Some hours after, the fog being still dense, it was discovered that the ship had passed between two large bergs. The whole of these steamers escaped foundering, owing to their being divided into water-tight compartments. A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. CHAPTER XXV.-CONTINUED. 'IF that is what you think,' she said, her voice tremulous with agitation and pain, pulling on her gloves with feverish haste, perhaps it will be better for me to go away." Mrs Cavendish turned round upon her with a start of astonishment. Through the semi-darkness of that London day, which was not much more than twilight through the white curtains, the elder woman looked round upon the girl, quivering with indignation and resentment, to whom she had supposed herself entitled to say what she pleased without fear of calling forth any response of indignation. When she saw the tremor in the little figure standing against the light, the agitated movement of the hands, she was suddenly brought back to herself. It flashed across her at once that the sudden withdrawal of Frances, whom she had welcomed so warmly as her brother's favourite child, would be a triumph for Lady Markham, already no doubt very triumphant in the unveiling of her husband's hiding-place and the recovery of the child, and in the fact that Frances resembled herself, and not the father. To let that enemy understand that she, Waring's sister, could not secure the affection of Waring's child, was something which Mrs Cavendish could not face. 'Go-where?' she said. 'You forget that you have come to spend the day with me. My lady will not expect you till the evening; and I do not suppose you can wish to expose your father's aister to her remarks.' 'My mother,' said Frances with an almost sob of emotion, 'must be more to me than my father's sister. Oh, aunt Charlotte,' she cried, 'you have been very, very hard upon me. I lived as a child lives at home till Constance came. I had never known anything else. Why should I have asked questions? I did not know I had a mother. I thought it was cruel, when I first heard; and now you say it was my fault.' 'It must have been more or less your fault. A girl has no right to be so simple. You ought to have inquired; you ought to have given him no rest; you ought'. he was busy. He used to tell me when my perspective was wrong, and laugh at me, but not to hurt.-I think you are mistaken, aunt Charlotte, about papa.' Mrs Cavendish had come a little nearer, and turned her face towards the girl, who stood thus pleading her own cause. Neither of them was quick enough in intelligence to see distinctly the difference of the two pictures which they set before each other-the sister displaying her ideal of a delicate soul wounded and shrinking from the world, finding refuge in the tenderness of his child; the daughter making her simple representation of the father she knew, a man not at all dependent on her tenderness, concerned about the material circumstances of life, about his dinner, and that his papers should not be disturbedkind, indeed, but in the easy, indifferent way of a father who is scarcely aware that his little girl is blooming into a woman. They were not clever enough to perceive this; and yet they felt the difference with a vague sense that both views, yet neither, were quite true, and that there might be more to say on either side. Frances got choked with tears as she went on, which perhaps was the thing above all others which melted her aunt's heart. Mrs Cavendish gave the girl credit for a passionate regret and longing for the father she loved; whereas Frances in reality was thinking, not so much of her father, as of the serene childish life which was over for ever, which never could come back again with all its sacred ignorances, its simple unities, the absence of all complication or perplexity. Already she was so much older, and had acquired so much confusing painful knowledge-that knowledge of good and evil, and sense of another meaning lurking behind the simplest seeming fact and utterance, which when once it has entered into the mind, is so hard to drive out again. 'Perhaps it was not your fault,' said Mrs Cavendish at last. Perhaps he had been so used to you as a child, that he did not remember you were grown up. We will say no more about it, Frances. We may be sure he had his reasons. And you say he was busy sometimes. Was he writing? What was he doing? You don't know what hopes we used to have, and the great things we thought he was going to do. He was so clever; at school and at college, there was nobody like him. We were so proud of him! He might have been Lord Chancellor. Charles always says so, and he is not partial, like me; he might have been anything, if he had but tried. But all the spirit was taken out of him when he married. Oh, many a man has been the same. Women have a great deal to answer for. I am not saying anything about your mother. You are quite right when you say that is not a subject to be discussed with you.