Blythe House. By R. F. H

Chapter I

The first time I saw her she was lying asleep on one of the narrow little beds in a ward of a large London hospital. The Sister who accompanied me in my round of visits explained that " the case " had been brought in late on the previous evening; and as she said this, she reached me down the card which hung at the bed's head, from which I learned that the fair young girl before me was named Ida Bernstein, and that she was sufferinofrom a broken leg:. With the unrest of pain-filled sleep, the patient's cap had slipped from her head; masses of bright golden hair spread themselves over the low pillow ; her arms were thrown upwards, and the loose bands of her sleeves left unconcealed her white, delicate wrists, traversed by their blue veins. Such indica- B tions of gentle nurture were not common in this house of the hard-working sick, and, from their being unusual in such a place, attracted my attention.

I was moving nearer, to scan the delicately featured face more narrowly, when two large violet eyes opened wide upon me. The Sister, perceiving her new patient had awakened, leaned over the bed, and, in a gentle voice, told her that Dr. Adam Blank was waiting to see her. A languid attempt to bow the head in acknow ledgment of the introduction, again pressed upon me the conviction that Ida Bernstein had found her way to the hospital by some strange mischance ; but I forbore, for many reasons, to question her upon this our first meeting, contenting myself with learn ing, that in coming into London by railway, on the previous evening, she had, in the confusion and obscurity of the station, missed her footing, slipped from the platform, and thus caused the fracture. Having fainted with the pain and the fright, she had been carried to the hospital ; and there, she said, she would wish to remain until cured, being a stranger in London, and having no friends.

In many subsequent interviews I learned all her short, sad history ; and thus it ran. Her father was an Austrian, Count Bernstein by name, who resided at Koenig-gratz, where he had a small estate. When visiting at Frankfort one summer, he became acquainted with an English family, named Maurice, who were staying in the neighbourhood. This family consisted of a widow lady, her son and daughter. The Maurices were people of some note in their own county, and were persons of considerable wealth also ; and when, after several weeks of intimacy and companionship, the young and hand some count declared his love for the pretty English heiress, the match was deemed a most auspicious one by all. Ere long, the bridegroom carried home his young bride to the ancestral towers that over looked the Adler's rapid stream ; and Lady Maurice and her son bade adieu to Frankfort, and returned to England.

Our story does not lie with these latter. Suffice it to say, that shortly after her daughter's marriage, Lady Maurice was seized with a severe illness which terminated fatally ; and her son, oppressed with the double sorrow of his mother's loss and a blighted affection, rushed into dissipation, squandered his fortune, and eventually sailed away to Australia — that refuge for the destitute. To the Count and Countess Bernstein one only child was born — a daughter— who, in memory of her father's mother, was named Ida. This is the Ida b Bernstein whom I found, in pain and friendless, lying on the lowly couch of a house of charity. The count had been so unfortunate as to attract the suspicion and ill-will of some government official ; but the name of his enemy was never allowed to transpire, nor could he guess the nature of the offence which, he soon perceived, had inflicted upon him the torturing penalty of continual espionage.

Gfo where he would, he was conscious of being watched ; and at all manner of unexpected places, two faces, with whose features he had become only too familiar, were for ever meeting his gaze. He knew well that, in his then priest-ridden country, the simple fact of his having married a Protestant was in itself sufficient to bring upon him distrust and detestation ; and knowing this, he carefully avoided every word or action that he thought could possibly be misconstrued. But all his self-watch fulness was of no avail ; for one night, after a day spent in a pleasure-excursion up the mountain with a party of young friends, his castle was visited by a body of police, before whose dreaded name locks and bolts flew open ; his private chamber was en tered, and he was requested to rise and attire himself for a journey.

The thought immediately flashed across his mind, that Spielberg — that fearful grave of the living — was his destination ! With a strong effort at calmness, he quietly pronounced the terrible word, looking intently as he spoke upon the officer in command; and, by the almost imperceptible start the latter gave as the hissing snake-like sound fell on his ear, the count felt convinced his surmise was correct. Determining not to lose his freedom without making one effort to retain it, he crossed his chamber to where an oriel window overhung a terrace below. In the flooring of the window was a concealed trap door, which the count had kept ready for use in the event of such a fearful emergency as the present occurring. He now stooped, as if to pick up some article of dress which lay on the floor, and in so doing pressed upon the spring ; the trap gave way beneath his feet, let him through, and closed up again into its place.

