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AUT

THE

HEIRESS OF CASTLE CLIFF

Mrs. may AGNES FLEMING

AUTHOR OF " MAGDALEN'S VOW," " THE vQUEEN OF THE ISLE," " THB

DARK SECRET," '* THE RIVAL BROTHERS," " THE GYPSY

queen's vow," "THE MIDNIGHT QUEEN," ETC.

■ •-•-?&.;

-/:■

NEW YORK ^

THE FEDERAI, BOOK COMPANY

PUBLISHERS

^BRAR

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^^sny

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CONTENTS.

CHAPTER PAGB

I. At the Theater S

II. Mother and Son 15

III. The Heiress of Castle Cliffe 21

IV. Twelve Years A f ter 29

V. The Prodigal Son 41

VI. Killing the Fatted Calf 51

VII. Mademoiselle , . 58

VIII. Castle Cliffe 70

IX. Victoria Regia 79

X. Barbara 86

XI. The First Time 93

XII. The Nun's Grave 101

XIII. The May Queen no

XIV. The Warning 125

XV. The Shadow in Black 136

XVI. The Rose of Sussex 145

XVII. Off with the Old Love, 155

XVIII. A Dutiful Granddaughter. 168

XIX. Back Again 179

XX. Accepted « 193

XXI. Barbara's Bridal Eve 204

XXII. Asking for Bread and Receiving a Stone 217

XXIII. Victoria's Bridal Eve 226

XXIV. Where the Bridegroom Was * 236

XXV. A Strange Request ^45

XXVI. Diamond cut Diamond 255

XXVII. What Lay on the Nun's Grave 265

XXVIII. Maison de DeuU 275

XXIX. The Sentence .... » E85

XXX. The Sentence 293

XXXI. The Turn of the Wheel 297

XXXII. Retribution 307

XXXin. The Fall of the Curtain 313

THE HEIRESS OF CASTLE CLIFFE.

CHAPTER 1.

AT THE THEATER, '^

The theater was crowded. The pit, reeking and steam-
ing, was one swaying sea of human faces. The galleries
were vivid semicircles of eyes, blue, black, brown and gray ;
and the boxes and the upper tiers were rapidly filling, for
was not this the benefit-night of Mademoiselle Vivia ? and
had not all the theater-going world of London been half mad
about Mademoiselle Vivia ever since her first appearance

on the boards of the theater ? Posters and play-bills

announced it her benefit. Madam Rumor announced it her
last appearance on any stage. There were wonderful tales
going about this same Vivia, the actress. Her beauty was
an undisputed fact by all ; so was her marvelous talent in
her profession ; and her icy virtue was a household word.
Every one in the house probably knew what was to be known
of her history — how the manager of the house stumbled
upon her accidentally in an obscure, third-rate Parisian
playhouse ; how, struck by her beauty and talent, he had
taken her away, had her instructed for two years, and how,
at the end of that time, three months previous to this par-
ticular night, she had made her dkbut^ and taken the gay
people of London by storm. Gouty old dukes and apoplectic
earls had knelt in dozens at her feet, with offers of magnifi-
cent settlements, superb diamonds, no end of blank checks,
carriages and horses, and a splendid establishment, and been
spurned for their pains. Mademoiselle Vivia had won,
during her professional career, something more than admira-
tion and love — the respect of all, young and old. And yet
that same gossiping lady, Madam Rumor, whispered low,

(

6 THE HEIRESS OF CASTI.E CUFFE.

that the actress had managed to lose her heart after all.
Madam Rumor softly insinuated, that a young nobleman,
marvelously beautiful to look upon, and marvelously rich to
back it, had laid his heart, hand and name most honorably
and romantically at her fair feet ; but people took the whis-
per for what it was worth, and were a little dubious about
believmg it implicitly. No one was certain of anything ; and
yet the knowing ones raised their glasses with a peculiar
smile to ascertain the stage-box occupied by three young
men, and with an inward conviction that the secret lay there.
One of the three gentlemen sitting in it— a large, well-made,
good-looking personage of thirty or so — was sweeping the
house himself, lorgnette in hand, bowing, and smiling, and
criticizing.

" And there comes that old ogre. Marquis of Devon,
rouged to the eyes, and that stiff antediluvian on his arm,
all pearl-powder and pearls, false ringlets and more rouge, is
his sister. There goes that oily little cheat, Sylvester Sweet, ,
among the swells, as large as life ; and there's Miss Blanche
Chester with her father. Pretty little thing, isn't she, Lisle ? "

The person thus addressed — a very tall, very thin, very
pale and very insipid-looking young person, most stylishly
got up, regardless of expense, leaned forward, and stared out
of a pair of very dull and very expressionless gray eyes, at
an exceedingly pretty and graceful girl,

" Aw, yes I Very pretty indeed I " he lisped, with a lan-
guid drawl ; " and has more money, they say, than she knows
what to do with. Splendid catch, eh ? But look there.
Who are those ? By Jove I what a handsome woman 1 "

The attention of Lord Lisle — for the owner of the dull
eyes and lantern jaws was that distinguished gentleman —
had been drawn to a party who had just entered the box
opposite. They were two ladies, three gentlemen, and a lit-
tle child, and Sir Roland Cliffe. The first speaker leaning
over to see, opened his eyes very wide, with a low whistle
of astonishment. i

" Such a lovely face I Such a noble head 1 Such a grand
air I " raved young Lord Lisle, whose heart was as inflam-
mable as a lucifer match, and caught fire as easily.

Sir Roland raised his shoulders and eyebrows together,
and stroked his flowing beard

AT THE THEATER.

" Which one ? " he coolly asked. Belle blonde^ or jolie bru-
nette 1 *'

'• The lady in pink satin and diamonds I Such splendid
eyes I Such a manner 1 Such grace 1 She might be a prin-
cess I "

Hearing this, the third occupant of the bo"- leaned for-
ward also, from the lazy, recumbent position he had hitherto
indulged in, and glanced across the way. He looked the
younger of the two — slender and boyish — and evidently not
more than nineteen or twenty, wearing the undress uniform
of a lieutenant of dragoons, which set off his eminently-hand-
some face and figure to the best possible advantage. He,
too, opened his large blue Saxon eyes slightly, as they rested
on the object of Lord Lisle's raptures, and exchanged a
smile with Sir Roland Cliffe. -

The lady thus unconsciously apostrophized and stared at
was lying back in her chair, and fanning herself very much
at her ease. It was a blonde face of the purest type ; the
skin, satin-smooth and white ; the blue veins scarcely trace-
able under the milk-white surface ; the oval cheeks tinged with
the faintest shade of rose, deepening into vividness in the
thin lips. The eyes were large, blue and bright — very coldly
bright though ; the eyebrows light and indistinct ; and the
hair, which was of a flaxen fairness, was rolled back from
the beautiful face, d la Marie Stuart. Light hair, fair blue,
eyes, and colorless complexion usually make up rather an in-
sipid style of prettiness ; but this lady was not at all insipid.
The eyes, placed close together, had a look of piercing intent-
ness ; the thin lips, decidedly compressed, had an air of
resolute determination ; and from the crown of her flaxen
head to the sole of her sandaled foot, she looked as high and
haughty as any lady in the land. Her dress was pale rose
satin, with a profusion of rare old point, yellow as saffron
with age, and precious as rubies. Diamonds ran like a river
of light round the beautiful arched neck, and blazed on the
large, snow-white, rounded arms. Her fan was of gold and
ebony, and marabout feathers ; and she managed it with a
hand like Hebe's own. One dainty foot, peeping out from
under the rosy skirt, showed the arched instep, tapering
ankle and rounded flexibility, of the same type ; and, to her
fingers' tips, she looked the lady. Her age it was impossible

THE HEIRESS OF CASTLE CUFFH.

to guess, for old Time deals gallantly with those flaxen-haired,
pearly-skinned beauties, and Lord Lisle could not have told,
for his life, whether to set her down as twenty or thirty.
She certainly did not look demoiselle ; and her figure, though
tall and slight, and delicate, was unmistakably matured ; and
then her style of dress, and the brilliant opera-cloak of scar-
let and white, slipping off her shoulders, was matured too.
Sha and her companion formed as striking a contrast as
could be met with in the house. For the latter was a pro-
nonrh brunette, and a very full-blown brunette at that, with
lazy, rolling black eyes, a profusion of dead-black hair, worn
in braids and bandeaux, and entwined with pearls ; her large
and showy^ person was arrayed in slight mourning; but her
handsome, rounded, high-colored face was breaking into
smiles every other instant, as her lazy eyes strayed from face
to face as she bent to greet her friends. A lovely little boy,
of some six years, richly dressed, with long golden curls fall-
ing over his shoulders, and splendid dark eyes straying like
her own around the house, leaned lightly against her knee.
They were mother and son, though they looked little like it ;
and Mrs. Leicester Cliffe was a buxom widow of five and
twenty. The black, roving eyes rested at last on the op-
posite box, and the incessant smile came over the Dutch
face as she bowed to one of the gentlemen — Sir Roland Cliffe.

" How grandly she sits I — how beautiful she is 1 " broke
out Lord Lisle, in a fresh ecstasy. " Who in the world is
she, Sir Roland ? "

" You had better ask my beloved nephew here," said Sir
Roland, with a careless motion toward the young officer,
" and ask him at the same time how he would like you for a
stepfather." - '

Lord Lisle stared from one to the other, and then at the
fair lady aghast,

"Why — how — you don't mean to say that it is Lady
Agnes Shirley ? "

" But I do, though 1 Is it possible. Lisle, that you, a
native of Sussex yourself, have never seen my sister? "

" I never have I " exclaimed Lord Lisle, with a look of
hopeless amazement ; " and that is really your mother,
Shirley?"
^ The lieutenant of dragoons who was sitting in such a

AT THE THEATER.

position that the curtain screened him completely from the
audience, while it commanded a full view of the stage, nod-
ded with a half laugh, and Lord Lisle's astonished bewilder-
ment was a sight to sec.

*' But she is so young ; she does not look over twenty."

•' She is eight years older than I, and I am verging on
thirty," said Sir Roland, taking out a penknife and beginning
to pare his nails ; " but those blondes never grow old.
What do you think of the black beauty beside her ? "

" She is fat 1 " said Lord Lisle with gravity.

"My dear fellow, don't apply that term to a lady; say
plump, or inclined to embonpoint I She is rather of the
Dutch make, I confess, but we can pardon that in a widow,
and you must own she's a splendid specimen of the Low
Country Flemish style of loveliness. Paul Rubens, for in-
stance, would h^ve gone mad about her ; perhaps you have
never noticed, though, as you do not much affect the fine
arts, that all his Madonnas and Venuses have the same
plentiful supply of blood, and brawn, and muscle, that our
fair relative yonder rejoices in." - •

" She is your relative, then ? "

" Leicester Cliffe, rest his soul I was my cousin. That
is her son and heir, that little shaver beside her — fine little
fellow, isn't he ? and a Cliffe, every inch of him. What are
you thinking of, Cliffe ? "

" Were you speaking to me ? " said the lieutenant, look-
ing up abstractedly.

" Yes. I want to know what makes you so insufferably
stupid to-night ? Wltat are you thinking of, man — Vivia ? "

The remark might be nearer the truth than the speaker
thought, for a slight flush rose to the girl-like cheek of
Lieutenant Cliffe Shirley.

" Nonsense 1 I was half asleep, I believe. I wish the
curtain was up, and the play well over."

" I have heard that this is Vivia's last night," remarked
Lord Lisle ; " and that she is about to be married, or some-
thing of that sort. How is it, Sir Roland ? as you know
everything you must know."

" I don't know that, at all events ; but he is a lucky man,
whoever gets her. Ah 1 what a pretty little thing it is I
By Jove I I never see her without feeling inclined to go on

■u

)

1' H

THE HEIRESS OF CASTLE CLIFFE.

my knees, and say — Ah 1 Sweet I old fellow, how are

you ? " "

This last passage in the noble baronet's discourse was
not what he would say to Mdlle. Vivia, but was addressed
to a gentleman who had forced his way, with some difficulty,
through the crowd, and now stood at the door. He was
net a handsome man, was Mr. Sweet, but he had the most
smiling and beaming expression of countenance imaginable.
He was of medium size, inclined to be angular and sharp at
the joints, with a complexion so yellow as to induce the
belief ♦'lat he was suffering from chronic, and continual
jaundice. His hair, what was of it, was much the color of
his face, but he had nothing in that line worth speaking
of ; his eyes were small and twinkling, and generally half
closed ; and he displayed, like the blooming relic of the
late lamented Leicester Cliffe, the sweetest and most cease-
less of smiles. His waistcoat was of a bright canary tint,
much the color of his face and hair ; lemon-colored gloves
were on his hands ; and the yellow necktie stood out in
bold relief against the whitest and glossiest of shirt collars.
He wore large gold studs, and a large geld breast-pin, a
large gold watch-chain, with an anchor, and a heart, and a
bunch of seals, and a select assortment of similar small
articles of jewelry dangling from it, and keeping up a musi-
cal tinkle as he walked. He had small gold ear-rings in his
ears, and would have had them in his nose, too, doubtless,
if any one had been good enough to set him a precedent.
As it was, he was so bright, and so smiling, and so glisten-
ing, with his yellow hair, and face, and waistcoat, and neck-
tie, and jewelry, that he fairly scintillated all over, and would
have made you wink to look at him by gaslight.

" Hallo, Sweet ! How do, Sweet ? Come in. Sweet,**
greeted this smiling vision from the three young men. And
Mr. Sweet beaming all over with smiles, and jingling his
seals, did come in, and took a seat between the handsome
young lieutenant and his uncle, Sir Roland.

The orchestra was crashing out a tremendous overture,
but at this moment a bell tinkled, and when it ceased, the
curtain shriveled up to the ceiling, and disclosed " Henry
Vin.," a very stout gentleman, in flesh-colored tights, scarlet
velvet doublet, profusely ornamented with tinsel and gold

AT THE THEATER.

lace, wearing a superb crown of pasteboard and gilt paper
on his royal head. Catherine, of Aragon, was there, too,
very grand, in a long trailing dress of purple cotton and vel-
vet, and blazing all over with brilliants of the purest glass,
kneeling before her royal husband, amidst a brilliant as-
sembly of gentlemen in tights and mustaches, and ladies in
very long dresses and paste jewels, in the act of receiving a
similar pasteboard crown from the fat hands of the king
himself. The play was the " Royal Blue Beard," a sort of
half musical, half-danceable burlesque, and though the audi-
ence laughed a good deal, and applauded a little over the
first act, their enthusiasm did not quite bring the roof down ;
for Vivia was not there. Her rble was " Anne Boleyn,"
and when in the second act, that beautiful and most un-
fortunate lady appeared among the maids of honor, " which
meaneth," says an ancient writer, " anything but honorable
maids," to win the fickle-hearted monarch by her smiles, a
cheer greeted her that made the house ring. She was their
pet, their favorite ; and standing among her painted com-
panions, all tinseled and spangled, she looked queen-rose and
star over all. Petite and f?iry-like in figure, a clear, color-
less complexion, lips vividly red, eyes jetty black, and bright
as stars, shining black hair, falling in a profusion of curls
and waves far below her waist, and with a smile like an
angel I She was dressed all in white, with flowers in her
hair and on her breast ; and when she came floating across
the stage in her white, mist-like robes, her pure pale face,
uplifted dark eyes, and wavy hair, crowned with water-lilies,
she looked more like a fairy by moonlight than a mere crea-
ture of flesh and blood. What a shout it was that greeted
her I how gentle and sweet was the smile that answered it 1
and how celestial she looked with that smile on her lips !
Sir Roland leaned over with flashing eyes.

" It is a fairy I it is Titania ! It is Venus herself I " he
cried, enraptured. " I never saw her look so beautiful before
in my life."

Loid Lisle stared at him in his dull, vacant way ; and Mr.
Sweet smiled, and stole a sidelong glance at the lieutenant,
which nonchalant young warrior lounged easily back on his
seat, and watched the silver-shining vision with philosophical
composure. -^

k )

THE HEIRESS OF CASTI.E CI.IFFE.

The play went on. The lovely Anne wins the slightly-
fickle king with her " becks, and nods, and wreathed smiles,"
and triumphs over the unfortunate lady in the purple train.
Then comes her own brief and dazz'ng term of glory; then
blue-eyed Jane Seymour conquers the conqueress, and Mis-
tress Anne is condemned to die. Throughout the whole thing
Vivia was superb. Vivia always was ; but in the last scene
of all she surpassed herself. From the moment when she told
the executioner, with a gay laugh, that she heard he was
expert, and she had but a small neck, to the moment she
was led forth to die, she held the audience spellbound.
When the curtain rose in the last scene, the stage was hung
in black, the lights burned dim, the music waxed faint and
low, and dressed in deepest mourning, and looking by contrast
deadly pale, she laid her beautiful head on the block. At
the sound of the falling ax, as the curtain fell, a thrill ran
through every heart ; and the four gentlemen in the stage-box
bent over and gazed with their hearts — such as they were —
in their eyes. A moment of profoundest silence was followed
by so wild a tempest of applause that the domed roof rang,
and " Vivia !" " Vivia ! " shouted a storm of voices, enthusi-
astically. Once again she came before them, pale and beau-
tiful in her black robes and flowing hair, and bowed her
acknowledgments with the same lovely smile that had won
all their hearts long before. A small avalanche of bouquets
and wreaths came fluttering down on the stage, and three of
the occupants of the stage-box flung their offerings too. A
wreath of white roses clasped by a great pearl, from Sir
Roland ; a bouquet of splendid hot-house exotics from Lord
Lisle; and a cluster of jasmine flowers from Lieutenant
Shirley, which he took from his buttonhole for the purpose.
Mr. Sweet had nothing to cast but his eyes; and casting
those optics on the actress, he saw her turn her beautiful face
for one instant toward their box ; the next, lift the jasmine
flowers and raise them to her lips ; and the next — vanish.

" She took your flowers, Shirley — she actually did," cried
Lord Liole, with one of hi. blank stares ; " and left mine,
that were a thousand times prettier, just where they
felll" , .,

" Very extraordinary," remarked Mr. Sweet, with one of
his bright smiles and sidelong glances. " But what do all

AT THE THEATER.

y.*V'

the good folks mean by leaving .' I thought there was to
be a farce, or ballet, or something." - -

" So there is ; but as they won't see Vivia, they don't cr.re
for staying. And I think the best thing we can do is to
follow their example. What do you say to coming along
with us. Sweet ? We are going to have a small supper at
my rooms this evening."

Mr. Sweet, with many smiles, made his acknowledgments,
and accepted at once ; and rising, the four passed out, and
were borne along by the crowd into the open air. Sir
Roland's night-cab was in waiting, and being joined by
three or four other young men, they were soon dashing at
breakneck speed toward a West-End hotel.

No man in all London ever gave such petits soupers as
Sir Roland Cliffe, and no one ever thought of declining his
invitations. On the present occasion, the hilarity waxed
fast and furious. The supper was a perfect chef d ^odtivrCy
the claret deliciously cool after the hot theater ; the slierry
like liquid gold, and the port, fifty years old, at least. All
showed their appreciation of it, too, by draining bumper
after bumper, until the lights of the room, and everything
in it, were dancing hornpipes before their eyes — all but
Mr. Sweet and Lieutenant Shirley. Mr. Sweet drank spar-
ingly, and had a smile and an answer for everybody ; and
the lieutenant scarcely ate or drank at all, and was abstracted
and silent.

" Do look at Shirley ! " hiccoughed Lord Lisle, whose
eyes were starting f :;hily out of his head, and whose hair
and shirt-front were splashed with wine ; " he looks as sol —
yes — as solemn as a coffin 1 "

"Hallo, Cliffe, my boy I don't be the death's head at the
feast ! Here 1 " shouted Sir Roland, with a flushed face,
waving his glass over his head — " here, lads, is a bumper to
Vivia 1 "

"Vivia!" "Vi^ia!" ran from lip to lip. Even Mr.
Sweet rose to honor the toast ; but Lieutenant Shirley, with
wrinkled brows and flashing eyes, sat still, and glanced
round at the servant who stood at his elbow with a salver
and a letter thereon.

THE HEIRESS OF CASTLE CUFFE.

" Note for you, lieutenant," insinuated the waiter. " A
little boy brought it here. Said there was no answer ex-
pected, and left."

" I say, Cliffe, what have you there ? A dun ? " shouted
impetuous Sir Roland.

" With your permission I will see," rather coolly responded
the young officer, breaking the seal.

Mr. Sweet, sitting opposite, kept his eyes intently fixed
on his face, and saw it first flush scarlet, and then turn
deathly white.

"That's no dun, I'll swear," again lisped Lord Lisle.
" Look at the writing 1 A fairy could scarcely trace any-
thing so light. And look at the paper— pink-tinted and
gilt-edged. The fellow has got a M/^/-rt'<^/^^ .^ " r . ,

" Who is she, Shirley ? " called half a dozen voices.

But Lieutenant Shirley crumpled the note in his hand,
and rose abruptly from the table.

"Gentlemen — Sir Roland — you will have the goodness
to excuse me ! I regret extremely being obliged to leave
you. Goodnighll"

He had strode to the door, opened it, and disappeared
before any of the company had recovered their maudlin
senses sufficiently to call him back. Mr. Sweet always had
his senses about him ; but that shining gentleman was wise
in his generation, and he knew when Lieutenant Shirley's
cheek paled, and brow knitted, and eye flashed, he was not
exactly the person to be trifled with; so he only looked
after him, and then at his wine, with a thoughtful smile.
He would have given all the spare change he had about
him to have donned an invisible cap, and walked after him
through the silent streets, dimly lit by the raw coming morn-
ing, and to have jumped after him into the cab Lieutenant
Shirley hailed and entered. On he flew through the still
streets, stopping at last before a quiet hotel in a retired part
of the city. A muffled figure — a female figure — wrapped in
a long cloak, and closely veiled, stood near the ladies' en-
trance, shivering under her wrappings in the chill morning
blast. In one instant. Lieutenant Shirley had sprung out ;
in another, he had assisted her in, and taken the reins him-
self; and the next, he was riding away with breakneck
speed, with his face to the rising sun.

\-.

MOTHER AND SON.

^■■"

CHAPTER n.

MOTHER AND SON.

A BROAD morning simbeam, stealing in through satin
curtains, fell on a Brussels carpet, on rosewood furniture,
pretty pictures, easy-chairs and ottomans, and on a round
table, bright with damask, and silver, and china, standing
in the middle of the handsome parlor. The table was set
for breakfast, and the coffee, and the rolls, and the toast,
and the cold tongue, were ready and waiting ; but no one
vras in the room, save a spruce waiter, in a white jacket
and apron, who arranged the eggs, and tongue, and toast
artistically, and set up two chairs vis-d-vis^ previous to tak-
ing his departure. As he turned to go, the door opened,
and a lady entered — a lady tall and graceful, proud and
handsome, with her fair hair combed back from her high-
bred face, and adorned with the prettiest little trifle of a
morning-cap, all black lace and ribbons. She wore a white
cashmere morning-dress, with a little lace collar and a ruby
brooch, and Lady Agnes Shirley managed to look in this
simple toilet as stately and haughty as a dowager-duchess.
Her large light-blue eyes wandered round the room, and
rested on the obsequious young gentleman in the white
jacket and apron.

" Has my son not arrived yet ? " she said, in a voice
that precisely suited her face — sweet, and cold, and clear.

" No, my lady ; shall I "

" You will go down-stairs ; and when he comes, you will
ask him to step up here directly."

There was a quick, decided rap at the door. Agnes
turned from the window, to which she had walked, as the
waiter opened it, and admitted Lieutenant Cliffe Shirley.

" My dearest mother I "

" My dear boy 1 " And the proud, cold eyes lit up with

16 THE HEIRESS OF CASTLE CUFFE,

loving pride as he kissed her. ' I thought I was never
destined to see you again."

" Let me see. It is just two months since I left Clifton-
lea — a frightful length of time, truly." ' ;

" My dear Cliffe, those two months .were like two years to

me ! "

Lieutenant Cliffe, standing hat in hand, with the morning
sunshine falling on his laughing face made her a courtly
bow.

" Ten thousand thanks for the compliment, mother mine.
And was it to hunt up your scapegrace son that you jour-
neyed all the way to London ? *'

" Yes ! " She said it so grave'y that the smile died away
on his lips, as she moved in her graceful way across to the
table. ** Have you had breakfast ? But of course you have
not ; so sit down there, and I will pour out your coffee as
if you were at home."

The young man sat down opposite her, took his napkin
from its ring, and spread it with most delicate precision
on his knees. There was a resemblance between mother
and son, though by no means a striking one. They had
the same blonde hair, large blue eyes, and fair complexion —
the same physical Saxon type ; for the boast of the Cliffes
was, that not one drop of Celtic or Norman blood ran in
their veins — it was a pure, unadulterated Saxon stream, to
be traced back to days long before the Conqueror entered
England. But Lady Agnes' haughty pride and grand man-
ner were entirely wanting in the laughing eyes and gay
smile of her only son and heir, CliiTe.

*' When did you come ? " he asked, as he took his cup
from her ladyship's hand.

" Yesterday — did not my note tell you ? " '■'-" '

" True ! I forgot. How long do you remain ? " < ; v

Lady Agnes buttered her roll with a grave face.

" That depends ! " she quietly said.

"On what?" - '

" On you, my dear boy."

"Oh! in that case," said the lieutenant, with his bright
smile, " you will certainly remain until the end of the Lon-
don season. Does Charlotte return the same time you

do?" ... -, '--,...-■■ •;: / . - ■..- — .K •

MOTHER AND SON.

«• Who told you Charlotte was here at all ? " said Lady
Agnes, looking at him intently.

" I saw her with you last night at the theater, and little
Leicester, too ! "

" Were you in the box with Sir Roland and the other two
gentlemen, last night?"

" Yes. Don't look so shocked, my dear mother ! How
was I to get through all that crowd to your box? and be-
sides, I was engaged to Sir Roland for a supper at his
rooms ; we left before the ballet. By the way, I wonder
you were not too much fatigued with your journey, both of
you, to think of the theater."

" I was fatigued," said Lady Agnes, as she slowly stirred
her coffee with one pearl-white hand, and gazed intently at
her son ; " but I went solely to see that actress — what do
you call her? Vivia, or something of that sort, is it not.? "

" Mademoiselle Vivia is her name," said the young man,
blushing suddenly, probably because at that moment he took
a sip of coffee, scalding hot.

Lady Agnes shrugged her tapering shoulders, and curled
her lip in a little, slighting, disdainful way, peculiar to her-
self. : ■ -.

" A commonplace little thing as ever I saw. They told
me she was pretty ; but I confess, when I saw that pallid
face and immense black eyes, I never was so disappointed in
my life. I don't fancy her acting, either — it is a great deal
too tragic ; and I confess I am at a loss to know why people
rave about her as they do." ^.^ u^^;

" Bad taste, probably," said her son, laughing, and with
quite recovered composure ; " since you differ from them,
and yours is indisputably perfect. But your visit to the
theater was not thrown away after all, for you must know
you made a conquest the first moment you entered. Did you
see the man who sat beside Sir Roland, and stared so hard
at your box?" ,\ .; >'

" The tall young gentleman with the sickly face? Yes."

" That was Lord Henry Lisle — you know the Lisles of
Lisletown ; and he fell desperately in love with you at first
sight."

" Oh ! nonsense ! don't be absurd, Cliffe ! I want you
to be serious this morning, and talk sense."

i8 THE HEIRESS OF CASTLE CLIFFE.

" But it's a fact, upon my honor ! Lisle did nothing but
rave about you all the evening, and protested you were the
prettiest woman in the house."

" Bah ! Tell about yourself, Cliffe — what have you been
doing for the last two months? "

" Oh ! millions of things ! Been on parade, fought like
a hero in the sham fights in the Park, covered myself with
glory in the reviews, made love, got into debt, went to the
opera, and "

" To the theater I " put in Lady Agnes, coolly.

" Certainly, to the theater ! I could as soon exist without
my dinner as without that ! "

" Precisely so 1 I don't object to theaters in the least,"
said Lady Agnes, transfixing him with her cold blue eyes,
" but when it comes to actresses, it is going a little too far.
Cliffe, what are those stories that people are whispering about
you, and tiiat the birds of the air have borne even to Clifton-
lea? "

" Stories about me ! Haven't the first idea. What are
they?"

" Don't equivocate, sir! Do you know what has brought
r e up to town in such haste?"

" You told me a few moments back, if my memory serves
me, that it was to see me."

" Exactly ! and to make you give me a final answer on a
subject we have often discussed before."

"And what may that be, jMay? " M^r-

" Matrimony ! " said Lady Agnes, in her quiet, decided
vray. .

Lieutenant Shirley, with his eyes fixed intently on his plate,
began cutting a slice of toast thereon into minute squares,
with as much precision as he had used in spreading his
napkin.

" Ah, just so! A very pleasant subject, if you and I could
only take the same view of it, which we don't. Do you want
to have a daughter-in-law to quarrel with at Castle ClifTe
so badly that you've come to the city to bring one home ? "

" One thing I don't want, Lieutenant Shirley," said Lady
Agnes, somewhat sharply, " is to see my son make a senti-
mental fool of himself! Your cousin Charlotte is here, and
I want you to marry her and go abroad. I've been wishing

MOTHER AND SON.

«9

to go to Rome myself for the last two or three months, and
it will be an excellent opportunity to go with you."

" Thank you, mother! But at the same time, I'm afraid
you and my cousin Charlotte must hold me excused! " said
the lieutenant, in his cool manner.

" What are your objections, sir? "

" Their name is legion ! In the first place," said the
young gentleman, beginning to count on his fingers, " she is
five years older than I am ; secondly, she is fat — couldn't
possibly marry any one but a sylph; thirdly, she is a widow

— the lady I raise to the happiness of Mrs. S must give

me a heart that has had no former lodger ; fourthly, she has a
son, and I don't precisely fancy the idea of becoming, at the
age of twenty, papa to a tall boy of six years ; and, fifthly,
and lastly, and conclusively, she is my cousin, and I like her
as such, and nothing more, and wouldn't marry her if she was
the last woman in the world ! "

Though this somewhat emphatic refusal was delivered in
the coolest and most careless of tones, there was a determined
fire in his blue eyes that told a different story. Two crimson
spots, all unusual there, were burning on the lady's fair cheeks
ere he ceased, and her own eyes flashed blue flame, but her
voice was perfectly calm and clear. Lady Agnes was too
great a lady ever to get into so vulgar a thing as a passion.

"You refuse?"

"Most decidedly! Why, in Heaven's name, my dear
mother, do you want me to take (with reverence be it said)
that great slug for a wife? "

" And pray what earthly reasons are there why you should
not take her? She is young and handsome, immensely rich,
and of one of the first families in Derbyshire ! It would be
.the best match in the world ! "

" Yes, if I wanted to make a marriage de convenance. I
am rich enough as it is, and Madame Charlotte may keep
her guineas, and her black eyes, and her tropical person for
whomever she pleases. Not all the wealth of the Indies
would tempt me to marry that sensual, full-blown, high-
blooded Cleopatra I "

One singular trait of Lieutenant Shirley was that he said
the strongest and most pungent things in the coolest and
quietest of tones. The fire in his lady mother's eyes was

20 THE HEIRESS OF CASTI.E CUFFE.

!■■■ 1:1

s ?«^

fierce, the spots on her cheeks hot and flaming, and in her
voice there was a ringing tone of command.

" And your reasons ? "

" I have given you half a dozen already, ma mere ! "

" They are not worth thinking of — there must be a
stronger one 1 Lieuetnant Shirley, I demand to know what
it is ? "

" My good mother, be content I I hate this subject.
Why cannot we let it rest."

" It shall never rest now ! Speak, sir, I command I "

" Mother, what do you wish to know ? "

" There is another reason for this obstinate refusal — what
is it ? "

" You had better not ask me — you will not like to
know I "

" Out with it I "

" The very best reason in the world, then," he said, with
his careless laugh. " I am married already I "

THE HEIRESS OF CASTLE CLIFFE. 21

r% ■ < •

" % "

. «.■•

CHAPTER III.

THE HEIRESS OF CASTLE CLIFFE.