-Come down-stairs; luncheon is ready; and after that we will go out.-We must not quarrel, Frances. We are each other's nearest relations, when all is said.' 'I will tell you,' said Frances, 'what I was brought up to do: not to trouble papa; that was all I knew from the time I was a baby. I don't know who taught me perhaps Mariuccia, perhaps, only-everything. I was not to trouble him, whatever I did. I was never to cry, nor even to laugh too loud, nor to make a noise, nor to ask questions. Mariuccia and Domenico and every one had only this thought not to disturb papa-He was always very kind,' she went on, softening, her eyes filling again. 'Sometimes he would be displeased about the dinner, or if That is the nicest thing you have said. You his papers were disturbed. I dusted them myself, can come to me, my dear, whenever you want and was very careful; but sometimes that put to talk about him, to ease your heart. You can't him out. But he was very kind. He always do that with your mother; but you will never came to the loggia in the evening, except when tire me. You may tell me about him from 'I don't want to quarrel, aunt Charlotte. no; I never quarrelled with any one. And then you remind me of papa.' morning to night, and I shall never be tired.Mariuccia and Domenico are the servants, I suppose? and they adore him? He was always adored by the servants. He never gave any trouble, never spoke crossly. Oh, how thankful I am to be able to speak of him quite freely! I was his favourite sister. He was just the same in outward manner to us both; he would not let Minnie see he had any preference; but he liked me the best, all the same.' It was very grateful to Frances that this monologue should go on; it spared her the necessity of answering many questions which would have been very difficult to her; for she was not prepared to say that the servants, though faithful, adored her father, or that he never gave any trouble. Her recollection of him was that he gave a great deal of trouble, and was very particular. But Mrs Cavendish had a happy way of giving herself the information she wanted, and evidently preferred to tell Frances a thousand things, instead of being told by her. And in other ways she was very kind, insisting that Frances should eat at lunch, that she should be wrapped up well when they went out in the victoria, that she should say whether there was any shopping she wanted to do. I know my lady will look after your finery,' she said; that will be for her own credit, and help to get you off the sooner; but I hope you have plenty of nice underclothing and wraps. She is not so sure to think of these.' Frances, to save herself from this questioning, described the numberless unnecessaries which had been already bestowed upon her, not forgetting the pearls and other ornaments, which, she remembered with a quick sensation of shame, her mother had told her not to speak of, lest her aunt's liberalities should be checked. The result, however, was quite different. Mrs Cavendish grew red as she heard of all these acquisitions, and when they returned to Portland Place, led Frances to her own room, and opened to her admiring gaze the safe, securely fixed into the wall, where her jewels were kept. There are not many that can be called family jewels,' she said; but I've no daughter of my own, and I should not like it to be said that you had got nothing from your father's side.' Thus it was a conflict of liberality, not a withholding of presents, because she was already supplied, which Frances had to fear. She was compelled to accept with burning cheeks, and eyes weighed down with shame and reluctance, ornaments which a few weeks ago would have seemed to her good enough for a queen.. Oh, what a flutter of pleasure there had been in her heart when her father gave her the little necklace of Genoese filigree, which appeared to her the most beautiful thing in the world. She slipped into her pocket the cluster of emeralds her aunt gave her, as if she had been a thief, and hid the pretty ring which was forced upon her finger, under her glove. Oh, they are much too fine for me. They are too good for any girl I do not want them, indeed, aunt to wear. Charlotte!' 