"I am not ill," Grace answered, trying to smile, "but I do feel depressed and out of spirits; I am sorry to go away from you, you know." "Yes; but that is not all," he insisted. "No, it is not. The truth is, that I have been fretting partly about Robert's money matters: he has been imprudent and extravagant; very extravagant, I fear." "Perhaps I can help him. I must have a long talk with him when you return, and see what I can do. Is that really all, Gracie?" "No-not all. He is anxious to marry Grace Meadows, as you know, and she positively refuses even to think over what he wishes." "It is better that she should positively refuse than that she should leave room for false hopes. They are very, very unsuited to each other, and marriage without love is a dreadful thing. You would not wish such a fate for either of them, dear?" "No. But I wish that Robert would take his refusal, instead of making some plan to get her to change her mind, or-or-I don't know exactly what it is I fear, but it makes me miserable." "You are nervous, Gracie, and not quite well, I think. If Robert had any plan of that kind on hand he would not be so dull and dejected as he is now; any one can see that matters have gone wrong with him, and that he is brooding over his defeat, instead of forming new plaus and new hopes. And what plan could he possibly think of? Grace Meadows has a will of her own, has she not?" "Yes; but I fear so many things, some that I cannot put in words, even to myself." "You are nervous and low-spirited, that is about the truth. Is all your packing done?" "Yes, all." "That is well; now promise me not to sit up late, but to give yourself at least the chance of a good night's rest. You have not had good nights lately?" Grace shook her head. "I thought not, and now I know that you have been tormenting yourself with imaginary fears, and that your nervous system is unduly susceptible. Probably this visit to the Renshaws is about the best thing for you, espe cially if you go out every day, and interest yourself in your surroundings. Then when you return to London with a little stock of health and spirits, I will make certain business arrangements that I have been contemplating, which will do away with any necessity for delaying our marriage. It will be better for us to marry soon, even with a smaller income than we might otherwise have started with. The atmosphere of your present home is not good for you, Gracie." She mutely assented. It seemed to her excited fancy that a dream of love and hope lay stretched before her, like some fair and glittering scene in a panorama, that will prove to be mere delusion on a nearer approach; or like the mirage of the desert, that mocks the weary traveller with a semblance of wavy boughs and rippling water. She tried to speak cheerfully, but the words died upon her lips; Mrs. Ashton's voice was heard, calling for her up-stairs, and William Brooks hastily took leave, whispering last words of hope and courage. "There is very little use in telling her not to fret," he soliloquised, as he walked towards a cab-stand; "she is not able at present to bear up against these unreal fears and vague impressions of evil. There is generally some physical cause for so much mental depression, but in her case I really think that the inexplicable influence that cub of a brother has over her is at the root of the matter. Well, once let her come back from Deepdale, and, she shall be taken altogether away from him; we could marry and be comfortable on-let me see- -"His reflections were broken by the opportune appearance of an empty cab. That night the twin, following the good advice that she had received, retired early, and tried to forget her forebodings in sleep. But for a long time her eyes refused to close ; a suffocating dread seemed to oppress her, at last even with a sense of bodily discomfort, and it was long before the mists of coming sleep would spread their soft veil between her weary eyes and the outer world. She was on the border-land, where memory fades into a dream, when she was suddenly roused by a cry of distress, so sudden and piercing that in a moment she was wide awake, and hastily quitting her bed, she wrapped herself in a dressing-gown, uncertain whether the sound had been but the creation of her own fancy. But a door opened, and then another, showing that other inmates of the house had been roused, and soon she heard Mrs. Ashton demand, in a voice that quavered with fright, whether any one knew what was the matter. The twin's first thought was for Grace Meadows, and she hastily glided down the passage that separated her room from her cousin's. She found Grace Meadows sitting up in bed with a scared and terrified expression, her eyes wide open, and her features at first almost unrecognisable from the new and strange expression stamped upon them— the expression, Grace afterwards said, of one who has just been face to face with some great horror. "Was it you that cried out, dear?" she asked, trying to speak in a steady and reassuring tone. "Did I cry out? I don't know that I did, but I have had a terrible fright. I was asleep, and not dreaming of anything, I believe, when all at once I was