Chapter 9 TELLS AN OLD, OLD STORY.

Sarah Wanless did not quite suit the housekeeper, Mrs. Weaver, as still-room maid. She was not sufficiently acquainted with the work, and got flurried when the deputy tyrant of the household scolded her, which, after the first few days, was many times a-day. So, after a month of this purgatory, she was transferred to the nursery as under-nurse to the children of Lady Harriet's daughter, Mrs. Morgan. There her position was in some respects improved, though the head nurse was a woman of vulgar instincts, and given to nagging, as women verging on forty, face to face with old maidhood, often are.

Doubtless she had had her sorrows and disappointments, and felt that the world had been unkind to her-a feeling which justifies much unloveliness here below in other folks than old maids.

However, Sally endured her lot in hope, and soon began to find a certain pleasure in her work, for she liked children. There were two boys and a girl, the girl being youngest, and at this time two years old. The drudgery was, therefore, less severe than if there had been babies in arms, and, as the children were not naturally ill disposed, though imperious as became their birth, they and the new nurse soon got on very well together. Part of every fine day was spent out of doors, and that also helped to make petty troubles bearable. It is only bitter care and sorrow that seem heavier under God's sky than within four walls. At first the upper nurse always formed one of the party, and was rather a nuisance in her persistent endeavours to check what she called "ungenteel beayvour." Her voice was a chorus ever intruding with "Master Morgan, you mustn't do this," or, "Miss Ethel, you shocking girl, don't beayve so," and the key did not conduce to harmony, but, like every other discord in the world, it deafened the ears that heard, and the young ones enjoyed themselves in spite of it.

Nor did this drawback last long, for, some three months after Sarah entered the nursery, fate, or the spirit of mischief, ordered things so that the head nurse once more fell in love. The object of her mature affection was the new farm bailiff, a gigantic Welshman some few years her junior, and the prosecution of their courtship made the presence of Sarah inconvenient. As a stroke of policy, therefore, she was often sent off with the two elder children to wander through the park and gardens, or into the woods, as the whims of the children or her own might dictate, while the "baby," as the youngster was still called, went with the other nurse in quest of Mr. Peacock. Then Sarah was in bliss. She danced along with the little ones, singing as she went, romped around the old park trees or through thickets, and often brought her charges home splashed and dirty, with their clothes all torn, but in a state of delight not to be described. And the scoldings that ensued did not somehow hurt Sarah's feelings much. Life was strong within her, and her heart was light.

All this time, in fact, Sally Wanless was developing into a lovely woman. Her slim, rather lanky figure grew rounder and increased in gracefulness. Her face, ah! how many a lordly dame would have envied her, would have thanked Heaven for a daughter with such a face! It was impossible to look on it and not be struck with its beauty. Her complexion was fair like her mother's, but her features resembled her father's. The face was a fine soft oval, the nose aquiline, the brow perhaps narrower than strong intellect demanded, but high and open, and the eyes of greyish blue were large and full of dancing mirth. A certain sensuousness lay hid in the lines of the mouth, but it betokened rather an unformed character than a bent of disposition. Under the right guidance, Sally's mouth might yet grow as firm in its lines as her father's. Poor lass, would she get that guidance?

Well, well, think not of evil now. Try rather to picture this fair peasant maiden in your mind. Behold her all innocent as she is, romping through the park with the children, dressed in her clean, neat, print gown, with her rich brown hair perhaps broken loose and tossing about her shoulders as she runs hither and thither, chased by the shouting little ones. And as you look, remember that this fair lass was but a peasant's child, born to serfdom at the best. Between her and those children there was hardly a human bond.

Think not of evil, I have said; and yet at this very time much evil was at hand for poor Sally. Just as I have set her before you, all rosy and bright with exercise, she ran full tilt one day almost into the arms of Captain Cecil Wiseman. The captain was lounging along with his gun under his arm, smoking a pipe of wonderful device, and with a couple of setters at his heels, who barked half in surprise at the sudden apparition. Sarah came rushing from behind a clump of rhododendrons, and almost fell at the Captain's feet, through the violent wrench she gave herself to avoid a collision. Cecil Wiseman opened his heavy eyes, stared in impudent wonder for a moment, and then, as if moved to involuntary respect by what he saw, doffed his hat, and mumbled something or other, Sally did not wait to hear what. Blushing all over her already flushed face, she darted off to hide her confusion, followed by the shouting children, from whom she had been fleeing.

