FALL THE YEAR ROUND CONDUCTED BY CHARLES DICKENS No.973 NEWSERIES. SATURDAY, JULY 23, 1887. GRETCHEN. By the Author of "Dame Durden," "My Lord Conceit," Darby and Joan,” “ Corinna,” etc. BOOK VI. CHAPTER I. A CLERICAL DIFFERENCE OF OPINION. ADRIAN LYLE could find no clue to Gretchen's hiding-place, nor any trace of where she had gone on leaving the cottage. She had not been seen in the village, nor at the little station; neither did any one appear to have met her on the roads about. The growing fear in his mind gradually usurped all other thoughts, and he at last applied to the local police; they, in turn, applied to the higher authorities of the neighbouring town, with the result that Gretchen's description was telegraphed from place to place, and notable police officials made themselves extremely busy over researches that always ended in nothing. Adrian Lyle had spent two days in these endeavours. The third would be a Sunday, and he knew that he must be at his post. He took the last train back to Medehurst, which he reached about five o'clock in the morning, pale, unwashed, unshaven, with dull, blank eyes, and haggard face-the face of a man stricken by a great calamity. Wearied out by the long strain, he threw himself on his bed, and slept from pure exhaustion. It was ten o'clock when he awoke, and the sun was streaming into his room, and bringing with its mocking light the hard, inevitable memory of the sorrow which he had undergone; of anxiety and PRICE TWOPENCE, suspense to be taken up; of duties to be fulfilled, and that right speedily; for in one hour he must be in his place in church. The services of cold water and hot tea in some degree braced his physical energies, and gave him strength and courage for what he felt would be an ordeal in more ways than one. The bells were sounding as he took his way through the churchyard and entered the vestry, but they seemed to be ringing in a dull, far-off way; and with sheer mechanical instinct he adjusted his surplice. While he was thus engaged, the Rector entered. His brow was clouded; dissatisfaction and annoyance manifested themselves in every line of his august visage. He deigned not to notice his curate's outstretched hand, but only honoured him with a cold, curt nod. "Mr. Lyle," he said, "I really must express displeasure-very great displeasure at your late eccentric conduct. I cannot allow these constant and mysterious absences; and I've heard-I've-" "Yes?" said Adrian Lyle quietly, as he paused. "I have heard," resumed the Rector, in his usual pompous fashion, "that these absences are ahem-not unconnected with a lady. Is that true?" "Quite true," answered the young man, looking steadily back at his inquisitor. "Quite true?" echoed Mr. Bray in astonishment. "But this must be explained. I cannot allow the suspicion of any scandal to attach itself to my church, or to anyone connected with it." "I was not aware," said Adrian Lyle, "that there was any question of scandal. Pray what have I done?" "Can you assure me that this-this person is what she represents herself? Is she really married? My informant says -not." "I do not see why I should insist apon seeing a marriage certificate before visiting a lady who is in great mental affliction, and is utterly friendless and alone," answered Adrian Lyle, with darkening brow. In his heart he thought: "So my enemy has been here also." A moment later he was following his superior in office, and the two white-robed figures took their accustomed places, as though no angry thought or word had ever disturbed their composure. It was, strange to say, not until he advanced to read the first lesson that the memory of Alexis Kenyon flashed swiftly to the mind of Adrian Lyle. As it did so, he involuntarily raised his eyes and looked straight at the Abbey pew. "Tut, tut," said Mr. Bray, "you are you are merely shirking the question. Of course, I know that you are comparatively a young She was there. As the beautiful face man, but I thought you too upright and looked back to his own, a sudden flush honourable to dally with-ah-tempta- rose to his pale cheek as the sight of tion. Your constant absences, your it brought back their last meeting and changed looks, your indifference to your all that had occurred since. The flush, duties, all seem to me most reprehensible." the sudden tremor in the deep rich voice, "My absences," said Adrian Lyle, "I have explained; duty and friendship exacted them. My looks are surely my own affair, and you cannot ask me to account to you for them. As for my duties, I scarcely think that you can say I have neglected anything but a little extra work which was voluntarily undertaken, and which I am not bound to perform unless I see fit." "We are told," said Mr. Bray, "to abstain from even appearance of evil. Now you must promise me to give up these visits, and then we will say no more about it. There can be no great sacrifice in doing 80, and I beg your pardon," said Adrian Lyle coldly. "With all due deference to you, I must say that I own no obedience on such a purely personal matter. Neither is this the time or place to enter upon such a discussion." "As to that," interposed the