A STORMY March morning was breaking over London. The
rain and sleet driven by the wind, beat and clamored against
the windows, flew furiously through the streets, and out
over graveyards, brickfields, marshes and bleak commons, to
the open country, where wind and sleet howled to the bare
trees, and around cottages, as if the very spirit of the tem-
pest was out on the " rampage." Most of these cottages out
among brick-yards and ghastly wastes of marsh, had their
doors secured, and their shutters closely fastened, as if they,
too, like their inmates, were fast asleep, and defied the
storm. But there was one standing away from the rest, on
the hillside, whose occupants, judging from appearances,
were certainly not sleeping. Its two front windows were
bright with the illumination of fire and candle, and their
light flared out red and lurid far over the desolate wastes.
The shutters were open, the blinds up, and the vivid glare
would have been a welcome sight to any storm-beaten traveler,
had such been out that impetuous March day ; but nobody
was foolhardy enough to be abroad at that dismal hour of
that dismal morning ; and the man who sat before the great
wood fire in the principal room of the cottage, though he
listened and watched, like sister Anne on the tower-top, for
somebody's coming, that somebody came not, and he and
his matin meditations were left undisturbed. He was a
young man, sunburnt and good-looking — a laborer unmis-
takably, though dressed in his best ; and with his chair
drawn up close to the fire, and a boot on each andiron, he
drowsily smoked a short clay pipe. The room was as neat
and clean as any room could be, the floor faultlessly sanded,
the poor furniture deftly arranged, and all looked cozy and
cheerful in the ruddy firelight.

There was nobody else in the room, and the beating of

THE HEIRESS OF CASTI<E CI.IFFE.

the ra?h and sleet against the window, the crackling of the
fire and the chirping of crickets on the hearth, were the
only sounds that broke the silence. Yes, there was another 1
Once or twice, while the man sat and smoked and listened to
the storm, there had been the feeble cry of an infant ; and at
such times he had started and looked uneasily at a door
behind him, opening evidently into another room. As a
a little Dutch clock on the mantelpiece chimed slQwly six,
this door opened, and a young, fair-haired, pretty woman
came out. Her eyes were red and swollen with weeping,
and she carried a great bundle of something rolled in flannel
carefully in her arms. The man looked up inquisitively and
took the pipe out of his mouth.

" Well ? " he pettishly asked.

"Oh, poor dear, she is gone at last I " said the woman,
breaking out into a fresh shower of tears. " She has just
departed I * I feel tired, and if you will take the baby I
will try to sleep now,' she says, and "then she kisses it with
her own pretty loving smile ; and I takes it up, and she just
turns her face to the wall and dies. Oh, poor dear young
lady 1 " with another tender-hearted tempest of sobs.

" How uncommon sudden I " said the man, looking medi-
tatively at the fire. " Is that the baby ? "

" Yes, the pretty little dear I Do look how sweetly it
sleeps."

The young woman unrolled the bundle of flannel, and dis-
played an infant of very tender age indeed — inasmuch as it
could not have been a week old — slumbering therein. It
was very much like any other young baby in that fresh and
green stage of existence, having only one peculiarity, that
it was the merest trifle of a baby ever was seen. A decent
wax-doll would have been a giantess beside it. The mite of a
creature, void of hair, and eyebrows, and nails, sleeping so
quietly in a sea of yellow flannel, might have gone into a
quart-mug, and found the premises too extensive for it at
that. John looked at it as nien do look at very new babies,
with a solemn and awestruck face.

* It's a very small baby, isn't it ? " he remarked, in a sub-
<''ied tone. " I should be afraid to lay my finger on it, for
rear of crushing it to death. It's a girl, you told me, didn't

you ? " :••.,: ,- . , ^,, ... , ;;.^ ....

THE HEIRESS OF CASTLE CLIFFE. 23

«• To be sure it's a girl, bless its little heart I Will you
come and look at the young lady, John ? "

John got up and followed his wife into the inner room.
It was a bedroom ; like the apartment they had left, very
neat ; but, unlike that, very tastefully furnished. The floor
had a pretty carpet of green and white ; its windows were
draped with white and green silk. A pretty toilet-table,
under a large gilt-framed mirror, with a handsome dressing-
case thereon, was in one corner ; a guitar and music-rack
in another ; a lounge with green silk cushions in a third ;
and, in a fourth, a French bedstead, all draped and covered
with white. Near the bed stood a round gilded stand,
strewn with vials, medicine-bottles, and glasses ; beside it,
a great sleepy-hollow of an armchair, also cushioned with
green silk ; and on tha bed lay the mistress and owner of
all these pretty things, who had left them, and all other
things earthly, forever. A shaded lamp stood on the dress-
ing-table. The woman took it up and held it so that its
light fell full on the dead face — a lovely face, whiter than
alabaster ; a slight smile lingering round the parted lipi ;
the black lashes lying at rest on the pure cheek ; the black,
arched eyebrows sharply traced against the white, smooth
brow, stamped with the majestic seal of death. A profusion
of curling hair, of purplish black luster, streamed over the
white pillow and her own delicate white night-robe. One
arm was under her head, as she had often Iain in life ; and the
other, which was outside of the clothes, was already cold and
stiff. Man and woman gazed in awe — neither spoke. The
still majesty of the face hushed them ; and the man, after
looking for a moment, turned and walked out on tiptoe, as
if afraid to wake the calm sleeper. The woman drew the
sheet reverently over the face, laid the sleeping baby among
the soft cushions of the lounge, followed her husband to the
outer room and closed the door. He resumed his seat and
looked seriously into the fire ; and she stood beside him,
with one hand resting on his shoulder, and crying softly
still.

" Poor dear lady I To think that she should die away
from all her friends like this, and she so young and beautiful,
too!"

" Young and beautiful folks must die, as well as old and

24 THE HEIRESS OF CASTILE CUFFE..

ugly ones, when their time comes," said the man, with a
touch of philosophy. " But this one is uncommon hand-
some, no mistake. And so you don't know her name, Jenny ? "
" No," said Jenny, shaking her head retrospectively* " her
and him — that's the young gentleman, you know — came
bright and early one morning in a coach ; and he said he
had heard we were poor folks and lately married, and would
not object to taking a lodger for a little while, if she paid
well and gave no trouble. Of course, I was glad to jump at
this offer ; and he gave me twenty guineas to begin with,
and told me to have the room furnished, and not say any-
thing about my lodger to anybody. The young lady seemed
to be ill then, and was shivering with cold ; but she was
patient as an angel, and smiled and thanked me like one for
everything I did for her. And that's the whole story ; and
the young gentleman has never been here since."

" And that's — how long ago is that ? "

" Three weeks to-morrow. You just went to London that
very morning, yourself, you remember, John,"

" I remember," said John ; " and my opinion is, the young
gentleman is a scamp, and the young lady no better nor she
outijht to be."

" I don't believe it," retorts his wife, with spirit. " She's
a angel in that bedroom, if ever there was one 1 Only yester-
day, when the doctor told her that she was a-dying, she
asked for pen and ink to write to her husband, and she said
if i e was living it would bring him to her before she died
yet — ^poor dear darling ! "

" But it didn't do it, though," said John, with a triumphant
grin, " and I don't believe "

Here John's words were jerked out of his mouth, as it
were, by the furious gallop of a horse through the rain ; and
the next moment there was a thundering knock at the door
that made the cottage shake. John sprung up and opened
it, and there entered the dripping form of a man, wearing a
long cloak, and with his military cap pulled over his face to
shield it from the storm. Before the door was closed, the
cloak and cap were off, and the woman saw the face of the
handsome yoang gentleman who had brought her lodger
there. But that face was changed now ; it was as thin and
bloodless almost as that of the quiet* sleeper in the other

THE HEIRESS OF CASTI.E CWFFE. 25

? "

room, and there was something of fierce intensity in his
eager eyes. At the sight of him, Jenny put her apron over
her face and broke out into a fresh shower of sobs.

" Where is she ? " he asked through his closed teeth.

The woman opened the bedroom door, and he followed
her in. At sight of the white shape lying so dreadfully still
under the sheet, he recoiled ; but the next moment he was
beside the bed. Jenny laid her hand on the sheet to draw
it down, he laid his there, too ; the chill of death struck to
his heart, and he lifted her hand away.

" No 1 " he said hoarsely, " Let it be. When did she
die ? "

" Not half an hour ago, sir." '

" You had a doctor ? "

" Yes, sir ; he came every day ; he came last night, but
he could do nothing for her."

" Is that man in the next room your husbaiid ? " , >

" Yes, your honor."

" Tell him, then, to go and purchase a coffin and order
the sexton to have the grave prepared by this evening. In
twenty-four hours I leave England forever, and I must see
her laid in the grave before I depart."

" And the baby, sir ? " said the woman, timidly, half
frightened by his stern, almost harsh tone. " Will you not
look at it ? — here it is 1 "

" No I " said the young man fiercely. " Take it and be-
gone 1" ' '

Jenny snatched up the baby, and fled in dismay ; and the
young man sat down beside his dead, and laid his face on
the pillow where the dead face lay. Rain and hail still lashed
the windows, the wind shrieked in dismal blasts over the
bare brick fields and bleak common. Morning was lifting
a dull and leaden eye over the distant hills, and the new-
born day gave promise of turning out as sullen and dreary as
ever a March day could well do. " Blessed is the corpse
that the rain rains on 1 " and so Jenny thought, as she laid
the baby on her own bed, and watched her husband plung-
ing through the rain and wind, on his doleful errand.

The dark, sad hours stole on, and the solitary watcher in
the room of death kept his vigil undisturbed. Breakfast and
dinner hour passed, and Jenny's hospitable heart ached to

26 THE HEIRESS OE CASTI.E CLIFFE.

think that the young gentleman had not a mouthful to eat
all the blessed time ; but she would not have taken broad
England and venture to open the door uninvited again.
And so, while the storm raged on without, the lamp flared
on the dressing-table, the dark wintry day stole on, and the
lonely watcher sat there still. It was within an hour of
dusk, and Jenny sat near the fire, singing a soft lullaby to the
baby, when the door opened, and he stood before her like a
tall, dark ghost I

" Has the coffin come ? " he asked. And Jenny started
up and nearly dropped the baby with a sliriek, at the hoarse
and hollow sound of his voice. . ,

" Oh, yes, sir ; there it is 1 "

The dismal thing stood up, black and ominous, against the
opposite wall. He just glanced at it, and then back again at
her.

" And the grave has been dug ? "

" Yes, sir : and if you please, the undertaker has sent his
hearse on account of the rain, and it is waiting now in the
shed. My John is there, too. I will call him in, sir, if you
please."

He made a gesture in the affirmative, and Jenny flew out
to do her errand. When she returned with her John, the
young man assisted him in laying the dead form within the
coffin, and they both carried it to the door and laid it within
the hearse.

** You will come back, sir, won't you ? " ventured Jenny,
standing at the door and weeping incessantly behind her
apron. ^2? J;;

" Yes. Go on I "

The hearse started ; and John and the stranger followed
to the last resting-place of her lying within. It was all dreary,
the darkening sky, the drenched earth, the gloomy hearse,
and the two solitary figures following silently after, with
bowed heads, through the beating storm. Luckily, the
churchyard was near. The sexton, at sight of them, ran
off for the clergyman, who, shivering and reluctant, appeared
on the scene just as the coffin was lowered to the ground.

" Ashes to ashes, dust to dust 1 " The beautiful burial-
service of the English Church was over. The coffin was
lowered and the sods went rattling drearily down on the lid.

THE HEIRESS OF CASTILE CUFFE. 27

The young man stood bareheaded, his auburn hair fluttering
in the wind, and the storm beating unheeded on his head.
John was bareheaded, too, much against his will ; but the
clergyman ran home with unclerical haste the moment the
last word was uttered ; and the sexton shoveled and beat
down the sods with professional phlegm. Just then, flutter-
ing in the wiijd, a figure came through the leaden twilight ;
the young man lifted his gloomy eyes, and the newcomer
his hat. He had yellow hair and a jaundice complexion,
and his overcoat was a sort of yellowish brown — in short, it
was Mr. Sylvester Sweet.

" Good morning. Lieutenant Shirley 1 Who in the world
would expect to meet you here ? Not lost a friend, I hope ? "

" Have the goodness to excuse me, Mr. Sweet. I wish to
be alone ! " was the cold and haughty reply.

And Mr. Sweet, with an angel smile rippling all over his
face, left accordingly, and disappeared in tlie dismal
gloaming.

With the last sod beaten down, the sexton departed, and
John went slowly to the gate to wait in wet impatience for
the young gentleman. Standing at his post, he saw that
same young gentleman kneel down on the soaking sods,
lean his arm on the rude wooden cross the sexton had thrust
at the head of the grave, and lay his face thereon. So long
did he kneel there, with the cold March rain beating down
on his uncovered head, that John's teeth were chattering,
and an inky darkness was falling over the city of the dead.
But he rose at last, and came striding to his side ; passed
him with tremendous sweeps of limb, and was standing, drip-
ping like a water-god, before the kitchen fire, when the good
man of the house entered. Jenny was in a low chair, with
the baby on her lap, still sleeping — its principal occupation
apparently : and he looked at it with a cold, steady glance,
very like that of his lady mother.

" I am going to leave England," he said, addressing them
both when John entered, " In twenty-four hours I am going
to India, and if I should never come back, what will you do
with that child ? "

'* Keep it always," said Jenny, kissing it. " Dear little
thing I I love it already as if it were my own ! "

" If I live, it will not only be provided for, but you will be

jzS THE HEIRESS OF CASTI^E CI<IFFE.

well paid for your trouble. You may take this as a guaranty
of the future, and so— good-by 1 "

He dropped a purse heavy with guineas into John's
willing palm ; then going over, looked at the sleeping infant
with a cold, set face, for one instant, and then stooping down,
touched his lips lightly to its velvet cheek. And then, wrap-
ping his cloak closely around him, and pulling his military
cap far over his brows, he was out into the wild, black
night. They heard his horse's hoofs splashing over the
marshy common, and they knew not even the name of the
'* marble ghost " who came and disappeared as mysteriously
as the Black Horseman in the German tale.

And so the world went ! In her far-off home, amid the
green hills and golden Sussex downs, sat a lady, whose pride
was so much stronger than her love, that by her own act
she had made herself a childless, broken-heaited woman.
Steaming down the Thames, in a great transport, a young
officer stood, with folded arms, watching the receding shores
he might never see again, whose love was so much stronger
than his pride, that he was leaving his native land with a
prayer in his heart that some Sepoy bullet might lay him
dead under the blazing Indian sky ; and, sleeping in her
cottage home, all unconscious of the destiny before her, lay
the little heiress of Castle Cliffe 1

.:■■'■., m :' ■■'.r-u

if-" ■ - m"

J'i'

TWEI.VK YEARS I.ATER.

CHAPTER IV.

TWELVE YEARS AFTER.

The great bell of Clifton cathedral was just ringing the
hour of five. - The early morning was dim with hazy mist,
but the sky was blue and cloudless ; and away in the east,
a crimson glory was spreading, the herald of the rising sun.
Early as the hour was, all was bustle and busy life in the
town of Cliftonlea ; you would have thought, had you seen
the concourse of people in High street, it was noon instead
of five in the morning. Windows, too, were opening in
every direction ; nightcapped heads being popped out ; anx-
ious glances being cast at the sky, and then the nightcaps
were popped in again ; the windows slammed down, and
everybody making their toilet, eager to be out. Usually,
Cliftonlea .was as quiet and well-behaved a town as any in
England, but on the night previous to this memorable morn-
ing, its two serene guardian angels. Peace and Quietness,
had taken unto themselves wings and flown far away. The
clatter of horses and wheels had made night hideous ; the
jingling of bells and shouts of children, and the tramp of
numberless footsteps had awoke the dull echoes from night-
fall till daydawn. In short, not to keep any one in sus-
pense, this was the first day of the annual Cliftonlea races —
and Bartlemy fair, in the days of Henry the Eighth, was
not a circumstance to the Cliftonlea races. Nobody in the
whole town, under the sensible and settled age of thirty,
thought of eating a mouthful that morning ; it was sacrilege
to think of such a groveling matter as breakfast on the first
glorious day ; and so new coats and hats, and smart dresses,
were donned, and all the young folks came pouring out in
one continuous stream toward the scene of action.

The long, winding road of three miles, between Cliftonlea
and the race-course, on common everyday days, was the

30 THE HEIRESS OF CASTI.E CI.IFFE. „ .

pleasantest road in the world— bordered with fragrant haw-
thorn hedges, with great waving fields of grain and clover
on each hand, and shadowed here and there with giant
beeches and elms. But it was not a particularly cool or
tranquil tramp on this morning, for the throng of vehicles
and foot-passengers was fearful, and the clouds of simooms
of dust more frightful still. There were huge refreshment
caravans, whole troops of strolling players, gangs of gipsies,
wandering minstrels, and all such roving vagabonds ; great
booths on four wheels, carts, drays, wagons, and every
species of conveyance imaginable. There were equestrians,
too, chiefly mounted on mules and donkeys ; there were
jingling of bells, and no end of shouting, cursing and vocif-
erating, so that it was the liveliest morning that road had
known for at least twelve months.

There rose the brightest of suns, and the bluest of skies,
scorching and glaring hot. The volumes of dust were
awful, and came rolling even into the town ; but still the
road was crowded, and still the cry was, " They come I "
But the people and vehicles which passed were of another
nature now. The great caravans and huge carts had al-
most ceased, and young England came flashing along in
tandems, and dog-carts, and flies, and four-in-hands, or
mounted on prancing steeds. The officers from the Clif-
tonlea barracks — dashing dragoons in splendid uniforms —
flew like the wind through the dust, and sporting countiy-
gentlemen in top-boots and knowing caps, and fox-hunters in
pink, anc betting-men, and blacklegs, book in hand, followed,
as if life and death depended on their haste. In two or
three more hours came another change — superb barouches,
broughams, phaetons, grand carriages with coachmen and
footmen in livery, magnificent horses in silver harness, rich
hammercloths with coats of arms emblazoned thereon, came
rolling splendidly up, filled with splendid ladies. All the
great folks for fifty miles round came to the Cliftonlea
races ; even the Right Reverend the Bishop of Cliftonlea
deigned to come there himself.

And the scene on the race-ground — who shall describe
it ? The circuses, the theaters, the refreshment booths, the
thousand-and-one places of amusement and traps for catch-
ing money ; the hundreds and hundreds of people running

TWEI.VB YEARS LATER

3«

skies,
were
till the
)me I '*
'n other
»ad al-
^ng in
ds, or
e Clif-
rms —
untiy-
'ers in
owed,
vo or
iches, ^

and
, rich
came
I the
)nlea
>nlea

:ribe
, the
Ltch-
ling

hither and thither over the greensward in one living sea ;
the long array of carriages drawn up near the race-ground
and filled with such dazzling visions of glancing silk, and
fluttering lace, waving plumes and beautiful faces. Then
the air was filled with music from the countless performers,
making up a sort of cats' concert, not unpleasant to listen
to ; and over all there was the cloudless sky and blazing
August sun.

A group of officers standing near the course, betting-
books in hand, wSre discussing the merits of the rival racers,
and taking down wagers.

Vivia, owned by Sir Roland Cliffe, of Cliftonlea, and Lady
Agnes, owned by Lord Henry Lisle, of Lisleham, were to
take the lead that day.

" Two to one on Vivia 1 " cried Captain Douglas, of the
light dragoons.

•' Done I " cried a brother officer. " I am ready to back
the Lady Agnes against any odds I " -

The bets were booked, and as Captain Douglas put his
betting-book in his pocket with a smile on his lip, and his
quick eye glanced far and wide, he suddenly exclaimed :
' " And here comes the Lady Agnes herself, looking stately
as a queen and fair as a lily, as she always does."

" Where ? " said his superior officer, old Major Warwick,
looking helplessly round through his spectacles. *' I thought
Lady Agnes was a roan."

" I don't mean the red mare," said Captain Douglas,
laughing, "but the real Ifona fide Lady Agnes herself —
Lady Agnes Shirley. There she sits, like a princess in a
play, in that superb pony phaeton."

" Handsomest woman in Sussex ! " lisped a young en-
sign ; " and worth no end of tin. That's her nephew,
young Shirley, driving, and who is that little fright in the
back seat ? "

.f " That's her niece, little Maggie Shirley, and they say the
heiress of Castle Cliffe."

" How can that be ? " said the major. " I thought the
estate was entailed."

" The Shirley estates are, but the castle and the village
adjoining were the wedding-dower of Lady Agnes Cliffe
when she married Doctor Shirley. So, though the Shirley

■

1 »

I-

32 THE HEIRESS OF CASTI.E CUFFE.

property is strictly entailed to the nearest of kin, Lady
Agnes can. leave Castle Cliffe to her kitchen-maid if she

likes."

" Has she no children of her own ? " asked the major,
who was a stranger in Cliftonlea, and a little stupid about
pedigree.

" None now ; she had a son, Clifife Shirley — splendid
fellow he was, too. He was one of us, and as brave as a
lion. We served together some years in India. I remember
him so well, there was not a man in the whole regiment who
would not have died for him ; but he was a discarded son I "

" How was that } Lady Agnes looks more like an angel
than a vindictive mother."

" Oh, your female angels often turn out to have the heart
of Old Nick himself," said Captain Douglas, tightening his
belt. " I don't mean to say she has, you know ; but those
Cliffes are infernally proud people. They all are. I have
known some of their distant cousins, and so on, poor as old
Job's turkey, and proud as the devil. Cliffe Shirley com-
mitted that most heinous of social crimes — a low marriage.
There was the dickens to pay, of course, when my lady
yonder heard it ; and the upshot was, the poor fellow was
disinherited. His wife died a year after the marriage ; but
he had a daughter. I remember bis telling me of her a
thousand times, with the stars of India shining down on our
bivouac. Poor Clifford 1 he was a glorious fellow 1 but I
have heard he was killed since I came home, scaling the
walls of Monagoola, or some such place."

" Whom did he marry ? "

" I forget, now. He never would speak of his wife ; but
I have heard she was a ballet-dancer, or opera-singer, or
something of that sort."

" All wrong 1 " said a voice at his elbow. And there
stood Lord Henry Lisle, slapping his boots with a ratan,
and listening languidly. " I know the whole story. She
was a French actress. You've seen her a score of times.
Don't you remember Mademoiselle Vivia, who took dl
London by storm some twelve years ago ? "

" Of course, I do ! Ah, what eyes that girl had I And
then she disappeared so mysteriously, nobody ever kne\y
what became of her." - - » -^ .

TWEI.VK YEARS AFTER.

" I know. Cliffe Shirley married her, and she died, as
you have said, a year after."

Captain Douglas gave an intensely long whistle of aston-
ishment.

" Oh, that was the way of it, then ? No wonder his lady
mother was outrageous. A Cliflfe marry an actress I "

" Just so 1 " drawled Lord Lisle, slapping the dust off his
boots. " And if her son hadn't married her, her brother
would! Sir Roland nearly went distracted about her."

" Oh, nonsense 1 He married that black-eyed widow —
that cousin Charlotte of his, with the little boy — in half a
year after."

" It's true, though 1 I never saw one half so frantically
in love ; and he hasn't forgotten her yet, as you may see by
his naming his black mare after her."

Captain Douglas laughed.

" And is it for the same reason you have named your
red road-steed after Lady Agnes — eh. Lisle? "

Lord Lisle actually blushed. Everybody^ knew how in-
fatuated the insipid young peer was about the haughty lady
of Castle Cliffe, who might have been his mother; and
everybody laughed at him, except the lady herself, who, in
an uplifted sort of way, was splendidly and serenely scorn-
ful. . -

" Lovely creature I " lisped the ensign. " And those
ponies are worth a thousand guineas, if they're worth
one."

" How much ? Where is she ? Is she here ? " cried
Lord Lisle, who was mentally and physically rather obtuse,
staring around him. " Oh, I see her I Excuse me, gentle-
men, I must pay my respects."

Off went Lord Lisle like a bolt from a bow. The officers
looked at each other and laughed.

" Now, you'll see the grandly-disdainful reception he'll
get," said Captain Douglas. " The queenly descendant of
the Cliffes treats the lately-fledged lordling as if he were
her foot-boy ; and probably his grandfather shoed her grand-
father's horses."

The whole group were looking toward the glittering file
of carriages, drawn up near the end of which was an ex-
quisite phaeton, drawn by two beautifully-matched ponies

I f

THE HEIRESS OF CASTILE CIvIFFE.

of creamy whiteness. The phaeton had three occupants — a
lady, looking still young and still beautiful, and eminently
distinguished, dressed in flowing robes of black barege,
with a large lace shawl — gracefully worn more like drapery
than a shawl — half-slipping off one shoulder, daintily gloved
ill black kid, and wearing a black tulle bonnet, contrasting
exquisitely with the pearly fairness of the proud face, and
shining bandeaux of flaxen hair. In those flaxen bandeaux
not one gray hair was visible ; and leaning back with lan-
guid hauteur, she looked a proud, indolent, elegant woman
of the world, but not a widow wearing mourning for her
only son. Lady Agnes Shirley might have felt — widows
with only sons mostly do — but certainly the world knew
nothing of it. Her heart might break ; but she was one
who could suffer and make no sign.

Sitting beside her and holding the reins, pointing every-
thing out to her with vivid animation, talking with the
greatest volubility, and gesticulating with the utmost earnest-
ness, was a tall, dark-eyed, dark-haired, good-looking young
giant, who, although only sixteen, was six feet high, and
told his friends he wasn't half-done growing yet. He was
Tom Shirley, an orphan, the son of Lady Agnes' late hus-
band's youngest brother, now resident at Castle Cliffe, and
senior boy in the college school of Cliftonlea. And that
was Master Tom's whole past history, except that he was
the best-natured, impetuous, fiery, rough, kind-hearted
young giant, whose loud voice and long strides brought up-
roar everywhere he went.

There was a third figure in the back seat— a small girl
who looked ten, and who was in reality fifteen years old —
Miss Margaret Shirley, the daughter of Doctor Shirley's-
second brother — like Tom, an orphan, and depe-iident on
her aunt. She was dressed in bright rose silk, wore a pretty
summer hat trimmed with rose ribbons ; but the bright
colors of robe and chapeau contrasted harshly with her
dark, pale face. It was a wan, sickly, solemn, unsmiling
little visage as ever child wore ; with large, hollow, gray
eyes, neither bright nor expressive ; sharp, pinched features, '
and altogether an inexplicably cowed and subdued look, ,
Her hair was pretty — the only pretty thing about her — .
dark, and thick, and curly, as all the Shirleys were ; but it

TWELVE YEARS AFTER.

could not relieve the solemn, sallow face, the pinched, an-
gular figure, and everybody wondered what Lady Agnes
could see in that fairy changeling ; and shrugged their
shoulders to think that she should reign in Castle Cliffe,
whose mistresses had always been the country's boast for
their beauty. ' ' r.

The knot of officers watching Lo'-d Lisle had all their
expectations realized. His profound bow received only the
slightest and coldest answering bend of the haughty head.
Then Tom Shirley jumped from the carriage, and digging
his elbows into everybody's ribs who came in his way, tore
like a fiery meteor through the crowd.

And then the horses were starting, and the officers had
no time to think of anything else. For some time, Vivia
and Lady Agnes kept neck and neck. The excitement and
betting were immense. Captain D^iiglas doubles his wager
— Vivia gets ahead — a shout arises — she keeps ahead —
Lady Agnes is dead beat I and Vivia, amid a tremendous
cheer, comes triumphantly in the winner.

" That's three thousand pounds in my pocket ! " said
Captain Douglas, coolly. " Hallo, Shirley ! What's the
row ? "

For Tom Shirley was tearing along, very red in the face,
his elbows in the ribs of society, and looking as much like
a distracted meteor as ever. He halted in a high state of
excitement at the captain's salute.

" The most glorious sight ! Such a girl 1 You ought to
see her! She's positively stunning ! "

" Who's stunning, Tom ? Don't be in a hurry to answer.
You're completely blown."

" I'll be blown again, then, if I stop talking here ! If
you want to see her, come along, and look for yourself."

" I'm your man 1 " said the captain, thrusting his arm
through Tom's and sticking his other elbow, after that
spirited young gentleman's fashion, into the sides of every-
body who opposed him. " And now relieve my curiosity,
like a good fellow, as we go along."

" Oh, it's a tight-rope dancer 1 " said Tom. " Make haste,
or you won't see her, and it's a sight to see, I tell you I "

" Is she pretty, Tom ? "

" A regular trump I " said Tom. ' " Get out of the way,

lij

36 THE HEIRESS OK CASTI.E CUFFE.

you old kangaroo, or I'll pitch you into the middle of next

week."

This last apostrophe was addressed to a stout gentleman,
who came along panting, and snorting, and mopping his race.
And as the old gentleman and everybody else got out of the
way of this human whirlwind in horror, they soon found
themselves before a large canvas tent, around which an
immense concourse of people, young and old, were gathered.
A great pole, fifty feet high, ^tuck up through the middle of
this tent, and a thick wire-rope came slanting down to the
ground. Two or three big men, in a bright uniform of
scarlet and yellow, were keeping the throng away from this,
and a band of modern troubadours, with brass instruments
in their mouths, were discoursing the " British Grenadiers."
A very little boy was beating a very big drum in a very
large way, so that when the captain spoke, he had to shout
as people do through an ear-trumpet.

" How are we to get through this crowd to the tent, if the
damsel you speak of is within it ? "

" Oh, she'll be out presently I " said Tom ; " she is goinjg
to give the common herd a specimen of her powers, by
climbing up to the dizzy top of that pole, and dancing the
polka mazurka, or an Irish jig, or something of that sort,
on the top. And while we are waiting for her, just look
here!"

The captain looked. On every hand there were huge
placards, with letters three feet long, in every color of the
rainbow, so that he who ran might read, and the text of
these loud posters was somewhat in this fashion :

I _ .^ UNRIVALED ATTRACTION.

Unprecedented Ittducement !

Thk Infant Venus !

The Pet and Favorite of the Royal Family, the Nobility, and Gentry
of England !

Come one ! Come all !
The Infant Venus ! The Infant Venus ! I The Infant Venus! 1 I
Admission, 6d. : Children, half price.
\

By the time the captain had got to the end of this absorb-
ing piece of literature, a murmuring and swaying mqtion of

TWJSIyVE YEARS AFTER.

the crowd, told him that the Infant Venus herself had ap-
peared in the outer world. There was a suppressed rush —
the men in scarlet jackets flourished their batons danger-
ously near the noses of the dear public. There was an ex-
cited murmur: '• Where is she ? " "What is she like?"
'' Oh, I can't see her I " And everybody's eyes were start-
ing out of their heads to make sure that the Infant Venus
was of real ticsh and blood, and not an optical delusion.
But soon they were satisfied. A glittering figure, sparkling
and shining like the sunlight from head to foot, bearing the
Union Jai k of Old England in either hand, went fluttering
up this slender wire. The crowd held its breath, the music
changed to a quick, wild measure, and the beautiful vision
floated up In the sunshine, keeping time to the exciting strain.
It was the li/Mit, slender figure of a girl of thirteen or four-
teen, with tiic little tapering feet gleaming in spangled
slippers of while satin, the slight form arrayed in a short
white gossamer skirt reaching to the knee ; and, like the
slippers, all over silver spangles. Down over the bare white
shoulders waved such a glorious fall of golden-bronze hair,
lialf waves, half curls, such as few children ever had before ;
and the shining tresses were crowned with ivy leaves and
white roses. The face was as beautiful as the hair, but in-
stead of the blue or brown eyes that should have gone with
it, they were of intensest black, and veiled by sweeping
lashes of the same color. The music arose, quicker and
faster, the silvery vision, scintillating and shining, flashed
up, and up, and up, with her waving flags, till she looked
like a bright, white speck against the blue summer sky, and
the lookeis on hushed the very beating of their hearts. One
false step — one dizzy turn, and that white frock will cover a
bleeding and mangled little form, and the bronze hair will
be crimson in blood. But she is at the top ; she is looking
down upon them, she waves her flags triumphant in her eagle
eyrie, and a mighty cheer goes up from a hundred throats,
that makes the whole plain ring. And now the music
changes again ; it grows slower, and the fairy in silver
spangles begins to descend. If she should miss, even now I
But no, she is on the ground even before they can realize it,
and then there is another shout louder than the first ; the
band strikes up an " lo Triomphe," and Tom and the cap-

J 1'

) *•

38 THE HEIRESS OF CASTlvE CI.IFFE. ^

tain take off their own liats, and cheer louder than any o£
the rest. And the brave little beauty bows right and left,
and vanishes like any other fairy, and is seen no more.
" Didn't I tell you she was stunning ? " cried Tom, exult-

ingly.

" Tom, you re an oracle ! Is she going to do anything

within?"

" Lots of things — look at that rush ! "

There was a rush, sure enough. The doors had been
opened, and everybody was scrambling in pell-mell. Six-
pences and threepences were flying about like hailstones in
a March storm, and w^omen and children were getting torn
and " squeezed to death."