'That may be,' Mrs Cavendish replied; but I want to give them to you. It shall never be said that all the good things came from her and nothing but trumpery from me.' Frances took home her spoils with a sense of humiliation which weighed her to the ground. Before this, however, she had made the acquaintance of Mr Charles Cavendish, the great Q.C., who came into the cold drawing-room two minutes before dinner in irreproachable evening costume, a well-mannered, well-looking man of middle age, or a little more, who shook hands cordially with Frances, and told her he was very glad to see her. But dinner is a little late, isn't it?' he said to his wife. The drawingroom looked less cold by lamplight; and Mrs Cavendish herself, in her soft velvet evening-gown with a good deal of lace--or perhaps it was after the awakening and excitement of her intercourse with Frances-had less the air of being like the furniture, out of use. The dinner was very luxurious and dainty. Frances, as she sat between husband and wife, observing both very closely without being aware of it, decided within herself that in this particular her aunt Charlotte again reminded her of papa. Mr Cavendish was very agreeable at dinner. He gave his wife several pieces of information indeed which Frances did not understand, but in general talked about the things that were going on, the great events of the time, the news, so much of it as was interesting, with all the ease of a man of the world. And he asked Frances a few civil and indeed kindly questions about herself. You must take care of our east winds,' he said; 'you will find them very sharp after the Riviera.' 'I am not delicate,' she said; 'I don't think they will hurt me.' No, you are not delicate,' he replied, with what Frances felt to be a look of approval; 'one has only to look at you to see that. But fine elastic health like yours is a great possession, and you must take care of it.' He added with a smile, a moment after: "We never think that when we are young; and when we are old, thinking does little good.' 'You have not much to complain of, Charles, in that respect,' said his wife, who was always rather solemn. 'Oh, nothing at all,' was his reply. And shortly after, dinner by this time being over, he gave her a significant look, to which she responded by rising from the table. It is time for us to go up-stairs, my dear,' she said to Frances. And when the ladies reached the drawingroom, it had relapsed into its morning aspect, and looked as chilly and as unused as before. 'Your uncle is one of the busiest men in London,' said Mrs Cavendish with a scarcely perceptible sigh. 'He talked of your health; but if he had not the finest health in the world, he could not do it; he never takes any rest.' 'Is he going to work now?' Frances asked with a certain awe. 'He will take a doze for half an hour; then he will have his coffee. At ten he will come up-stairs to bid me good-night; and then-! dare not say how long he will sit up after that He can do with less sleep than any other man I think.' She spoke in a tone that was full of pride, yet with a tone of pathos in it too. 'In that way, you cannot see very much of him,' Frances said. 'I am more pleased that my husband should be the first lawyer in England, than that he The girl looked round upon the dim room with a shiver, which she did her best to conceal. Was it worth the prize, she wondered? the cold dim house, the silence in it which weighed down the soul, the half-hour's talk (no more) round the table, followed by a long lonely evening. She wondered if they had been in love with each other when they were young, and perhaps moved heaven and earth for a chance hour together, and all to come to this. And there was her own father and mother, who probably had loved each other too. As she drove along to Eaton Square, warmly wrapped in the rich fur cloak which aunt Charlotte had insisted on adding to her other gifts, these examples of married life gave her a curious thrill of thought, as involuntarily she turned them over in her mind. If the case of a man were so with his wife, it would be well not to marry, she said to herself, as the inquirers did so many years ago. And then she blushed crimson, with a sensation of heat which made her throw her cloak aside, to think that she was going back to her mother, as if she had been sent out upon a raid, laden with spoils. (To be continued.) pany; and so much money has been already spent on the works, which would be lost were they abandoned, that there can be but little doubt the canal will be ultimately completed. With regard to the Nicaraguan scheme, little need be said. It was probably started on political grounds, which are not suitable for discussion here; and not long since, the United States Senate refused to ratify the treaty which it was proposed to conclude with the republic of Nicaragua with reference to the construction of the canal. The Ship-railway, which may appear the greatest and most difficult undertaking of all three, will, it is said, cost but fifteen million pounds-just half the sum originally estimated for the canal. Though the scheme is only now coming to the front, so long ago as 1881, Captain James Eads, the well-known engineer of the Mississippi navigation works, secured from the Mexican government, on favourable terms, the right to construct a ship-railway