But his wily enemy had gained knowledge of this mode of escape ; already one of the police was stationed below, watching this very trap-door. As the fugitive fell through, the man looked up, recognised him, and shot him dead as he reached the platform. All cause for secrecy was now at an end ; so the murdered man was declared to have been a political offender, accidentally killed in endeavouring to escape from justice ; the officer called off his men, and the poor bereaved countess and her attendants were left to their misery and despair.

Chapter II

As soon as the widowed countess could obtain the necessary permission — without which no one could quit the country— she bade adieu to the inhospitable land of her adoption, and turned her sorrowful steps towards the land of her birth. The whole of her husband's property had passed from her at the moment he was pronounced a "political offender;" but she was allowed to retain her personal jewelry, and the small sums of money she chanced to have by her at the time. With these slender resources, and without a single attendant, she set forth on her long journey, her sole companion being her little daughter, Ida, now a child of some ten or twelve years old. She determined to leave her title also behind her, and henceforth to style herself simply " Madame Bernstein :" an appellation more suited to her fallen fortunes.

In those days travelling was not so easy of accomplishment as now. In England most of the main trunk lines were already in operation, but on the Continent railroads were scarce ; and even in the former country, for want of the short branch lines, many of the outlying districts benefited but little from the new mode of traffic ; so that some months had elapsed from the day of her husband's death, ere Madame Bernstein and her daughter found themselves safely settled beneath the sheltering roof of a first-class school for young ladies, in the provincial town of Deene. Deene was the scene of Madame Bernstein's youth, and the home of her girlhood. She returned to it in her sorrow and desolation, in the hope of still find ing there some of the friends whom she had known in happier days ; or that, at least, outward objects might be familiar to her gaze, and thus lure her into the restful feeling that she was " returning home."

But alas ! in the unprogressive country she had left, and the old-world castle on the Adler, she had kept but ill account of the rapid flight of time. She returned to busy England to find " change " stamped on the face of everything around her ; and in the vortex of progress even little Deene had become engulphed, and had completely altered its original character. Edwin Arnold says truly, "Change only rules unchanged in this wide world ; " and even thus did poor weary Madame Bernstein find: for the very names with which she had been so familiar had all passed away, and they and their owners were alike forgotten. After some trouble, she succeeded in coming to an arrangement with the principal of the girls' school mentioned above, by which board and lodging were secured to herself and her daughter; and to the latter an excellent education also, in considera tion of her paying a small annual sum, and giving instruction to the senior classes in German, music, singing, and drawing.

Here she pursued the even tenor of her way for some five years; when, all at once, her health gave way, she drooped and drooped, and all attempts to rally her were in vain, until at last she gently sank to rest in her beloved daughter's arms. Bereaved of her only relative, and only friend, in the true acceptation of the term, Ida felt it to be impossible for her to remain among scenes that daily and hourly recalled her bitter loss to mind ; and therefore, with the sanction of the few acquaint ances with whom she had become on sufficiently intimate terms to justify her in asking their advice, she decided to proceed to London, there to seek for a situation as governess in some private house. The proprietress of the school where she had been residing, gave her a letter of recommendation to a highly respectable family living in one of the fashionable environs of London ; and she carried with her, in addition, notes written to her in a style of friendly familiarity from the Rector of Deene and his daughters, wishing her " God speed " in her undertaking, and treating her with the utmost con sideration.

These letters, being afterwards placed in the hands of myself and my sister, mainly influenced us in our subsequent decision ; and now, having made my readers acquainted with the antecedents of my patient, Ida Bernstein, it is time that I should return to her at the hospital.

Chapter III

Week after week passed away, and an impression which had been long hovering about my mind at last formed itself into a conviction, that my patient was not making that progress towards recovery which I might reasonably expect. Drawing my own conclusions from what I had observed, I felt assured that in her case it was more the mind than the body that required my skill and care. One day, when a favourable opportunity presented itself, I spoke to her of her approaching convalescence and probable dismissal from the hospital; and I was much pained to notice the entire absence of that satisfaction which patients usually evince on such an announcement. From the purposeless look in her eyes, when I advised her to procure a week or two's change of air at the sea-side or elsewhere, before recommencing her usual avocations, I saw that she had no plans for the future, and no hope to help her on.