Tom and tlie captain fought their way through with the
rest. Two people were taking money at the door in which
they entered — a man and woman. They paid their sixpences,
made a rush for a seat, and took it in triumph. Still the
crowd poured in — it might have been the beauty of the girl,
her dizzying walk up the wire-rope, or the rumor of her danc-
ing, that brought them, but certainly the canvas tent was
filled from its sawdust pit to its tented roof. They were not
kept long waiting for the rising of the curtain, either — the
same thing was to be played at last half a dozen times that
day, so the moments w ere precious ; and the solemn green
curtain went up in ten minutes, and they saw the youthful
Venus rise up from the sea-foam, with her beautiful hair un-
bound, and floating around her, her white robes trailing in
the brine, and King Neptune and Queen Amphitrite, and
thcir mermaid court, and the graces and attendant sylphs, all
around her. The scene was all sea and moonlight ; and she
floated, in her white dress, across the moonlit stage, like a
fairy in a magic ring. The tent shook with the applause ;
and nobody ever danced in trailing robes as she did then.
The contest for the crown of beauty arose — Juno, Minerva
and Venus were all there ; and so was the arbiter and judge.
Venus, says legendary lore, bore away the palm, as much on
account of her scanty draper}' as her unparalleled loveliness.
The Venus standing before them there was scantily enough
draped, Heaven knows ! the dainty and uncovered neck^nd
arms whiter than her dress, one as short as the heart of any
ballet-dancer could desire ; and oh 1 what another storm of

TWEI.VK YEARS AFTER.

applause there was when Paris gave her the gold apple, and
Juno and Minerva danced ?l pas de deuxoi exasperation, and
she floated round them like a spirit in a dream i And then
she bowed and smiled at the audience, and kissed her finger-
tips to them, and vanished behind the green curtain ; and
then it was all over, and everybody was pouring out in
ecstasies of delight.

" Isn't she splendid ? " cried Tom, in transport. " She
beats the ballet dancers I saw when I was in London all to
sticks. And then she is as good looking as an enchanted
princess in the * Arabian Nights ' I "

" My dear Tom, moderate your transports. I wonder if
there's any way of finding out anything more about her ? I
must confess to feeling a trifle interested in her myself."

" Let us ask the old codger at the door."

"Agreed." ^ . . - '-■ ■• - - ■

The twain made their way to the door, where the old cod-
ger, as Tom styled the black-browed, sullen-looking man who
had taken ^l":e money, stood counting over his gains with
his female companion — a little, stooping, sharjveyed, vix-
enish looking old woman. The man looked up as Captain
Douglas lightly touched him on the shoulder.

" See here, my friend, that is a very pretty little girl you
have there 1 "

" Glad you like her I " said the man, with a sort of growl.

" I thought you would be. What's her name ? "

"Her name? Can't you read? Her name is out there
on them bills ! Don't you see she is the Infant Venus ? "

" But I presume, for the ccrtnmon uses of everyday life,
she has another ? Come, old fellow, don't be disobliging —
let's hear it."

" Not as I know on," growled the questioned one, civilly.

Tom, combating a severe mental resolve to punch his
head, then drew out a sovereign instead, and flourished it
before his eyes,

" Look -here, old chap 1 ttU us all about her, and I'll give
you this."

" I'll tell you 1 " said the old woman, snapping with vicious
eagerness at the money. " She's his daughter, and I'm his
mother, and she's my granddaughter, and her name's Bar-
bara Black I Give it here ! ^''

40 THE HEIRESS OF CASTI.E CUFFK,

Before Tom could recover his breath, jerked out of him
by the volubility with which this confession was poured forth,
the old woman had snatched the coin out of his hand, and
was thrusting it, with a handful of silver, into her pocket,
when a pleasant voice behind her exclaimed :

'* Dear little Barbara, the prettiest little fairy that ever was
seen, and the very image of her charming grandmother ! "

All looked at the speaker — a gentleman in a canary-col-
ored waistcoat, wearing gold studs and breastpin, a gold
watch-chain with a profusion of shimmering gold talismans
attached, a lemon-colored glove on one hand, and a great
gold ring on the other, with a yellow seal thal^ reached nearly
to the second joint ; a saffronish complexion, and yellow
hair, that seemed to encircle his head like a glory — a gentle-
man who glittered in the sunlight almost as much as the
Infant "Venus herself, and whose cheerful face wore the
pleasantest of smiles — a gentleman to make you smile from
sympathy as you looked at him, and not at all to be afraid
of ; but as the grandmother of the Infant Venus laid her
eyes upon him, she uttered a terrified scream, dropped the
handful of gold and silver, and fled.

* . '^

> V ^ :»«■

THE PRODIGAIv SON.

CHAPTER V.

THE PRODIGAL SON.

** Ah, Sweet, how are you ? " said Tom, nodding famil-
iarly to the newcomer. "What the dickens ails the old

girl ? "

" A hard question to answer. She is out a little, you
know " (Mr. Sweet tapped his forehead significantly with his
forefinger, and looked at the man) — " just a little here ! "

" Can we speak to the Infant Venus ? " asked Tom of the
old codger.

" I tell you v/hat, gents," was the angry reply, " I want
you three to clear out of this I There are other ladies and
gents a-coming in, and I can't be having you a-loitering
round here all day 1 Come ! "

" Quite right," said Mr. Sweet, in his pleasant way. " Mr.
Tom, I heard Lady Agnes asking for you a short tin\e ago.
Captain Douglas, the major told me to say, if I found you,
he had a little commission for you to execute. Mr. Tom, I
believe her ladyship wishes to go home."

" All right ! " said Tom, boyishly, moving away arm-in-
arm with the captain ; and turning his head as he went :
"Give my love to Barbara, you old bear, and don't let her
be risking her precious little neck climbling up that horrid
wire or I'll break your head for you ! Vale ! "

With which gentle valedictory Tom and the captain moved
away ; and the doorkeeper looked after them with a growl ;
but tie growled more when he found Mr. Sweet standing
still before him, gazing up in his face with a soft smile, and
showing no signs of moving.

" Come 1 get out of this ! " he began, gruffly.

" Oh, no ! " said Mr. Sweet. " By no means ; not at all ;
not yet. 'Tis just the hour. Moore found that out, you
know. I want to see che old lady who ran away." ■»

THH HKIR^S OF CASTI.E CI.IFFK.

" You will want it, then I Be off, I tell you 1 "

" My dear fellow, don't raise your voice in that unpleasant
manner. People will hear you, and I'm sure you would re-
gret it after. Do lead me to that dear old lady again — your
mother, I think you said."

And Mr. Sweet patted him soothingly on the back.

" I'll break your neck I " cried the exasperated man,
snatching up a cudgel that stood beside him, and flourish-
ing it in a way that showed he was most unpleasantly in
earnest, " if you stay another minute here."

The two men were looking straight at each other — the one
with furious eyes, the other, perfectly serene. There is a
magnetism, they say, in a calm, commanding human eye_
that can make an enraged tiger crouch and tremble. Mr.
Sweet's eyes were very small, and were mostly hid under
two thick, yellow eyebrows ; but they were wonderful eyes
for all that. The man with the stick was a big, stout fellow,
who would have made two of him easily ; but he slowly
dropped his stick and his eyes, and crouched like a whipped
hound before his master.

•* What do you want ? " he demanded, with his customary
growl, " a-coming and bullying a man what's been and done
nothing to you. I wish you would clear out. There's cus-
tomers coming in, and you're ih the way."

" But I couldn't think of such a thing," said Mr. Sweet,
quite laughing. " I couldn't, indeed, until I've seen the old '
lady. Dear old lady 1 do take me to her, my friend."

Muttering to himself, but still cowed, the man led on
through the rows of benches, pushed aside the green curtain,
and jumped on the low stage. Mr. Sweet followed, and
entered v/ith him the temporary green-room, pausing in the
doorway to survey it. A horrible place, full of litter and
dirt, and disorder, and painted men and women, and chil-
dren and noise, and racket, and uproar. There w xs a row of
little looking-glasses stuck all round the wall, and some of
the players were standing before them, looking unutterably
ghastly with one cheek painted blooming red, and the other
of a grisly whiteness. And in the midst of all this confu-
sion, *' worse confounded," there sat the Infant Venus, look-
ing as beautiful off the stage as she had done on it, and
needing no paint or tawdry tinsel to make her so. And there,

THE PRODIGAL SON.

sant

re-

rour

lan,
[•ish-
in

crouching down in the furthest corner, horribly frightened,
as every feature of her old face showed, was the dear old
lady they were in search of. The noise ceased at the en-
trance of the stranger, and all paused in their manifold oc-
cupations to stare, and the old woman crouched further away
in her corner, and held out her shaking hands as if to keep
him off. But Mr. Sweet, in his benevolent designs, was not
one to be so easily kept off ; and he went over and patted
the old lady encouragingly on the back, as he had done her
son. , •.:

" My good old soul, don't be so nervous ! There is no
earthly reason why you should tremble and look like this. I
wouldn't hurt a fly, I wouldn't. Do compose yourself, and
tell me what is the matter."

The old woman made an effort to speak, but her teeth
chattered in her head.

" You said you were — you said "

" Precisely I That was exactly what I said, that I was
going to America ; but I haven't gone, you see. I couldn't
leave England, I couldn't really. * England, my country,
great and free, heart of the world, I leap to thee,' and all
that sort of thing, you know. What ? you're shaking yet.
Oh, now, really, you mustn^t, it quite hurts my feelings to
see one at your time of life taking on in this fashion. Per-
mit me to help you up, and assist you to a chair. There is
none — very well, this candh-box will do beautifully."

With which Mr. Sweet assisted the old lady to arise, placed
her on the box, amid the wondering company, and smiling
m his pleasant way around on. them *all, pursued his dis-
course.

" These good ladies and gentlemen here look surprised,
and it is quite natural they should ; but I can assure them
you and I are old und tried friends, and I will intrude
on them but a few minutes longer. I am anxious to
say five words in private to your son, my worthy soul I and
lest his naturally prudent nature should induce him to de-
cline, I have come to you to obtain your maternal persua-
sions in my favor. I will step to the door and wait, but I'm
sure he will listen and obey the words of a tender mother,"

Humming an air as he went, Mr. Sweet walked out, after
bowing politely to the company, and waited with the utmost

I f

44 THE HEIRESS OF CASTI.E CUFFE.

patience for some ten minutes at the door. At the end of
that period the gentleman waited for made his appearance,
looking sour, suspicious and discontented. Mr. Sweet in-
stantly took his arm and led him out in his pleasant way.

" Dear old fellow I I knew you would come — in fact, I
was perfectly sure of it. About fifty yards from this place
there is a clump of birch trees, overhanging a hedge, a gceat
place where nobody ever comes. Do you know it? "

A sulky nod was the answer.

" Very well. Have the goodness to precede me there —
people might say something if they saw us go together. I
have a very interesting little story to tell you, which will not
bear more than one listener, and that dark spot is just the
place to tell it in. Go on I "

The man paused for one moment and looked at him in
mingled suspicion and fear ; but Mr. Sweet was pointing
steadily out. And, muttering in his peculiar, growling tones,
like those of a beaten cur, he slunk away in the direction in-
dicated. The distance was short ; he made his way through
the crowd and soon reacned the spot, a gloomy place with
white birches, casting long cool shadows over the hot grass,
in an obscure corner of the grounds where nobody came.
There was an old stump of a tree, rotting under the fragrant
hawthorn hedge ; the man sat down on it, took a pipe out of
his pocket, lit it, and began to smoke. As he took the first
whiff, something glistened before him in the sun, and raising
his sullen eyes, they rested on the smiling visage of Mr.
Sweet.

" Ah, that's right 1 " that gentleman began in his lively
way ; " make yourself perfectly comfortable, my dear Black
— youi lame is Black, is it not — Peter Black, eh ? "

Mr. Black nodded, and smoked away like a volcano. ' ^

" Mine's Sweet — Sylvester Sweet, solicitor at law, and agent
and steward of the estates of Lady Agnes Shirley, of Castle
Cliff e. And now th-.c we mutually know each other, I am
sure you will be pleased to have me proceed to business at
once."

There was a rustic stile in the hawthorn hedge quite close
to where Mr. Black sat. Mr. Sweet took a seat upon it, and
looked down on him, smiling all over.

" Perhaps you're surprised, my dear Mr. Black, that I

THE PRODIGAI, SON,

should know you as if you were my brother, and you may be
still further surprised when you hear that it was solely and
exclusively on your account that I have come to these races.
I am not a betting man ; I haven't the slightest interest in
any of these horses ; I don't care a snap who wins or who
loses, and I detest crowds ; but I wouldn't have stayed away
from these races for a thousand pounds 1 And all, my dear
fellow," said Mr. Sweet, jingling his watch-seals till they
seemed laughing in chorus, " all because I knew you were
to be here."

Mr. Black, smoking away in grim silence, and looking^
stolidly before him, might have been deaf or dumb for all
the interest or curiosity he manifested.

" You appear indifferent, my good Black ; but I think I
will manage to interest you yet before we part. I have the
most charming little story to relate, and I must go back —
let me see — eleven years."

Mr. Black gave the slightest perceptible start, but still he
neither looked up nor spoke.

" Some fifteen miles north of London," said Mr. Sweet,
playing away with his watch-seals, " there is a dirty little
village called Worrel, and in this village there lived, eleven
years ago, a man named Jack Wildman, ketter know to his
pot-house companions by the sobriquet of Black Jack."

Mr. Peter Black jumped as if he had been shot, and the
pipe dropped from his mouth, and was shivered into atoms
at his feet.

" What is it ? Been stung by a wasp or a hornet ? " in-
quired Mr. Sweet, kindly. " Those horrible little insects are
in swarms around here ; but sit down, my good Black ; sit
down, and take another pipe — got none ? Well, never mind.
This Black Jack I was telling you of was a mason by trade,
earning good woges, and living very comfortably with a wife
and one child, a little girl ; and I think her name was Bar-
bara. Do sit down, Mr. Black ; and don't look at me in
that uncomfortably steadfast way — it's not polite to stare,
you know ! "

Mr. Black crouched back in his seat ; but his hands were
clenched and his face was livid.

" This man, as I told you, was getting good wages, and
was doing well ; but he was one -of those discontented, un-

46 THE HEIRESS OE CASTI.E CLIFFE.

grateful curs, who, like a spaniel, required to be whipped and
kicked to be made keep his plaCv. He got dissatisfied ; he
went among his fellow-laborers, and stirred up a feeling of _.
mutinous revolt. There was a strike, and to their great
amazement and disgust, their masters took them at their
word, hired other workmen, and told the cross-grained dogs to
beg or starve, just as they pleased. They grew fuiious, houses
were set on fire, the new workmen were waylaid and
beaten, works were demolished, and no end of damage done.
But it did not last long ; the law has a long arm and a
strong hand, and it reached the disaffected stone-masons of
Worrel. A lot of tliem were taken one night after having
set a house on lire, and beaten an inoffensive man to death ;
and three moTiths after, the whole villainous gang were trans-
ported for life to New South Wales. Allow me to give you
a cigar, my dear Black ; I am sure you can listen better, and
I can talk better smoking."

There was a strong club, with an iron head, that some
one had dropped, lying near. Mr. Black picked it up, and '"
sprung to his feet, with a furious face. The motion was -
quick, but his companion had made a quicker one ; he had
thrust his hand into his breast-pocket, and drawn oi't some-
thing that clicked sharply.

" Dear old boy, keep cool I No good ever comes of act-
ing on impulse, and this is a hair-trigger 1 Sit down — do —
and throw that club over the hedge, or I'll blow your brains
out as I would a mad dog's i "

Mr. Sweet's voice was as soft as the notes of an ^olian ,
harp, and his smile was perfectly seraphic. But his pistol
was within five inches of Mr. Black's countenance ; and
snarling like a baffled tiger, he did throw the club over the
hedge, and slunk back with a face so distorted by fear and
fury, that it was scarcely human.

" Dear boy, if you would only be sensible and keep quiet \'
like that ; but you are so impulsive I Mr. Wildman was trans-
ported, and is probably founding a flourishing c61ony in that
delightful land, at this present moment, for nobody ever
heard of him again. But some five months ago, there ar-
rived in London, from some unknown quarter, a gentleman
by the name of Black — Peter Black, who was so charmingly
got up with the aid of a wig, false whiskers and mustaches,

THE PRODIGAI. SON.

le.

and a suit of sailor's clothes, that this own dear mother
couldn't have known him. In fact, that venerable lady
didn't know him at all, when after a month's diligent search
and inquiry he found her out, and paid her an unexpected
visit ; but it was a delightful meeting. Don't ask me to
describe it ; no known words in the English lanjguage could
do justice to a mother's feelings on meeting a lost son — and
such a son ! Ah, dear me ! " said Mr. Sweet, taking his
cigar between his finger and thumb, and looking down at it
with a pensive sigh.

Mr. Peter Black, crouching down between the trunks of
the trees, and glaring with eyes like those of a furious buU-
'^og about to spring, did not seem exactly the sort of son for
any mother to swoon with delight at seeing ; but then, tastes
differ. Mr. Sweet knocked the ashes daintily off the end of
his cigar, replaced it between his lips, looked brightly down
on the glaring eyes, and went on.

" Mr. Peter Black, when the first transports of meeting
were over, found that the relict of the late transported Mr.
Wildman had departed — let us hope to a better land — and
that his mother had adopted Miss Barbara, then a charming
young lady of eleven and the most popular little tight-rope
dancer in London. Miss Barbara was introduced to Mr.
Black, informed he was her father, just returned after a long
cruise, and no end of shipwrecks, and through her influence,
a place was procured for him a^j ticket -porter in the theater.
It was a wandering affair that sam*^ theater, and Mr. Black
and. his charming daughter and mot)ier went roving with it
over the country, and finally came with it to the Cliftonlea
races. Sly old fox I how you sit there drinking in every
word — do let me prevail on you to light this cigar."

He threw a fragrant Havana as he spoke from his cigar-
case ; but the sly old fox let it roll on the grass at his feet,
• and never took his savage eyes off the sunny face of the
lawyer. His face was so frightfully pale, that the unearthly
glare and the mat of coarse black hair, made it look by
contrast quite dreadful.

" You won't have it — well, no matter ? How do you like
my story ? "

" You devil," said Mr. Black, speaking for the first time
and in a horrible voice, " where did you learn my story?"

i I '

48 THE HEIRKSS OF CASTI.E CI.IFFE.

" Your story, eh ? I thought you would find it interest-
ing. No matter where I learned it, I know you, Mr. Peter
Black, as pat as my prayers, and I intend to use that knowl-
edge, you may take your oath I You are as much my slave
as if I bought you in the Southern States of America for so
many hundred dollars ; as much my dog as if I had you
chained and kenneled in my yard I Don't stir, you returned
transport, or I'll shoot you where you stand."

With the ferocious eyes blazing, and the tiger-jaws sr..irl-
ing, Mr. Bbck crawled in spirit in the dust at the feet of the
calm-voiced, yellow-haired lawyer.

" And now, Mr. Black, you understand why I brought you
here to tell you this little story ; and as you've listened to it
with exemplary patience, you may listen now to the sequel.
The first thing you are to do is, to quit this roving theater,
you, and the dAr old lady, and the pretty little tight-rope
dancer. You can remain with them to-day, but tornight
you will go to the Cliffe Arms, the three of you, and remain
there until I give you leave to quit. Have you money
enough to pay for lodgings there a week ? "

Mr. Black uttered some guttural sounds by way of reply,
but they were so choked in his throat with rage and terror
that they were undistinguishable.

Mr. Sweet jumped down and patted him on the shoulder
with a good-natured laugh.

" Speak out, old fellow I Yes or no."

" Yes."

" You won't go secretly, you know. Tell the proprietor
of the affair that you like this place, and that you are going
to settle down and take to fishing or farming; that you
don't like this vagabond kind of life for your little girl, and so
on. Go to the Cliffe Arms to-night. You'll have no trouble
in getting quarters there, and you and your delightful family
will stay till I see fit to visit you again. You will do this, my
dear boy — won't you ? "

" You know I must I " said the man, with a fiendish scowl,
and his fingers convulsively working, as if he would have
liked to spring on the pleasant law}'er and tear him limb
from limb.

" Oh, yes, I know it I " said Mr. Sweet, laughing : " and I
know, too, that if you should attempt to play any tricks on

THE PRODIGAI. SON.

iSt-

jter
Iwl-

ive

^ou

»ed

me, that I will have^ou swinging by the neck from the Old
Bailey six months after. But you needn't be afraid. I don't
mean to do you any harm. On the contrary, if you only
follow my directions, you will find me the best friend you
ever had. Now go."

Mr. Black rose up, and turned away, but before he had
gone two yards he was back again.

" What do you want ? What does all this mean ? " he
asked, In a husky whisper.

•' Never you mind that, but take yourself off. I'm done
with you for the present. Time tells everything, and time
will tell what I want with you. Off with you 1 "

Mr. Black turned again, and this time walked steadily out
of sight ; and when he was entirely gone, Mr. Sweet broke
into a musical laugh, threw his smoked-out cigar over the
hedge, thrust his hands in his pockets, and went away
whistling : .

. * " My love is but a lassie yet."

But if the steward and agent of Lady Agnes Shirley had
given the father of the Infant Venus a most pleasant sur-
prise, there was another surprise in reserve for himself —
whether pleasant or not, is an unanswerable question. He
was making his way through the crowd, lifting his hat and
nodding and smiling right and left, when a hearty slap on
the shoulder from behind made nim turn quickly, as an
equally-hearty voice exclaimed :

" Sweet, old fellow, how goes it ? "

A tall gentleman, seemingly about thirty, with an unmis-
takably military air about him, although dressed in civilian
costume, stood before him. Something in the peculiarly
erect, upright carriage, in the laughing blue eyes, in the fair,
curly hair and characteristic features, were familiar, but the
thick soldier's mustache and sun-browned skin puzzled him.
Only for u moment, though ; the next he had started back,
with an exclamation of :
•■ " Lieutenant Shirley I " -

"Colonel Shirley, if you please. Do you suppose I have
served twelve years in India for nothing — do you? Don't
look so blanched, man. I am not a ghost, but the same

50 THE HEIRESS OF CASTLE CLIFFE.

scapegrace you used to lend money to lang syne. Give me
your hand, and I'll show you."

Mr. Sweet held out his hand, and received such a bears*
grip from the Indian officer that tears of pain started into
his eyes.

*.' Thank you, colonel ; that will do," said the lawyer, winc-
ing, but in an overjoyed tone all the same. " Who could
have looked for such an unexpected pleasure ? When did
you arrive ? "

" I got to Southampton last night, and started for here the
first thing. How are all our people ? I haven't met any
one I know, save yourself ; but they told me in Cliftonlea
Lady Agnes was here." • • / :. .. ^ ;,

" So she is. Come along, and I'll show you where."

With a face radiant with delight and surprise, Mr. Sweet
led the way, and Colonel Shirley followed. Many of the
faces that passed were familiar. Sir Roland's among the rest ;
but the Indian officer, hurrying on, stopped to speak to no
one. The file of carriages soon came in sight. Mr. Sweet
pointed out the pony phaeton ; and his companion, the next
instant, was measuring oflf the road toward it in great strides.
Lady Agnes, with Tom beside her, was just giving languid
directions about driving home, when a handsome face,
bronzed and mustached, was looking smilingly down on her,
a hand being held out, and a well-known voice exclaiming:

"Mother, I have come home again I " . "^•

■:'^,

KII.I.ING THE FATTED CAI.F.

CHAPTER VI.

KILLING THE FATTED CALF.

It is a vulgar thing to h- surprised at anything in this
world. Lady Agnes Shirley was too great a lady to do any-
thing vulgar ; so the common herd gathered round heard
only one faint cry, and saw the strange gentleman's hands
wildly grasping both the great lady's.

'* Don't faint, mother. They haven't killed me in India,
and it's no ghost, but your good-for-nothing son Cliflfe I "

" Oh, Cliffe 1— oh, ClifTe 1 " she cried out. " Is this really
you ? "

" It really is, and come home for good, if you will let me
stay. Amsl forgiven yet, mother"

" My darling boy, it is I who must be forgiven, not you.
How those odious people are staring 1 Tom, jump out, and
go away. Cliffe, for Heaven's sake I get in here and drive
- out of this, or I shall die 1 Oh, what a surprise this is I "

Master Tom, with his eyes starting out of his head with
astonishment, obeyed, and the Indian officer laughingly took
his place, touched the cream-colored ponies lightly, and off
they started, amid a surprised stare from fifty pairs of eyes.

" Oh, Cliflfe ! I cannot realize this. When did you come ?
Where have you been ? What have you been doing ? Oh,
I am dreaming, I think 1 "

"Nothing of the kind, ma mere. There is not a tnore
wide-awake lady in England. I came here an hour ago, I
have been in India fighting my country's battles, and get-
ting made a colonel for my pains."

" My brave boy 1 And it is twelve years — twelve long,
long years since I saw you last I Shall I ever forget that
miserable morning in London ? "

" Of course you will. Why not ? Let bygones be by-
gones, as the Scots say, and I shall settle down into the most

■/'■r

1 1]

52 THE HEIRESS OF CASTLE CI,f FEE.

contented country gentleman yon ever saw at Castle Cliff e.
How do things go jn a^ the old place ? "

" Exceedingly well. I have the best agent in the world,
But, Cliffe, we heard you were killed."

" Likely enough ; but you may take my word for it when
I tell you I was not. I was very near it, though, more than
once ; but that's all over now, and I'm out of the reach of
bullets and sword-cuts. Who is the young lady behind?"

" You remember your uncle, Edward Shirley — well, he is
dead, and that is his daughter. Wretchec" little creature ! "
said Lady Agnes, lowering her voice and laughing contemp-
tuously. " But I took her to keep her out of the workhouse 1
Drive fast, Clifi'e ; I am dying to get home and hear every-
thing."

The two creamy ponies flashed like an express-train through
Cliftonlea, and along through a delightful wooded road, and
drew up before two immense iron gates, swinging under a
great granite arch, with the anns of Cliffe carved thereon.
The huge gttes were opened by a man who came out of an
Italian cottage — or, at least, as near an imitation of a cottage
as they can go in Italy — and which was the gate-lodge, and
the ponies dashed up a spacious avenue, with grand cedars
of Lebanon on either hand, for upward of a quarter of a
iflile. Then they crossed a great white bridge, wide enough
to have lialf-spanned the Mississippi, and which in reality
spanned an ambitious little stream you might have waded
through in half a dozen steps, running sparkling through. the
jgreen turf like a line of light, and disappearing among the
trees. Past this the avenue ran along through a part of the
grounds less densely wooded, and you saw that the rivulet
emptied itself into a M'ide lake, lying like a great pearl set in
emeralds, and with a miniature island in the center. There
was a Swiss farmhouse on the island, with fowls, and children,
and dogs scrambling over each other, a little white skiff drawn
up on the bank, and a woman standing in the rustic porch,
with a baby in her arms, and looking, under the fragrant
arch of honeysuckles, like a picture in a frame. Then the
plantation grew denser, and the avenue lost itself in count-
less bypaths and windings, and there were glimpses, as they
flew along among the trees, of a distant park, and deer sport-
ing therein. Once they drove up a steep hillside, and on

KIIvUNG THE FATTED CALF.

>. >

'»

the top there was a view of a grand old house on another
hillside, with towers, and turrets, and m-^ny gables, and no
end of pinnacles, and stone mullioned windows, and queer
chimneys, and a great cupola, with a flag flying on the top ;
and further away to the left, there were the ruins of some
old building, with a huge stone cross pointing up to the blue
sky, amid a solemn grove of yew trees and golden willows,
mingling light and shade pleasantly together. And there
were beau'.iful rose-gardens to the right, with bees and but-
terflies glancing around them, and fountains splashing like
living jewels here and there, and hotl: ouses, and greenhouses,
and summerhouses, and beehives. 'and a perfect forest of
magnificent horse-chestnuts. And further away still, there
spread the ceasless sea, sparkling as if sown with stars ; and
still and white beneath the roclcs, there was the fisherman's
village of Lower Cliffe, sweltering under the broiling sea-
side sun. Oh, it was a wonderful place, was Castle Cliffe !

They were down the hill in a moment, and dashing
through a dark, cool beech wood. A slender gazelle came
bounding along, and lifting its large, tearful, beautiful eyes,
and vanishing again in affright, and Colonel Shirley uncov-
ered his head, and reverently saic : ^

"It is good to be home 1 "

Two minutes later, they were in a paved courtyard. A
groom came and led away the horses, looking curiously at
the strange gentleman, who smiled, and followed Lady-
Agnes up a flight of granite steps, and into a spacious portico.
A massive hall door of oak and iron, that had swung on the
same honest hinges in the days of the Tudor Plantagenets,
flew back to admit them, and they were in an immense hall,
carved, and paneled, and pictured, with the Clifl:e coat-of-
arms emblazoned on the ceiUng, and a floor of bright, pol-
ished oak, slippery as glass. Up a great sweeping staircase,
rich in busts and bronzes — where you might have driven a
coach and four, and done it easy — into another hall, and at last
into the boudoir of Lady Agnes herself — a very modem
apartment, indeed, for so old a house. Brussels-carpeted,
damask-curtained, with springy couches, and easy-chairs, and
ottomans, and little gems of modern pictures looking down
on them from the walls.

" It is good to be borne 1 " repeated Colonel Shirley, look-

f r.

THE HEIRESS OF CASTI.E CI.IFFK.

ing round him with a Httle satisfied smile, as he sat down in
an armchi:ir ; " but this room is new to me."

" Oh I I left the Agnes Tower altogether — such a dismal
place, you know, and full of rats 1 and I had the suite to
which this belongs all fitted up last year. Are you hungry,
Cliffe ? You must have luncheon, and then you shall tell
me all the news."

With which practical remark, the lady rung, and ordered
her maid to take off her things, and send up lunch. And
when it came, the traveler did ample justice to the cham-
pagne and cold chicken, and answered his mamma's ques-
tions between the mouthfuls.

" Oh, there is very little to tell, after all 1 You know I
was thrown from my horse that morning, after I left you at
the hotel in London, and it was three weeks before I was
able to go about again. And then I got a note from Vivia"
(his sunny face darkened for a moment) " telling" me she
was ill — dying I She was more — v/hen I reached her, I
found her — dead 1 " ;; ' : . • t- - ' r .

' But Lady Agnes was sitting, very cold, and pale, and
upright, in her seat. What was the death of a French
actress to her ?

" There was a child — a midge of a creature, a week old,
and I left it with the good people with whom she lodged,
and set sail for India the next morning, a desperate man.
I went on praying that some friendly bullet would put an end
to a miserable existence ; but I bore a charmed life ; and
while my comrades fell around me in scores, I scaled ram-
parts, and stormed breaches, and led forlorn-hopes, and
came off without a scratch. I would have made the fortune
of any life assurance company in England! "he said, with
his frank laugh.

" And the child ? " said Lady Agnes, intensely interested.

" Do you really care to know anything of her ? "

" It was a daughter, then ? Of course I do, you absurd
boy ! If she lives, she is the heiress of Castle Cliffe ! "

Colonel Shirley took au oyster-p^te, with a little malicious
smile.

" And the daughter of a French actress I "

" She is my son's daughter ! " said Lady Agnes, haughtily.
And, with a sligj;htly-flushing cheek, said : " Pray, go on 1 "

■li'

KILUNG THK FATTED CALF.

•y»

■it;

ell

-J

" I sent the people who had her money, and received in
return semi-annual accounts o£ her health for the first six
years. Then they sent me word they were going to leave
England and emigrate to America, and told me to come and
take the child, or send word what they would do with her.
I wanted to see old England again, anyway, and I had natural
feelings, as well as the rest ©f mankind, so I obtained leave
of absence and came back to the old land. Don't look so
incredulous; it is quite true 1 " it.. - -.'
-. " And you never came to see me. Oh, Cliff e !"

" No I " said Cliffe, with some of her own coldness. " I
had not quite forgotten a certain scene in a London hotel,
at that time, as I have now. I came to England, and saw
her a slender angel in pinafores and pantalets, and I took
her with me, and left her in a French convent, and there she
is safe and well to this day." --

Lady Agnes started up with clasped hands and radiant
face.