Rector angrily, "it is my affair. You appear to forget that you are accountable to memost certainly accountable in a matter that -that "Has thrown a little extra duty in your way?" inquired Adrian Lyle. "Sir, your levity is unbecoming-most unbecoming. I have been most grossly deceived in you." "I am sorry," said Adrian Lyle, growing very pale, "you have said that. But, if my conduct is not satisfactory, you have your redress." "And I shall take it," said Mr. Bray wrathfully. "I shall report you to the Bishop. You are not in favour with him, and were not lost on Alexis. Her heart gave a swift throb. She told herself that it was triumph; but something strangely like pain mingled with that triumph, and, for a moment, the words she heard had no meaning, and she only found herself saying: "To think it should have been so easy after all." That changed face bore only the interpretation of her own vanity; she could not read it by any other light. She had vowed that he should care as others had cared, and for as little purpose. True, he had never spoken the words that would have sealed her triumph; had never given her the satisfaction of rejecting him; but, all the same, the shock and horror he had so plainly shown on hearing of her engagement said quite as plainly what she had wanted him to say. A little gleam of warmth came into her eyes, as that look bridged the space between them. She found herself wishing vaguely that her father had not made that stupid blunder; that Neale's letter had not arrived at a moment so inopportune. Things had been going on so pleasantly. Those long interviews; those eager discussions, wherein his zeal had held combat with her scepticism, had been quite charming in their way. And now there was an end. course there would be an end. Men were so stupid. They always stopped short at the first stumbling-block. Of She leant back amongst the cushions of her pew; her eyes were half closed; a little dreamy smile was on her mouth. She listened to his voice: its deep, bell-like "And you are," said Adrian Lyle notes, its sonorous rhythm, how pleasant quietly. "Excuse me for reminding you that they were! She had never heard one like it the organ has ceased. Had we not better-never. Somehow she told herself that she finish our conversation after service ?" never would. It had the same individuality about it as had Adrian himself, and she Yet, whatever satisfaction the service The Rector had dismissed Adrian Lyle with startling abruptness, and he was leaving Medehurst at once. Alexis heard this with ill-concealed disgust. Never till that moment had she realised what an important part Adrian Lyle had played in her life of late; how great a blank his absence would make. It seemed to her impossible that he should go so long as she desired him to remain. The possibility of his doing so chagrined and irritated her all the more, in that she was powerless to control his actions any longer. She was too proud to send for him, and he seemed equally too proud to come unbidden. But she had expected his return; expected some question or remonstrance as to that suddenly announced engagement; and the fact that none came, seemed to her almost an affront. She had desired more than she had gained. She had wished to behold the full and complete surrender of this calm and well-balanced nature; to feel that her influence had superseded its moral force, and held him, his interests and pursuits, at her mercy. He had left her so abruptly that she had almost looked forward to his return, had pictured her very greeting and his reply; and now all her illusions were abruptly dispelled, and he had formed a plan of action which she had never expected, and could still less oppose. Towards the evening of that Monday, whilst Alexis Kenyon was sitting in her own boudoir, in one of her most petulant and discontented moods, her maid came to the door and informed her that Bari was below and wished to speak to her. Surprised at the information, and feeling certain that the man must have a special object for so unusual a request, Alexis bade the woman bring him to her room. When the door opened and the dark "You have something to say to me?" "Well?" she demanded. "I am wait- "I have come to you, Mademoiselle," he said, "because my news concerns you. You know that I was Mr. Kenyon's confidential servant when his sight was in so critical a condition." "Is it "I am aware of that," she said. necessary to pay a formal visit to me to recall it?" "During that period," the man continued suavely, "I became aware of a certain passage in Mr. Kenyon's life" "I have no wish," interposed the girl proudly, "to be made acquainted with any of Mr. Kenyon's secrets. If you have only come here with the intention of betraying one, I must request you to withdraw." "Pardon, Mademoiselle-it will soon be a secret no longer, and I think it only due to you that you should hear the truth of the matter from its right source, ere rumour brings it you with a different interpretation." Alexis leant back in her chair with an air of complete indifference as to rumour, or what it might choose to convey. She made no other answer, and Bari proceeded. The