and to hold it for ninety-nine years. Should the railway ever be completed, Captain Eads, for his services to the country, will receive a grant of one million acres of land. The lifting of large ships out of the water is no novelty, and is done in the docks of most or all maritime nations. For this purpose, a number of pontoons are placed round the vessel to be lifted, and filled with water to such an extent that they sink below the level of the ship's keel. Strong beams are then placed under the vessel, their ends resting on the pontoons, after which A SHIP-RAILWAY. pumps are set to work; and as the water is PROBABLY at no period of the world's existence exhausted from the pontoons, they rise, and with has a greater feat of engineering been attempted them the great ship, until it is high and dry, than that of enabling ships to pass across the with every part from bulwarks to keel above Isthmus of Panama. Every one has heard of the water. By a system such as this, Captain the Panama Canal, which has been commenced Eads proposes to raise vessels and place them under the direction of the great French engineer, on a huge 'trolly,' running on twelve parallel M. de Lesseps; but it is not generally known rails. On these twelve lines of metal, six engines, that there exist two rival schemes: a canal each capable of drawing two thousand tons, will across the Nicaraguan portion of the Isthmus, work, and the six, or fewer, according to the and a ship-railway from the Gulf of Mexico to burden, will-so it is anticipated-slowly drag the shores of the Pacific. A few words as to huge ships from one sea to another, across the the first of these, namely, the Panama Canal, hundred and thirty-four miles of land. Perhaps will not be altogether out of place. the greatest difficulty will be in providing against any straining or breakage of the ship, owing to the weight of the cargo or ballast. vessel is in the sea, the pressure of the water supports the sides of the hull, and enables it to contain a heavy cargo; but out of water, the condition is changed, and some artificial support must be provided. As the ships are raised, therefore, they will have to be placed in cradles, and a great number of these will be required, to accommodate the varying size of vessels. Many conflicting statements have been made as to the time when we may reasonably expect it to be completed. A few months ago, at a public dinner, M. de Lesseps fixed 1888 as the date of completion; but at the present rate of progress it would take thirty-three years to connect the two seas. One of the greatest difficulties in connection with this particular scheme is the Chagres River, which frequently floods the surrounding country for miles. To meet this difficulty, a dam some hundred and fifty feet high will probably be erected, and in connection with it a large canal several miles in length. It is not difficult to comprehend the severity of the floods in that country, when we remember that the rainfall sometimes reaches six inches in twenty-four hours. The original estimate for the canal was thirty millions sterling; but as, owing to the badness of the climate, the men have refused to work except for considerably increased wages, it is highly probable that the total cost of the undertaking will reach fifty million pounds. When finished, the canal will certainly bring a large revenue to the Com When a The scheme is a bold one, but is certainly not a mechanical impossibility. As to the question whether it will be remunerative or not, that would depend to a great extent on the Panama Canal. Should the ship-railway be successfully completed many years in advance of the canal, it will during these years produce a large revenue. Even after that period, presuming that much less capital is spent on the railway than on the canal, the former would no doubt successfully compete with the latter, and the rivalry which would exist would greatly benefit ship-owners. It has been expressly agreed between America and England, that if any canal should be made across the isthmus, England should have an equal voice with America in its control. This treaty would probably not apply to the ship-railway, of which America would, it is believed, have the sole control. America being greatly interested in the matter, there is little doubt that in a few years' time this piece of engineering will be an established fact. SWEET GILLIA N. CHAPTER V.