CHAPTER LI.

BROUGHT

HOME.

Like a cloistress, she will veiled walk

And water once a day, her chamber round

With eye-offending brine.

Shakespeare.

HE sisterhood to which Joan Beverley had betaken herself

was not, as Mrs. Beverley had suggested, a convent, or the same thing as a convent. That good lady's ideas were derived from her own experience in France, where she had spent much of her time before marriage, among her friends at Lyons. The sisters did not pass their time in devotion or idleness, or in making sweetmeats or embroidery. Their house was situated in the midst of a thickly-populated district in the North of London, and they were well known and generally well received in the streets and alleys, where, for a certain number of hours every day, they visited the sick and poor. Their ministrations were not limited by parochial boundaries, but extended over a considerable area, under the direction of the clergy of St. Winifred's and of other adjoining parishes. Joan had for some time past given up visiting in the district near home, partly because she was dissatisfied with herself, and out of conceit with everything about her; partly because she was depressed, and unable to exert herself, and partly because the people whom she had been in the habit of visiting would persist in asking after the good gentleman who used to accompany her, hoping he would come again soon-as well they might, for many a shilling he had left behind him in those poverty-stricken rooms to which Joan had led him. Moping at home, however, did not suit her long; she was too anxious and sorrowful to be able to give her time to reading, music, or fancy work; and the

occasional society which the Lawn afforded was not at all in harmony with her feelings. For a time the new church of St. Winifred's, with its frequent services, supplied the blank which had taken the place of her former activity. But there was too much of self in that system. Religion, as she had known it hitherto, was a matter of every-day life, entering into the ordinary and necessary concerns of the six days in which we are commanded to labour and do all our work. These continual services might be very good and useful for a few old and infirm people, who were unfit for active employments, but it was not right for her to spend her strength and time in such exercises. Faith and Hope might, indeed, be confirmed and strengthened by continual prayer; but there was not sufficient practical Charity in the system as she was then following it. There was too much for self in such a religion, and too little for her "neighbour."

Joan Beverley could not be satisfied with merely "passing the time," though it might be "passed" within the walls of a church. She had many friends among the poor, the aged, and infirm, and missed them more than she would have thought possible; for the pleasure and advantage of her visits to them had not been all on one side. "He that watereth shall be watered also himself; "ready to distribute, willing to communicate, laying up in store for themselves;—these and many other such promises had been fulfilled in Miss Beverley's experience; but she did not know how fully and richly until, having grown weary of her work, she had begun to miss its reward. Since then she had heard a great deal of this sisterhood, and had felt inclined to join it. The thought that Victor Darville would some day return to her side, with good reasons and explanations for having so long deserted her, had made her unwilling to take such a decided step as to leave her father's house, and devote herself wholly to a religious life; but when

her mother told her that he was "gone abroad," that hope was taken away; and when she urged her almost in the same breath to think of another suitor, to dress herself up for company, and to look her best, her heart, wounded in its tenderest affections and full of painful yearnings, revolted against this reiteration of a life which had been fraught with so much unhappiness, and her resolution to break away at once from the vanities of the world was quickly formed. Yielding to the passionate impulse of the moment, and without reflecting on its consequences or her duties at home, she dismissed her maid, and wrote a hurried note to her mother. This note, in her haste, was thrown under the table instead of upon it. Mrs. Beverley had lost no time, when the note was afterwards found, in going to seek her daughter; but not a word had been said at their first interview about Victor Darville. If Joan had questioned her, or had even mentioned his name, Mrs. Beverley would have told her that it was not ho who was gone abroad, but his brother. Her conscience reproached her for leaving the truth still untold; but she argued with herself that it would make no real difference. Victor, though in England, was no nearer to any of them than ho had been for months past. Joan would, no doubt, give up all thoughts of the young man after a time, believing that he had deserted her; she would have too much spirit to care for any one who had ceased to care for her. On the whole, Mrs. Beverley was not sorry that her daughter had betaken herself, for a time, to the seclusion of St. Winifred's sisterhood. She did not doubt that she would grow weary of it before long, and, in the meantime, she was out of harm's way.

Mr. Beverley did not concur in his wife's views. He could not bear to feel that his daughter was alienated from him. He would rather have given her to the husband of her choice, who was at least upright and honourable in all his dealings, and

who, as he well knew, was not the less firmly attached to Joan because he had shrunk from urging his suit in deference to the objections of her parents.

Victor, on leaving Mulberry Lawn, although he did not doubt for a moment that he should succeed in gaining an interview with Joan, and bringing her back to her parents, was conscious that there were no slight difficulties to be overcome. The interview would be a very difficult thing to manage, he thought; and he slackened his pace insensibly, conning it over in his mind.

Passing a lamp-post a boy looked up in his face, and holding out his hand muttered some words, the meaning of which was evident, though they were scarcely articulated. Victor was attracted by the boy's features, fancying he had seen them before. He stopped, and the lad turned at the same moment and shuffled away. Victor called after him, and he looked back and lingered.

"I thought so," he said. "Why, Raffage, I am sorry to see you in this plight."

"I can't help it, sir," the boy replied. "I have never had a place since you turned me away without a character."

"It was not my doing."

"No, sir. I don't say as it was. It was Mr. Beverley. I can't get a place, not a regular place, nowhere, without a character." Are you living at home, then?”

Starving at home, you might say, sir. Mother's ill abed, and there's three others besides me, without a bit of anything and no fire nor nothing."

Victor thrust his hand into his pocket and was going to give the boy some money, but remembering that he had not been always trustworthy, changed his mind and said

"It is getting late, but I'll go home with you and see for myself."

"Thank you, sir," the boy answered, heartily; and turning away at once walked on before him with a rapid step.

The appearance of Raffage's home was sufficient of itself to confirm the truth of all that he had said. It was almost denuded of furniture; the children were in a state of squalor and misery, and Mrs. Raffage was lying upon a wretched bed, covered over with a few rags, and evidently very ill. She had been laid up for three weeks, and unable to earn anything for herself or her children, and without proper care and nourishment it was not to be expected that she would ever be able to do so again. Victor sent out at once for bread and other necessaries, and stood by the poor woman's bedside, talking to her till they

came.

She was very thankful, she said, to hear the sound of his voice again. The young lady who used to visit in the court had not been there for weeks and weeks. She hoped she was not ill. "No; not ill," said Victor.

"Gone out, perhaps?"

"No; she is not very far off. She will come again soon to see you, I hope."

"I would have sent to her, but the gentleman, Mr. Beverley, was so much offended about Jim that the boy did not dare to go there. She would have come in a minute if I could have sent to her, I dare say," said the woman, "but after what had passed I had not the heart. If Jim could get to see her without going to the house he might go and tell her how bad I am."

"So he can," said Victor. "He will find her at the sisterhood-St. Winifred's. Do you know where it is, Jim?" "Yes, sir. Two of the sisters was visiting at some houses near here a day or two ago. Is Miss Beverley a sister, sir?" "A sister of those who are in distress, I hope," said Victor, "whether she adopts that style or not. She is in that house, and there probably you might see her."