After that meeting the captain suddenly found his nephews and niece interesting. He condescended to play with them so often, that his mother began to take heart. Her son was going to turn out a fine fellow, after all, and, poor boy, she had perhaps been too hard on him for his wild oat sowing. It was part of the education of gentlemen in his position, and, no doubt, contributed to endow them with that contempt for the feelings of the common people proper to aristocrats. So Lady Harriet was happier. Her son found means to come home oftener, and stayed longer when he did come. He even took some interest in the affairs of the estate, went to church occasionally, and asked some of the farmers' names.

Never for a moment did Cecil's mother imagine that he was merely engaged in stalking down the under nurse of his sister's children, and that the greater the difficulty he experienced in doing so, the more his passion incited him to acts of apparent self-denial. He grew an adept in hypocrisy in order to put the girl, his mother, everyone, off the scent, and it became positively astonishing to see how his habits changed, and his wits sharpened, under the stimulus of this now exciting hunt. He displayed cunning and ingenuity of device worthy of a better cause.

In early summer, for example, he spent whole mornings teaching the two elder children to ride, walking or trotting with them all round the park, and to all appearance heedless of the nurse girl, who was left alone with the youngest, when her superior chose to be elsewhere. At other times, if he met her with the children, which was often enough,-it seemed to be always by chance,-he would be busy discussing horticulture with the gardener, fishing, or going for a row on the pond, off to the warren to shoot, always occupied, and always ready to express noisy surprise at finding the "pups" there, as he called the little ones. When he went on wet days to play in the children's room, it was always in company with his sister, who, however, was usually driven off within a few minutes of her entrance, by the row that "Uncle" systematically started.

All this and much more, Captain Cecil Wiseman, the nobly born aristocrat, put himself to the trouble to do, and suffer, in order that he might work the ruin of an innocent, unsuspecting, country maiden. For long, he had no apparent success, for Sally Wanless was shielded by her very innocence, and she was also very shy, so that it was most difficult to get near her. By degrees, however, she became familiar with the Captain's face and figure, and his presence ceased to be either repulsive to her or to frighten her. Not very tall, heavy in make, and, with fluffy, sodden features, and a skin already over red from dissipation, Captain Cecil was by no means an attractive person. His voice, too, was harsh, and his eye evil. For all that, patience and cunning carried the day. Labouring incessantly to throw the girl off her guard, he succeeded, and as soon as he had done so, he knew the game to be in his own hands. It is a terrible mystery this power which evil-minded men gain over women. They fascinate them, as snakes are said to fascinate birds, till they become powerless, and fall helpless and abandoned into the jaws of destruction.

By slow degrees then the captain drew Sally into his power, and seduced her. He had stalked his game, with more than a hunter's patience, but he triumphed. Bewildered, surprised, horrified, the poor girl scarcely knew what had befallen her, felt only a vague dread and consciousness that somehow, for her, the world was all altered, that where joy and hope had been, there was now the ashes of a burnt-out fire. Ah, poor young lass, this squire's son, this noble captain of Her Majesty's Dragoon Guards, had done his best to destroy you, body and soul, and boasted of the deed. In proportion, as the task was hard, he exulted at his success. To destroy the life of a virtuous girl was almost a greater triumph to him than to be first in at the death of a fox. To win this triumph he had stooped to lies black as hell, and cared not. His end gained, his interest in his victim at once sank, and soon he hated the sight of her sad, tear-swollen face. Ah, God! that these things should be, and men have no shame for the shameless seducer, no horror of his blasting career.

But had this maiden no guilt, then? Yes, she had guilt of a kind. She was inclined to be vain of her beauty, and her betrayer fastened on that weakness. His flattery pleased her, till she grew, half unconsciously, proud that so fine a gentleman as this captain creature should notice her. This pride begat conceit and a foolish confidence in herself that made her betrayal easy. After what her parents had taught her, she ought to have known better. True pride, a jealous care for her womanhood, should have possessed her. Instead of that she grew giddy, and so was allured to her destruction, like the moth to the candle. Thus far she was guilty; but wilt thou condemn her, O censor? And if so, what of the man? Is it not strange that he, so much more guilty, should go scatheless; that to "society," as the froth at the top insolently calls itself, this base creature, this loathsome seducer, should be as good as ever? For him the lofty mothers of the aristocracy would have no censure, in him their daughters, should whispers of his deeds reach their ears, would have a livelier interest. Amongst most people he would bear repute as a "man of gallantry," a "dreadful lady-killer;" at worst, a "rake" of the dirt-heroic kind that heightened rather than otherwise his eligibility as a match for the fairest of the daughters exhibited for sale in the markets of Belgravia and Mayfair. A man that could ruin a country maiden and then fling her from him, all heedless of her broken heart, with no more thought of her than if she had been a dead dog, must, in the view of society, be a man of spirit. As for the ruined one-faugh! speak not of a thing so repulsive. Let her die in the street.

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