awakened by a feeling of suffocation, a struggle for breath" "Yes-and then?" "Then I opened my eyes; the day was breaking, as you see, and I saw great billows of smoke rolling across the room, black, suffocating smoke, that swelled out towards me, and would not let me breathe; it wrapped round me, so that I could not even see the windows. There was a noise in my ears as of the hissing and crackling of burning wood, and all at once a tongue of fire leaped out of the smoke and blazed against my face. I could not even try to escape; my senses were failing me, but still some deadly fascination prompted me to fall forward into the smoke and flame, and that is all that I can remember." She was interrupted by a tap at the door: the twin opened it, and found Mrs. Ashton, white and shivering, on the other side. "Oh dear, what is it? What is it? Was it either of you that cried out ?" "Yes," the twin answered, "it was Grace Meadows; she had a dream, or an attack of nightmare, that is all, grandmamma." And with some difficulty she quieted the old lady, and persuaded her to return to her room. Then she went back to Grace Meadows, who was becoming more tranquil, though still under the influence of the dream or nightmare; she very carefully examined the room, but found no smell or vestige of smoke or fire. "It was a dream," she concluded. "It was not a dream," Grace Meadows persisted. "People don't dream with their eyes open, do they? Oh, Gracie, don't go away from me-stay with me till it is time to get up.' The twin readily consented, and she tried to compose and quiet the terrified girl by repeating instances that she had read of or heard related, of the impressions produced by vivid dreaming being sustained for a moment after the dreamer had awakened. But when her steady voice and reassuring words had set Grace Meadows' fluttering heart at rest, then she began to ask whether her own reasoning had convinced herself, and she found that it had not. She did not believe that it had been a dream, but, on the other hand, she could not in the least account for it, or connect it in any way with the subject of her fears and forebodings. No real smoke or fire could have been in the room without leaving some evidence behind it; she did not believe it possible for a trick to have been played to frighten Grace Meadows; and even supposing that such a thing were feasible, she did not see that any object could be gained by simply frightening her. She came to no conclusion at all, except that in her heart she did not believe in the dream theory. Her eyes were heavy and sleep-laden when she was summoned to rise, and to see about the many last things that have to be attended to just before a journey. Grace Meadows was at first depressed and silent, but soon the bustle of preparation, and the prospect of the change, now so near at hand, restored her spirits to their natural level, and she laughed and talked as if no unreal terror had looked in upon her through the grey dawn of the morning. "Now, Gracie, what are you packing up there? Sandwiches? What a provident old dear it is! As if there were not plenty of refreshment stations on the way. To be sure they give you the soup so hot that you cannot eat it, and hurry you back to your place before it begins to cool; if they do that to-day, I shall certainly take the soup with me, and eat it in the train." "Out of your boot, perhaps," the twin suggested. "No, out of their plate or basin; I shall leave it in the carriage, and they can look out for it when the train returns." In this way Grace Meadows rattled on while the twin made her quiet preparations with a strange sinking at her heart. When all was ready, and the luggage-laden cab stood at the door, Robert was nowhere to be found, and a hasty search through the house resulted in his being discovered in the dining-room, viciously gnawing at his nails. On being summoned to take his place in the cab, he first scowled at the servant, and then abruptly rose and strode towards the cab, in the front of which he seated himself without a word of farewell to Mrs. Ashton, who was lavishing tearful adieux on the two girls. "He won't trust himself to say good-bye, poor dear," she whispered to Grace Meadows; "he prefers to get it over in silence." Grace Meadows thought that she would have preferred to do so too; but at last she got away from Mrs. Ashton's wordy farewells, and proceeded to take her place in the cab-not an easy matter, for Robert had managed to take up nearly the whole of the front seat, and was using the back one as a footstool. "Can you contrive to make room for me?" she asked, good humouredly. not move. Robert slowly turned his head and surveyed her with a scowl, but did The situation was becoming embarrassing, when the twin, who had been busy up to the last moment, came to the cab, and set matters right by quietly displacing Robert's feet, and seating herself on the cushion that they had lately occupied. Then with a whispered word she induced him to make room on the front seat for Grace Meadows, who took her place beside him, well content to endure his bearishness, which seemed to assure her that he would not attempt any demonstrations of a