-CONCLUSION. Scarcely had the movement been effected, before the hurricane of horses and men was on them again; but the recruits had had breathing-time; now, it was no mere passive, wall-like resistance; they dashed out in spite of commands and entreaties, met the enemy half-way, discharged their muskets, and fell to with butt-end and bayonet, only pausing to open back and allow the artillery to fire. In ten minutes the finest cavalry of France-Kellermann's dragoons and Milhaud's cuirassiers-were in flight, for, in addition to the red-coated infantry in front, Somerset with his heavy cavalry had burst on their flank. The squares rushed forward with such a cheer as had not been heard that day. Nothing could hold them in, nothing could hold against them; here and there, some of the enemy's horsemen made a desperate plunge to recover shot, dragged down, bayoneted, trampled under lost ground; but it was of no avail-they were hundreds of feet. In the midst of the fury of pursuit, Lionel felt a sharp sting in the left shoulder, and at the same moment a huge French cuirassier with a smoking pistol in hand fell pierced to the brain, and crushed young Gaskell in the fall. Extricating himself with difficulty, and suffering intense pain, Lionel saw the regiment sweep cheering wildly, into the deepening dusk after past him, bugles sounding, drums beating, men the flying foe. Suddenly he heard a voice exclaim: Help! Englishmen, help!' Ar six o'clock on the evening of the famous 18th The smoke lifted, and Lionel for the first time saw something of what had been going on around him. He had seen Badajos, Salamanca, and Vittoria, but nothing to equal in horror the scene which was spread before his eyes along the undulating ridges of the plateau. The square on his right had suffered more severely than his own; indeed, the number of bodies seemed to exceed the number of survivors; but his attention was diverted from the contemplation of horrors by the appearance of the commanding officer, a grayhaired veteran like his own, whose face seemed familiar to him. He had, however, but a few seconds to look about him, for the blare of bugles again broke the lull, and the word was passed that the retreat of the enemy had been but a feint, and that the two squares were to reunite. Straining his eyes in the direction whence the shout came, Lionel saw an officer on horseback sorely beset by three French dragoons, who had doubtless ridden through the squares and were striving to return. Seizing the sabre of the dead cuirassier, Lionel shouted with all his strength : into the midst of the assailants, who, imagining 'All right, sir! Keep on a minute!' and dashed that a formidable rescue had come, put spurs to their horses and fled. Lionel was just in time; for the poor old soldier, whom he now recognised as the colonel of the next square, whose face seemed familiar to him, was exhausted, and sank into his arms. "Thanks, thanks!' murmured the colonel 'Can't see your face; what's your name? I'll remember you. Go on; leave me here; I shall be all right.' 'I am Lionel Gaskell of Hingleton,' replied the The colonel raised his eyebrows. 'Lionel Gaskell of Hingleton!' he said faintly. Why, I thought he was dead long ago!' Lionel remained beside the colonel on that awful field until evening became night, and a faint, watery moon threw a weird light upon the ghastly scene. In spite of his own pain, he contrived to bandage the colonel's arm, which ha been slashed to the bone, and at intervals to moisten his lips with the contents of his waterbottle. In an hour's time, the country carts came and carried away the wounded into Brussels. As the bell of St Gudule boomed midnight, one of these carts, into which the colonel had been lifted together with a dozen other groaning, writhing, mangled human beings, rolled through the Namur Gate into the city, Lionel walking by its side. Although midnight, there was more movement and noise than at mid-day; every house was illuminated, from the hotels-now converted into hospitals-to the poorest beershops, wherein groups of native soldiers, who had rushed away at the first onset from the field of battle, were endeavouring to explain away the news they had brought of the utter overthrow of Wellington and Blücher! The streets were crowded with eager, excited, chattering, gesticulating townsfolk, amongst whom were soldiers of every branch of the English service, wandering about in search of their regiments, from which they had been separated in the rush and excitement of the final pursuit. The cart in which was the colonel stopped at the church of the Augustines, now the post-office. Here the lamps and candles, which had been lighted for a grand thanksgiving mass, threw a soft glow upon a strange impressive scene-upon writhing forms, upon ghastly upturned faces, upon the figures of black-draped Sisters, who moved noiselessly amongst the heaps of ensanguined straw; and of surgeons busy at their dreadful work. Eleven hundred men, who had marched out at daylight full of hope and enthusiasm to the inspiring strains of military music, lay crowded here in every conceivable attitude of agony-moaning, shouting in their delirium strange battle-cries, sobbing like children, striking out as if in actual conflict-some of whom would sob and