For many years of my own younger life I had had to struggle with adverse circumstances ; and my own difficulties, though now, thank God, happily over, had left behind them a tenderness of heart— and for that also I thank God ! — that made me peculiarly sensitive to signs of pecuniary distress in others ; and I now felt convinced that not only had Ida Bernstein " no friends," as she had so touchingly said, but that she was also without the means of procuring for herself the rest and change I had prescribed. I endeavoured to lead her to speak of her intended proceedings upon leaving the hospital ; but when I saw her so young and so desolate, yet bearing her troubles so bravely, and, though the tremulousness of her voice betrayed her emotion, resolutely keeping back all other sign of suffering, my own courage gave way; and hastily grasping her hand, I begged her to allow me to send my sister to come and talk with her.

I then hurried away to my other duties, with a feeling of relief that I had escaped from a trial of nerve that had well-nigh unmanned me ; and also, I must admit, with a hope that some plan might be suggested by which this fascinating young creature should be rescued from her present perplexities and hardships. Thinking over my promise to Miss Bernstein, as I leisurely pursued my way homewards after the labours of the day were ended, I felt keenly alive to the difficulties I should have to encounter in carry ing it out. My sister Milicent was two years older than myself, and possessed of a rather peculiar disposition. As the senior, she exacted from me the deference due to an elder sister ; while at the same time her somewhat eccentric temperament was con tinually leading her into mistakes, which, in her warm-heartedness and love of truth, she never failed to confess to me without the slightest reservation; thus virtually raising me above herself as to judgment and intellect.

One of my sister Milly's strong weaknesses was, an infatuation for always opposing everything and disliking everything when first pre sented or suggested to her. I imagine the habit had arisen out of her great attachment to old associations, old friends, and old places : her large organ of adhesiveness, as the phrenologists say. When once she had surmounted this' feeling of repugnance, she opened all her heart — and it was such a dear loving one — to the person or thing hitherto shunned; and the more warmly, I often thought, in proportion to the amount of repulsion previously displayed. With this peculiarity to combat, I was in dread lest the reaction in my sister's feelings should not arise in time to admit of her fulfilling the promise for the morrow that I had made in her behalf. That she would at first oppose my proposition of visiting Ida Bernstein at the hospital I felt perfectly certain ; and that she would afterwards repent and go there, was, I knew, as certain.

My only plan was the one I usually adopted : to lay the whole matter before her, and trust to her kindly nature to quietly work out the desired issue. My sister and I lived together and alone, in a rambling old house that had witnessed some two hundred years slip by : years that had left many a suggestive mark and weather-stain upon its veteran form. The house stood in a quaint, prim garden, that had once been demurely laid out in trim broad alleys and miniature woods, according to the taste of a certain French nobleman, the Count de Puisaye, who had resided in the house for some years ere my father became its purchaser. The count had evidently possessed a wonderful fancy for fine fruit and sweet flowers, for he had unsparingly imported trees and plants of rare growth from his own sunnier clime ; so that the produce of our garden was the admiration of our neighbours, and had often supplied the table of less fortunate friends.

To this old house Milly and I were brought when quite young children ; and in spite of many a hard struggle— almost for daily bread— I had contrived always to keep possession of this beloved home of my youth, choosing to part with actual necessaries rather than relinquish this revered spot, endeared to me by so many hallowed associations. Some poet has said, that "Fortune cannot long resist the brave," and the experience of my life verifies the assertion. True, many years had been spent in her close pur suit; but my modest aim, an humble competence for myself and my sister, had been at length blessed with success. I was now verging upon forty years old, but I had obtained a name and position that ensured me consideration and respect among my fellow men. Yet I could not help sometimes admit ting to myself, that the home I had been at such pains to preserve, was but a solemn and dull affair at the best ; and it was while under the influence of this impression, that I resolved to try and persuade my sister to invite Ida Bernstein to come and reside with us until such time as she should be capable of resuming her own adopted course in the great battle of life.

More than once the idea flashed across my mind — rather as a desire than a hope — that when Milicent had for a time enjoyed the delight of agree able companionship, she would shrink from again being left to her own solitary thoughts during the long days that I was compelled to absent myself; and that she would devise some occupation for Miss Bernstein which would enable her to remain with us always. But this I was content to leave for the future to develop ; for the present, I had, I felt, quite enough upon my hands. With, then, as I have said, rather an uncom fortable sensation upon me, such as the necessity of leaping a precipice, or plunging into a cold bath in midwinter, is calculated to produce, I alighted from my phaeton that momentous evening, and sought my sister in the accustomed summer-house in the garden.