lover-like nature. A long drive through monotonously hot and noisy streets brought them at last to the Euston-square station, where Robert swore at the porters, and thus fulfilled his mission of "seeing after the boxes." There was not an empty compartment in the train, and both the girls felt that the presence of fellow-travellers would be a relief; for Robert did not at any time possess the qualities which make a person companionable, and just now his depression showed itself in an amount of ill humour that was excessive, even for him. Their travelling companions consisted of a lady, a nurse, and a little girl, all bound for Rugby, and the child soon contrived to loosen the silent tongues of the grown-up people, Robert, of course, excepted. And as the rattling train bore them swiftly on, past yellow corn-fields and breezy downs, and parks and pastures, with their groups of plumy trees, Grace Meadows, herself a townreared lassie, constantly called the attention of the twin to some new feature in the changing landscape; the "tame" English scenery, steeped in the light and glow of the English summer, seemed to her almost too beautiful to be real, as its varied features rushed swiftly past her, and melted into the green and golden distance. The day wore on, the little station of Burrowash was not far off, and Grace Meadows, looking at her watch, was confidently predicting a punctual arrival at Derby, when all at once the carriages began to sway from side to side, and the engine to utter hoarse and broken puffs. Just as the passengers were beginning to feel some degree of alarm, the movement of the train became perceptibly slower, and at last, by slow degrees, it stopped altogether. The two girls, both at one window, anxiously inquired the cause of this interruption. "Engine broke down, mum," laconically answered the guard. In reply to the eager questionings of some nervous old ladies, the man further informed them that there was no danger, and that a messenger had been despatched to the station-master at Burrowash, who would send word to Derby that another engine was immediately wanted. But it happened from some cause or another that the engine did not arrive until between three and four hours had wearily passed away; the traffic on that portion of the line was stopped, and everything was done to ensure the safety of the prisoners, so that, as Grace Meadows plaintively observed, they had not even the excitement of danger to keep their spirits up. At last the engine arrived, and they were taken into the Derby station at half-past nine instead of six o'clock. And on that trifling accident the after-fate of more than one life depended. ABOUT MATTER-OF-FACT PEOPLE. READINGS OF CHARACTER. BY FRANCIS Jacox. HAZLITT numbers among his select samples of disagreeable people, a set of beings distinguished by what he calls a dry, husky, grating manner -a pettiness of detail-a tenaciousness of particulars, however trifling or unpleasant-a disposition to cavil-an aversion to enlarged and liberal views of things-in short, a hard, painful, unbending matter-of-factness, from which the spirit and effect are banished, and the letter only is attended to.* -Who pore On the dead letter, miss the spirit of things; Or woodent image which themselves have made.‡ There are people, says Mr. Emerson, who can never understand a trope, or any second or expanded sense given to your words, or any humour; but remain literalists, after hearing the music, and poetry, and rhetoric, and wit, of seventy or eighty years. He pronounces them past the help of surgeon or clergy.§ Leigh Hunt supposes some such incurable to interrupt him when propounding a pleasant fancy of his, with the objection: "But the fact is otherwise;" and disposes of the objector by insisting on the fact of his positive satisfaction of the fancy, which it would take more facts than are in the possession of any mere "matter-of-fact man" to disprove. "Matter of fact and spirit of fact," urges the Seer, "must both be appreciated, in order to do justice to the riches of nature. ... Matter of fact is only the more palpable world, around which a thousand spirits of fact are playing, like angels in a picture."|| Wise and witty Monsieur Joubert, dear to lovers of Pensées, declares it to be "réellement insupportable de converser avec les hommes qui n'ont, dans le cerveau, que des cases où tout est pris, et où rien d'extérieur ne peut entrer. Ayons le cœur et l'esprit hospitaliers," he genially exhorts. A congenial transatlantic essayist exhorts us not to make too much of flaws and occasional overstatements in conversation-some persons seeming to think that absolute truth, in the form of rigidly stated propositions, is all that conversation admits; which is precisely, says Dr. Holmes, as if a musician should insist on having nothing but perfect chords and simple melodies,—no diminished fifths, no flat-sevenths, no flourishes, on any account. The Autocrat of the Breakfast-table holds it fair to say, that, just as music must have all these, so conversation must have its partial Hazlitt's Essays: On Disagreeable People. The Seer, No. vii., Essay on Windows. Pensées, Essais, Maximes, &c., de M. Joubert. |