following morning, a hundred vague rumours were afloat in the parish. "Adrian Lyle had quarrelled with the Rector." "The Rector had dismissed Adrian Lyle." "Something very much to the younger man's discredit had been discovered." "There had been hot words between them, and the result was conclusive;" "At Vienna, in the early part of last and so on. Adrian Lyle was a general fa- spring, Mr. Kenyon became acquainted with vourite, and his projected departure a great a young German girl who lived in the next grief to many. But he himself offered no ex- house. She was very young and very planation, beyond stating the bare fact; and ignorant, and about her birth and history some thought that he seemed relieved at the was a certain amount of mystery which no idea, and some that he was regretful; but all one had succeeded in penetrating. She soon joined in one conclusion, and that was left very much to herself; time was, that the Rector was extremely in- hung heavily on Mr. Kenyon's hands; and dignant about it, and spoke in no measured-well, Mademoiselle may suppose there was terms of his subordinate's obstinacy and defiance towards himself. the usual result. Nothing serious would in the woods, a few talks and meetings in the early mornings-had not circumstances arisen which threatened to turn jest into earnest. The young lady was destined for a convent, and "You must excuse my interrupting you," said Alexis, in her coldest and haughtiest voice. "But again I must say that I have not the slightest desire to know anything of my cousin's affairs, or of his actions in the past." "And again I must beg of Mademoiselle ten thousand pardons, and request her to have patience but a moment more, and she will see that my reason for telling her this is serious," answered Bari. "To resume, then--Monsieur leaves Dornbach and the young lady; but the young lady has no relish for convent discipline, and one fine morning she is not to be found. She has followed Monsieur Kenyon and thrown herself on his protection.' Alexis was sitting quite still now, only her face had grown colder and more contemptuous in its silent scorn. "Monsieur was in a dilemma, but what could be done? He could not send the girl back to her convent . . . he permitted her accompany him, and they went to Venice. It was at Venice they met the Signor Lyle." to Alexis was on her guard now; but she felt the hot blood fly to her cheeks as she heard that name, and she opened a small hand screen which lay by her side, and held it between her face and the flames on the broad hearth. "The Signor Lyle," resumed Bari, "took a deep interest in the young lady. He taught her English; he, I believe, did his best also to convert her to his own faith. They were much together, and Mr. Kenyon -his affections being in no way entangled -did not object to the intimacy. In Rome they parted, to the best of my belief, and I heard no more of the the young lady who objected to convents until-Mademoiselle will excuse my plain speakinguntil I discovered accidentally that she was living at a village some distance from here, under the protection of—___” Alexis looked up sharply; her face had grown very pale. "Of Mr. Lyle," concluded Bari, with unmoved composure. "And what," she asked, with disdain, "has this to do with me?" cold "It may help to put Mr. Kenyon's conduct straight before you," said Bari. "For Mr. Lyle has skilfully contrived to hide his own weakness under the cloak of Monsieur's name and identity." "What!" cried Alexis, rising breathless and amazed from her chair, and confronting him with incredulous eyes. "It is true, Mademoiselle, I grieve to say, and Mr. Bray, the good Rector here has at last discovered it; and so angry is he at such a scandalous proceeding that he has dismissed Mr. Lyle from his duties, and is about to represent the affair to the Bishop himself. Now Mademoiselle will understand my reason for giving her the truth of the story, that she may be forewarned when the scandal really breaks out, and I fear it must do so soon.' "It cannot affect me," said Alexis proudly. "It is only a piece of my cousin's folly in the first instance; as for the sequel Ah, it is the sequel Mademoiselle has yet to hear," said Bari, dropping his voice and coming a step nearer to the calm and haughty figure. "The unfortunate girl has been missing for some days. Mademoiselle will remember that Mr. Lyle went suddenly away on one of his mysterious journeys, and returned only yesterday in time for service. That journey was to find out what had become of her. He was not successful. This morning, however, he has heard of her discovery in addition to his own disgrace." "Where is she?" asked Alexis with effort, though still the calmness and coldness of her face betrayed no sign of what was raging in her heart. Bari's eyes drooped, as if to conceal the flash of triumph which leapt from his soul. His voice shook with pretended emotion. "Mademoiselle, Igrieve to have to tell you. I scarce know how to frame so dreadful a truth; but, if I speak not, others will. The poor girl is in prison at Echarge of child-murder!" THOMAS BEWICK. on & WOOD-ENGRAVING is older than