As was usual with us on warm, sunny evenings, the tea was laid out of doors, and several dishes of luscious-looking fruit were arranged upon the snow white table-cloth. " Oh, Milly ! " I exclaimed, as I kissed her on both cheeks, in the good old-fashioned style which she always exacted, " how calm and peaceful the garden looks to-night ! and how magnificent that fruit is ! What would I not have given for one small plateful of it to-day, in that stifling London, to refresh my poor young German patient, of whom I have spoken to you so frequently." " Well, Adam," my sister replied, " there is plenty haore quite as fine as this ; I will rise early tomorrow morning, and make you up a nice little basket to take with you, if you think she might be allowed to have it." " Ah ! that's the difficulty," said I. " I'm afraid I could not take it to her myself; but I might give orders for her to have any that might be brought to her by friends."

" Then you might as well prescribe it for her, and you know they would be sure to give her the best that could be procured," said she. " No, Milly, that would not do her half the good. If some friend took it, it would have twice the relish, and double the magic power to cure. Won't you take it, Milly ? " I continued, pleadingly. " Now, Adam, what should I do at the hospital ? " she exclaimed. " Surely it's enough for one of us to spend half his life in that melancholy place, without my going and making myself miserable there, too ! Besides, you know I'm just in the midst of making my preserves, and if I were to go away for the half day it would take, the next day might be wet, and then all the fruit would be spoiled. No! I can't go; so drink your tea, and don't say any more about it." " But I'm sure you would like Miss Bernstein," I remarked; "and I am also sure a visit from you would do her a world of good.

You are so hopeful and energetic, and she so sadly needs both hope and energy, poor girl ! " " Poor girl ! Yes, I'm very sorry for her," my somewhat mollified sister mused ; "but you know, as to my going, it's quite impossible. What would become of my preserves, if I were to be away for even half a day just now ? " " Well, never mind the preserves ! " I was rash enough to say. " Never mind the preserves ! I dare say, indeed ! And what would you do for your jam puddings, I should like to know, when winter-time came ? And your black currant jelly for the poor people's sore throats ? And — and — oh ! I dare say, indeed, l never mind the preserves ! ' I can't go, Adam ; that's quite decided; so don't say anything about it, because, you must see, it's quite impossible." All this opposition did not influence me in the least, for it was just the usual routine to which I had grown thoroughly accustomed.

The only effect it had upon me was, to show me the moment had arrived when it became wisdom to keep silence ; therefore, gently caressing the little hand my sister held out to me as she wound up this domestic protest, I somewhat traitorously replied, " Very well, Milly, I am quite content to leave the matter to your better judgment." o "Ah, villain ! " she exclaimed, "you think I am sure to come round to your way of thinking, as I have so often done before ; but don't flatter yourself this time, because you must see I have reason on my side for once. You know ' charity begins at home;' which means, that to afford to be charitable, household duties must be attended to. Where would you be now, if you had not had little Milly to look after your interests, and economise the money you have been at such pains to earn ?

Answer me that, sir ! " But " that " was wrcanswerable, for it was all so true, and it was said so affectionately, too, that if any other better argument than the aforesaid " silence " had risen to my lips, I would have bitten them through rather than have suffered them to open and give it passage.

Chapter IV

The next morning, at our early breakfast-hour, Milicent tripped into the room radiant with arch smiles and dressed in the freshest of pink muslins. I immediately detected these signs of capitulation, and understood at once that the fortress was surrendered, and I was victor. The clasping hands around my arm, and the face upturned to mine, told me what was passing in her mind as distinctly as her words, which said, " Adam, you were right. I will go and see Miss Bernstein, and you shall drive me to the hospital with you this morning." " Thank you, dear Milly," I replied, as I gave her the accustomed morning embrace, forbearing to question by what means she had set aside the important "winter preserves." But she seemed to think some explanation of the change in her intentions necessary — possibly in self justification — for, as we were afterwards sitting at breakfast, she remarked, as if continuing aloud some c2 train of thought, "Yes; I got up very early this morning, and have given instructions to Jane about the preserves.