" Oh, delightful 1 And a descendant of mine will inherit
Castle Cliffe, after all 1 I never could bear the idea of
leaving it to Margaret Shirley. Cliffe, you must send for
the child, immediately I "

*' But I don't think she is a child now — she i" a young
lady of twelve years. Perhaps she has taken the veil before
this I "

" Oh, nonsense I Have you seen her since ? "
. " No ; the supdrieure and I have kept up a yearly corre-
spondence on the subject, and the young person has favored
me herself with a half-dozen gilt-edged, cream-laid little
French effusions, beginning, ' I embrace my dearest papa a
a thousand times,' and ending, * with the most affectionate
sentiments, your devoted child ' I How does your ladyship
like the style of that ? "

"Cliffe I don't be absurd 1 You are just the same great
boy you were twelve years ago ! What is her name ? "

" True 1 I forgot that part of it ! He good foster-mother,
being at a loss for a name, took the liberty of calling her
after her most gracious majesty herself, and when I brought
her to the convent, I told them to add that of her mother ;
so Miss Shirley is Victoria Genevieve."

" What a disgrace 1 She ought to have been Agnes — all

56 THE HEIRESS OF CASTILE CI^IFFE. -

the Cliffes are. But it is too late now. Whom does she
resemble, us or " Her ladyship had the grace to pause.

" Not her mother ! " said Colonel Shirley, with perfect
composure. " She has blue eyes and light hair, and is not
bad-looking. I will start for Paris to-morrow, if you like, and
bring her home."

" No, no, I cannot part with you, after your twelve years'
absence, in that fashion ! I will send Mrs. Wilder, the
housekeeper, and Roberts, the butler — you remember
Roberts, Cliff e — and they will do, excellently. I shall not
lose a moment, I am fairly dying to see her, so you must
write a letter to the superieure (oh, the idea of placing my
granddaughter in a convent ! ) and Roberts and Mrs. Wilder
can start in the afternoon train."

JLady Agnes could be energetic when she chose, and ink
and paper were there in a moment. Cliffe laughed at his
mother's impetuosity, but he wrote the letter, and that very
afternoon, sure enough, the dignified housekeeper and the
old family butler were steaming away on their journey to
Paris.

There had not been such a sensation in Cliftonlea for
years, as there was when it became known that the lost heir
had returned. Everybody remembered the handsome,
laughing, fair-haired boy, who used to dance with the village
girls on the green, and pat the children in the town streets
on the head, and throw them pennies, and about whom there
were so many romantic stories afloat. Everybody called,
and the young colonel rode everywhere to see his friends,
and be shaken by the hand ; and Lady Agnes drove with
him through Cliftonlea, with a flush on her cheek, and a
light in her eye, which had not been seen there for many a
day. And at the end of the first week there was a select
dinner-party in his honor, in his own ancestral hall — a very
select dinner-party, indeed, where no one was present
but his own relatives (all Cliffes and Shirleys) and a few
very old personal friends. There was Sir Roland, of course,
who had married and buried the dark-eyed cousin Charlotte,
whom Lady Agnes had once wanted her son to wed, and
who was now stepfather to the little boy of the golden curls
we saw at the theater. The Bishop of Cliftonlea, also a rel-
ative, was there ; and Captain Douglas was there ; and Mar-

KILLING THE FATTED CALF.

garet and Tom Shirley, and Lord Lisle, and some half-dozen
others — all relatives and connections, of course. It was a
perfect cAe/ d^auvre of a dinner-party ; and Colonel Shirley,
as the lion, roared amazingly, and told them wonderful stories
of hunting jackals and tigers, and riding elephants and camels,
and shooting natives. And Lady Agnes, in black velvet and
rubies, looked like a queen, And the blue drawing-room,
after dinner, was gorgeous with illumination, and arabesque,
and gilding, and jewels, and perfumes, and music, and brilliant
conversation. And Lady Agnes was just telling everybody
about her granddaughter in the Parisian convent, expected
home now every day, when there was a great bustle in the
lower hall, and Tom Shirley, who had been out to see, came
rushing in, in a wild state of excitement, to say that Wilder
and Roberts had returned, and with them a French bonne^
and the expected young lady herself.

It was indeed true ! The rightful heiress of Castle Cliffe
stood within the halls of her fathers at last.

/•

V-

..I if- .

■- • -J

58 THE HEIRESS OF CASTI.E CI.IFFE.

J ■- ; ■A.,'-i

CHAPTER VH.

MADEMOISELLE.

■w

A MOMENT before, the drawing-room had been h'vely
enough with music, and laughter, and conversation, and
everybody felt a strong impulse to run out to the hall, and
behold the daughter of Cliffe Shirley and the French actress.
But it would not have been etiquette, and nobody did it
except Tom Shirley, who never minded etiquette or any-
thing else, and the colonel, who might well be pardoned for
any breach in such a case, and Lady Agnes, who rose in the
middle of an animated speech, made a hasty apology, and '
sailed out after her son and nephew. They were standing
at the head of the grand, sweeping staircase, looking down
into the lower hall, with its domed roof and huge chandelier.
A crowd of servants, all anxious to catch a glimpse of their
future mistress, were assembled there ; and right under the
blaze of the pendant gas-burners, stood the travelers : Mrs.
Wilder, Mr. Roberts, a coquettishly dressed lady's lady,
evidently Miss Shirley's bonne, and, lastly, a small person in
a gray cloak and little straw hat, undoubtedly Miss Shirley
herself. As Lady Agnes reached the landing the travelers
moved toward the staircase, and Mrs. Wilder, seeing her
ladyship's inquiring face, smilingly answered it.

" Yes, my lady, we have brought her all safe ; and here
she is."

The little girl followed Mrs. Wilder quite slowly and dec-
orously up the stairs, either too much fatigued or with
too strong a sense of the proprieties to run. It w^s a little
thing, but it predisposed Lady Agnes — who had a horror of
romps — in her favor, and they all stepped back as she came
near. A pair of bright eyes under the straw hat glanced
quickly from face to face, rested on the handsome colonel,
and with a glad, childish cry of 'Ah, mon ph-e!'' the little
girl flung herself into his arms. It was quite a scene.

MADEMOISKI^IyK.

•v'ii

" My dear little daughter 1 Welcome *:o your home I "
said the colonel, stooping to kiss her, with a happy glow on
his own face. '' I see you have not have not forgotten me
in our six years' separation 1 "

"iV<7», mon p>.re!^''

The colonel pressed her again, and turned with her to
Lady Agnes.

" Genevieve, say * how do you do ? ' to this lady — it is
your grandmother 1 "

" I hope madame is very well 1 " said Mademoiselle
Genevieve, with sober simplicity, holding up one cheek, and
then the other, to be saluted in very French fashion.

" What a little parrot it is ! " cried Lady Agnes, with a
slight and somewhat sarcastic laugh, peculiar to her. " Can
you not speak English, my child ? "

" Yes, madam," replied the little girl, in that language,
speaking clear and distinct, but with a strong accent.

" I am glad to hear it, and I am very glad to see you, too I
Are you tired, my dear ? "

" No, madam ; only very little."

" Then we will take this cloak and hat off, and you will
stay with us fifteen minutes before you retire to your room.
Come 1 "

The great lady took the small girl's hand and led her,
with a smile on her lips, into the drawing-room. It was
more a stroke of policy than of curiosity or affection that
prompted the action ; for one glance had satisfied Lady
Agnes that the child was presentable au fiaturel, and she
was anxious to display her to her friends before they could
maliciously say she had been tutoring her. And the next
moment Mademoiselle, fresh from the sober twilight of her
convent, found herself in the full blaze of a drawing-room,
that seemed filled with people and all staring at her. Half-
rocoiling on the threshold, timid and shy, but not vulgarly
so, she was drawn steadily on by the lady's strong, small
hand, and heard the clear voice saying : " It is my grand-
daughter — let me take off your wrappings, my dear." And
then, with her own fair fingers, the shrouding hat and cloak
were removed, and the little heiress stood in the full glow
of the lights, revealed.

Everybody paused an instant to look at her father and

6o THE HEIRKSS OF CASTI.E CLIFFE.

grandmother, who had not yet a view of her, among the rest.
A slender angel, quite small for her ago, with the tiniest
hands and feet in the world — but then all the Cliffes had
been noted for that trai^ — a small, pale face, very pale
just now, probably from fatigue, delicate, regular features,
and an exuberance of light hair, of the same flaxen lightness
as Lady Agnes' ov/n, combed behind her ears, and confined
in a thick black chenille net. Her dress was high-necked
and long sleeved, soft and <rray in 3hr.ae, rlick and rich in
texture, and slightly trimmed with peach-colored ribbons.
The eyes were downcast, the little head di coping in par-
donable embarrassment ; and with the small, pale face, the
almost colorless hair, and dingy gray dress, she did not
look ve.y dazzling, certainly. But Lady Agnes had the eye
of an eagle, and she saw that under different auspices,
and in different costume. Miss Shirley was not wholly
an unpromising case. She was not awkward ; she might
son)e day yet be even pretty.

All the ladies came foward to kiss her ; and Miss Lisle,
who saw in her already the future bride of Lord Henry,
went into perfect raptures over her. Some of the gentlemen
kissed her, too ; foremost among whom was Master Tom
Shirley, who was mentally contrasting her, to her great disad-
vantage, with the silver-gilt Infant Venus, on whom he i ad lav-
ished his youthful affections. And yet, in the midst of all
this caressing, there stood one Mordecai at the king's gate,
who did not seem inclined to fall down ?nd adore the
rising star. It was Margaret Shirley, who, in amber gauze
and fluttering ribbons, an*"! creamy flowers, looked dark, and
pale, and unlovely as ever; and who hung haci, either from
timidity or some worse feeling, until the sharp blue eyes of
her aunt fell upon her.

" Margaret, come here, and embrace your cousin ! "
called that lady in authoritative displeasure ; for Miss Mar-
garet was no favorite at the best of times. *' My dear child,
this is yonr cousi.i, Margaret Shirley."

Mademoiselle, a good deal recovered from her embarrass-
ment, raised her eyes — very large, very bright, very blue —
and fixed them, with a look that had something of Lady Ag-
nes' own piercing intenseness, on the sallow and uiiheaUhy
face of cousin Margaret. A cold look came o\er it, a.s if

MADEMOISEI.I.H.

iSt.

[est
lad
[ale

res,
less
led
ced
in
^ns.

with that glance she had conceived a sudden antipathy to
her new relative, and the cheek she turned to be saluted
was offered with marked reserve. Margaret murmured low
some words of welcome to which an unsmiling face and a
very slight bend of the head was returned ; and then she
shrunk back to her grandmother, and the blue eyes went
wandering wistfully round the room. They rested on those
for whom she was seeking — her father's. He held out his
hand with a smile, and in a twinkling the grave little face was
radiant and transformed, and she was over and clinging to
his arm, and looking up in his face with dancing eyes. It
was quite evident that while all the rest there were mere
shadows to her, seen and thought of now for the first time,
mon p}:re was a vivid image in reality, beloved and dreamed
qi for years.

" Were you sorry to leave your convent, Genevieve ? " he
asked, sitting down in an armchair, and lifting her on his
knee.

" Oh, no, papa ! " she answered, readily, speaking in
English, as he had done.

" And why ? Your friends are all there ; and here, every-
body is strange." ' .

" Not everybody, papa — you are here 1 "

" And she only saw me once in her life, and that's six
years ago," laughed the colonel, looking down at the little
face nestling against his shoulder.

** But I dreamed of you every day and every night, papa ;
and then your letters. Oh, those beautiful letters ! I have
them every one, and have read thefti over a thousand times ! "

" My good little girl ! and she loves papa, then ? "

" Better than everything else in the world, papa ! "

•* Thank you, mademoiselle 1 " still laughing ; " and grand-
mamma — you mean to love her, too, don't you ? "

" Mais certainement ! " said mademoiselle, with gravity.

" And your uncle and your cousins ? There is one now
— how do you think you will like him ? "

Trm Shiiley was standing near, with his hands, boy-fash-
ion, in his pockets, listening with an air of preternatural
solemnity to the conversation, and the colonel turned his
laughing face toward him. Miss Genevieve glanced up and
over Tom with calm and serious dignity.

THE HEIRESS OF CASTLE CUFFE.

" I don't know, papa — I don't like boys at all -that is,
except Claude I " . • .

" Who is Claude, petite / "

" Oh, you know, don't you ? His father is Le Marquis
de St. Hilary ; and I spent the last vacation at the chateau,
away out in the country."

"Grand connections 1 Who sent my little girl there? "

" I went with Ignacia — that's his sister ; and we are in
the same division at school. Papa," in a whisper, *' is that
girl over there, in the yellow dress, his sister? "

"No, petite — why?"

" For they have black eyes and black hair alike, only his
is curly, and he is a great deal handsomer. Grandmamma
said she was my cousin — is she ? " '

"Yes; and his." ■" ^ ■ ~

" Does she live here ? "

" Yes, they both live here. Well, what now — don't you
like them ? "

" I don't like her at all I Oh, how ugly she is ! "

The colonel laughed and laid his hand over her lips.

'* My dear Genevieve, what are you saying ? it will never
do for you to talk in that fashion 1 Maggie is the best little
girl in the world, and she will be a nice companion for you
to play with."

"I shan't play with herl I shan't like her at all 1 " said
Genevieve, with decision. " What makes her live here ? '*

" Because she is an orphan, and has no other home, and
I know you will be kind to her, Vivia. Who taught you to
speak English as well as you do ? "

" Oh, we had an English teacher in the convent, and a
great many of the girls were English, and we used to speak
it a great deal. Did I tell you in my last letter how many
prizes I got at the distribution? " ' * •

" I forget — tell me again ? " .. * '

" I got the first prize in our division for singing and
English; the second for music and drawing, mathematics
and astronomy."

" Whew I " whistled Tom, still an attentive listener.
*' This little midge taking the prize in mathematics 1 What
an idea that is 1 "

" Can you sing and play, then ? " ""

-■s.

MADEMOISELI.E.

" Yes, papa, certainly ! "

" Then, suppose you favor us with a songl I should like
to hear you sing, of all things 1 " said the colonel, still in his
half-laughing way.

" Oh, my dear Cliffe, the child must be too tired 1 " said
Lady Agnes, sailing up at the moment, and not caring half
so much for the child's fatigue as the idea that she might
make a show of herself.

" I am not fatigued ; but I don't like to sing before so
many ladies and gentlemen, papa," whispered Miss Gene-
vieve, blushing a little.

'» Oh, nonsense I " I am certain they will be delighted.
Come along."

Miss Lisle having just favored the company with a Swiss
composition, that had a gi'^.at many ** tra-la-las " at the end
of each verse, closed with a shrill shriek and a terrific bang
of all the keys at once, and arose from the instrument.
Colonel Shirley, holding his little daughter's hand, led her
reluctant and blushing, to the seat the young lady had
vacated, amid a profound silence of curious expectation.

" What shall I sing, papa ? " inquired mademoiselle. Tun-
ing her fingers lightly over the keys, and recovering her self-
possession when she found herself hopelessly in for it.

" Oh 1 whatever you please. We are willing to be en-
chanted with anything."

Thus encouraged, mademoiselle played a somewhat dif-
ficult prelude from memoiy, and then in a clear, sweet so-
prano, broke out into " Casta Diva." Her voice was rich
and clear, and full of pathos ; her touch highly cultivated ;
her expression perfect. Evidently her musical talent was
wonderful, or she had the best of teachers, and an excellent
power of imitation. Everybody was astonished — no one
more so than papa, who had expected some simple French
chansonette, and Lady Agnes was equally amazed and
delighted. The room rung with plaudits when she ceased ;
and, coloring visibly, Mademoiselle Genevieve rose quickly,
and sought shrinking she'ter under papa's wings.

" It is a most wonderful child I " said Miss Lisle, holding
up her hands. " No professional could have sung it better."

" She sings well," said Lady Agnes, smiling graciously on
the small performer, and patting the now hot cheek with her

64 THE HEIRESS OF CASTILE CUFFE

gold and ivory fan. " But she is tired now, and must go
to rest. Tom, ring for Mrs. Wilder."

Tom rung, and Mrs. Wilder came.

" Bid your friends good-night, my dear," said Lady Agnes,

Mademoiselle did so, courtesying with the prettiest child-
like grace imaginable.

" You will take her to the rose room, Mrs. Wilder, next
my boudoir. Good night, my love. Pleasant dreams 1 "

And Lady Agnes finished by kissing her, and turning her
and the housekeeper out of the drawing-room.

" Where is Jeannette, madam ? " inquired Miss Shirley,
as she tripped along up another grand staircase, and through
halls and corridors, beside the housekeeper.

" In your room. Miss Vivia, waiting for you."

" Is she to sleep near me ? I must have Jeannette near

'* She is to sleep in a little closet off your room. Here it,
is. Good night. Miss Vivia."

But Miss Vivia did not speak. She had stopped in the
doorway in an ecstasy of admiration and delight. And no
wonder. In all her childish dreams of beauty, in all she
had seen at the Chiteau and Hotel de St. Hilary, there had
never been anything half so beautiful as this. The apart-
ment had once been Lady Agnes's study, where she received
her steward and transacted all her business ; but during the
last week it had been newly-furnishe<d and fitted up for the
youthful heiress. Her own rooms — bath-room, dressing-
room, bedroom and boudoir — were all en suite, and this was
the last of them. The feet sunk in the carpet of pale rose-
colored velvet, sown all over with white buds and deep-
green leaves ; the walls were paneled in pink satin bordered
with silver ; and the great Maltese window was draped in
rose velvet, cut in antique points. The lofty ceiling was
fretted in rose and silver; and the chairs of some white
wood, polished till they shone like ivory, were cushioned in
the same glowing tints; so were the couches, and a great
carved and gilded fauteuil, and the flashing chandelier of
frosted silver, with burners shaped like lilies, had deep red
shades, filling the room with rosy radiance. The bed in a
distant alcove, screened with filmy-white lace curtains, was
carved and gilded in the same snow-white wood ; and over

MADEMOISEI.LE.

the head, standing on a Grecian bracket, was a beautiful
statue of the " Guardian Angel," with folded wings, droop
ing head, outstretched arms, and smiling face. The inlaid
tables were exquisite ; a Bible lay on one of them, bound in
gold and rose-velvet, with the name " Victoria Genevieve "
in gold letters on the cover ; a gilded bird-cage with two or
three brilliant tropical birds therein, was pendant near the
window ; and over the carved mantle of Egyptian marble
hung the exquisite picture of " Christ Blessing Little
Children." The whole thing had been the design of Lady
Agnes. Every article it contained had been critically in-
spected before being placed there, and the effect was per-
fect. In it Moore might have written " Lalla Rookh ; " and
not even FadUuieen could have found anything to grumble
at ; and little Genevieve clapped her hands in an ecstasy of
speech and delight.

"It is perfect, mademoiselle I " exclaimed Jeannette, the
bonm who had attended the little girl from Paris. " Look
at this lovely dressing-case I and here is the wardrobe with
such great mirror-doors ; and in this Psyche glass I can
see myself from top to toe ; and here is a door at the foot
of your bed opening into your grandmamma's boudoir, and
this cedar closet — does it not smell deliciously ? — is where I
am to sleep."

" Oh, it is beautiful ! There is nothing at all in Hotel de
St. Hilary like it I It is like heaven I "

" Yes, mademoiselle ; and your grandmamma is a very
great lady ; and they say down-stairs, there is not a finer
house in all England than this ; and that you will be the
richest heiress that ever was heard of ! "

" That is charming I I will sit in this great, beautiful
chair, and you may take my dress off, and brush out my
hair. Did you see my papa, Jeannette ? "

" Yes,, mademoiselle. He looks like a king 1 "

" And I love him ! Oh, I love him better than all the
whole world 1 and ma grandem^re — you saw her ; too, Jean-
nette ? She makes one afraid of her in her splendid dress
and rubies — far finer than anything that Madame la Mar-
quise de St. Hilary ever wore ; but she is very grand and
handsome, and I admire her ever so much! And my
cousins — ^you did not see them — did you, Jeannette ? "

66 THE HEIRESS OF CASTI<E CI.IFFE.

" No, mademoiselle. Do you like them? " ■

** I don't like one of them at all. Mademoiselle Mar-
guerite — oh, she is so ugly, and has such a yellow skin 1
Just as yellow as poor old Sister Lucia, in the convent 1
There Jeannette, you can go. I shall say my prayers and
go to bed 1 Oh, what a lovely room this is I "

The flaxen hair was gathered in a little cambric night-
cap; th. gray dress exchanged for a long sac de fiuit ; ?nd
everything being done, Jeannette vanished, and mademoiselle
said ix prayers with sleepy devotion, and climbed in, and
sunk from sight in pillows of down; and, thinking how
splendid everything was, fell asleep.

Lady Agnes Shirley, waking at some gray and dismal
hour of the e^rly morning, felt a strong impulse of curiosity
prompting her to rise up and take a look at her little grand-
daughter asleep. So arising, she donned ^Uppers and dress-
ing-gov/n, entered the boudoir, softly opened the door of
communication between it and her little girl's room, and
looked in. And there a surprise awaited her 1 instead of
finding mademoiselle fast asleep amon^ the pillows, some-
thing half-dressed, a fairy in a white underskirt and loose
sank, stood with her back toward her, trying — yes, actually
trying to make the bed 1 But the anibitious effort was
unavailing, the small arn^.s could by no means reach half-
way across, and the little hands could by no effort shake up
the mighty sea of dov. n ; and, with a long-drawn sigh, the
heiress of the Shirleys gave up the attempt at last. Then
she went to the basin, washed her face and hands, brushed
out the profusion of her pale hair, and then coming back,
knelt down under the " Guardian Angel," crossed herself
devoutly, and with clasped hands and upraised eye began
to pray. The child looked almost lovely at that moment, in
her loose drapery, her unbound, falling hair, her clear, pale
face, clasped hands, and uplifted earnest eyes. But Lady
Agnes was a great deal loo stupefied at the whole extraor-
dinary scene to think of admiration, or even think at all,
and could do nothing but stand there and look on. A
quarter of an hour passed, the little girl did not stir ; half
an hour parsed, the little saint prayed still ; when the door
of the cedar closet opened, and out came Jeannette. Gene-
vieve finished her devotions'and arose.

MADEMOISELLE.

" Now, mademoiselle, what have you been about ? You
have never been trying to make that bed ? "

" Yes, I have though, but I couldn't do it I It's so very
large you see, Jeannette."

" Mademoiselle, I am SMrprised at you I What would
your grandmamma say if she knew it ? "

Mademoiselle opened her bright blue eyes in undisguised
surprise.

" Knew what ? What have I done ?"

** You are not to make beds, mademoiselle ! " said Jean-
nette, laughing. " I am sure your grandmamma does not
expe"'; you to do anything of the sort."

" But I have always done it. We all made our own beds
in the convent, except the very little ones."

" Well, this is not a convent, but a castle ; and you know,
Mademoiselle Vivia, there is a proverb that we mast da in
Rome as the Romans do. So you need not do it any more,
or they'll think you have been a housemaid in France ; and
another thing, what in the world do you get up so early for ? "

" Early 1 Why the sun is rising, Lnd we always got up
before the sun, in the convent ! "

" The convent 1 the convent I Please to remember you
are not in a convent now, mademoiselle, and sunrise is a
very early hour. There is not one up in the house, I be-
lieve, but ourselves."

" I don't care for that, I shall get up as early as I please,
unless papa or grandmamma prevent it, and I don't think
they will. So here, curl my hair and say no more about it."

Jeannette twined the flaxen tresses over her fingers and
let them fall in a shining shower to the child's waist. Then
a dress of fresh white muslin was brought out and put on,
a sash of broad blue ribbon knotted round the little waist ;
and l.ady Agnes, from her watching place, allowed, what
she could not last night, that her granddaughter was pretty.

" NoAV," said mademoiselle, tying her straw hat over her
pretty curls, " I saw some lo v ';/ rose-gardens out of the
window, and you must come with me to see them. Do you
think you can find your way to the door : it is such a great
house this I "

" I will see. Come along 1 "

The two went out of the rose room ; and Lady Agnes,

68 THE HEIRESS OF CASTl^E CWFFK.

having got the better of her amazement, laughed her low and
sarcastic laugh, and went back to her own bedchamber.

" It is a prodigy — this small granddaughter of mine, and
so French 1 I am afraid she takes after that dreadful French
actress, though : /?/<??/ merd /. she does not look like her.
Well, if they have taught her nothing worse than getting up
at sunrise in her French convent, they have done no harm
after all ; but what an extraordinary child it is, to be sure I
She took to that exhibition of herself quite naturally last
evening — the French actress again. And that odious name
of Genevieve ! I wish I could have her christened pver
again and called Agnes ; but I suppose Victoria will do for
want of a better." - "^.^ ' r"

The young lady thus apostrophized was meantime having
a very good time, out among the rose-gardens and laurel
walks. Jeanflette had found her way through some side-
door or other. And now the little white fairy, with the
blue ribbons, and fluttering flaxen curls, was darting hither
and thither among the parterres like some pretty white bird.
Now she was watching the swans sailing serenely about in
the mimic lakes ; now she was looking at the goldflsh glanc-
ing in the fountains ; now she was lost in admiration of a
great peacock, strutting up and down on one of the terraces
with the first rays of sunshine sparkling on his outspread
tail — a tail which its owner evidently admired quite as much
as the little girl ; now she was hunting squirrels ; now she
was listening to the twittering of the birds in the beechwood
and through the shrubbery ; now she was gathering roses and
carnations to make bouquets for papa and grandmamma,
and anon she was running up and down the terraces with
dress, and ribbons, and curls streaming in the wind, a bloom
on her cheek, and a light in her eye, and a blooming, elastic
life in every step, that would make one's pulses leap from
sympathy only to look at her. The time went by like
magic. Even the staid Jeannette so far forgot the pro-
prieties as to be seduced into a race up and down the green
lanes between the chestnut trees, and coming flying back,
breathless and panting, Genevieve ran plump into the arms
of the colonel, who stood on the lawn laughing, and smoking
his matin cigar.

" You wild gipsy I Is this the sort f^i thing they have been

MADEMOISEI.I.E.

nd
ch

teaching you in your sobe- convent ? At what unchristian
hour did you rise this morning ? and who are those bouquets
for?"

" One is for you, papa ; and I've been out here three hours,
and I am so — so hungry 1 " laughing merrily and pressing
the hand he held out for the flowers.

" That's right I Slick to that if you can, and you will not
need any rouge — your cheeks are redder now than your
roses. There 1 they are in my button-hole, and while I
smoke my cigar down the avenue, do you go in with your
bonne and get some bread and milk."

Vivia ran off after Jeannette, and a housemaid brought
them the bread and milk into the breajcfast-parlor. Like all
the rooms in the house, it was handsome, and handsomely
furnished ; but Vivia saw only one thing — a portrait over
the mantel of Master Cliffe Shirley at the age of fifteen.
He wore the costume of a young Highland chief — a plumed
bonnet on his princely head, a plaid of Rob Roy tartan over
his shoulders, and a bow and arrow in his hand. The hand-
some laughing face, the bright, frank, cheery eyes, the
beamy locks, peculiarly-becoming dress, gave the picture a
fascination that riveted the gaze even of strangers. Lady
Agnes Shirley, cold, hard woman of the world, had wept a
heart-broken tear over that splendid face in the days when
she thought him dead under an Indian sky ; and now his
little daughter dropped on one knee before it, and held up
her clasped hands with a cry :

" Oh, my handsome papa 1 Everything in this place is
beautiful, but he is the best of all 1 "

■t :

' -1- <'

70 THE HEIRESS OF CASTILE CUFFE.

11 'i

CHAPTER VIII.

CASTLE CLIFFE.

Lady Agnes was not an early riser. Noon usually found
her breakfasting in her boudoir ; but on this particular morn-
ing she came sailing down-stairs, to the infinite astonishment
and amazement of all beholders, just as the little French
clock in the breakfast-parlor was chiming eight. Genevieve
sat on an ottoman opposite the mantel, with a porcelain
bowl on her lap, a silver spoon in her hand, gazing intently
at the portrait, and feasting her eyes and htr palate at the
same time. She started up as Lady Agnes entered with a
smiling courtesy, and came forward with frank grsce, hold-
ing up her blooming cheeks to be saluted.

"Good morning, /^//A? / Fresh as a rosebud, I see ! So
you were up and out of your nest before the birds this morn-
ing I Was it because you did not sleep well last night ? "

" Oh no, madam. I slept very well ; but I always rise
early. It is not wrong, is it ? "

" By no means. I like to see little girls up with the stm.
Well, Tom, good morning I " j^»

" Can I believe my eyes ? " exclaimed Tom Shirley, en-
tering, and starting back in affected horror at the sight.
" Do I really behold my aunt Agnes, or is this her ghost ? "

•' Oh, nonsense. Ring the bell. Have you seen the colo-
nel ? Oh here he comes. Have you ordered the carriage
to be in readiness, Cliffe? " '

•' Yes. What is the bill of fare for to-day ? " said the
colonel, sauntering in.

" You know we are to return all those calls — such a bore,
too I and this the first day of our little girl's stay among us I
What will you do all day, my dear ? "

" Oh, she will amuse herself, never fear," said the colonel.
*• I found her racing like a wild Indian. Don't blush, Vivia i

CASTLE CLIFFE.

"^'^

i.,»y.

,\'^%

/<■;!*

■■"t

yJ^

•^iH'

it's all right. And she can spend the day in exploring the
place with her donne."

" Would you like to see the house, Victoria ? " inquired
Lady Agnes, taking her place at the head of the table, and,
laying marked emphasis on the name.

" if that does not inconvenience yoM at all, madam."

" Let Margaret stay from school, then, and show her the
place," said the colonel.

" Margaret ? Absurd I Margaret couldn't show it any
more than a cat. Tom, can you not get a half-holiday this
afternoon, and show cousin Victoria over the house ? "

" Certainly, if that young gentlewoman herself does not
object," said Tom, buttering his roll with gravity.

The small gentlewoman in question, standing in the middle
of the floor, in her white dress, and blue ribbons, and flaxen
curls falling to her waist, did not object, though had Mar-
garet been decided upon as chaperon, she probably would
have done so. Both cousins had been met last night for the
first time ; but her feelings toward them were quite different.
Toward Tom they were negative ; she did not dislike him,
but she did not care for him one way or the other. Toward
Margaret they were positive repulsion, and expressed exactly
what she felt toward that young person. Still she looked a
little doubtful as to the propriety of being chaperoned by a
great boy six feet high ; but grandmamma suggested it, and
papa was smiling over at her, so there could be no impro-
priety, and she courtesied gravely in assent, and made to-
ward the door. Margaret entered at the same moment, ar-
rayed in pink muslin. She passed mademoiselle with a low
-'* Good-morning, cousin Genevieve 1 " and took her place at
the table. ^

" Won't you stay and take a cup of coffee and a pistolet
with us ? " called her father after her, as she stood in the
hall, balancing herself on one foot, and beating time d la
militaire with the other.

" No, papa, thank you ; I never drink coffee. We always
had bread and milk for breakfast in the convent."

" Oh 1 that everlasting convent I " exclaimed Lady Agnes,
pettishly. " We will have another martyred abbess in the
family, Cliffe, if you ever send the little nonette back to her
Paris school."

72 THE HEIRESS OF CASTI.E CUFFK.

Immediately after breakfast, Tom donned his college-
scliool trencher, slung his satchel over his shoulder, and set
out with Margaret to Cliftonlea, telling that young lady, as
he went, he expected it would be jolly showing the little orig-
inal over the house. And as her toilet was made, Lady
Agnes and her son rolled away in the great family carriage,
emblazoned with the Cliffe coat of arms ; and Genevieve
was left to her own devices.

In all her life she could not remember a morning that
went so swiftly as that, flying about in the sunshine, half
wild with the sense of liberty, and the hitherto unimagined
delights of the place. She found her way to the Swiss farm-
house, and was transported by the little pigs, and calves, and
poultry ; and she and Jeannette got into the little white boat,
and were rowed over the sparkling ripples of the lake by
one of the farmer's girls. She wandered away down even
to the extreme length of the grand avenue, tiring Jeannette
nearly to death ; made the acquaintance of the lodge-keeper
and his wife at the Italian villa, and was even more en-
chanted by a little baby they had there than she had been
before by the pigs and calves ; and when Tom returned for
his early dinner at one o'clock, he found her swinging back
and forward through space, like an animated pendulum, in
a great swing in the trees.

The young lady and gentleman had a tite-d-tete dinner
that day ; for Margaret was a half boarder at the Cliftonlea
Female Academy, and always dined there ; and before the
meal was over, they were chatting away with the familiarity
of old friends. At first. Mademoiselle Vivia was inclined to
treat Master Tom with dignified reserve ; but his animated
volubility and determination to be on cordial terms were not
to be resisted ; and they rose from the table the best friends
in the world.

