the more I know of you. You seem to see things in a different light, and live after a different pattern from what we women do."

"That is only too true—the more the pity," said Mr. Rivers, sighing. "But as to gossip: the man might not ​be able to prevent it. There might be circumstances—What do you think Morecamb ought to have done?"

Hannah thought a moment. "He should have held his tongue till he knew his own mind fully, or guessed mine. Then he should have put the question to me direct, and I would have answered it the same, and also held my tongue. Half the love-miseries in the world arise, not from the love itself, but from people's talking about it. I say to all my young friends who fall in love, whether happily or unhappily, 'Keep it to yourself; whatever happens, hold your tongue.'"

"Oracular advice—as if from a prophetess superior to all these human weaknesses," said Bernard, bitterly. "A pity it was not given in time to poor Mr. Morecamb. What do you dislike in him—his age?"

"No; it is generally a good thing for the man to be older than the woman—even much older."

"His being a widower, then?"

"Not at all; but—" and Hannah stopped, as indignant as if she had really loved Mr. Morecamb. That her broth-in-law should be pleading the cause of a gentleman who wanted to marry her, or that any gentleman should be wanting to marry her, seemed equally extraordinary. She could have laughed at the whole matter had she not felt so strangely, absurdly angry. She stood—twirling her hands in and out of her muff, and patting with fierce little feet the frosty ground, and waited for Mr. Rivers to speak next. He did so at length, very formally.

"I have, then, to convey to my friend a simple negative, and say that you desire his visits here to cease?"

"Not if he is your friend, and you wish them to continue. What right have I to shut the door upon any of your guests? My position is most awkward, most uncomfortable. Why did not you spare me this? If you had tried, I think—I think you might."

It was a woman's involuntary outcry of pain, an appeal for protection—until she remembered she was making it to a sham protector; a man who had no legal rights to ​ward her; who was neither husband, father, nor brother; who, though she was living under his roof, could not shelter her in the smallest degree, except as an ordinary friend. He was that, anyhow, for he burst out in earnest and passionate rejoinder:

"How could I have spared you—only tell me! You talk of rights—what right had I to prevent the man's seeking you—to stand in the way of your marrying, as they tell me I do? Oh, Hannah! if you knew what misapprehension, what blame, I have subjected myself to, in all these weeks of silence! And yet now you—even you—turn round and accuse me."

"I accuse you!"

"Well, well, perhaps we are taking a too tragical view of the whole matter. You do not quite hate me?"

"No; on the contrary, it was you, who said you hated me."

And that sudden change from pathos to bathos, from the sublime to the ridiculous, which, in talk, constantly takes place between people who are very familiar with one another, came now to soothe the agitation of both.

"Let us make a paction, for it will never do to have another quarrel, or even a coolness," said Mr. Rivers, with that bright, pleasant manner of his, which always warmed Hannah through and through like sunshine; she whose life before she came to Easterham had been, if placid, a little sunless, cold, and pale. "I know, whenever you tap your foot in that way, it is a sign you are waxing wroth. Presently you will burst out, and tear me limb from limb, as—allegorically speaking—you delight to do, you being a 'big lion,' as Rosie says, and I as innocent as a lamb the whole time."

Hannah laughed, and "got down from her high horse," as he used to call it, immediately. She always did when he appealed to her in that irresistibly winning, good-humored way. It is one of the greatest of mysteries—the influence one human being has over another. Oftener than not because of extreme dissimilarity. Upon Hannah's ​grave and silent nature the very youthfulness, buoyantness, and frankness of this young man came with a charm and freshness which she never found in grave, silent, middle-aged people. Even his face, which she had once called too handsome—uninterestingly handsome—she had come to look at with a tender pride, as his mother (so she said to herself at least) might have done.

"Well, papa," she replied, "I don't know whether you are a lamb or a lion, but you are without doubt the sweetest-tempered man I ever knew. It is a blessing to live with you, as Rosa once said."

"Did she say that? poor darling! And—and do you think it? Oh, Hannah!"—and he lifted up in the starlight a suddenly grave, even solemn face—"if you knew every thing—if she were looking at us two here—would she not say—I am sure she would—"

But the sentence was never ended; for just as they stood at the hall door a scream resounded from within—an unmistakable woman's scream.

"That is Grace's voice. Oh, my baby! my baby!" cried Hannah, and darted away, Mr. Rivers following her.