She will get the fruit all picked and stripped to-day, in readiness for me to weigh out the sugar to-morrow. You know, Adam, any one can do that ; it is only the greatest care in the weighing and boiling that is of consequence in making jam. If you have an ounce too much or too little sugar, all your preserves are ruined." "Very well, dear Milly," I replied; "but now, with your wise arrangement, we shall have two good things — a good store of jam for the winter, and a good, kind deed done to a poor suffering fellow creature. Now run and put on your bonnet, for not even for you and Miss Bernstein may the punctual and austere Doctor Adam Blank be one moment behind his time in keeping an appointment." As she left the room again, a feeling of immense relief came over me ; and with a grateful and hopeful heart, I prepared for my diurnal drive into town.

Suitably, that is, modestly and plainly, equipped for her visit, Milicent took her seat beside me, pleased with herself and' with her brother; but above all, pleased with the errand of mercy on which she was bound. As I felt well assured would be the case, she returned home full of praise of Miss Bernstein. She was the sweetest creature she had ever seen % so gentle, so lady-like, so well educated, and so lovable in every way. " Oh, Adam," she continued, when her overflowing admiration was beginning to subside into coherence, " how I should like her to come and live with us ! She could be so useful to me, and I should be so glad of a companion to whom I could really take a fancy ; for you know it is very dull work for me, all alone in this old house, with no one but Jane and a poor deformed gardener to talk to all the time that you are away."

" Ah! Milly," I replied, " that thought has crossed my mind also ; but I fancy Miss Bernstein is of too independent a spirit to live upon the bounty of others ; especially when she came to see that the house in which she had found an asylum was no land of plenty, but that the daily bread of which she partook was earned by daily toil, and eaten, though, thank God ! without stint, yet without waste." " Well, she could help me to take care of it," was Milly's reply. " Did you hint this matter to her?" I inquired. "Of course I did," she replied. "You wouldn't have had me leave half my ' say ' unsaid, would you ? " she continued, " and then have had me go trotting up to town again, and waste — no, not waste, but use up another day on what might just as well have been done in one. 'Just as well,' did I say?

Much better, I mean ; for hasn't the poor girl a pleasant thought to occupy her mind whenever she wakes in the night, and to lull her to sleep again, just as her poor dead mother's arms may have done, when she was a baby so very few years ago ! Oh, doctor, with all your cleverness, I am a more skilful leech than you ! Leave the poor dear for another day and night with such wearying companions as suspense and anxiety ! No, no ; give me woman's tact before all your manly sense ; it would weigh down the balance any day. With a few kind words I brought the tears into her eyes, and they soon melted away the icy veil of reserve she had drawn over her heart ; and then I read all its contests as clearly as if they had been printed in black and white before my bodily eyes." " And what was the result of your investigation ?"

I inquired, as soon as this torrent of poetry and eloquence ceased for a moment to flow. " The result of our interview, which is more to the purpose," she replied, "is, that if you approve of having her for a visitor, she will be very thankful when she gets her dismissal from the hospital to come and stay with us for a few weeks, until such time as she may safely undertake some situation as governess in a family of young children." " The ' dismissal ' is easily arranged," said I. " She is quite able to do without medical attention now, but she is still very far from the state of health in which she ought to be, to enable her to do justice to either herself or her pupils. Oh ! how I 'wish," I continued, returning to a favourite project of my own, "that a 'Home for Convalescents' could be connected with every hospital, to which patients might be sent who need rest and relaxation, either on recovery from disease and accidents, or as a preventive remedy in case of threatened illness.

I feel sure such an establishment would save thousands a year to the country, now spent in curing ailments that might have been prevented if taken in time." "And think of the amount of pain saved to the poor patients ! " said merciful Milicent. " Yes, indeed ; and of the amount of labour now lost to the country when the working man is struck down ; and of the expense of keeping his children from starving while he is in the hospital, and until he is again able to support them himself, which also must be paid out of the taxes, or by private subscription." " Oh, Adam ! can't it be done ? " said Milly, the hopeful and energetic. " Some day I trust it may, but it will take time. And then there should be a sea-side home, as well as a country asylum, for many diseases require the curative properties of sea-air to remove them ; while in others, the pure breezes fresh from the open fields, upturned earth, and green trees, are more beneficial."