To visit Cliftonlea without going to Castle Cliffe was like
visiting Rome without going to St. Peter's. All sight-seers
went there, and were enchanted, but few of them ever had
so fluent and voluble a guide as its heiress had now. From
gallery to gallery, through beautiful saloons and supper-rooms,
through blooming conservatories, magnificent suites of draw-
ing-rooms, oak parlors and libraries, Tom enthusiastically
strode, gesticulating, describing, and inventing sometimes,

.1 1

CASTIvE CI.IFFE.

5ge-

set

, as

when his memory fell short of facts, in a way that equally
excited the surprise and admiration of his small auditor.
The central, or main part of the castle, according to Tom,
was as old as the days of the Fifth Henry — as indeed its
very ancient style of architecture, and an inscription in an-
tique French on an old mantelpiece, proved. To the right
and left there were two octagonal towers : one called the
Queen's Tower, built in the time of Queen Elizabeth, and
so named because that illustrious lady herself had once hon-
ored it with a week's visit — the other, called the Agnes
Tower, had been erected in the same reign at a later date,
and was named after Lady Agnes Cliffe, the bride of its
then proprietor.

"Tom had wonderful stories to tell about these old places ;
but the great point of attraction was the picture-gallery, an
immense hall lighted with beautiful oriel windows of stained
glass, and along whose walls hung the pictured faces of all
the Cliffes, who had reigned there from time immemorial.
Gallant knights, in wigs, apd swords, and doublets ; courtly
dames in diamond stomachers, and head-dresses three feet
high, looked down with their dead eyes on the last of their
ancient race — the little girl in the white dress and blue rib-
bons, who held her breath with awe, and felt as if she heard
the ghostly rustling of their garments against the oak walls.
Master Tom, who had no Cliffe blood in his veins, and no
bump of veneration on his head, ran on with an easy fluency
that would have made his fortune as a stump-lecturer.

" That horrid old fright up there, in the bag-wig and knee-
breeches, is Sir Marmaduke Cliffe, who built the two towers
in the days of Queen Elizabeth ; and that sour-looking dame,
with a ruffle sticking out five feet, was Lady Agnes Neville,
his wife. That there is Sir Lionel, who was master here in
the days of the MerryMonarch — the handsomest Cliffe among
them, and everybody says I'm his born image. That good-
looking nun over there with the crucifix in her hand and the
whites of her eyes upturned, was the lady abbess, once of
the ruined convent behind here, and got her brains knocked
out by that abominable scamp, Thomas Cromwell. There's
the present Lady Agnes in white satin and pearls — her bridal
dress, 1 believe. And there — do you know who that is ? "
A young man, looking like a prince in the uniform of an

74 THE HEIRESS OF CASTLE CLIFFE.

officci of dragoons, v/ith t<>e blue e^es, golden hair, and
laughing face, she knew 'y rv;;in and a flush of light rose
to her face as she looked.

" It is my papa — my own splendid papa. And there isn't
one among them all who looks half as much like a king as

he I"

*: That's true enough ; and as he is the best, so he is the
last. I suppose they will be Hanging up yours near it very

»>

soon.

" But my mamma's, where is that ? Is not her picture
here as well as the rest ? "

Tom looked at her, and suppressed a whistle.

" Your mamma's — oh I I never saw her. I don't know
anything about her. Her picture i not here, at all
events I "

" She is dead I " said the child, in her manner of grave
simplicity. " I. never saw my dear mamma I "

" Well, if she is dead, I suppose she can't have her por-.
trait taken very easily, and that accounts 1 And now, as
I'm about tired of going from one room to another, suppose
we go out and have a look at the old convent I promised to
show you. What do you think of the house ? "

" It's a very great place 1 "

" And the Cliffes have been very great people in their
time, too ; and are yet, for that matter : best blood in
Sussex, not to say in all England.'*

" Are you a Cliflfe ? "

" No — more's the pity 1 I am nothing but a Shirley ! "

" Is that girl ? "

"What girl?"

" Mademoiselle Marguerite. We three are cousins, I
know, but I can't quite understand it ! "

" Well, look here, then, and I'll demonstrate it so that
even your low capacity can grapple with the subject. Once
upon a time, there were three brothers by the name of Shir-
ley : the oldest married Lady Agnes Cliffe, and he is dead ;
the second married my mother, and they're both dead ; the
third married Mademoiselle Marguerite's mother, and they're
both dead, too — dying was a bad habit the Shirleys had.
Don't you see — it's as clear as mud."

" I see ! and that is why you both live here."

-^^»

CAvSTLB CI.IFFE.

" That's why I And Mag would have had this place, only
you turned up — bad job for her, you see ! Sir Roland
offered to take me ; but as I had some claim on Lady
Agnes, and none at all on him, she wouldn't hear of such a
thing at any price."

'* Sir Roland is the stout gentleman who told e call
him uncle, then, and — grandmamma's brother. Ha?^ e no
wife ? "

"None now; she's defunct. He has a s. p.o. up at
Oxford, Leicester Shirley — Cliflfe, they call him, ai i j:ist the
kind of fellow you would like, I know. P' 'ap'' he will
marry you some day when he comes home ; it would be
just the thing for him 1 "

*' Marry me 1 He will do nothing of the kind," said Miss
Vivia, with some dignity, and a good deal of asperity. " I
shall marry nobody but Claude. I wouldn't have anybody
else for the world." . - -

" Who is Claude ? "
• " Why, just Claude — nothing else ; but he will be Mar-
quis de St. Hilary some day, and I will be Madame la
Marquise. He is a great deal handsomer than you, and I
like him ever so much better I "

" I don't believe itl I'm positive you like me better than
anybody else in the world, or at least you will when we come
to be a little better acquainted. Almost every little girl
falls in love the moment she claps her eyes on me 1 "

Genevieve lifted her blue eyes, flashing vvith mingled
astonishment and indignation ; but Tom's face was per-
fectly dismal in its seriousness, and he bore her angry re-
gards without wincing.

" You say the thing that is not true, Monsieur Tom. I
shall never love you as long as I live ! "

" Then all I have to say is, that you ought to be pitied
for your want of taste. But it is just as well : for, in case
you did love me, it would only be an affair of a broken
heart, and all that sort of thing ; for I wouldn't marry you
if you were the heiress of Castle Cliffe ten times over. I
know a girl — I saw her dancing on the tight-rope at the
races the other day — who is a thousand times prettier than
you, and whom I intend making Mrs. S. as soon as I get
out of ror bout jackets.

I!" I

76 THE HEIRESS OF CASTLE CUFFE.

Genevieve looked horrified. In her peculiar simplicity,
she took every word for gospel.

" A tight-rope dancer I Oh, Tom I what will grandmamma

say ? "

" I don't care what she says ! " said Tom, desperately,
thrusting his hands into his pockets. *• A tight-rope dancer
is as good as anybody else; and I won't be the first of the
family, either, who has tried that dodge."

This last was added sotto voce ; but the little girl heard it,
and there was a perceptible drawing up of the small figure,
and an unmistakable erecting of the proud little head.

'* I don't see how any Cliffe could make such a mhaUiance^
and I don't believe any of them ever did it. I should think
vou would be ashamed to speak of such a thing, cousin
Tom."

" You despise ballet-dancers, then ? " '

"Of course."

" And actresses, also ? "

'•''Mais certainement ! It is all the same. Claude often
said he would die before he would make a low marriage ;
and so would I."

Tom thrust his hands deeper into his trowsers pockets,
rolled up his eyes to the firmament, and gave vent to his .
feelings in a prolonged whistle. ' ' •

" And this little princess, with her chin up and her eyes
flashing, is the daughter of a nameless French actress," was
his thought.

Then, aloud :

" You seem to have very distinct ideas on the subject of
matrimony. Miss Victoria. Was it in your convent you
learned them ? " .

" Of course not. But Claude, and I, and Ignacia have
talked of it a thousand times in the holidays. And, cousin
Tom, if you marry your dancing-girl, how will you live?
You are not rich 1 "

" No ; you might swear that, without fear of perjury.
But my wife and I intend to set up a cigar-shop, and get our
rich relations to patronise us. There, don't look so dis-
gusted, but look at the ruins."

While talking, they had been walking along a thickly-
wooded avenue, and, as Tom spoke, they came upon a semi-

CASTI.E CLIFFK.

circular space of greensward, with tlie ruins of an old con-
vent in the center. Nothing now remained but an immense
stone cross, bearing a long inscription in Latin, and the re-
mains ol one superb window in the only unruined wall. The
whole place was overrun with ivy and tangled juniper, even
the broad stone steps that led up to what once had been the
grand altar.

"Look at those stains," said Tom, pointing to some dark
spots on the upper step. " They say that's blood, i^ady
Edith Cliffe was the last abbess here, and she was murdered
on those steps, in the days of Thomas Cromwell, for refus-
ing to take the oath of supremacy. The sunshine and storms
of hundreds of years have been unable to remove the traces
of the crime. And the townfolk say a tall woman, all in
black and white, walks here on moonlight nights. As I
have never had the pleasure of seeing the ghost, I cannot
vouch for that part of the story, but I can show you her grave.
They buried her down here, with a stake through her heart ;
and the place is called the ' Nun's Grave ' from that day to
this." , - .. r '

Genevieve stooped down and reverently kissed the stained
stones.

" 1 am glad I am a Cliffe 1 " she said, as she arose and fol-
lowed him down the paved aisle.

The grave was not far distant. They entered a narrow
path, with dismal yew and gloomy elm interlacing their
branches overhead, shutting out the summer sunshine — a spot
as dark and lonely as the heart of an old primeval forest.
And at the foot of a patriarchal dryad of yew was a long
mound, with a black marble slab at the head, without name,
or date, or inscription.

" Horrid, dismal old place 1 — isn't it ? " said Tom, fling-
ing himself on the grass. " But, dismal or not, I am about
done up, and intend to rest here. Why, what is the matter ? "

For Genevieve, looking down at the grass, had suddenly
turned of a ghostly whiteness, and sunk down in a violent
tremor and faintness across the mound. Tom spiung up in
dire alarm.

" Vivia, Vivia ! What in the world is this ? "

She did not speak.

He lifted her up, and she clung with a nameless, trembling

78 THE HEIRESS OF CASTI.E CUFFE.

terror to his arm, her very lips blanched to the whiteness of
death.

" Vivia, what under heaven is this ? "

The pale lips parted.

" Nothing I " she said, in a voice that could scarcely be
heard. " Let us go away from this."

He drew her arm within his, and lod her away, my§tirted
beyond expression. But, in the terrible after-days, when the
" Nun's Grave " had more of horror for him than Hades
itself, he had reason to remember Vivia's first visit there.

VICTORIA REGIA.

• '-'. ' t

CHAPTER IX.

VICTORIA REGIA.

■)

Pefore the end of the first week, the little heiress was
thoroughly domesticated at Castle Cliffe. Everybody liked
her, from Lady Agnes down to the kitchen-maids, who some-
times had the honor of dropping her a courtesy, and receiv-
ing a gracious little smile in return. Lady Agnes had keen
eyes, and reading her like a printed book, saw that the little
girl was aristocrat to the core of her heart. If she wept, as
she once or twice found occasion to do, it was like a little
lady, noiselessly, with her handkerchief to her eyes, and her
face buried in her arm. If she laughed, it was careless, low,
and musical, and with an air of despising laughter all the
time. Sho never romped ; she never screamed ; she was
never rud Heaven forbid I The blue blood of the Cliffes
certainly flo.ved with proud propriety through those delicate
veins. The '^jirl of twelve, too, understood it all, as the duck-
ling understands swimming, by intuition, and was as radically
and unaffectedly haughty in her way as Lady Agnes in hers.
She was proud of the Cliflfes, and of their long pcdigiee ;
proud of their splendid house and its splendid surroundings;
proud of her stately grandmother ; and proudest oi Ji of her
handsome papa.

" The child is well named," said Lady Agnes, with a con-
scious smile. ** She is Victoria — exactly like her namesake,
that odd, wild beautiful flower, the Victoria Regia."

Everybody in Cliftonlea was wild to see the heiress-r-the
return of her father had been nothing to this furor ; so the
white muslin and blue ribbons were discarded for brilliant
silks and nodding plumes, and Lady Agnes and Miss Shirley
drove through the town in a grand barouche, half buried
among amber-velvet cushions, and looking Hire a full-blown

II
!

80 THE HEIRESS OF CASTI.E CI.IFFE.

queen and a princess in the bud. Certainly, it was a be- .
wildering change for the little gmy-Tohed pmsion/taire of the •.
French convent.

It was a hot, sultry September afternoon, with a high wind,
a brassy sun, and crimson clouds in a dull, leaden sky — a
Saturday afternoon, and a half- holiday with Tom Shirley,
who stood before the 'portico of the hall door, holding the
bridles of two ponies — cne his own, the other cousin Vic-
toria's. This latter was a perfect miracle of Arabian beauty,
snowy white, slender-limbed, arch-necked, fiery-eyed, full of
spirit, yet gentle as a lamb to a master- hand. It was a pres-
ent from Sir Roland to the heiress of Castle Cliflfe, and had
been christened by that small young lady '* Claude " — a
title which Tom indignantly repudiated for its former one of
" Leicester." The girl and boy were bound for a gallop to
Sir Roland's home, Cliffewood, a distance of some seven
miles ; and while Tom stood holding in the impatient ponies, ,
the massive hall door was thrown open by the obsequious
porter, and the heiress herself tripped out.

Tom had very gallantly told her once that the rope-dancer
was a thousand times prettier than she : but looking at her
now, as she stood for one moment on the topmost step, he
cried inwardly, " Peccavi / " and repented. Certainly, noth-
ing could have been lovelier — the light, slender figure in an
exquisitely-fitting habit of blue ; yellow gauntlets on the fairy
hands, one of which lightly lifted her flowing skirt, and the
other poising the most exquisite of riding-whips ; the fiery
lances of sunshine glancing through ti.c sunny curis flowing
to the waist, the small black riding-hat and waving plume
tied with azure ribbons ; the sunlight flasinng in her bright
blue eyes, and kissing the rose-tint on her pearly cheeks.
Yes, Victoria ohirley was prettj' — a very different-looking •
girl Irom the pale, dim, colorless Genevieve who had arrived
a little over a week before. And, as she came tripping down
the steps, planting one dainty foot in Tom's palm, and
springing easily into her saddle, his boy's heart gave a quick .
bound, and his pulses an electric thrill. He leaped on his :
own horse ; the girl smilingly kissed the tips of Ler yellow
gauntlets to Lady Agnes in her chamber window, and they .
dashed away in the teeth of the wind, her curls waving be-
hind like a golden banner. Vivia rode well — it was an ac-

VICTORIA REGIA.

complishment she had learned in France ; the immense iron
gates under the lofty stone arch split open at their approach,
and away they dashed through Cliftonlea. All the town flew
to the doors and windows, and gfized, in profound admiration
and envy, after the twain as they flew by — the bold, dark-
eyed, dark-haired, manly boy, and the delicate fairy, with the
blue eyes and golden hair, beside him. The high wind
deepened the roses and brightened the light in Vivia's eyes,
until she was glowin,of like a second Ayrora when they leaped
oflf their horses at the villa's gates. This villa was a pretty
place — a very pretty place, but painfully new ; for which
reason Vivia did not like it at all. The grounds were spacious
and beautifully laid out; the villa was 2l chef (fcsuvre of
Gothic architecture ; but it had been built by Sir Roland
himself, and nobody ever thought of coming to see it. Sir
Roland did not care, for he liked comfort a great deal better
than historic interest and leaky roofs, and told Lady Agnes,
with a good-natured laugh, when she spoke of it in her
scornful way, that she might live in her old ruined convent
if she liked, but he would stick to his commodious villa.
Now he came down the grassy lawn to meet them, and wel-
comed them with cordiality ; for the new heiress wart an
immense favorite of his already.

"Aunt Agnes thought it would do Vic good to gallop
over," said Tom. switching his boot with his whip, " So
here we are. But you needn't invite us to stay ; for, as this
is Saturday afternoon, you know it couldn't be heard

of!" ' ^ -^ ■■ '■ ■■- ' ■•' :'^::. '^■'•;:'

" Oh, yes ! " said Vic — a name which Tom had adopted
for shortness ; "we ought to go right back ; for Tom is
going to show me something wonderful down on the shore.
Why, uncle Roland, what is this ? "

They had entered a high, cool hall, with glass doors
thrown open at each end, showing a sweeping vista of lawns,
and terraces, and shrubbery, rich with statues and portraits ;
and before one of these the speaker had made so sudden a
halt that the two others stopped also. It was a picture, in a
splendid frame, of a little boy some eight years old, with
long, bright cuils, much the same as her own ; blue eyes,
too, but so much darkef than hers that they seemed almost
black; the straight, delicate features characteristic of the

82 THE HEIRESS OF CASTI.E CIvlFFE.

;i ■'

Cliffes, and a smile like an angel's. It was really a beauti-
ful face — much more so than "her own ; and the girl clasped
her hands in her peculiar manner, and looked at it in a per-
fect ecstasy.

** Why," Tom was beginning impetuously, " where did
you—" when Sir Roland, smilingly, caught his arm and
interposed.

" Hold your tongue, Tom. Little boys should be seen
and not heard. Well, Vic, do you know who that is ? "

"It looks like — it does look like" — a little doubtfully,
though—" my papa."

'' So it does ; the forehead, and mouth, and hair are alike,
exactly. But it is not your papa. Guess again."

" Oh, I can't. I hate guessing. Tell me who it is."

" It is a portrait of my stepson, Leicester, taken when a
child ; and the reason you never saw it before is, it has been
getting new-framed. Good-looking little fellow, eh ? "

" Oh, it is beautiful ! It is an angel ! "

Sir Roland and Tom both laughed; but Tom's was a
perfect shout.

" Leicester Cliffe an angel ! Oh, ye gods ! won't I tell
him the next time I see him ; and he the veriest scamp that
ever flogged a f ag ! "

" Nothing of the kind, Vic ! " said Sir Roland as Vic
colored with mortification. " Leicester is an excellent fel-
low ; and when he comes home, you and he will be capital
friends, I'm sure."

Vic brightened up immediately.

" And when will he be home, uncle Roland ? "

'* That's uncertain — perhaps at Christmas."

" Is he old ? "

" Considerably stricken in years, but not quite as old as
Methuselah's cat," struck in Tom. " He is eighteen."

" Does he look like that now ? "

'< Except that all those young lady-like curls, and that in-
nocent expression, and those short jackets are gone, he does ;
and then he is as tall as a May-pole, or as Tom Shirley.
Come in and have lunch."

Sir Roland led the way ; and after luncheon the cousins
mounted their horses and rode to the Castle. The sun was
setting in an oriflamme of crimson and black, and the wind

VICTORIA RKGIA.

had risen to a perfect gale, but Tom insisted on his cousin ac-
companying him to the shore, nevertheless. < '

" I won't be able to show the Dev — I mean the Demon's
Tower, until next Saturday, unless you come now ; so be off,
Vic, and change your dress. It is worth going to see, I can
tell you ! "

Vic, nothing loth, flew up the great oaken staircase with
its gilded balustrade, to her own beautiful room, and soon
reappeared in a gay silk robe and black velvet basque. As
she joined Tom in the avenue, she recoiled, in surprise and
displeasure, to see that Margaret was with him.

" Don't be cross, Vic," whispered Tom, giving her a coax-
ing pinch. " She was sitting moping like an old hen with
the distemper, under the trees, and I thought it would be
only an act of Christian politeness to ask her. Come on,
she won't eat you ; come on, Mag I "

Tom's long legs measured off the ground as if he were
shod with seven-leagued boots ; and the two girls, running
breathlessly at his side, had enough to do to keep up with
him. The shore was about a half mile distant, but he knew
lots of short cuts through the trees ; and before long they
were on the sands and scrambling over the rocks, Tom hold-
ing Vic's hand, and Margaret making her way in the best
manner she could, with now and then an encouraging word
from him. The sky looked dark and menacing, the wind
raged over the heaving sea, and the surf washed the rocks,
far out, in great billows of foam.

" Look there 1 " said Tom, pointing to something that
really looked like a huge mass of stone tower. " That's the
Demon's Tower, and they call that tHe Storm Bar beyond
it. We can walk to it now, because the tide is low, but any
one caught there at high water would be drowned for cer-
tain, unless it was an uncommon swimmer. There's no
danger now, though, as it's far out. So make haste, and
come along."

But over .the slippery rocks and slimy seaweed Vic could
not " come along " at all. Seeing which, Tom lifted her in
his arms, with as much ceremony and difficulty as if she had
been a kitten ; and calling to Margaret to mind her eye, and
not break her neck, bounded from jag to jag with as much
ease as a goat. Margaret, slipping and falling, and rising

\ 1

'I
I

84 THE HEIRESS OF CASTI.E CUFFE.

again, followed patiently on, and in fifteen minutes they were
in the cavern, and Vic was standing, laughing and breath-
less, on her own pedals once more.

It was in reality a tower without a top ; for some twenty
feet above them they could see the dull, leaden sky, and the
sides were as steep, and perpendicular, and unclimbable as
the walls of a house. The cavern was sufficiently spacious ;
and opposite the low, natural archway by which they entered
were half a dozen rough steps cut in the rocks, and above
them was a kind of seat made by a projecting stone. The
place was filled with hollow, weird sounds, something be-
tween the sound we hear in sea-shells and the mournful
sighing of an Eolian harp, and the eflfect altogether was un-
speakably wild and melancholy. Again Vic clasped her
hands, this time in mingled awe and delight.

" What a place 1 How the sea and wind roar among the
rocks. I could stay here forever 1 "

" I have often been here for hours on a stretch with Lei-
cester Cliffe," said Tom. " We cut those steps in the rock;
and, when we were little shavers, he used to play Robinson
Crusoe, and I, Man Friday. We named it Robinson Crusoe
Castle ; but that was too long for every day : so the people
in Lower Cliffe — the fishing village over there — called it the
Devil's Tower. Vic, sing a song, and hear how your voice
will echo round those stone walls 1 ''

" But," said Margaret, " I don't think it's safe to stay here,
Tom. You know when the tide rises it fills this place nearly
to the top, and would drown us all ! " ""

" Doi't hi ,\ goose, Maggie ; there's no danger, I tell you!
Vic, get up in Robinson Crusoe's seat, and I'll be Man
Frid?y -»g?'-n, t?:id lie here at yo ir feet."

Vk rot ii»> tlic stej>s and so.led herself on the stone ledge ;
Tom ri,;!i,; hiTVielC on the stone floor, and Margaret sat down
on a fife -f dry seaweed i;. the corner. Then Vic sung
some wild VeHO.kt;. h-ircarole, that echoed and re-echoed,
and rung "Ail 01 he wind, in a way that equally amazed and
delighted hvi. Again and again she sung, fascinated by the
wild and beautiful echo, and Tom joined in loud choruses of
his own, and Margaret listened seemingly quite as much de-
lighted as they, until suddenly, in the midst of the loudest
strain, she sprung to her feet with a sharp cry.

VICTORIA REGIA.

ire

th-

ity
he

■ J " Tom I Tom 1 the tide is upon us 1 "

Instantly Tom was on his feet, as if he were made from
head to heel of spring-steel, and out of the black arch. For
nearly two yards, the space before the archway was clear of
the surf ; but owing to a peculiar curve in the shore, the
Tower had become an island, and was almost encircled by
the foaming waves. The dull day was darkening, too ; the
fierce blast dashed the spray up in his eyes, and in one
frantic glance he saw that escape was impossible. He could
not swim to the shore in that surf ; neither he nor they could
climb up the steep sides of the cavern, and they all must
drown where they were. Not for himself did he care — brave
Tom never thought of himself in that moment, nor even of
Margaret, only of Vic. In an instant he wag back again,
and kneeling at her feet on the stone floor.

" I promised to protect you I " he cried out, " and see how
I have kept my word I "

" Tom, is it true ? Can we not escape ? "

" No ; the sea is around us on every hand, and in twenty
minutes will be over that arch and over our heads I Oh, I
wish I had been struck dead before ever I broug you
here 1 "

" And can we do nothing? " said Vic, clasping he nands
— always her impulse. " If we could only climb the
top."

" Again Tom bounded to his feet.

" I will try ! There may be a rope there, aiid it is a
chance, after all 1 " ^

In a twinkling he was at the top of Robinson's seat, and
clutching frantically at- invisible fragments of rock, to help
him up the steep ascent. But in vain ; worse than in vain.
Neither sailor nor monkey could have climbed up there, and,
with a sharp cry, he missed his hold, and was hurl .^ back,
stunned and senseless, to the floor. The salt spray came
dashing in their faces as they knelt beside him. Margaret
shrieked, and covered her face with her hands, and cowered
down, and " Oh^ Sancta Maria^ Mater Dei, ora pro nobis
Peccatoribus, nunc et in hora mortis nostra ! " murmured the
pale lips of the French girl.

And still the waters rose ! \ ""

86 THE HEIRESS OF CASTILE CI^IFFE,

CHAPTER X.

BARBARA.

The Cliftonlea races were over and well over, but at least
one third of the pleasure-seekers went home disappointed.
The races had been "^^^uccessful ; the weather propitious ;
but one great point ot attraction had mysteriously disap-
peared — after the first day, the Infant Venus vanished and
was seen no more. The mob had gone wild about her, and
had besieged the theater clamorously next day ; but when
another and very clumsy Ten us was substituted, and she
was not to be found, the manager nearly had his theater
pulled down about his ears, in their angry disappointment.
None could tell what had become of her, except, perhaps,
Mr. Sweet — which prudent gentleman enchanted the race-
ground no longer with his presence but devoted himself ex-
clusively to a little business of his own.

It was a sweltering August evening. The sun, that had
throbbed and blazed all day like a great heart of fire in a
cloudless sky, was going slowly down behind the Sussex
hills, but a few vagrant wandering sunbeams lingered still
on the open window, and along the carpetless floor, in an
upper room in the Cliffe Arms. It was a small room, with
an attic roof — stifling hot just now, and filled with reeking
fumes of tobacco ; for Mr. Peter Black sat near the empty
fireplace, smoking like a volcano. There were two ladies
in the room ; but, despite their presence and the suffocating
atmosphere, Mr. Black kept his hat on, for the wearing of
which article of dress he partly atoned by being in his shirt-
sleeves, and very much out at the elbows at that. One of
these ladies, rather stricken in years, exceedingly crooked,
exceedingly yellow, and with an exceedingly sharp and vi-
cious expression generally, sat on a low stool opposite him ;
her skinny elbows on her knees, her skinny chin in her

■<m»amfsmmn

BARBARA.

hands, and her small, rat-like eyes transfixing him with an
unwinking stare. The second lady — a youthful angel arrayed
in faded gauze, ornamented with tawdry ribbons and tar-
nished tinsel — stood by the open window, trying to catch the
slightest breeze, but no breeze stirred the stagnant air of the
sweltering August afternoon. It was the Infant Venus, of
course — looking like anything just now, however, but a
Venus in her shabby dress, her uncombed and tangled pro-
fusion of hair, and the scowl that darkened the pretty face.
There never was greater nonsense than that trite old adage
of " beauty unadorned being 'adorned the most." Beauty in
satin and diamonds is infinitely more beaut'f . 1 than the
same in linsey-woolsey, and the caterpillar wii > ^ulky face
and frowsed hair, looking out of the window, was no more
like the golden butterfly, wreathed and smiling on the tight-
rope, than a real caterpillar is like a real butterfly. In fact,
none of the three appeared to be in the best of humors : the
man looked dogged and scowling ; the old woman fierce
■»and wrathful, and the g^'-l gloomy and sullen. They had
bf-^n in exactly the same position for at least two hours with-
out speaking, when the girl suddenly turned round from the
window, with flashing eyes and fiery face.

" Father, I want to know how long we are to be kept
roasting alive in this place ? If you don't let me out, I will
jump out of the window to-night, though I break my neck
for it I "

" Do, and be hanged," growled Mr. Black, surlily, with-
out looking up.

" What have we come here for at all ? Why have we left
the theater ? "

" Find out 1 " said Mr. Black, laconically.

The girl's eyes flamed, and her hands clenched, but the
old woman interposed. - -

" Barbara, you're a fool ! and fools ask more questions in
a minute than a wise man can answer in a day. We have
come here for your good, and — there's a knock — open the
door."

yellow old ogre again." muttered Barbara,

door. '* I know he's at the bottom of all

this, and I should like to scratch his eyes out — I should ! "

She unlocked the door as she uttered the gentle wish ;

" It's that
going to the

88 THE HEIRESS OF CASTLE CLIFFE.

I) <

and the yellow old ogre, in the person of the ever-smiling
Mr. S». et, stepped in. Certainly he was smiling just now
— quite radiantly, in fact ; and his waistcoat, and whiskers,
and hair, and profusion of jewelry, seemed to scintillate
sparks of sunshine and smile, too.

" And how does my charming little Venus find herself
this warm evening — blooming as a rosebud, I hope " — he
began, chuckling her playfully under the chin — " and the
dear old lady quite well and cheerful, I trust ; and you, my
dear old boy, always smoking and enjoying yourself after
your own fashion. How do you all do ? "

By way of answer, the charming little Venus wrenched
herself angrily from his grasp ; the dear old lady gave
him a malignant glance out of her weird eyes, and the dear
old boy .smoked on with a steady scowl, and never looked up.

" All silent 1 " laid Mr. Sweet, drawing up a chair, and
looking silently i ound. *' Why, that's odd, too I Barbara,
my dear, will you tell me what is the matter ? "

Barbara faced round from the window with rather dis-
composing suddenness, not to say fierceness.

"The matter is, Mr. Sweet, that I'm about tired of being
cooped up in this hot hole ; and if I don't get out by fair
means, I will by foul, and that before long. What have
you brought us here for. You needn't deny it, I know you
have brought us here ! "

" Quite right, Miss Barbara. It was I ! "

*' Then I wish you had just minded your own business,
and let us alone. Come, let me out, or I vow I shall jump
out of the window, if 1 break every bone in my body."

" My dear Miss Barbara, I admire your spirit and
courage, but let us do nothing rash. If I have brought you
here, it is for your good, and you will thank me for it one
dav I "

"I shall do nothing of the k id ; and you won't thank
yourself either,' if you don't let r. e out pretty scon. What
do you mean, sir, by interfering ith us, when we weren't
interfering with you ^ '

" Barbara, hold yoi )ngue i again the old lady sharply
cut in. ** Her tongue i longer than the rest of her body,
Mr. Sweet, and you iiusti. mind her. How dare you speak
so disrespectful to the p n^ leman, ; ^u minx 1 "

MHM«

BARBARA.

"You needn't call either of ns names, grandmother," said
Barbara, quite as sharply as the old lady herself, and with a
spectral flash out of her weird dark eyes. " \ shouldn't
think you and father would be such fools as to be ordered
^about Tjy an old lawyer, who had better be minding his own
affairs, if he has any to mind 1 "

Mr. Peter Black, smoking stolidly, still chuckled grimly
under his unshaven beard at his small daughter's large
spirit ; and Mr. Sweet looked at her with mild reproach.

" Gently, gently. Miss Barbara ! you think too fast I As
you have guessed, it is I who have brought you here, and it
is, I repeat, for your good. I saw you at the races, and
liked you — and who could help doing that ? — and I deter-
mined you should not pass your life in such low drudgery ;
for I swear you were born for a lady, and shall be one !
Miss Barbara, you are a great deal too beaqtiful for so pub-
lic and dangerous a life, anc' I repeat again, you shall be a
lady yet 1 "

•' How ? " said Barbara, a little mollified, like all of her
sex, by the flattery.

" Well, in the first place, you shall be educated ; your
father shall have a more respectable situation than that of
ticket-porter to a band of strolling players ; and, lastly,
when you have grown up, I shall perhaps make you — my
little wife ! "

Mr. Sweet laughed pleasantly, but Barbara shrugged her
shoulders, and turned away with infinite contempt.

" Oh, thank you 1 I shall never be a lady in that case,
I am afraid I You may keep your fine promises, Mr. Sweet,
for those who like them, and let me go back to the theater."

" My dear child, when you see the pretty cottage I have
for you to live in, and the fine dresses you shall have, and
all the friends you will make, you will think differently of
it. I am aware this is no{ the most comfortable place in
the world, but I came up for the express purpose of telling
you you are to leave here to-night. Yes, my good Black,
you will hold yourself in readiness to-night to quit this for
your future home."