shout and strike no more. The scene at the Augustines was being enacted in every other public building of the city, for the long lines of country carts still rolled in, bringing friend and foe, Englishman and Frenchman, Prussian and Hanoverian; the boy recruit and the grizzled veteran, the humble drummer and the medalled staff officer, the gigantic Guardsman and the light voltigeur, until there was no room for more, and the dead man whose last breath had just been gasped, was hustled away to make room for the mangled living. Lionel asked the colonel, who had somewhat recovered, if he had friends in Brussels, and receiving a faint negative shake of the head in reply, placed him gently on a heap of straw just vacated by a French lancer, and directing the attention of a Sister to him, went to the surgeon's table and had the ball extracted from his own shoulder. He was returning to the colonel's side, when a gentle hand was placed on his arm, and a soft voice uttered his name. Turning round with a start, he beheld-Gillian! There was no time for more than an astonished exclamation; but the eyes of the lovers thus strangely brought together spoke more eloquently than the most burning words. 'I am at the Hôtel du Parc,' she said hurriedly. 'I have been driven from home; but we shall meet again.' Lionel could not speak. He felt that the girl had come hither for him, and for him alone; his heart was full, and tears blinded his eyes. But duty having recalled him to a sense of what was due to others, he conducted the girl to where the colonel was lying, and bidding her a whispered au revoir, hurried away to discover the whereabouts of his regiment. Early the next morning, he called at the Hôtel du Parc, and found Gillian. On the sunlit veranda they sat and talked with all the glad enthusiasm of lovers re-united after a long sickening suspense. Gillian told him how since the departure of the regiment Edward Trent had been unceasing in his persecution, and how he had persuaded the squire to force a marriage-how she had fled from home, and alone had made her way to Brussels as a Sister of Mercy. Lionel, in turn, told her about the poaching affair and the trial, and asked who the old colonel was whose life he had saved, although he of course made no allusion to the act. And when Gillian replied that he was Colonel Adamthwaite, an old friend of the dead squire's, and her own protector and champion, the young man felt that, after all his weary waiting and ill-luck, the clouds were rifting. We 'You will return home with him, Gillian, will you not?' asked Lionel. But do not allude to me. Edward Trent must be brought to justice; and if the colonel should mention my name, he would be warned, and enabled to escape. are already under orders to return home, I believe; but you will probably be there before me. One more thing, dearest. You will hear of our arrival, and on the first day after, will you be at the old place at the old time?' 'I faithfully promise.' Then they separated-Gillian to her work of mercy, Lionel to his regimental duties. Three weeks after these events, Edward Trent and the squire were together in the study at Hingleton Hall. Matters between them were evidently not of an amicable nature, for the squire was striding up and down the little room, his hands thrust deep into his pockets, as was his wont when annoyed, his usually beaming genial face dark as thunder; whilst the lawyer, with a quill-pen crushed between his fingers, was standing with his teeth set and his eyes flashing. 'Very well, Trent,' said the squire, stopping short; 'you've heard my answer. Now clear off, and do your worst; or I shall risk the consequences, and put you out. You've driven my daughter away. God knows where she is!' Just as he said these words, through the open windows came the sounds of cheering, growing more and more distinct. Edward Trent turned pale. The squire's angry look brightened into one of joy; he rushed to the door. In a few moments there was a sound of many feet on the gravel-path and the roar of deafening cheers; and a carriage, dragged by a score of stalwart rustics, appeared, in which were seated Sweet Gillian and Colonel Adamthwaite. There is no need to detail the scene which followed: how it was with the greatest difficulty that the squire could make his way through the crowd of enthusiastic villagers, all eager to shake hands with the squire's daughter and the old colonel; how the appearance of Edward Trent was greeted with a volley of hisses and groans; how, when silence was with difficulty restored, the colonel made a short, vigorous speech, thanking the folk for their reception, and informing them that it was by the merest chance that he was there to do so; how he described the gallantry of the old regiment in general, and of one hero, whom he dared not name yet, in particular. Then Sweet |
