CHAPTER XXXVII. JOYCE DORMER'S STORY. DIARY. BY JEAN BONCŒUR. WAS going across the hall into the little morning-room, thinking I would leave the drawing-room for Doris and Mr. Chester, as they would have so much to talk about and to arrange before he went M away. FROM JOYCE DORMER'S heathen, I think I should have been a fire worshipper. Yes, what a companion, as it burns so cheerily in the long winter evenings, when one closes the shutters and draws the curtains and shuts out the cold dark night and the howling tempest; whilst the wind goes whistling round the house, and the storm-blast answers it, and a chorus of wild spirit-voices shriek to one another, and one listens and listens to the weird-like strife. Often and often have I half fancied that they were lost spirits wailing frantically in their mad despair, lost! lost! lost! The deep hoarse groan answering the shrill piercing cry or the plaintive, moaning sobs, whilst now and then is heard a shriek like to a burst of unearthly mocking laughter, as if the arch-fiend were triumphing amidst his fallen angels. Many and many a night have I listened, until I believed that I heard the voices speaking to one another, only my earthly ears were not sensitive enough to catch their words. "Doris is going to marry Mr. Chester," said I to myself, as my hand was on the handle of the door. I had said it over and over many times during the last few days, as if I wished to familiarise myself with the fact, though of course I had known all along how it would be, and had always looked forward to it as the ending of Amy story. Yet now that it had come to pass it somehow seemed stranger to me than I had anticipated, and it did not work quite so smoothly as I expected. Something jarred, though I could not tell what it was. It appeared to me that Doris was very unconcerned, and Mr. Chester also; they might have been engaged for years. Yet this was perhaps natural, since they must have had it in constant anticipation. And still repeating the words, I opened the door of the morningroom. There was no one there, for Aunt Lotty was sitting up-stairs with Mr. Carmichael, who was not quite so well to-day. I was glad to be alone-I could do a little quiet reading; and I took up a book and drew a chair close to the fire. I turned over the pages, but found that I could not fix my attention; my thoughts strayed far enough away, and my eyes wandered to the bright fire that was leaping and flashing in the grate, and I began to trace pictures in the embers, and the flames sparkled up and flickered and nodded at me, until it seemed as though I were holding a conversation with them. What a companion a fire is! A living, moving, restless element. If I had been a VOL. III. NEW SERIES. Thus I went on dreaming as I looked into the fire, and then leaning back I drove these thoughts away, and other thoughts came in their place, and prompted me to take inquisitorial proceedings with myself, and to examine into my inmost heart. And the first question I asked was this: "Self, art thou glad or sorry that this engagement has come to pass?" And I was going to answer "Glad," but that just then conscience gave so sharp a prick that it startled me, and for a moment I could not speak, and whilst I was thus waiting, conscience followed up its advantage and whispered: "The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth!" And I could make no reply, for, in spite of my brave assertions, I still felt the dull gnawing pain, and I knew I could not be quite glad, however much I might wish to be so, until that was gone. So I fenced the question: "I do not envy Doris's happiness; I am glad that she is happy." "But how about thyself? Is there no wish in thine heart that it might have been otherwise?" "None. Oh, what am I saying! Let me at least be truthful to myself. The world cannot hear-what matters it. Ah! well, I will confess myself no longer." And then I thought of good George Herbert's advice, and what a pity men did not No. 57 follow it. Truly, if we made a daily examination of our hearts, and kept better accounts with ourselves, there would not be so heavy a balance against us when we come to add up the final sum. Therefore I went to work honestly once more, and confessed to myself that I could not quite get rid of the pain, but that still I was glad that Doris and Mr. Chester were happy, and that whatever might be the opportunity, nothing would induce me to lift a finger to mar their happiness. But I was not quite happy myself. This was mortifying, for in my story I had been indulging in an imaginative picture of the transcendental frame of mind in which I should find myself when the consummation was achieved, and my hero and heroine were happily united. But I fell short of this beatific transcendentalism when I came face to face with the reality, and I discovered that I, Joyce Dormer, was but a poor earth-worm after all, that writhed and twisted like other earthworms when trodden upon. Then I consoled myself. So it is with all. However mighty are our aspirations,—however exalted our frame in occasional rapt moments, there is a stern reality in life and its belongings that crushes down this loftiness of spirit, and in humility alone are we permitted to rise. As I reached this point, the door opened, and Mr. Chester and Doris appeared. "I have been wondering where you were hiding," said Doris, as I bent over the book. She placed her hand upon it to take it away, and as she did so she laughed. 