Mr. Black took his pipe out of his mouth and looked up
for the first time. ^

" Where's that ?" he gruffly asked. -'

90 THE HEIRESS OF CASTLE CLIFFE.

" Down in Tower Cliffe, the fishing-village below here,
and I have found you the nicest cottage ever you saw, where
you can live as comfortably as a king 1 "

•• And that respectable occupation of yours — perhaps it's
a ia.vyer's clerk you want to make ofmel I'm not over
particular, Lord knows I but I don't want to come to
that 1 "

" My dear Black, don't be sarcastic, if you can help it I
Your occupation shall be one of the oldest and most re-
spectable — a profession apostles followed — that of a fisher-
man, you know."

** I don't know anything about the apostles," said Mr.
Black, gruffly, " and I know less about being a fisherman.
Why don't you set me up for a milliner ; or a lady's maid,
at once ? "

" My dear friend, I am afraid you got out of the wrong
side of the bed this morning, you're so uncommon savage :
but I can overlook that and the few other defects you are
troubled with, as people overlook spots on the sun. As to
the fishing, you'll soon learn all you want to know, which
won't be much ; and as you will never want a guinea while
I have one in my purse, you need never shorten your days
by hard work. In three hours from now — that is, at nine
o'clock — I will be here with a conveyance to bear you to your
new home. And now," said Mr. Sweet, rising, " as much
as I regret it, I must tear myself away ; for I have an en-
gagement with my lady at the Castle in half an hour. By
the way, have you heard the news of what happened at the
Castle the other day ? "

" How should we hear it ? " said Mr. Black, sulkily. " Do
you suppose the birds of the air would fly in with news ;
and you took precious good care that none should reach us
any other way 1 "•

" True I I might have known you would not hear it, but
it is a mere trifle after all. The only son of Lady Agnes Shir-
ley has returned home, after an absence of twelve years, and
all Cliftonlea is ringing with the news. Perhaps you would
like to hear the story, my good Judith," said Mr. Sweet,
leaning smilingly over his chair, and fixing his eyes full on
the skinny face of the old woman. " It is quite a romance,
I assure you. A little over thirteen years ago, this young

BARBARA.

man, Cliffe Shirley, made a low marriage, a French actress,
very good, very pretty, but a nobody, you know. Actresses
are always nobodies 1 "

" And lawyers are something worse 1 " interrupted Bar-
bara, facing indignantly around. ♦♦ I would thank you to
mind what you say about actresses, Mr. Sweet."

The lawyer bowed in deprecation to the little vixen.

•• Your pardon, Miss Barbara. I hold myself rebuked.
When my lady heard the story, her wrath, I am told, was ter-
rific. She comes of an old and fiery race, you see, and it
was an unhsard-of atrocity lo mix the blood of the Cliffes
with the plebeian puddle of a French actress, so this only
son and heir was cast off. Then came righteous retribution
for the sin against society he had committed ; the artful ac-
tress died, the young man fled into voluntary exile in India,
to kill natives and do penance for his sins, and after spend-
ing twelve years in these pleasant pursuits, he has unex-
pectedly returned home, and been received by the great
lady of Castle Cliffe with open arms 1 "

" Oh, grandmother ! " cried Barbara, with animation,
** that must have been the lady and gentleman we saw driv-
ing past in the grand carriage yesterday. There were four
beautiful horses, all shining with silver, and a coachman and
footman in livery, and the lady was dressed splendidly, and
the gentleman was — oh I ever so handsome. Don't you re-
member, grandmother ? "

But grandmother, with her eyes fixed as if fascinated on
the cheerful face of the narrator, her old hands trembling,
and her lips spasmodically twitching, was crouching away
in the chimney-corner, and answered never a word. Mr.
Sweet turned to the girl, and took it upon himself to an-
swer.

" Right, Miss Barbara. It was Lady Agnes and Colonel
Shirley ; no one else in Cliftonlea has such an equipage as
that ; but your grandmother will like to hear the rest of the
story.

" There is a sequel, my good Judith. The young soldier
and the pretty actress had a daughter ; and the child, after
remaining six years in England, was taken away by its
father and placed in a French convetit. There it has re-
mained ever since ; and yesterday two messengers were

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92 THE HEIRESS OF CASTI.E CUFFE.

sent to Paris to bring her home, and the child of the French
actress is now the heiress of Castle Cliflfe 1 Miss Barbara,
how would you like to be in her place ? "

" You needn't ask. I would give half my life to be a >^
lady for one day ! "

Mr. Sweet laughed and turned to go ; and old Judith,
crouching into the chimney-corner, shook as she heard it
like one stricken with palsy.

" Never mind, my pretty little Barbara, you shall be one
some day, or I'll not be a living man. And now you had
better see to your grandmother ; I am afraid the dear old
lady is not very well."

THE FIRST TIME.

CHAPTER XI.

THE FIRST TIME.

The village of Lower Cliffe was a collection of about
twenty wretched cottages, nestled away under bleak, craggy
rocks, that sheltered them from the broiling seaside sun.
About a dozen yards from the one straggling road winding
away among rocks and jutting crags, was the long sandy
beach, where the fishermen mended their nets in the sunny
summer-days, and where their fishing-boats were moored :
and away beyond it spread the blue and boundless sea. To
the right, the rough, irregular road lost itself in a mist of
wet marshes and swampy wastes, covered with tall rank
grass, weedy flowers — bl:''^, and yellow, and flame-colored —
and where the cattle grazed on the rank herbage all day
long. To the left, was piitd up miniature hills of seaweedy
rocks, with tall, in their midst, the Demon's Tower ; and in
the background, the sloping upland was bounded by the
high wall that inclosed the park-grounds and preserves of
the castle. The village belonged to Lady Agnes Shirley :
but that august lady had never set her foot therein. In a
grand and lofty sort of way she was aware of such a place,
when her agent, Mr. Sweet, paid in the rents ; and she
scarcely knew anything more about it than she did of any
Hottentot village in Southern Africa. And yet it was down
here in this obscure place that her lawyer located the little
dancing-girl whom he had promised one day to make a
lady.

The delightful little cottage he had mentioned to Mr.
Black stood away by itself at the end of the village furthest
from the marshes, and nearest the park-gat^ — a little white-
washed, one-story affair, with its solitary door facing the
sea, and opening immediately into the only large room of
the house. The place had been newly furnished by the

94 THE HEIRESS OF CASTI.E CI.IFFE.

benevolent lawyer before his protege's came there ; and this
room was kitchen, sitting-room, dining-room, and parlor, all
in one. There were two small bedrooms opening off it —
one occupied by the old woman Judith, the other by Bar-
bara ; and Mr. Peter Black courted repose in a loft above.

The little dancing-girl, much as she had regretted being
taken away from her theater at first, grew reconciled to her
new home in a Avonderfully short space of time. Mr. Sweet
had given her a boat — the daintiest little skiff that ever was
seen — painted black, with a crimson streak running round
it, and the name " Barbara " printed in crimson letters on
the stern. And before she had been living two days in the
cottage, Barbara had learned to row. There must have
been some wild blood in the girl's veins, for she lived out of
doors from morning till night, like a gipsy — climbing up
impassable places like a cat — making the acquaintance of
everybody in the village, and taking to the water like a duck.
Out long before the sun rose red over the sea, and out until
the stars sparkled on the waves, the child, who had been
cooped up all her life in dingy, g^imy city walls, drank in
the resounding seaside wind, as if it had been the elixir of
life, went dancing over the marshes gathering bouquets
of the tall, rank, reedy blossoms, and blue rockets, singing
as she went, springing from jag to jag along the dizzy cliffs,'
with the wind in her teeth, and her pretty brown hair blow-
ing in the breeze behind her. It was a new world to
Barbara.

Mr. Sweet was certainly the most benevolent of men. He
not only paid the rent for the tenants in the seaside cottage,
but he bought and paid for the furniture himself, and made
Barbara new presents every day. And Barbara took his
presents — his pretty boat, the new dresses, the rich fruit and
flowers from the conservatories and parterres of the castle
and liked the gifts immensely, and began to look even with
a little complacency on the giver. But being of an intensely
jealous nature, with the wildest dreams of ambition in her
childish head, and the most passionate and impetuous of
tempers, she never got on very friendly terms with any one.
Barbara certainly was half a barbarian. She had not appar-
ently the slightest affection for either father or grandmother ;
and if she had a heart, it lay dormant yet, and the girl loved

THE FIRST TIME.

nobody but herself. Mr. Sweet studied her profoundly, but
she puzzled him. Scarcely a day passed but he was at the
cottage — taking the trouble to walk down from his own
handsome house in Cliftonlea ; and Barbara was never dis-
pleased to see him, because his hands or his pockets had
always something good for her.

One evening, long after sunset, Mr. Sweet turned down
the rocky road leading to the fisherman's cottage. A high
wind was surging over the sea, and rendering it necessary
for him to clutch his hat with both hands to prevent its
blowing into the regions of space ; the sky was of a leaden
gray, with bars of hard red in the west, and the waves can-
nonaded the shore with a roar like thunder. No one was
abroad. At the village, all were at supper. But Mr. Sweet
looked anxiously for a lithe, girlish figure, bounding from
rock to rock as if treading on air — a sight he very often
saw when traveling down that road. No such figure was
flying along, however, in the high gale this evening ; and
while he watched for it over the cliffs and sand-hills, his foot
stumbled against something lying in the sand, with its head
pillowed in the midst of the reeds and rushes. The recum-
bent figure instantly sprung erect, with angry exclamations,
and he saw the sunburnt face of her he was looking for.
Something had evidently gone wrong, for the bright face
looked dark and sullen ; and she began instantly and with
asperity, the attack :

" What are you about, Mr. Sweet, tramping on people
with your great feet, as if they were made of cast-iron ? "

" My dear Miss Barbara, I beg a thousand pardons ! I
really never saw you." •

" Oh 1 you didn't i You're going blind, I suppose I But
it's alwai's the way 1 I never go anywhere for peace but you
or somebody else is sure to come bothering 1 " .

With which Barbara sat upright, a very cross scowl dis-
figuring her pretty face, and gathering up the profusion of
her brown hair, tangled among the reeds and thistles, began
pushing it away under her gipsy hat. Mr. Sw^eet took a
bunch of luscious grapes out of his pocket, and laid them,
by way of a peace-offering, in her lap.

"What's the matter with my little Barbara? Something
is wrong." ■

96 THE HEIRESS OF CASTILE CLIFEE

"No, there isn't 1" said Barbara, snappishly, and
without condescending to notice the grapes. " Nothing
wrong ! "

*' What have you been about all day ? " -

" Nothing ! "

'* Your general occupation, I believe ! Has the dear old
lady been scolding ? "

" No ! And I shouldn't care if she had ! "

" Have you been to supper ? "

" No."

" How long have you been lying here ? "

" I don't know. I wish you wouldn't torment me with
questions."

Mr. Sweet laughed, but he went on perseveringly, deter-
mined to get at the bottom of Barbara's fit of ill-humor.

" Were you in Cliftonlea this afternoon ? "

The right spring was touched — Barbara sprung up with
flashing eyes.

" Yes, I was in Cliftonlea, and I'll never go there again !
There was everybody making such fools of themselves over
that little pink-and-white wax-doll from France, just as if
she were a queen I She and that cousin of hers — that tall
fellow they call Tom Shirley — were riding through the town ;
she on her white pony, with her blue riding-habit, and black
hat, yellow curls, and baby face, and everybody running out
to see them, and the women dropping curtsies, and the men
taking off their hats as they passed. Bah 1 it was enough
to make one sick I "

Mr. Sweet suppressed a whistle and a laugh. Envy, and
jealousy, and pride, as usual, were at the bottom of Miss
Barbara's ill-temper, for the humble fisherman's girl had
within her a consuming fire — the fire of a fierce and indom-
itable pride. He laid his hand on her shoulder, and looked
at her passionate face with a smile.

" They are right, my dear ! She is the richest of heir-
esses, and the Princess of Sussex 1 What would you give to
change places with her, Barbara ? "

" Don't ask me what I would give I '* said Barbara, fiercely.
** I would give my life, my soul, if I could sell it, as I have
read of men doing ; but it's no use talking ; I am nothing
but a miserable pauper, and always shall be." "

THE FIRST TIME.

The lawyer was habitually calm, and had wonderful self-
possession ; but now his yellow face actually flushed, his
small eyes kindled, and the smile on his face was like the
gleam of a dagger.

'* No, Barbara ! " he cried, almost hissing the words be-
tween his shut teeth ; " a time will come when you will hold
your head a thousand times higher than that yellow-haired
upstart I Trust to me, Barbara, and you shall be a lady
3^et."

He turned away, humming as he went, " There's a good
time coming, .wait a little longer." And walking much
faster than was his decorous wont, he passed the cottage
and entered the park-gates, evidently on his way to the
castle.

Barbara looked after him for a moment a little surprised ;
and then becoming aware that the night was falling, the sea
raising, and the wind raging, darted along the rocks, and
watched, with a sort of gloomy pleasure, the wild waves
dashing themselves frantically along their dark sides.

" What a night it will be, and how the minute-guns will
sound before morning 1 " she said, speaking to herself and
the elements. " And how the surf will boil in the Demon's
Tower, when the tide rises 1 I will go and have a look be-
fore I go in."

Over the rocks she flew, her hands on her sides ; her
long hair and short dress streaming in the gale ; her eyes
and cheeks kindling with excitement at the wild scene and
hour. The Demon's Tower was much more easily scaled
from without than within, and the little tight-rope dancer
could almost tread on air.

So she fiew up the steep sides, hand over hand, swiftly as
a sailor climbs the rigging, and reached the top, breathless
and flushed. Pushing away the hair that the wind was
blowing into her eyes, she looked down, expecting to hear
nothing but the echo of the blast, and see the spray fly in
showers, when, to her boundless astonishment, she heard
instead a sharp cry, and saw two human figures kneeling
on the stone floor, and a third falling back trom the side
with a crash.

Barbara was, for a moment, mute with amazement ; the
next, she had comprehended the whole thing instinctively,

98 THE HEIRESS OF CASI.TE CLIFFE.

and found her voice. Leaning over the dizzy height, she
shouted at the top of her clear lungs :

" Hallo 1 " '

The voice, clear as a bugle-blast, reached the ears of one
of the kneeling figures. It was Vivia, and she looked up to
see a weird face, with streaming hair and dark eyes, looking
down at her, in the ghastly evening light.

" Hallo 1 " repeated Barbara, leaning further over.
" What in the world are you doing down there ? Don't you
know you'll be drowned ? "

Vivia sprung to her feet and held up her arms with a
wild cry.

" Oh, save us ! save us ! save us ! "

'< Yes, I will ; just wait five minutes ! " exclaimed Barbara,
who, in the excitement of the moment, forgot everything
but their danger. " I'll save you if I drown for it."

Down the rocky sides of the tower she went as she had
never gone before, bruising her hands till they bled, with-
out feeling the pain. Over the craggy peak, like an arrow
from a bow, and down to a small sheltered cove between
two projecting cliffs, where her little black and red boat,
with its oars within it, lay safely moored.

In an instant the boat was untied, Barbara leaped in,
and shoved off, seated herself in the thwart and took the
oars. It was a task of no slight danger, for outside the
little cove the waves ran high ; but Barbara had never
thought of danger — never thought of anything, but that
three persons were drowning within the Demon's <;!ave.

The little skiff rode the waves like a cockleshell ; and
the girl, as she bent the oars, had to stoop her head low
to avoid the spray being dashed in her face. The eve-
ning, too, was rapidly darkening ; the fierce bars of red had
died out in the ghastly sky, and great drops of rain began
splashing on the angry and heaving sea. The tide had
risen so quickly that the distance to the cavern was an
ominous length, and Barbara had never been in such weather
before, but still the brave girl kept on undismayed, and
reached it at last, just as the waves were beginning to wash
the stone floor. The boat shot on through the black arch,
stopping beside the prostrate figure of Tom, and their
rescuer sprung out, striving to recognise them in the gloom.

THK FIRST TIMK.

i.9

" Is he dead ? " v/as her first question, looking down at
the recumbent figure.

" Not^quite I " said Tom, feebly, but with strength enough
in his voice to put the matter beyond all doubt. " Who
are you ? "

" Barbara Black. Who are you ? "

" Tom Shirley — what's left of me ! Help those two into
the boat, and then I'll try to follow them up before we all
drown here."

" In with you, then I " cried Barbara.

And Margaret at once obeyed, but Vivia held back.

" No, not until you get in first, Tom I Help me to raise
him, please. I am afraid he is badly hurt 1 '*

Barbara obeyed, and with much trouble and more than
one involuntary groan from Tom, the feat was accomplished,
and he was safely lying in the bottom. Then the two girls
followed him, and soon the little black and red boat was
tossing over the surges, guided through the deepening dark-
ness by Barbara's elastic arms.

But the task was a hard one ; more than once Margaret's
shrieks of terror had rung out on the wind ; and more than
once Barbara's brave heart had grown chill with fear ; but
some good angel guarded the frail skiff, and it was moored
safely in its own little cove at last. Not, however, until
night had fallen in the very blackness of darkness, and the
rain was sweeping over the sea in drenching torrents. Bar-
bara sprung out and secured her boat as it had been be-
fore.

" Now, then, we are all safe at last ! " she cried. " And
as he can't walk, you two must stay with him until I come
back with help. Don't be afraid. I won't be gone long."

She was not long gone, certainly. Fifteen minutes had
not elapsed until she was back with her father and another
fisherman she had met on the way. But every second had
seemed an hour to the three cowering in the boat, with the
rain beating pitilessly on their heads. Barbara carried a
dark-lantern ; and, by its light, the two men lifted Tom and
bore him between them toward the cottage, while Barbara
went slowly before, carrying the lantern, and with Vivia and
Margaret each clinging to an arm.

A I right wood-fire was blazing on the cottage hearth

loo THE HKIRKSS OF CASTLE CUFFE.

when they entered ; for though the month was September,
Judith's bones were old and chill, and Judith sat crouching
over it now, while she waited for their coming. The drip-
ping procession entered, and Vivia thought it the plftasantest
thing she had ever seen, even at Castle Cliffe.

A wooden settle stood before it — Tom was placed there-
on, and Margaret dropped down beside it, exhausted and
panting ; and Vivia and Barbara stood opposite and looked
at each other across the hearth. Vivia's rich silk dress
hung dripping and clammy around her ; and her long -.vhite
curls were drenched with rain and sea-spray, Barbara rec-
ognized her instantly, and so did the fisherman who had
helped her father to carry Tom. '

" It is Miss Shirley and Master Tom 1 " he cried out.
" Oh, whatever will my lady say ? "

Old Judith started up with a shrill scream, and darted
forward.

" Miss Shirley, the heiress I Which of them is her ? "

" I am," said Vivia, turning her clear blue eyes on the
wrinkled face with the simple dignity natural to her ; " and
you must have word sent to the castle immediately."

Old Judith, shaking like one in an ague fit, and looking
from one to the other, stood grasping the back of the settle
for support. There they were, facing each other for the
first time, and neither dreaming how darkly their destinies
were to be interlinked — neither the dark-browed dancing
girl, nor the sunny-haired heiress of Castle Cliffe.

THE NUN'S GRAVE.

loi

• >

.»• "

CHAPTER Xn.

THE nun's grave.

" Some one must go to the castle," repeated Vivia, a little
imperiously. " Papa and grandmamma will be anxious, and
Tom's hurt must be attended to immediately."

Old Judith, like a modern Gorgon, stood staring at this
figure, her bleared eyes riveted immovably on her face, and
shaking like a withered aspen as she clutched the settle.
Victoria stood like a little queen looking down on her sub-
jects ; her bright silk dress hanging dripping around her,
and her long hair uncurled, soaking with sea-spray, and fall-
ing in drenched masses over her shoulders. Barbara, \yho
had been watching her, seemingly as much fascinated as
her grandmother, started impetuously up.

"I'll go, grandmother. I can run fast, and I won't be ten
minutes."

"You'll do nothing of the kind," interposed Mr. Black, in
his customary gruff tones. " You're a pretty looking object
to go anywhere, wet as a water-dog 1 Let the young lady
go herself. She knows the way better than you."

Victoria turned her blue eyes flashing haughty fire upon
the surly speaker ; but without paying the slightest attention-
to him, Barbara seized a shawl, and, throwing it over her
head, rushed into the wild, wet night.

The storm had now broken in all its fury. The darkness
was almost palpable. The raiii swept wildly in the face of
the blast over the sea, and the thunder of the waves against
the shore, and the lamentable wail of the wind united in a
grand diapason of their own. But the fleetfooted dancing-
girl heeded neither the wind that seemed threatening to
catch up her light form and whirl it into the regions of eter-
nal space, nor the rushing rain that beat in her face and

1 02

THE HEIRESS OF CASTLE CUFFE.

blinded her, as she leaped at random over the slimy rocks.
More by instinct than eyesight, she found her way to the
park-gates — they were closed and bolted ; but that fact was
a mere trifle to her. She clambered up the wall like a cat,
and dropped, catlike, on her feet among the wet shrubbery
within. There was no finding a path in the darkness ; but
sh*^ ran headlong among the trees, slipping, and falling, and
rising, only to slip, and fall, and rise again, until, at last, as
she was stopping exhausted and in despair, thinking she had
lost her way in the thickly-wooded plantation, she saw a
number of twinkling lights flashing in and out, like fire-flies
in the darkness, and heard the echo of distant shouts. Bar-
bara comprehended instantly that it was the servants out
with lanterns in search of the missing trio ; and starting up,
she flew on again at break-neck speed, until her rapid career
was brought to a close by her running with a shock against
two persons advancing in an opposite direction. The im-
petus nearly sent her head over heels ; but recovering her
center of gravity with an effort, Barbara clutched the
branches of a tree, and paused to recover the breath that
had been nearly knocked out of her by the concussion.

" Whom have we here ? " said the voice of one of the men,
coming to a halt ; " is it a water-witch, or a kelpi, or a mer-
maid, or "

" Why, it's little Barbara ! " interrupted the other, holding
up the lantern he carried. " Little Barbara Black, actually I
My dear child, how in the world came you to be out and up
here on such a night ? "

Barbara looked at the two speakers and recognized in the
first Colonel Shirley, and in the second Mr. Sweet, who held
the lantern close to her face, and gazed at her in consterna-
tion.

" They're saved, Mr. Sweet ; they're all saved 1 You need
not look for them any more, for they're down at our cottage,
and I've come up here to bring the news I "

" Saved 1 How — where — what do you mean, Barbara? "

"Oh, they were in the Demon's Tower — went there at low
water ; and the tide rose and they couldn't get out ; and so
I took my boat and rowed them ashore, and he has hurt
himself, and they're all down at our house, waiting for some-
body to come 1 "

THE NUN'S GRAVE.

103

Colonel Shirley laughed, though, a little dismayed withal,
at this very intelligent explanation.

•' Who is this little sea-goddess, Sweet, and where does
she come from ? ** he asked.

" From Lower Cliffe, colonel ; her father is a fisherman
there, and I understand the whole matter now 1 "

" Then we must go down to Lower Cliffe immediately.
What could have brought them to the Demon's Tower?
But, of course, it's some of Master Tom's handiwork. Wait
one moment, Sweet, while I send word to Lady^Agres, and
tell the rest to give over the search. What an escape they
must have had if they were caught by the tide in the
Demon's Tower I "

" And, colonel, you had better give orders to have a con-
veyance of some sort follow us to the vfllage. The young
ladies cannot venture out in such wind and rain ; and, if I
understood our little messenger aright, some one is hurt.
Barbara, my dear child, how could they have the heart to
send you out in such weather ? "

" They didn't send me — I came 1 '.' said Barbara, com-
posedly, as the colonel disappeared for a moment in the
darkness. " Father wanted me not to come, but I don't
mind the weather. I'll go home now, and you can show the
gentleman the way yourself f "

■ " No, no ; I cannot have my little Barbara risking her
neck in that fashion. Here comes Colonel Shirley. So
give me your hand, Barbara, and I will show you the way
by the light of my lantern.'*

But Miss Barbara, with a little disdainful astonishment
even at the offer, declined it, and ran along in the pelting
rain, answering all the colonel's profuse questions, wntil the
whole facts of the case were gained.

" Very rash of Mr. Tom — very rash, indeed I ** remarked
Mr. Sweet, at the conclusion ; " and I hope his narrow escape
and a broken heAd will be a lesson to him for the rest of his
life. Here we are, colonel — -this is the house."

The ruddy glow of the firelight was sliining still, a cheer-
ful beacon, from the small windows, to all storm-beaten way-
farers without. Barbara opened the door and bounded in,
shaking the water from her soaking garments as she fan,
followed by the lawyer and the Indian officer. The wood

I04 THE HEIRESS OF CASTI.E CLIFFK.

fire blazed still on the hearth ; Tom lay on the settle before
it ; Margaret and Vivia were steaming away in front of the
blaze, and Mr. Peter Black sat in the chimney-corner sulky
and sleepy. But old Judith's chair opposite was vacant, and
old Judith herself was nowhere to be seen. Vivia started
up, as they entered, with a cry of joy, and sprung into her
father's arms.

" Oh, papa, I am so glad you've come ! Oh, papa, I
thought I was never going to see you again ! "

" My darling ! And to think of your being in such dan-
ger and I not know it ? "

" Oh, papa, it was dreadful I and we would all have been
drowned, only for that girl 1 "

" She is a second Grace Darling, that brave little girl, and
you and I can never repay her for to-night's work, my Vivia I
But this rash boy Tom — I hope the poor fellow has not paid
too dearly for his visit to the Demon's Tower."

*' He is not seriously hurt, papa, but his face is bruised,
and he says he thinks one of his arms is broken."

*' It is all right with Mr. Tom, colonel," said Mr. Sweet,
who had been examining Tom's wounds, looking up cheerily.
*' One arm is broken, and there are a few contusions on his
head-piece, but he will be over them all before he is twice
married 1 Ah 1 there comes the carriage, now 1 "

" And how is it with little Maggie ? " Laid the colonel, pat-
ting her on the head, with a ^smile. " Well, Tom, my boy,
thi§ is a pretty evening's work of yours — isn't it 1 "

Tom looked up into the handsome face bending over him,
and, despite his pallor, had the grace to blush.

" I am sorry, with all my heart ; and I wish I had broken
my neck instead of my arm — it would only have served me
right 1 "

" Very true I but still, as it wouldn't have helped matters
much, perhaps it's as well as it is. Do you think you can
walk to the carriage ? "

Tom rose with some difficulty, for the wounds on his head
made him sick and giddy, and leaning heavily on Mr. Sweet's
arm, managed to reach the door.

The colonel looked at Mr. Black, who still maintained his
seat, despite the presence of his distinguished visitors, and
never turned his gloomy eyes from the dancing blaze.

)re
the
Iky
tnd
ted
ler

THE NUN'S GRAVE.

105

" Come away, papa," whispered Vivia, shrinking away
with an expression of repulsion from the man in the chimney-
corner. " I don't like that man ! "

Low as the words were spoken, they reached the man in
question, who looked up at her with his customary savage
scowl.

" I haven't done nothing to you, yonng lady, that I knows
on ; and if you don't like me or my house — which neither is
much to look at, Lord knows ! — the best thing you can do is
to go back to your fine castle, and not come here any
more ! "

Colonel Shirley turned the light of his dark bright eyes
full on the speaker, who quailed under it, and sunk down in
his seat like the coward he was.

"My good fellow, there is no necessity to make yourself
disagreeable. The young lady is not likely to trouble you
again, if she can help it. Meantime, perhaps this will repay
you for any inconvenience you may have been put to t>
night. And as for this little girl — ^your daughter, I presume
— we will try if we cannot find some better way of recom-
pensing her in part, at least — for the invaluable service she
has rendered."

He threw his purse to the fisherman as he would have
thrown a bone to a dog ; and turned, an instant after, with
his own bright smile, to the fisherman's daughter. She
stood leaning against the mantel, the firelight shining in her
splendid eyes, gilding her crimson cheeks, and sending
spears of light in and out through the tangled waves of her
wet brown hair, something in the attitude, in the dark, beau-
tiful face, in the luminous splendor of the large eyes recalled
vividly to the colonel some dream of the past — something
seen before — seen and lost forever. But the wistful, earnest
look vanished as he turned to her, and with it the momen-
tary resemblance, as it struck him, as a lance strikes on a
seared wound. ,

" Ask her to come to the castle to-morrow, papa," again
whispered Vivia. " I like that girl so much I "

" So you should, my dear. She has saved your life.
Barbara — your name is Barbara is it not ? "

" Yes, sir." ' -^

" My little girl wants you to come to visit her to-morrow,

io6 THE HEIRESS OF CASTILE CI.IEFE.

't I

H I

and I second her wish. Do you think you can find your
way through the park-gates again, Ba'-bara ? "

The smile on the Indian officer s face was infectious.
Barbara smiled brightly back an answer ; and albeit Barbara's
smiles were few and far between, they were as beautiful as
rare.

'* Yes, sir ; if you wish it."

" I never wished for anything more ; and I shall be glad
to see you there every day for the future. Genevieve, bid
Barbara good night and come."

Vivia held out her lily-leaf of a hand, and Barbara just
touched it with her brown fingers.

'* Don't forget. I shall be waiting for you at the park-
gates. Goodnight."

" I shall not forget. Good night."

The tall, gallant, soldier-like form, and the little vision in
shot-silk and yellow-hair, went out into the stormy night ;
and Barbara went to her room, but for once in her life not
to sleep.

Her book of life had opened on a new page that day.
The vague yearnings that had grown wild, like rank weeds,
all her life, in her heart, had struck deeper root, and sprung
up strong and tall, to poison her whole future life.

It was sometime in the afternoon of the following day,
when Barbara walked slowly — something unusual for her —
up the rough road to the park-gates. As she passed through
and went on under the shadows of some giant pines, a bright
httle figure came flying down the avenue to meet her.

" Oh Barbara 1 "

And two little hands clasped hers with childish impet-
uosity.

" Oh Barbara 1 I was so afraid you would not come."

** I couldn't come any sooner. I was in Cliftonlea all
morning. Oh, what great trees those are here, and what a
queer eld cross that is striding up there among them."

" That's the ruins of the convent that used to be here
long ago — hundreds and hundreds of years ago — when there
were convents and monasteries all through England ; and the
last abbess was murdered there. Tom told me all about it

the other day, and showed me her grave.
it to you now."

Come : I'll show

THE NUN'S GRAVE.

107

The two children, the high-born heiress in rose silk and
the daintiest of little French hats, and the low-bred dancing-
girl in her plain merino and cotton sunbonnet, strayed away
together, chattering like magpies, among the gloomy elms
and yews, down to the Nmi's Grave. With the tall planta-
tion of elms and oaks belting it around on every side, and
the thickly-interlacing branches of yew overhead, the place
was dark at all times, and a solemn hush rested ever around
it. The very birds seemed to cease their songs in the
gloomy spot, and the dead nun, ifter the lapse of hundreds
of years, had her lonely grave as undisturbed, as when* she
had first been placed there with the stake through her
heart.

" What a lonesome place ! " said Barbara, under her
breath, as the two stood looking, awestruck, at the grave.
" When I die, I should like to be buried here 1 "

Vivia, mute with the solemn feeling one always has when
near the dead, did not answer, but stood looking down af
the quiet grave, and the black marble slab above it.

The silence was broken in a blood-chilling manner enough.

" Barbara 1 "

Both children recoiled with horror, for the voice came
from the grave at their feet. Clear, and sweet, and low,
but distinct, and unmistakably from the grave I

"Victoria!"

The voice again — the same low, sweet, clear voice from
beneath their feet 1

The faces of both listeners turned white with fear.

The voice from the grave came up on the still summer
air solem.n and sweet, once more !

** From death, one has been saved by the other ; and in
the days to come, one shall perish through the other. Bar-
bara, be warned ! Victoria, beware i "

It ceased. A blackbird perched on an overhanging
branch, set up its chirping song, and the voice of Made-
moiselle Jeannette was heard in the distance, crying out for
Miss Vivia. It broke the i pell of terror, and both children
fled from the spot.

" Oh Barbara I What was that ? " cried Vivia, her very
lips white with fear.

" I don't know," said Barbara, trying to hide her own

io8 THE HEIRESS OF CASTI.E CUFFK. •

terror. " It came from the grave. It couldn't be the dead
nun could it ? Is that place haunted ? "

" No — yes — I don't know I I think Tom said there was
a ghost seen there. Don't tell Jeannette ; she will only
laugh at us. But I will never go there as long as I
live I "

" What made you stay away so long, Mademoiselle Vivia ?
Your grandmother was afraid you were lost again."

" Let us hurry, then. I want grandmamma to see you,
Barbara ; so make haste."

The great hall-door of the old mansion was wide open as
they came near, and Lady Agnes herself stood in the hall,
talking to the colonel and Mr. Sweet ; Vivia ran breath-
lessly in, followed by Barbara, who glanced around the
adorned, and carved, and pictured hall, and up the sweep-
ing staircase, with its gilded "balustrade, in grand, careless
surprise.