printing. Indeed, "block-books," the earliest European form of printed books, are simply specimens of wood-engraving, in which the block is of the same size as the page, picture and letter-press being both cut on the same piece of wood. This was all very well for books in which the picture part was most prominent; but, when lengthy works came to be printed, it was felt to be almost impossible to cut out page after page of lettering. Happily, somebody, Dutchman or German, hit upon the expedient of moveable types, and these soon came to be made of metal; and thenceforward wooden blocks were used only for the illustrations, and were generally of smaller size than the pages. Wood-engraving, in these old days, was of very various quality. Sometimes it is little better than what quite an ordinary boy might do if he took up the tools for the first time. Very different is the work of a few men like Albert Dürer and Holbein. And Bewick deserves to rank with the best of the old engravers; for Mr. Ruskin, no mean judge, says that, "since the fifteenth century, no drawing, except Holbein's and Turner's, has been so subtle as Bewick's." Bewick found wood-engraving in England at a low ebb. It was used for cheap books, for the heading of shop bills, for all sorts of common work; but for anything intended to be permanent, or to show talent, it had been superseded by copper-plate. Those were, all Europe over, the palmy days of the burin; and the engraver ranked almost as high as the painter, to whose works he was often thought to add a charm not found in the original. The Chap-books reproduced by Messrs. Field and Tuer, show into what insignificance the art which Albert Dürer glorified with the touch of genius, had fallen. Bewick began by doing common things; and his boyish attempts are no better than the other work of this time. The difference is that he soon elevated his work, and put genius into it, so that Mr. Ruskin can say ("Elements of Drawing," p. 342): "The execution of the plumage in Bewick's birds is the most masterly thing ever yet done in woodcutting; it is just worked as Paul Veronese would have worked in wood had he taken to it. His vignettes, too, though too coarse in execution and vulgar in types of form to be good copies, show the highest intellectual power; and there are pieces of sentiment in them, either pathetic or satirical, never since equalled in illustrations of this simple kind. Bewick is the Burns of painting." What helped to make his birds so good is that he did everything himself. He simply copied Nature, and between his original study and the public he was his own interpreter, completing himself on the block the study which he had made of the bird in its own haunts. He drew and engraved the birds as he knew them; and this makes the difference between his work and that of some of his followers who possessed much more technical skill. Those who saw his drawings at the Bewick Exhibition of 1880 had a rare treat. The" Kitty Wren," for instance, is excellent in the engraving; one can see the little creature puffing out its feathers. But the warm tints of purple and subdued grey in its throat; the bronze like lustre on its russet back, with bars of lighter colour and bands of almost black; make the drawing far superior to the woodcut. Let no one be disappointed because he does not appreciate Bewick all at once. You must learn to notice his accuracy and the wealth of his invention before you can understand the secret of his power, and how his work is better than the coarse, flashy things in the illustrated papers. The Bewick Exhibition was valuable, because it showed the different stages by which he reached the perfect finish of his mature work. But his life is as interesting as his work; indeed, you cannot appreciate the latter without knowing something of the former. Born in 1753 at Cherryburn on the Tyne, half-way between Newcastle and Hexham, Bewick was a thorough NorthCountryman. His high forehead and shape of skull were something like Scott's; his eyes were brimful of humour; his face showed the honesty and good sense which mark the race. He had, too, that self-appreciation, which is not conceit, because there is something in the man of which he may be proud; and he had that love of praise which often goes along therewith. Of this a friend, who was with him at Buxton in 1826, gives a curious instance. Bewick was there for gout in the stomach, but he was well enough to dine at the public table. "One day, over the wine, a dispute arose between two gentlemen about a bird; one affirmed he had looked it out in Bewick; the other at once replied: 'Well, that settles it, for Bewick is next to nature.' Here the old gentleman seized me by the thigh with his hand-vice of a grasp, and continued to keep up the shuttle-cock of conversation playfully to his highest satisfaction; for bird after bird of his got the highest praise from those who were evidently competent judges; while they who praised him so ardently little imagined whose ears imbibed all their honest incense." Bewick's father owned a small land-sale colliery, i.e., a colliery, the coal from which was sold at the pit's mouth, not sent to |