'So soon?" I answered in surprise, for I thought he would have stayed at Craythorpe for a few days longer. I did not think that the " very soon" would be accomplished so literally. "The sooner I depart, the sooner I can return," said Mr. Chester. "And you will be anxious to do so now on Doris's account." And Doris having vanished, I decided that this was a good time for offering the congratulations to Mr. Chester, which hitherto I had had no opportunity of doing; so I continued,— "Miss Dormer," said Mr. Chester, hesitatingly, "I should like to feel before I go away that there is no unfriendliness between us.” "There is none," I answered warmly; "I shall ever look upon you and Doris as my nearest and best-cared-for friends. If there had been any doubt, it would have been on my side; I must have seemed so strange, so unreasonable sometimes." "No you did not," he replied; "I was to blame for any annoyance you may have shown or expressed, and I regret it. Will you forget it, and remember me in a friendly spirit when I am gone "Of course I will," I answered eagerly; "doubly so now on Doris's account." "Then it is only to Doris that I am to owe your friendship ?" What "No, Mr. Chester," I said, "not only to Doris ; " and I looked steadily at him. he was going to say I never heard, for Doris's return prevented it, but he gave one of his pleasant smiles and held out his hand. "That is right," said Doris; I hope you have come to an amicable arrangement at last. Really, Gabriel, if you were to continue on quarrelling terms with Joyce, I think I should have to give up our engagement. Would it break your heart if I did ?" she added, laying her hand on his arm, and glancing up laughingly into his face. "What nonsense you talk, Doris," he answered; "is not a broken heart a delusionan impossibility--a mere figurative expression ?" "Not altogether," said I, in a low tone, for I was thinking of Doris's mother. But it did not strike Doris, she was not seriously inclined to-day, and took Mr. Chester's words in a jesting light. "Don't be afraid, I shall never break your heart, Gabriel," and she laughed; whilst I Cer wondered how she could be so light-hearted on the eve of Mr. Chester's departure. tainly he would return; and days and weeks, nay, even months and years fly quickly enough away. "You look a great deal more solemn than I do, Joyce," said Doris; "but Gabriel and I are used to partings: it's like old times to say 'good-bye' to one another; is it not?" and then I gave my hand to Mr. Chester, and wished him a pleasant journey and a speedy return. "And don't lose the talisman," said Doris; "for though it has worked slowly it has worked well, and there is no telling what wonders it may yet perform." I started, and Mr. Chester glanced curiously at me, but he betrayed no embarrassment. However, fearing any further remarks that might lead to a disclosure of what had happened to the talisman, I made my escape and waited in the porch-room until Mr. Chester should go away. Soon I heard the front door close and Doris's footstep on the stairs. "He has gone," she said, unconcernedly, as she entered the room. "And are you not sorry?" I asked, somewhat surprised at her manner. "Well, of course I am not glad," she replied, sitting down beside me; "but he will be here again so soon." "But if anything should happen to him?" "No fear of that; Gabriel is able to take care of himself. Joyce,' she continued, fixing her large dark eyes full upon me, "you will be my bridesmaid. Is that your story ?" "Yes. Aunt Lotty suggested it, so I wrote it down." "Aunt Lotty!" echoed Doris. "Yes, Aunt Lotty." "Oh," rejoined Doris, drily. "And what did Uncle Carmichael say to the arrangement ? " "He said nothing, as the subject was not mentioned before him. But he thought that Mr. Chester was not good enough for you." "You know better than that, Joyce, with all your want of appreciation of him," said she, springing up; "Gabriel is a great deal too good for me. No one can tell how good Gabriel is who does not know him as I have done." I was glad to see that she was not quite so indifferent as I was beginning to think her. "Uncle Carmichael, indeed!" she exclaimed, "as if he were capable of understanding Gabriel. Night and day, darkness and light, fire and water, are not more unlike in their natures; I did not expect him to appreciate Gabriel, he is not noble enough to do so. Now dear, simple Aunt Lotty under stands him by instinct. He is to her a hero, and she worships him accordingly." The idea of Aunt Lotty in connection with hero-worship had in it something so incongruous that I could not help smiling, neither could Doris avoid smiling in return, though she said, "Nevertheless, Joyce, I wish that you had a little more of Aunt Lotty's spirit.” It seems a hard proposition to set forth, but it appears to me that every one is more or less a hypocrite. So, at least, I felt, when by silence I in a manner assented to Doris's remark. But there are some thoughts in every heart so carefully guarded that one feels a secret satisfaction when people receive a wrong impression. And so it was with me; and I close my diary to-night wondering whether the believers in the possibility of human perfection have ever sat down quietly and made a candid examination of their own hearts, as I have done. CHAPTER XXXVIII. As he sat in the solitude of his chamber Mr. Carmichael's thoughts reverted to the past. Solitude it was, though Aunt Lotty sat there with her endless knitting, for Aunt Lotty never spoke unless spoken to, so that her presence was no hindrance to the flow of his thoughts. Indeed, her steadily moving pins were rather suggestive of a progressive train of ideas. And Mr. Carmichael, propped up with cushions, pondered over the story of years long past. Strange that those days should come before him now, when his mind was oppressed with other matters; but so it was, those early days rose up before him as it were involuntarily; indeed, so subtily did they insinuate themselves that he scarcely seemed to himself to be thinking of them, but as if some voice whispered to him a tale that he had read in a half-forgotten book ages ago. And thus it began: "Far away, quite in the north of England-" Yes, he remembered the place well, a lonesome farmhouse, with a straggling coppice on one side and a badly pruned orchard running to waste on the other. There were several fine pear trees whose fruit grew smaller and smaller every year, and damson trees that every year yielded shorter crops, and apple trees that were capricious in their bearing, sometimes surprising the owner with an unlooked-for supply of ruddy treasure and sometimes disappointing him with a meagre crop of very inferior fruit. Though disappointing is hardly the correct word to use in reference to the matter, since the owner was so utterly broken down and used to disappointment that the meagre supply appeared to him right and in the ordinary course of |