" Here is Barbara, grandmamma ! — here is Barbara ! "
was Vivia's cry, as she rushed in. I knew she would
come."

" Barbara is the best and bravest little girl in the world ! "
said Lady Agnes glancing curiously at the bright, fearless
face and holding out two jeweled tapered fingers. " I am
glad to see Barbara here, and thank her for what she has
done, with all my heart."

Mr. Sweet, standing near, with his pleasant smile on his
face, stepped forward, hat in hand.

" Good afternoon, my lady. Good afternoon. Miss Vic-
toria. Our little Barbara will have cause to bless the day
that has brought her such noble friends."

With a tune on hh lips, and the smile deepening inexpli-
cably, he went out into the great portico, down the broad
stone steps guarded by two crouching lions, and along the
great avenue, shading off the golden sunshine with its wav-
ing trees. Under one of them he paused, with his hat still
in his hand, the sunlight sifting through the trees, making
his jewelry and his yellow hair flash back its radiance, and
looked around. The grand old mansion, the .sweeping vista
of park and lawn, and terrace and shrubbery, and glade
and woodland, mimic lake and radiant rose-garden, Swiss
farmhouse and ruined convent, all spread out before him^

THE NUN'S GRAVE. ^

Y...-

109

bathed in the glory of the bright September sun. The tune
died away, and the smile changed to an exultant
laugh.

" And to think," said Mr. Sweet, turning away, " that
one day all this shall be mine 1 **

■is-

.,>•

"■'^ij

I I

\> !

iio THE HEIRESS OF CASTI.E CUFFE.

CHAPTER Xni.

THE MAY QUEEN.

Such a morning as that first of May was ! Had the
good people of Cliftonlea sent up an express order to the
clerk of the weather to manufacture them the fairest day he
could possibly turn out, they could not have had a more
perfectly unexceptionable one than that. Sun and sky
were so radiantly bright, they fairly made you wonder to
think of them. Ceylon's spicy breezes could not have been
Vv'armer or spicier than that blowing over Cliftonlea com-
mon. The grass and the trees were as green as, in many
other parts of England, they would have been in July. The
cathedral-bells were ringing, until they threatened to crack
and go mad with joy ; and as for the birds, they were sing-
ing at such a rate, that they fairly overtopped the bells, and
had been hard and fast at it since five o'clock. "All the
town, e/t grande tenue, were hurrying, with eager antici-
pation, toward the common — a great square, carpeted with
the greenest possible grass, besprinkled with pink and
white daisies, and shaded by tall English poplars — where
the Cliftonlea brass band was already banging away at the
" May Queen." All business was suspended ; for May Day
ha(^l been kept, from time immemorial, a holiday, and the
lady of Castle Cliffe always encouraged it, by ordering her
agents to furnish a public dinner, and supper, and no end
of ale, on each anniversary.

Then, besides the feasting and drinking, there was the
band and dancing for the young people, until the small
hours, if they choose.

And so it was no wonder that May Day was looked for
months before it came, and was the talk months afterward ;
and that numberless matches were made there, and that the

THE MAY QUEEN.

lie

May Queen was the belle all the succeeding year, and the
envy of all the young ladies of the town.

The cathedral-bells had just begun t© chime forth the
national anthem ; the crowd of townfolk kept pouring in a
long stream through High-street toward the common, when
a slight sensation was created by the appearance of two
young men, to whom the women courtesied and the men
took off their hats. Both bore the unmistakable stamp of
gentlemen, and there was an indefinable something — an in-
describable air — about them, that told plainer than words they
were not of the honest burghers among whom they walked.
One of these, upon whom the cares of life and a green
shooting-jacket appeared to sit easily, was remarkable for
his stature — being, like Saul, the son of Kish, above the
heads of his fellow men — with the proportions of a grena-
dier, and the thews and sinews of an athlete. On an exu-
berant crop of short, crisp, black curls, jauntily sat a blue
Scotch bonnet, with a tall feather. On the Herculean form
was the green hunting- jacket, tightened round the waist
with a leather belt, and to his knees came a pair of tall
Wellington boots. This off.hand style of costume suited
the wearer to perfection, which is as good as saying his
figure was admirable ; and suited, too, the laughing black
eyes and dashing air generally. A mustache, thick and
black, became well the sunburnt and not very handsome
face ; and he held his head up, and talked and laughed in
a voice sonorous and clear, not to say loud as a bugle-
blast.

The young giant's companion was not at all like him —
nothing near so tall, though still somewhat above the usual
height, and much more slender of figure — but then he had
such a figure 1 One of those masculine faces, to which the
adjective beautiful can be applied, and yet remain intensely
masculine. A light summer straw-hat sat on the fair brown
hair, and shaded the broad, pale brow — the dreamy brow
of a poet or a painter — large blue eyes, so darkly blue that
at first you would be apt to mistake them for black, shaded
as they were by girl-like, long, sweeping lashes — wonderful
eyes, in whose clear, calm depths spoke a deathless energy,
fiery passion, amid all their calm, and a fascination that
his twenty-four years of life had proved to ihc'r owner, few

112 THE HEIRESS OF CASTLE CUFFE.

li i

could ever resist. The clear, pale complexion, the straight,
delicate features, somewhat set and haugKiy in repose, were
a peculiarity of his race, and known to many in London
and Sussex as the " Cliffe face." His dress was the most
faultless of morning costumes, and a striking contrast to
the easy style of his companion's with whom he walked
nrm-in-arm ; patting, now and then, with the other hand,
which was gloved, the head of a great Canadian wolf-hound
trotting by his side. Both young gentlemen were smoking ;
but the tall wearer of the green jacket was carrying his cigar
between his finger and thumb, and was holding forth
volubly.

** Of course they will have a May Queen ! They always
have had in Cliftonlea, from time immemorial ; and I
believe the thing is mentioned iri Magna Charta. If you
had not been such a heathen, Cliffe, roaming all your life
in foreign parts, you would have known about it before
this. Ah 1 how often have I danced on the green with the
May Queen, when I was a guileless little shaver in round-
abouts ; and what pretty little things those May Queens were !
If you only keep your eyes skinned to-day, you will see some
of the best-looking girls you ever saw in your life." :•

I don't believe it."

Seeing is believing, and you just hold on. The lasfe
time I was here, Barbara Black was the May Queen ; and^
what a girl that was, to be sure I Such eyes ; such hair ;
such an ankle ; such an instep ; such a figure ; such a
face 1 Just the sort of thing you painting fellows always go
mad about. I believe I was half in love with her at the
time, if I don't greatly mistake "

'* I don't doubt it in the least. It's a way you have,"
said his companion, whose low, refined tones contrasted
forcibly with the vigorous voice of the other. " How long
ago is that? "

" Four years, precisely."

" Then take my word for it, Barbara Black is homely as
a hedge-fence by this time. Pretty children always grow
up ugly, and Z'tc^ versa.^*

" Perhaps so," said the giant in the green jacket and
tightening his belt. " Well, it may be true enough as a
general rule ; for I was uncommonly ugly when a child>

((

*."-

THE MAY QUEEN.

»i3

and look at me now ? But I'll swear Barbara is an excep-
tion ; for she is the prettiest girl I ever saw in my life — ex-
cept one. Only to think, being four years absent from a
place, and then not to fin., it the least changed when you
come back."

" Isn't it ? I know so little of Cliftonlea that its good
people might throw their houses 'out of the windows, with-
out my being anything the wiser. What a confounded din
that band makes 1 and what a crowd there is ! I hate
crowds ! "

" They'll make way for us," said the young giant ; and,
true to his prediction, the dense mob encircling the com-
mon parted respectfully to let the two young men through.
" Look there, Cliffe, that's the May-pole, and that flower-
wreathed seat underneath is the queen's throne, God bless
her ! See that long arch of green boughs and flowers ;
that's the way her majesty will come. And just look at
this living sea of eager eyes and faces ! You might make a
picture of all this, Sir Artist."

" And make my fortune at the exhibition. It's a good
notion, and I may try it some time when I have time. Who
is to be the May Queen this year ? "

" Can't say. There she comes herself 1 " ^. .

The place where the young men stood was within the
living circle around the boundary of the common, in the
center of which stood a tall pole, wreathed with evergreens
and daisies, and surmounted on the top by a crown of arti-
ficial flowers, made of gold and silver paper, sparkling in
the sunshine like a golden coronet. From this pole to the
opposite gate were arches of evergreen, wreathed with wild
flowers, and under this verdant canopy was the queen's
train to enter. The militia band, in their scarlet and blue
uniforms, stood near the queen's throne, playing " Barbara
Allen ; " and the policemen were stationed here and there,
to keep the crowd from surging in until the royal procession
entered. This common, it may be said in parenthesis, was
at the extreme extremity of the town, and away from all
dwellings ; but there were two large, gloomy-looking stone
buildings withm a few yards of it — one of them the court-
house, the other the county jail — as one of the young
gentlemen had reason to know in after days to his cost.

114 THE HEIRESS OF CASTI<K CIvlFFE.

There was a murmur of expectation and a swaying of tlie
crowd ; tlie band changed from " Barbara Allen " to the
national anthem, and the expected procession began to
enter. Two by two they came ; the pretty village-girls all
dressed in translucent white, blue sashes round their waists,
and wreaths of flowers on their heads ; blonde and brunette,
pale and rosy, stately and petite — on they came, two and
two, scattering flowers as they went, and singing " God
Save the Queen." It was, indeed, a pretty sight, and the
artist's splendid eyes kindled as they looked ; but though
many of the faces were exceedingly handsome, the May
Queen had not come yet. Nearly thirty of, this gauzy train
had entered and taken their stand round the throne, look-
ing in their swelling amplitude of snowy gauze and swaying
crinoline ten times that number, when a mighty shout arose
unanimously from the crowd, announceing the coming of
the fairest of them all — the Queen of May.

Over the flower-strewn path came a glittering equipage, the
Queen of the Fairies herself might have ridden in ; a tiny
chariot dazzling with gilding, vivid with rose-red paint, and
wreathed and encircled with flowers, drawn by six of the
snow-clad nymphs, the queen's maids of honor. By its side
walked two children, neither more than six years old, each
carrying a flag, one the Union Jack of Old England, the
other a banner of azure silk, with the name " Barbara "
shining in silver letters thereon. And within the chariot
rode such a vision of beauty, in the same misty white robes
as her subjects, the blue sash round the taper waist, and a
wreath of white roses round the stately head, such a vision
of beauty as is seen oftener in the brains of poets and
artists than in real life, and heard of oftener in fairy tales
than this prosy, everyday world. But the radiant vision,
with a coronet of shining dark braids twisted round and
round the stately head — Nature's own luxuriant crown —
with the lustrous dark eyes, flushed cheeks and smiling lips,
was no myth of fairy tale, or vapory vision of poetry, but a
dazzling flesh-and-biood reality ; and as she stepped from
her gilded chariot, fairest where all were fair, " queen-rose
of the rosebud garden of girls," such a shout went up from
the excited crowd, that the thunder of brass band and drum
was drowned altogether for fully ten minutes. " God Save

THE MAY QUEEN.

»iS

the Queen I " •' Long Live Queen Barbara 1 " rung and re-
rung on the air, as if she were indeed a crowned queen, and
the tall, stately white figure, slender and springy as a young
willow, bent smilingly right and Jeft, while the band still
banged out its patriotic tune, and the crowd still shouted
themselves hoarse.

" Great Heaven I " exclaimed CHffe, " what a perfectly
beautiful face I "

The young giant in shooting-jacket did not answer.
From the first moment his eyes had fallen upon her, his face
had been going through all the phases of emotion that any
one face can reasonably go through in ten minutes' time.
Astonishment, admiration, recognition, doubt and delight,
came over it like clouds over a summer sky ; and as she
took her scat under the flower-bedecked May-pole, spread-
ing out her gauzy skirt and azure ribbons, he broke from
his companion with a shout of " It is 1 " and springing over
the intervening space in two bounds, he was kneeling at her
feet, raising her hand to his lips, and crying in a voice that
rung like a trumpet-tone over the now silent plain :

" Let me be first to do homage to Queen Barbara I "

*' Hurrah for Tom Shirley 1 " said a laughing voice in the
crowd, and " Hurrah I hurrah 1 hurrah for Tom Shirley I "
shouted the multitude, catching the infection, until the tall
May-poie, and the ground under their feet, seemed to ring
with the echo. It was all so sudden and so stunningly loud,
that the May Queen, half-startled, snatched away her hand,
and looked round her bewildered, and even Tom Shirley
was startled, for that giant gazed round at the yelling mob,
completely taken aback by his enthusiastic reception.

" What the demon do the good people mean ? Have they
all gone mad, Barbara, or do they intend making a May
Queen of me, too ? "

" They certainly ought, if they have any taste 1 " said the
girl. " But do let me look at you again, and make sure that
it is really Tom Shirley ! "

Tom defied his Scotch cap and made her a courtly
bow.

" Certainly ! Your majesty may look as much as you
like. You won't see anything better worth looking at, if you
search for a month of Sundays. I promise you that I "

ii6 THE HEIRESS OF CASTLE CUFFE. - .

The young lady, trying to look grave, but with a little
smile rippling round her red lips, began at the toes of his
Wellington boots, scrutinized him carefully to the topmost
kink of his curly head, and recommencing there, got down
to the soles of his boots again, before she was prepared to
vouch for his identity.

" It is yourself, Tom I Nobody else in the world was ever
such a Brobdignag as you 1 If you had only come a little
earlier, you might have saved them the trouble of seeking a
May-pole ; and just fancy how pretty you would look, twined
round with garlands of roses, and a crown of silver lilies on
your head 1 "

Mr. Tom drew himself up to the full extent of his six feet,
four inches, and looked down on the dark, bright, beautiful
face, smiling up at him, under the white roses.

" Well, this is cool 1 Here, after four years' absence, dur-
ing which I might have been dead and buried, for all she
knew, instead of welcoming me, and falling on my neck, and
embracing me with tears, as any other Christian would do,
she commences the moment she claps eyes on me, calling
me names, and loading me with opprobrium, and "

" Oh, nonsense^ Tom 1 You know I am real glad to see
you! " said Barbara, giving him her hand, carelessly, " and
as to falling on your neck, I would have to climb up a ladder
or a fire-escape first, to do it. But there, the band is playing
the * Lancers,' and everybody is staring at us ; so do, for
goodness' sake, ask me to dance, or something, and let us
get out of this 1 "

" With all the pleasure in life. Miss Black," said Tom, in
solemn politeness. " May I have the honor of your hand for
the first set ? Thank you 1 And now — but first, where's — ■
Oh, yes, here he is. Miss Black, permit me to present
this youthful relative of mine, Mr. Leicester Cliffe, of Cliffe-
wood, late of everywhere in general and nowhere in particular
— an amiable young person enough, of rather vagabondish
inclination, it is true, but I don't quite despair of him yet.
Mr. Cliflfe, Miss Black."

" You villain 1 I'll break every bone in your body ! " said
Mr. Cliffe, in a savage undertone to his friend, before turning
with a profound bow to Barbara, whose handkerchief hid an
irrepressible smile. " Miss Black, I trust, knows Mr. Tom

J ■ -^

THE MAY QUEEN.

■f^

Shirley too well to give any credit to anything he says.
May I beg the honor of your hand for "

" You may beg it, but you won't get it, " interrupted
Tom. " She is mine for the next set, and as many more as
I want — ain't you, Barbara ? " * **

" For the second then, Miss Black? I'll not leave you a
sound bone from head to foot I " said Mr. Cliflfe, changing
his voice with startling rapidity, as he addressed first the
lady and then the gentleman.

" With pleasure, sir, " said Barbara, who was dying to
laugh outright.

And Mr. Leicester Cliflfe, favoring her with another bow,
with a menacing glance at his companion, walked away.

" Sic transit gloria mundi ! They're waiting for us, Bar-
bara, " said Tom, making a grimace after his relative.

And Barbara burst out into a silvery and uncontrollable
fit of laughter.

"Tom, I'm ashamed of you I And is that really Mr.
Leicester Cliflfe ? "

" It really is. What do you know about him pray ;' "

" Nothing. There 1 he is our m-rt-z/ij— actually with
Caroline Marsh. I have had the honor of seeing him once
before in my life — that is all I"

"Where?"

" There is a picture at Cliflfewood, in the hall, of a pretty
little boy, with long, yellow curls and blue eyes, that I have
looked at many a time — first, with you and Miss Vic, and af-
terward when I went there alone ; and I saw him on several
occasions when he was here six years ago." .■■"

" Six years ago ? Why that was just after you came to
Lower Cliflfe at first ; and I was here then, and I don't re-
member anything about it."

" No, I know you don't ; but the way of it was simple
enough. You, and Miss Vic, and Lady Agnes, and Colo-
nel Shirley, and Miss Margaret, all left the castle three
months after I came to live here — you to Cambridge, Miss
Vic to her French convent. Miss Margaret to a Lon-
don boarding-school, and Lady Agnes and* the colonel to
Belgium. Do you comprehend ? "

"Slightly." ; ■ ".-

" Well, let us take o»'t place then, for the quadrille is

ii8 THE HEIRESS OF CASTI.E CUFFK.

■H

about to commence. Sir Roland was going away, too, to
Syria — was it not ? And Mr. Leicester came down from
Oxford to spend a week or two before his departure ; and
I saw him most every day then, and we were excellent
friends, I assure you."

" Were you ? That's odd ; for when I was speaking of
you ten minutes ago, he seemed to know as little about you as
I do about the pug-faced lady."

Barbara smiled and shrugged her pretty shoulders.

"Out of sight, out of mind I Monsieur has forgotten
me ? "

" Oh, the barbarian ! As if any one in their proper
senses could ever see you and forget you I Ever since we
parted," said Tom, laying his hand with pathos on the left
side of his green jacket, you have been my star by day and my
dream by night — the sun of my existence, and the cherished
idol of my young affections. Don't be laughing ; it's truth
I'm telling."

''- Bah 1 don't be talking nonsense ! Do you remember
the night you nearly broke your neck, and I saved you and
your two cousins from the Demon's Tower ? "

"That was six years ago — a long stretch to look back;
but as if I could forget anything you ever had a hand in,
Barbara 1 "

" I'll box your ears, sir, if you keep on making an idiot of
yourself 1 You remember I was up the next- day to the
castle, and enjoyed the pleasure of the first chat I ever had
with you ; and we had a terrific quarrel, that raged for at
least three days ? "

" I remember. I told you that when I grew up and mar-
ried Vic, you should be ray second wife, and that whichever
I found suited me best should be first sultana. Well,
now, Barbara, to make amends, suppose you become first,
and "

" Stuff ! Tell me where you dropped from so unexpect-
edly to-day ? "

" From Cliffewood the last place. I came down with
Leicester in last evening's train."

" Are you going to remain ? "

" No, indeed. I'm off again to-night."

" A flying visic, truly. Did you come for a coal, Mr,

THE MAY QUBKN.

119

Tom, and want to get back to London with it before it goes
out ? "

" Not exactly. I came to poke up that superannuated old
dame, Mrs. Wilder, with the intelligence that my lady and
suite are to arrive this day month at the castle."

" Is it possible ? Are all coming ? "

" All. My lady, the colonel, Miss Shirley, and Miss Mar-
garet Shirley, not to mention a whole drove of visitors, who
are expected down later in the summer." -

" And Miss Vic — is she well, and as pretty as ever ? '*

** Pretty ! I believe you ! " She's all my fancy painted
her ; she's divine, and her heart it is no other's and I'm
bound it shall be mine ! Did you hear she was presented
at court ? "

" I read it in the papers, with a full account of her dia-
monds, and moire antique, and honiton lace, and the sen-
sation she created, and everything else. I suppose -she has
-been having a very gay winter ? " said Barbara, with a little
envious sigh.

" Stunning ! It's her first season out, and she has made
a small regiment of conquests already. You ought to see
her, Barbara, in her diamonds and lace, looking down on
her multitude of adorers like a princess, and eclipsing all
tiie reigning belles of London. One of her lovers — a poor
devil of a poet, who was half-mad about her — christened her
the ' Rose of Sussex ; ' and, upon my word, she is far more
wildely known by that title than as Miss Shirley."

" Oh ! " said Barbara, drawing in her breath hard, if I
only were she 1 "

" If you were," said Tom, echoing the sigh, " I would
wish you to possess a little more Iieart. With all her
beauty, and her smiles, and her coquetry, she is as finished
a coquette as ever broke a heart. The girl is made of ice.
You might kneel down and sigh out your soul at her feet,
and she would laugh at you for you pains ! "

" She must have changed greatly then since she left here
six years ago."

*' Changed ! There never was such change — improve-
ment, perhaps, some people would call it ; but I can't see it.
She used to be Vic Shirley then, but now she is Miss or
Mademoiselle Genevieve ; and with all that satin and crino-

I I

120 THK HEIRESS OF CASTI.E CLIFFE.

line floating around her, a fellow can ,only look on and ad-
mire from a respectful distance. Have you never seen her
since ? "

" Never I But," said Barbara, with a sudden crimsoning,
that might have been pride or any other feeling, deepening
the rose-hue on her cheek, " she wrote me one letter 1 "

" How g^erous I And you saved her Ufe, too I What
was it about ? "

" It was a year ago," said Barbara, In a low tone ; " a few
months before she left school, and the colonel brought it
from Paris— you may have heard she was there for a few
days last May. The emperor and empress had visited her
convent-school, and she had been chosen to speak an ad-
dress, and present a bouquet to each, and *the emperor was
struck by her — by her beauty, perhaps," with a little tremor
of the clear voice ; " and when it was all over, he came up
to her and inquired her name, and chatted with her for
some time, to, the great envy of all the rest of the school."

*' Oh, I've heard of all that !" said Tom, with an impa-
tient shrug. " Lady Agnes has taken care to bore her dear
five hundred friends with it at least a thousand times 1 "

" Yes ; but that is not all. Next day there came to the
convent a little casket of purple-velvet and ivory for
Mademoiselle Shirley, bearing the imperial arms, and
within there was a superb chain of gold and seed pearls,
with two lovely pearl hearts set in gold, and rubies united
by a scoU bearing the letter * N ' attached. It was the gift
of the emperor ; and Miss Victoria gave me the whole ac-
count in her letter, and the colonel had a duplicate made in
Paris, and gave it to me — only," said Barbara, laughing,
with tears in her eyes, " with his cipher instead of the im-
perial one."

*• That was prime ! And why don't you wear his pretty
present ? "

** I always do, here," tapping lightly on her white corsage.
** I shall never part with it till I die 1 And are you going
to marry your cousin, Tom ? "

"I don't know," said Tom, with a groan. I wish to
Heaven I could ; but it doesn't depend on me, unfortunately.
She is encircled from week's end to week's end with a crowd
of perfumed Adonises, who always flutter around heiresses

THE MAY QUEEN.

121

like moths round a lighted candle ; and girls are such in-
conceivable fools, that they are always sure to prefer one of
those nicely-winged moths to a straightforward, honest,
sensible, practical man. Miserable little popinjays ! I could
take the best of them by the waistband and lay them low in
the kennel, any day, if I liked ! "

" You great big monster ! Then tlie great bear has
actually lost his heart ! "

" Great bear ! You are all alike ; and her pet name for
me is Ursa Major, too 1 "

" But you are really in love, Tom ? "

" I don't know that, either 1 " groaned Tom. *' Some-
times I love her —sometimes I hate her ! and then she is
provoking enough to make a meeting-house swear 1 Oh, there's
old Sweet, the lawyer, as yellow and smiling as ever, dally-
ing along with Leicester, and I suppose I must give you up
to him for one set, at least I By the way, liow is the gov-
ernor and the old lady ? "

" If you mean my father and grandmother, they are as
Avell as usual."

" Well, that's jolly — beg your pardon 1 Ursa Major has
bruinish ways of talking, and they never could knock any
manners into me at Cambridge. Oh, I see something nice
over there, and I'm going to ask her for the next dance."

Off went Tom, like a rocket, and up came suave and
graceful Mr. Leicester Cliffe, with the smiling agent of Lady
Agnes Shirley,

" I believe I have the honor of the next, lady fair," said
the young gentleman. " You and Tom appeared to prefer
talking to dancing, if one might judge from appearances.

Barbara laughed.

" Tom and I are old friends, Mr. Cliffe ; and when old
friends meet they have a thousand things to say to each
other." . ,

*' Mr. Cliffe — and you used to call me Leicester when I
was here before."

" Oh, but you were a boy then 1 " said Barbara, with an-
other gay laugh and vivid blush.

" Well, just think I'm a boy again, won't you ? Barbara
and Leicester are much pleasanter and shorter than Miss
Black and Mr. Cliffe."

122 THE HEIRESS OF CASTI.E CUFFE.

. Barbara did not speak.

" If I were a lady," was her thought, " would he talk to me
like this ? "

And all the fierce, indomitable pride, asleep but not dead
within her rose up, and sent a crimson to her cheek and
a fire to her eye, and a sudden uplifting of the haughty little
head.

" Six years is a long time, Mr. Cliffe 1 " she said, coldly ;
" and half an hour ago you had forgotten me I "

" Miss Barbara, I have sinned in doing so, and have been
repenting of it ever since. I accuse myself," he said, peni-
tently, " of forgetting the little wild-eyed gipsy, who used to
sit on my knee and sing for me ' Lang-syne ; ' but when I
cease to forget the May Queen of to-day, I shall have ceased
to forget all things earthly I "

There was a low, mocking laugh behind them, and Bar-
bara turned round. She had not. laughed at his speech as
she had done at similar speeches from Tom Shirley, and her
dark face was glowing like the heart of a June rose when
her eye fell on the laugher. But it was only Mr. Sweet,
talking to a vivacious little damsel, and not paying any at-
tention to them at all.

The heir of Cliffewood and the fisherman's daughteMook
their station at the head of the quadrille, and hundreds of
eyes turned curiously upon them. The gulf between herself
and Tom Shirley was not so very wide, for Tom was nearly
as poor as she ; but the heir of Cliffewood — that was an-
other thing I

" What a handsome couple ! " more than one had said,
in a stage-whisper.

And a handsome couple they were. The young artist,
with his dreamy brow, his splendid eyes, his fair brown
hair, his proud characteristic face and princely bearing ; the
girl crowned with roses, and crowned with her beauty and
pride, as a far more regal diadem, her dress of gauzy white
a duchess or a peasant might have worn with equal
propriety, looking a lady to hei finger-tips. The whisper
reached them as they moved away at the conclusion of the
dance, she leaning lightly on his arm ; and he turned to h^r
with a smile.

-»«5

THE MAY QUKKN.

123

kad

fnd

tie

|iy;

len

;ni-

sed

" Did you hear that ? They call you and I a couple, Bar-
bara."

" Village gossips will make remarks 1 " said the young
lady, with infinite composure ; " and over in that field there
are a horse and an ox coupled. Noble and inferior animals
should find their own level."

" You are pleased to be sarcastic."

" Not at all. Where have you been all these years, Mr.
Cliffe 1 "

" Over the world. I made the grand tour when I left
Oxford, four years ago ; then I visited the East ; and, last
of all, I went to America. This day six weeks I was in New
York."

" America I Ah 1 I should like to go there 1 It has been
my dream all my life." .

" And why ? "

She did not speak. Her eyes were downcast and her
cheeks crimson.

'• Will your majesty not tell your most faithful subject ? "
he said, laughing in a careless way, that reminded her of
Colonel Shirley ; and, indeed, his every look and tone and
smile reminded her of the absent Indian officer, and made
her think far more tenderly of Mr. Leicester Cliffe than she
could otherwise have done ; for Barbara had the strongest
and strangest affection for the handsome colonel in the world.

" Why would you like to go to America ? " he reiterated,
looking at her curiously.

She raised her eyes, flashing with a strange fire, and drew
her hand hastily from his arm.

" Because all are equals there. Excuse me, Mr. Cliffe ;
I am engaged to Mr. Sweet for this cotillion."

He looked after her with a strange smile, as she moved
away, treading the ground as if she were indeed a queen.

" You will sing another tune some day, my haughty little
beauty," said he to himself, " or my power will fail for
once."

The day passed delightfully. There was the dinner on
the grass, and more dancing, and long promenades ; and the
May Queen's innumerable admirers uttered curses not loud
but deep, to find Mr. Leicester Cliffe devoted himself to her
all day, as if she had been the greatest lady in the land.

224 THE HEIRESS OF CASTI.E CUFFE- -

To contest any prize against such a rival was not to be
thought of ; and, when supper was over, and the stars
were out, and the young May nnoon rose up, the heir of
Cliffewood walked home with the cottage-beauty on his arm.
Tom Shirley had taken the evening train for London, and
there was none to tell tales out of school.

The sea lay asleep in the moonlight, and the fishing-boats
danced over the silvery ripples under the hush of the solemn
stars.

" Oh, what a night I " exclaimed Barbara. " What a moon
that is I and what a multitude of stars 1 It seems to me,"
with a light laugh, " they never were so many nor so beau-
tiful before."

" They're all beautiful," said Leicester, speaking of them
and looking at her. " But I have seen a star brighter than
any there, to-day I Fairest Barbara. Good night I "

Those same slandered stars watched Mr. Leicester Cliffe
slowly riding homeward in their placid light, and watched
him fall asleep with his head on his arm, and the same queer
half -smile on his lips, to dream of Barbara.

•;v'**'

^f'- ■-^.

. i ■■■*:, :

THE WARNING.

CHAPTER XIV.

THE WARNING.

Sir Roland Cliffe sat in his dining-room at Cliffewood
— a pleasant room, with a velvet carpet of crimson and white
on the floor ; crimson-satin curtains draping the French
windows that opened on a sunny sweep of lawn ; pictures
on the satin-paneled wails — pretty pictures in gilded frames,
of fruit and the chase, with green glimpses of Indian jungles,
American prairies and Canadian forests — the latter the
work of Sir Roland's heir. Sir Roland himself sat in a
great armchair of crimson velvet, with gilded back and arms
— a corpulent gentleman of fifty, much addicted to that
gentlemanly disease, the gout — before an antique mahogany
table, draped with the snowiest of damask, strewn with
baskets of silver filagree, heaped with oranges, grapes and
nuts, and flanked with sundry cut-glass decanters of ruby
port and golden sherry. An open letter lay on the table, in
a dainty Italian hand, that began, " My dear brother ; " and
while the May sunshine and breezes floated blandly through
the crimson curtains. Sir Roland sipped his pale sherry,
munched his walnuts and grapes, and ruminated deeply.
He had sat quite alone over his dessert, making his medita-
tions, when right in the middle of an unusually profound one
came the sound of a light, quick step on the terrace without,
the sweet notes of a clear voice singing, " The Lass o'
Gowrie," and the next minute the door was thrown open,
and Mr. Leicester Cliffe walked in, with his huge Canadian
wolf-dog by his side. The young gentleman wore a shoot-
ing costume, and had a gun in his hand ; and the seaside
sun and wind seemed to agree with him mightily, for there
was a glow on his pale cheek and a dancing light in his
luminous eyes.

" Late, as usual 1 " was his salutation, as he stood his gua

126 THE HEIRESS OF CAvSTLE CUFFE.

in a corner, and flung his wide-awake on a sofa. " I intended
to be the soul of punctuality to-day ; but the time goes here
one doesn't know how, and I only found out it was getting
late by feeling half-famished. Hope I haven't kept you
waiting ? "

" I have not waited," said Sir Roland. " Ring the bell,
and they'll bring your" dinner. Been gunning, I see ? I
hope with more success than usual."

" I am sorry to say not. Loup and I have spent our day
and bagged nothing."

" Very shy game yours must be, I think."

" It is 1 " said Leicester, with emphasis,

" Well, you'll have the chance to aim at game of another
sort, soon — high game, too, my boy ! Here is a letter from
Lady Agnes."

"Indeed!"

" And it contains a pressing invitation for you to go up
to London and be present at a ball her ladyship gives in a
few days ! "

" Does it ? I won't go 1 "

" You will go I Listen :

" * Tell Leicester to be sure to come, Roland. I would not have
him absent for the world. It is about the last ball of the season,
and he will meet scores of old friends, who will be anxious to see
him after all those years of heathenish wandering. And you know
there is another, and still stronger reason, my dear brother, for if
the propose^ alliance between Victoria and him ever becomes an
established fact, I am extremely desirous to have it settled, and
the engagement publicly made known before we leave I^ondon.' '•

Sir Roland laid down the letter at this passage, and
looked complacently across the table at his stepson ; and
that young gentleman, who had been paying profound at-
tention to his dinner, and very little to her ladyship's letter,
now raised an eye haughty and indignant.

" The proposed alliance 1 What does Lady Agnes mean
by that ? " ,

" Precisely what she says, my dear boy. Pass those
oranges, if you please."

" That I'm to marry her granddaughter, Miss Victoria
Shirley?"

THE WARNING.

127

" Exactly 1 Oh, you needn't fire up like that. The matter
is the simplest thing in the world. Lady Agnes and I have
intended you for one another ever since little Vic first came
from France."

" Much obliged to you both; at the same time, I beg to
decline the honor."

" You will do nothing of the kind 1 It is the most reason-
able and well-assorted match in the world. You are both
young, both good-looking, both of the same family, yet
unrelated, and the two estates will join admirably, and make
you one of the richest landed gentlemen in England."

<' Unanswerable arguments, all. Still permit me to de-
cline."

" And why, pray ? " inquired Sir Roland, slightly raising
his voice.

" My dear sir," said the young gentleman, filling M'ith
precision his glass with sherry, " I am infinitely obliged to
her ladyship and yourself for selecting a wife for me in this
most royal and courtly fashion ; but still, strange as it may
appear, I have always had the vague notion that I should
like to select the lady myself. It seems a licile unreasonable,
I allow, but then it's a whim I have."

" Stuff and nonsense ! . What would the boy have ? If
you "want riches, she is the richest heiress in the kingdom ;
and if you want beauty you may search the three kingdoms
and not see anything like her." <

" I don't know about that. I have never seen her."

" You have seen her picture, then. It is all the same in
Greek."

" I have looked at a picture over there in the old hall, of
a very pink-an'd-white damsel, with round blue eyes and
colorless hair, and as insipid, I am ready to make my
affidavit, as a mug of milk and water. I don't fancy the
small-beer style of young ladies ; and as for her beauty —
cream-candy and strawberries are very nice in their way,
but nobody can live on them forever."

" Speak plain English, sir, and never mind cream-candy.
Do you mean to say you refuse the hand of Miss Shirley ? "

*' Really, Sir Roland, you have the most point-blank way
of putting questions. Does Miss Shirley know that she is
to remain, like a stationer's parcel, to be left till I call for

128 THK HEIRESS OF CASTI.E CLIFFB.

her ? Or, if that is not plain enough English, is she a party
to this affair ? "

" She knows nothing about it ; but it will be made known
to her as soon as you arrive in London."

" And do you suppose, sir, that she, a beauty, an heiress,
a belle, moving ii the first circles, with all the best men of
the day at her feet, will consent to be made a puppet of, and
jump into my arms the moment I open them ? The day
has passed for such things, sir, and English girls are too
spunky to be treated like Eastern slaves."

She is no English girl. She is French by birth and
education ; French to the core of her heart ; and, being
French, she is too well used to this style of thing to dream
for a moment of opposing the will of her guardians. The
girl is what you are not — as obedient as if trained in a mili-
tary school. A girl with such French notions as she has
would almost marry a live kangaroo, if her friends desired it."

" And that in itself is another objection. Miss Shirley,
as you say, is French. So was her mother. Would you
have a Cliffe marry the daughter of a French actress ? "

" I'll break your head witti this decanter if you insinuate
such a thing again I " said Sir Roland, furiously ; for there
was still a tender spot in his heart sacred to the memory of
Vivia. " Miss Shirley is altogether too good for such a
worthless scapegrace as yourself. And I vow, sir, I have
half a mind to disinherit you and make Tom Shirley my
heir. He would marry her the moment he was- asked, with-
out the least objection."

Leicester laughed at the threat •" .. -^•

"I do not doubt it in the least, sir. But you and Lady
Agnes are the most artless conspirators ever I heard of.
Now, when you wanted us to unite our fortunes, your plan
was to have brought us together in some romantic and
unusual way, and warned us, under the most frightful penal-
ties, not to dream of ever being anything but acquaintances.
The consequence would have been a severe attack of the
grand passion, and an elopement in a fortnight. I compli-
ment you, sir, by saying that you have no more art than if
you were five instead of fifty years old."

" We don't want to be artful. The matter is to be
arranged in the most plain and straightforward manner —

THE WARNING.

139

rty

Iwn

nothing deceitful or underhand about it. If you choose to
marry Miss Shirley, and gratify the dearest wish of my
heart, I shall be grateful and happy all my life ; if you prefer
declining, well and good. Vic will get a better man, and I
shall know how to treat my dutiful stepson."

" Is that meant for a threat, Sir Roland ? "

" You may construe it in any way you choose, Mr. Lei-
cester Cliffe, but I certainly have counted without hesi-
tation on your consent in this matter for the last six years."

" But, my dear sir, don't talk as if the affair all rested with
me. Miss Shirley may be the first to decline."

" I tell you she will do nothing of the sort. Miss Shirley
will obey her natural guardians, and marry you any moment
you ask her." . ~

"A most dignified position for the young lady," said
Leicester, with a slight shrug and smile, as he proceeded
with solicitude to light his cigar. " Of course, her father
knows all about this."

" Her father knows nothing of it as yet. He is one of those
men who set their faces against anything like coercion, and
who would not have his daughter s wishes forced in the
slightest degree."

" I admire his good sense. And suppose I consent to
this step, when shall I start for London ? "

" To-morrow morning, in the first train. There is no
time to be lost, if you wish to arrive for the ball."

" And the first thing I have to do upon getting there, I
suppose, is, to step up to the young lady, hat in hand, and
say : * Miss Shirley, your grandmother and my father have
agreed that we should marry. I don't care a snap for you,
but at their express command I have come here to make you
my wife.' How do you like the style of that, sir ? "

" You may propose any way you please, so that you do it.
She is a sensible girl, and will understand it. You will go,
then ? "

" Here, Loup 1 " said the young man, holding out a bunch
of grapes to his dog, by way of answer ; " get down off that
velvet ottoman directly. What do you suppose our worthy
housekeeper will say, when she finds the tracks of your
dirty paws on its whiteness ? "

" I knew all along you would go," said Sir Roland, filling

fei

I30 THE HEIRESS OF CASTI.E CLIFFE.

his glass. Here's her health in old port, and success to
you both 1 The only astonishing thing is, how you could
have remained here so long. When you got here first, two
weeks ago, you told me before you had been five minutes in
the house that you would die of ennui to stay here a week ;
but two of them have passed now, and here you are, a per-
manent fixture, and not a word of ennui. To be sure there
are amusements, you can go out shooting every morning,
and return every evening empty-handed ; you can go out
sailing, there are plenty of boats in Lower Cliflfe, and
there are plenty agreeable fishermen, too, with handsome
daughters."

It might have been the reflection of the curtains — the
young gentleman was standing by the window smoking, and
contemplating the scenery ; but his face turned crimson.

" There is one particularly," went on Sir Roland, dryly.
" Black is the man, I think — very fine f'^llow, I have no
doubt, with a tall, dark-haired daughter, xiarbara is a nice
little girl, always was, and will teach you to row and catch
lobsters to perfection, very likely ; but still Mr. Leicester
Cliflfe has other duties to fulfil in life besides those two.
Take care, my dear boy, and when you reach London, don't
talk too much of the fisherman's girl to the heiress of Castle
Cliflfe."

The young man had been standing with his foot on the
window-sill during this harangue ; now he stepped out on
the lawn.

" I will go to London to-morrow, sir," he said, quietly ;
and was hid from view by the screening curtains.

Flinging away his cigar, Leicester strode around to the
stables with his dog at his heels, and without waiting to
change his dress, mounted his horse, and in five minutes
after was dashing along in the direction of Lower Cliflfe.
A horse in that small village would have created a sensation.
Mr. Leicester never brought one there, and he did not now.
Leaving it in the marshes in the care of a boy, he walked
down the straggling path among the rocks, and halted at the
door of Mr. Black's cottage.

" Come in I " called a sharp voice, in answer to his low
knock ; and obeying the peremptory order, he did walk in,
and found himself face to face with old Judith. No one else

THE WARNING.

was visible, and the old lady sat upon the broad hearth,
propped up against the chimney-piece, with her knees drawn
up to her chin, embraced by her clasped fingers, and blow ing
the smoke from a small, black pipe in her mouth, up the
chimney.

" If you want our Barbara, young gentleman," said Judith,
the moment her sharp eyes rested on him, " she's not here ;
she went out ten minutes ago, and I rather think, if you go
through the park gates and walk smart, you'll catch up to
her."

" Thank you. What a jolly old soul she is 1 " said Leices-
ter, apostrophizing the old lady, as he turned out again and
sprung with long strides over the road, through the open
gates and along the sweeping path leading to the castle.

As he went on, he caught sight of a fluttering skirt glanc-
ing in and out through the trees, and in two minutes he was
beside the tall girlish figure, walking under the waving
branches with a free, quick, elastic step.

Barbara, handsomer even in her plain, winter, crimson
merino, trimmed with knots of black velvet and black lace ;
with no covering on the graceful head, but the shining braids
of dark hair twisted, and knotted, and looped, as if there was
no way of disposing of their exuberance, and with two or
three rosy daisies gleaming through their darkness, looked
up at him half-surprised, half-pleased.

" Why, Leicester, what in the world has brought you
here ? "

" My horse, part of the way — T walked the rest."

" Don't be absurd I When you went away half an hour
ago I did not expect to see you again in Lower Cliffe to-
day."

" Neither did I ; but it seems I am going away, and it
struck me I should like to say gopd-by."

Barbara started and paled slightly.

"Going away! Where?"

"To London."

" Oh, is that all ? And how long are you going to stay ? "

" Only a week or two. The Shirleys are coming back
then, am I'm to return with them."

His grave tone startled her, and she looked at him search-
ingly.

^■•■4

132 THE HEIRESS OF CASTI.E CIvIFFE.

"Is anything wrong? What are you looking so solemn
about ? "

" Barbara, I have two or three words to say. Come along
till we get a seat."

They walked along, side by side, in silence, and turning
into a by-path of yew and elm, they came in sight of the
Nun's Grave, lying still and gloomy under their shade.

" This is just the place," said Leicester ; " and here is a
seat for you, Barbara, on this fallen tree."

But Barbara recoiled.

" Oh, not here ! it is like a tomb — it is a tomb, this place ! "

"Nonsense! What is the matter with you? What are
you looking so pale for ? "

" Nothing," said Barbara, recovering herself with a slight
laugh ; " only I've not been here for six years. Miss Shirley
Aviis with me then, and something startled us both, and made
us afraid of the place."

" Ah I " his face darkened slightly at the name ; " nothing
will harm you while I am near. Here is a seat."

She seated herself on the old trunk of a tree, covered with
moss, and he threw himself on the grave, with his arm on
the black cross, and looked up in the beautiful, questioning
face.

" Well, Barbara, do you know what I've come to say ? "

" You've told me already. Good-by ! " said Baroara,
plucking the daisies, with a ruthless hand, from the grave,
without looking up.

" And something else — that I love you, Barbara I "

She looked up at him and broke into a low, mocking laugh.

" Do you not believe me ? " he asked, quietly.

"No I"
. " Pleasant that, and why ? "

" Because, sir 1 " she said, turning upon him so suddenly
and fiercely that he started, " such words from you to me,
spoken in earnest, would be an insult.*'

" An insult 1 Barbara, I don't know what you mean ! "

" You don't. It is plain enough, nevertheless. You are
the son of a baronet, and the heir of Cliffewood ; I am the
daughter of a fisherman, promoted to that high estate from
being a rope-dancer 1 Ask yourself, then, what such words
from you to me can be but the deadliest of insults I "

THE WARNING.

133

fong

ling
the

is a

t/^

" Barbara, you are mad, mad with pride. Stay and hear me
out."

"I am not mad. I will not stay " she cried, passion-
ately, rising up. " I did think you were my friend, Mr.
Cliffe ; I did think you respected me a little. I never thoug^^t
I could fall so low, in your eyes, as this ! "

He sprung to his feet and caught both her hands as she
was turning, with a passionate gesture, away, and, holding
her firmly, looked in her eyes with a smile.

" Barbara, what are thinking of ? Are you crazy ? I love
you with all my heart, and some day, sooner or later, I will
make you Lady Cliffe."

" You will make me nothing of the kind, sir. Release me,
I command you, for I will not stay here to be mocked."

" It is my turn to be obstinate now. I will not let you go,
and I am not mocking, but in most desperate earnest. Look
at me, Barbara, and read the truth for yourself 1 "

She lifted her eyes to the handsome, smiling face bending
over hf r, and read there truth and honor in glance and smile.

" Oh, Leicester ! " she passionately cried. " Do not deceive
me now, or my heart will break 1 I have had wild dreams
of my own, but never before anything so wild as this. How
can you care for one so far beneath you ; and, oh ! what
will Sir Roland and Lady Agnes say if it be true ? "

" What they please I I am my own master, Barbara 1 "

" But Sir Roland may disinherit you."

" Let him. I have my own fortune, or rather my mother's ;
and the day I was of age I came into an income of some five
thousand a year. So, my proud little Barbara, if my worthy
stepfather sees fit to disinherit me, you and I, I think, can
manage to exist on that I "

" Oh, Leicester, can you mean all this ? " '

" Much more than this, Barbara. And now let me hear
you say you love me ! " -

She lifted up to his a face transformed and pale with in-
tense joy ; but, ere she could answer, a voice, solemn and
sweet, rose from the grave under their feet :

" Barbara, beware 1 "

The words she would have uttered died out on Barbara's
lips, aiid she started back with a suppressed shriek. Leices-
ter, too, recoiled, and looked round him in wonder.

134 I'HE HEIRESS OF CASTI.E CI.II^?E.

'• wnat was that? Where did that voice come from,
Barbara?"

" From the grave, I think ! " said Barbara, turning white,

Leicester looked at her, and seeing she was perfectly in
earnest, broke out into a fit of boyish laughter.

" From the grave ! Oh, what an idea. But, Barbara, I
am waiting to hear whether or not I am to be an accepted
lover."

Again the radiant look came over Barbara's face, again
she turned to answer, and again arose the voice so solemn
and so sad :
. " Beware, Barbara 1 "

"This is some devilish tr okl " exclaimed Leicester, pas-
sionately dashing off through the trees. " Some one is eaves-
dropping ; and if I catch them I'll smash every bone in their
body ! "

Barbara, white as a marble statue, and nearly as cold,
stood, looking down in horror at the Nun's Grave, until
Leicester returned, flushed and heated, after his impetuous
and fruitless search.

" I could see no one, but I am convinced some one has
been listening, and hid, as I Started in pursuit. And now,
Barbara, in spite of men or demons, tell me that you love
me ! "

She held out both her hands.
. " Oh, Leicester, I love you with all my heart ! "

In her tone, in her look, there was something so strangely
solemn that he caught the infection, and raising the prof-
fered hands to his lips, he said :

" My own Barbara ! When I prove false to you, I pray
God that I may die ! "

" Amen ! " said Barbara, with terrible earnestness, while
from her dark eyes there shot for a moment a glance so
fierce, that he half-dropped her hands in his surprise.

** But I shall never be false I " he said, recovering himself,
and believing at the moment what he said was true ; " true
as the needle to the North Star shall I be to the lady I love.
See 1 I shall be romantic for once, and make this old elm a
memorial, that will convince you it is not all a di jam when I
am gone. It has stood hundreds of years, perhaps, and may
stand hundreds more, as a symbol of our deathless faith I "

THE WARNING.

135

Half-laughingly, half-earnestly, he took from his pocket a
dainty penknife, and with one sharp, blue blade began carv-
ing their united initials on the bark of the hoary old elm,
waving over the Nun's Grave. " L. S. C," and underneath
" B. B.," the whole encircled by a carved wreath ; and as he
finished a great drop of rain fell en his glittering blade.
He looked up, and saw that the whoie sky had blackened.

" There is going to be a storm ! ' he exclaimed. " And
how suddenly it has arisen ! Come, Barbara, we will scarcely
have time to reach the cottage before it breaks."

Barbara stopped for a moment to kiss the wetted initials ;
and then as the rain-drops began to fall thick and fast, she
flew along the avenue, keeping up with his long man-strides,
and in ten minutes reached the cottage, panting and out of
breath. Old Judith stood in the doorway looking for her, so
there was no chance of sentimental leave-taking ; but looks
often do wonderfully in such cases, and two pairs of eyes
embraced at the cottage-door, and said, good-by.

The lightning leaped out like a two-edged sword as Bar-
bara hastened to her room and sat down by the window.
This window commanded a view of the tea and the marshes
— the one black and turbid, and moaning ; the other, blurred
and sodden with the rushing rain. And " Oh, he will be
out in all this storm 1 " cried Barbara's heart, as she watched
the rain and the lightning, and listened to the rumbling
thunder, until the dark evening wore away, and was lost in
the darker and stormier night. Still it rained, still it light-
ened and thundered, and the sea roared over the rocks, and
still Barbara sat at the window, with her long hair streaming
around her, and her soul full of a joy too intense for sleep.

With the night passed the storm, and up rose the sun, usher-
ing in a new-born day to the restless world. Barbara was
up as soon as the sun, and walking under the dripping boughs,
along the drenched grass to the place of tryst. But the
lightning had been before her ; for there, across the Nun's
Grave, lay the old elm — the emblem of their endless love—
a blackened and blasted ruin. ' '

136 THE HEIRESS OF CASTILE CI^IFFE.

CHAPTER XV.

THE SHADOW IN BLACK.

Old Judith, when not sitting in the corner, smoking, had
a habit of standing in the doorway, taking an observation
of all that passed in Lower Cliffe. She stood there now,
while the sun set behind the golden Sussex hills, with a
black silk handkerchief knotted under her wrinkled chin, and
her small keen eyes shaded by her hand, peering over the
sparkling sea. On the sands, in the crimson glow of the^
sunset, the fishermen who had been out all (^lay were draw-
ing up their boats on the shore, and among them Mr. Peter
Black, with a tarpaulin hat on his head, and noisy fishy oil-
cloth jacket and trousers to match, was coming up the rocky
road to supper.

Old Judith, on seeing him, turned hastily into the cottage,
grumbling as she went, and began arranging the table.
There was no one in the house but herself, and the room did
not look particularly neat or inviting; for Barbara, lazy
beauty, liked far better to dream over novels and wander
through the beautiful grounds of the castle than to sweep
floors and wash dishes, and old Judith was fonder of smok-
ing and gossiping than paying any attention to these little
household matters herself. So, when Mr. Black entered his
roof-tree, he found chairs and tables, and stools and pots,
and kettles and pails, all higgle-piggledy over the floor, as if
these household gods had been dancing a fandango ; and his
appearance, perfuming the air with a most ancient and fish-
like smell, did not at all improve matters. '

Judith's sotto voce grumblings broke into an outcry the mo-
ment she found a listener.

" It's just gone seven by the sun-dial at the park-gates 1 "
she cried shrilly, " and that girl has been gone since sunrise,
and never put her nose inside the door since."

THE SHADOW IN BI^ACK.

n't

" What girl — Barbara ? " inquired Mr. Black, pulling a
clasped knife out of his pocket, and falling to his supper of
bread, and beef, and beer.

«' To be sure it's Barbara — a lazy, undutiful, disrespectful
minx as ever lived ! There she goes, gadding about from
one week's end to t'other, with her everlasting novels in her
hand, or strumming on that trashy old guitar Lawyer Sweet
was fool enough to give her, among the rocks. Her stock-
ings may be full of holes, her dress may be torn to tatters,
the house may be dirty enough to plant cabbage in, and I
may scold till all is blue, and she don't care a straw for one
of 'em, but gives snappish answers, and goes on twice as
bad as before." "■

" Can't you talk in the house, mother? " gruffly insinuated
Mr. Black, with his mouth full, as the old woman's voice
rose in her anger to a perfect squeal. " You needn't make
the village think you're being murdered about it."

" Needn't I ? " said Judith, her voice rising an octave
higher. " I might be murdered, and she go to Old Nick,
where she is going as fast as she can, for all you care. But
I tell you what it is, Peter Black, if you-re a fool, I'm not ;
and I won't see my granddaughter going to perdition with-
out raising my voice against it, and so I tell you ! "

Peter Black laid down the pewter-pot he was raising to
his lips, and turned to his tender mother with an inquiring
scowl :

" What do you mean, you old screech-owl, flying at a
man like the devil, the moment he sets his foot inside the
door ? Has. Barbara stuck you, or anybody else, that you're
raving mad like this ? Lord knows," said Mr. Black, resum-
ing his supper, " if she let a little of that spare breath out
of you I shouldn't be sorry."

" There'll be a little spare breath let out of somebody
afore long ! " screeched the old lady, clawing the air viciously
with her skinny fingers, " and it won't be me. I told you
before, and I tell ycu again, that girl's going to Old Nick as
fast as she can, and perhaps when you see her there, and it's
too late, you'll begin to think about it. Her pride, and her
bad temper, and the airs she gave herself about her red
cheeks, and her dark eyes, and her long hair, and the learn-
ing she's managed to get, weren't bad enough, but now she's

I .<,

138 THE HEIRESS OF CASTI.E CUFFB). : ;

fell in with that bescented, pale-faced, high and mighty popin-
jay from foreign parts, and they're together morning, noon
and night. And now," reiterated old Judith, turning still
more fiercely on her scowling son, ** what good is likely to
come of a fisherman's daughter and a baronet's son and heir
being together for everlastin' ? — what good ? I ask you your-
self." - . '

Mr. Peter Black laid down his knife, opened his eyes, and
pricked up his ears.

" Hey ? " he inquired. " What the demon are you driv-
ing at now, mother ? "

" Do you know Sir Roland Cliffe, of Cliffewood ? Answer
me that."

" To be sure I do."

" And do you know that fine gentleman with all the grand
airs, Mr. Leicester Cliffe, his stepson ? "

" What's the old woman raving about ? " exclaimed Mr.
Black, with an impatient appeal to the elements. " I've seen
Mr. Leicester Cliffe, and that's all I know about him, or want
to. What the deuce has he to do with it ? "

" Oh, nothing, of course. Ever since he came here last
May-day, two weeks gone, he and your daughter have been
thicker than pickpockets — that's all. Only a trifle, you
know — not worth worreting about."

" Weil ? " said Mr. Black, fixing his eyes on her with a
powerful expression.

And the old woman ran on with fierce volubility :

" No longer ago than last night, they came home together
at dark ; and she was off and away this morning at daydawn,
to meet him again, of course. It's been the same thing ever
sine'' May-day ; and she's so savage nobody dare say a word
to her ; and you're as thick-headed as a mule, and couldn't
see water if you went to the sea-side ! Everybody else sees
it, and she's the town's talk by this time. Mr, Sweet sees
it ; and by the s?me token, she treats Mr. Sweet as if he
were the dirt u^der her feet. You know very well he wants
her to marry him — him that might have the pick of the
parish — and she holds her head up in the air, and sneers at
him for his pains, the ungrateful hussy."

" Look here, mother ! " said Mr. Black, turning round,
with the blue blade of the knife gleaming in his hand, and a

THK SHADOW IN BI^ACK.

139

horrible light shining in his eyes, " I know what's in the
wind now, and all that you're afraid of, so just listen 1 I'm
proud of my girl ; she's handsome and high-stepping, and
holds her head above everybody, far and near, and I'm
proud of her for it ; I'm fond of her, too, though I mayn't
show it ; and if there's anything in this cursed world I care
for, it's her ; but I would rather see her dead and buried —
I would rather see her the miserable cast-off wretch you are
thinking of — than the rich wife of that black-hearted, double-
dyed hypocrite, liar and scoundrel, Sweet. I would, by — I "
cried Mr. Black, with an awful oath, plunging his knife into
the hump of cold beef, as if it were the boiled heart of the
snake, Mr. Sweet.

With the last imprecation yet on his lips, a clear girlish
voice was heard without, singing the good old English tune
of " Money Musk," and the door suddenly opened, and Bar-
bara, who never sung of late, stood, with the tune on her
lips, before them. The long, dark hair, unbound and di-
sheveled by the strong sea-breeze, floated in i7.iost becoming
disorder over her shoulders ; her cheeks were like scarlet
rose-berries ; her dark eyes dancing, her red lips breaking
into smiles like a happy child ; she fairly filled the dreary
and disorderly room with the light of her splendid beauty.
Mother and son turned toward her — one wrathful and men-
acing, the other with a sort of savage pi:ide and affection.

" So you've come at last I " broke out old Judith in her
shrillest falsetto, " after being gadding about since early
morning, you slovenly "

" Oh, grandmother, don't scold 1 " exclaimed Barbara, who
v/as a great deal too happy and full of hope to bear anger
and scolding just then. " I will clear up this room for you
in five minutes ; and I don't want any supper ; I had it up
at the lodge."

" Oh, you were up at the lodge, and with Mr. Leicester
Cliffe, of course ? "

Barbara flushed to the temples, more at her grandmother's
tone than words, and her eyes flashed fire ; but for once she
restrained herself. - ' ^v

" No, I wasn't, grandmother. Mr. Cliflfe left for London on
the first train this morning.'* ., .

Old Judith sneered. V? :".;•. ^

|!l|

ril '

Pi!
I: «l

■|i

|!:;i

140 THE HKIRKS5 OF CASTI.E CUFEK.

" You seem to loiow all about Mr. Cliffe's doings. Of
course he told you that, a i bade you good-by, when you
were caught so nicely in the rain last night."

Barbara compressed her lips in rising wrath, but she went
on steadily arranging stools and chairs in silence. Old
Judith, however, was not to be mollified.

" Now I tell you what it is, my lady, you had better bring
these fine goings-on to an end, and let Mr. Leicester Cliffe go
gallanting round the country with grand folks like himself,
while you mend your father's nets and keep his house clean.
There is Mr. Sweet been here looking for you half a dozen
times to-day, and a pretty thing for him to hear that you had
been away since daylight, nobody knew where, but Mr. Lei-
cester Cliffe, perhaps, and "

But here Barbara's brief thread of patience snapped short,
and with an expression of ungovernable anger, she flung the
chair she held in her hand against the wall, and was out of
the house in an instant, slamming the door after her with a
most sonorous bang. Before she had run — as she was
doing in her excitement — five yards, she heard a heavy step
behind her, and a voice close at her ear singing, " Oh 1 there's
nothing half so sweet in life as Love's youn^f dream I " It
made her turn and behold the sunshiny figure and smiling
face of Mr. Sv;eet.

" Home at last, Miss Barbara ! I have been at least half
a dozen times to-day in the cottage, thinking you were lost I "

*' You give yourself a great deal of unnecessary trouble,
Mr. Sweet."

" Nothing done for you can be any trouble, Miss Barbara,
I hope you've spent a pleasant day."

" Thank you."

" This evening wind is cool, and you have no shawl ; shall
I not go to the house and bring you one ? "

" No ; I don't need it."

" Miss Barbara, how cold you are 1 I wonder what kind
of a shawl would warm your manner to me 1 "

Miss Barbara, leaning against a tall rock, was looking
over a darkening sea, with a face that might have been cut
out of the solid stone, for all the emotion it expressed. The
crimson and purple billows of sunset had faded away into the
dim gray gloaming, pierced with bright white stars, and the.

THE SHADOW IN BI^ACK.

141

waning May moon was lifting her silver crescent over the
murmuring waves. The fishing-boats went dancing in and
out in the shining path it made across the waters ; and Bar-
bara, with her long hair fluttering behind her in the wind,
watched them with her cold, beautiful eyes, and heeded the
man beside her no more than the rock against which she
leaned.

He looked at her for a moment, and then shrugged his
shoulders, with a slight smile.

" Leicester Cliff e left town this morning for London, did
he not? " he asked, at leng^^h, abruptly.

" I believe so."

•* Is that the cause of your gloom and silence to-night ? "

Barbara turned impetuously round with a dangerous fire
in her great dark eyes.

" Mr. Sweet, take care what, you are saying. You will
oblige me exceedingly by going about your own affairs, what-
ever they may be, and leaving me alone. I didn't ask your
company here, and I don't want it ! " ^ . ,.

Mr. Sweet smiled good-naturedly.

•' But when I want you so much, Miss Barbara, what does
a little reluctance on your part signify 1 Two weeks ago, on
the morning of May-day — you remember May-day — I did
myself the honor to ask you for this fair hand."

'* And received No for r.i: answer. I hope you remember
that also, Mr. Sweet."

" Distinctly, Miss Barbara ; yst in two weeks your mind may
have changed ; and if so, here I to-night renew the offer,"

" You are very kind ; but I have only the trouble of say-
ing No over again."

" Barbara, stop and think. I love you. I am a rich man
— richer than most people imagine — and I think, without
flattering myself, there are few girls in Cliftonlea who would
not hesitate about refusing me. Barbara, pause before you
throw away so good an offer."

" There is no need. I suppose I ought to feel honored
by your preference ; but I don't in the least, and that is-*-
the truth. You may make any of the Cliftonlea young ladies
happy by so brilliant an offer, if you choose ; and I promise
to go to her wedding, if she asks me, without feeling the
least jealousy at her good fortune.'

142 THE HKIRKSS OF CASTLE CUFFE.

" You are sarcastic, and yet I think there are some feel-
ings — gratitude, for instance — that should make you treat
me and my offer with at least decent respect."

•' Gratitude 1 " said Barbara, fixing her large dark eyes
with a strong glance on his face. *• I don't owe you any-
thing, Mr. Sweet. No, don't interrupt me, if you please. I
know what you would say, that I owe all the home I have
known for the last two years to ycu and that you rescued me
from a life of hardship, and perhaps degradation. Well,
I've betii told that so often by you, that I have ceased to
think it a favor ; and as from the first it was your own
pleasure to do so, without my. will or request, I consider I'm
not indebted to you the value of a farthing. As to educa-
tion and all that, you know as well as I do, that Colonel
Cliffe sent me to the Town Academy, and provided me with
everything while there. So, Mr. Sweet, don't talk of grati-
tude any more, if you and I are to be friends."

While she spoke, in a voice clear and low, with a ringing
tone of command and a warning fire in her eye, Mr. Sweet
watched her with the same quiet, provoking smile. In her
beauty and in her pride she towered above him, and flung
back his gifts like stones, in his face.

" And when is it to be ? " he asked, when ohe ceased.

" What ? *'

" Your marriage with the heir of Sir Roland Cliffe."

Even in the moonlight, he saw the scarlet rush that dyed
face and neck, and the short half-stifled breath.

" This is your revenge 1 " she said, calmly, and waving
him away, with the air of an outraged queen •, " but go — go,
and never speak to me again 1 "

" Not even when you are Lady Cliffe ? " -

" Go 1 " she said, fiercely, and stamping her foot. " Go,
or I shall make you 1 " ' ,

" Only one moment. When there are two moons in
yonder sky ; when you can dip up all the water in the sea
before us with a teaspoon ; when * Birnam wood will come
to Dunsinane ; ' then — then Leicester Cliffe will marry Bar-
bara Black ! I have said you will be my wife ; and, sooner
or later, that time will come. Meantime, proud and pretty
Barbara, good night.''

Taking off his beaver, he bowed low, and with the smile

|e
le

i :

THE SHADOW IN BI^ACK.

143

sdll on his lips, walked away in the moonlight — not only
smiling, but singing, and Barbara distinctly heard the words :

" So long as he's constant,
So long 1*11 prove true ;
And then if he changes, . , ',, ..-

Why, so can I, too."

Barbara sank down on the rock and covered her face with
her hands, outraged, ashamed, indignant; and yet, in the
midst of all, with a sharp, keen pain aching in her heart.
She had been so hapi^ all that day — beloved, loving, and
trusting — thinking herself standing on a rock, and finding it
crumbling to dust and ashes. Oh, why had they not let her
alone ? Why had they not let her hope and be happy ? If
Leicester proved false, she felt as though she should die ;
and half-hating herself for believing for a moment he could
change, she sprang up and darted off with a fleet light step
toward the still open park-gates — determined to visit once
more the trysting-place, and reassure herself there that their
mutual love was not all an illusion. She never thought of
the ghostly voice in her excitement, as she walked up the
moonlit avenue and down the gloomy lane, toward the fallen
elm. The pale moon's rays came glancing faintly through
the slanting leaves ; and kneeling down beside it, she saw
the united initials his hand had carved, and the girl clasped
her hands in renewed hope ind joy.

" He is true 1 " she cried, to her heart. " He will be faith-
ful and true to me forever 1 "

" He is false I " said a low solemn voice from the grave
on which she knelt ; and, starting up with a suppressed shriek,
Barbara found herself face to face with an awful vision.

A nun, supernaturally tall, all in black and white, stood
directly opposite, with the grave and the fallen elm between
them. Without noise or movement, it was before her ; how,
or from whence it came, impossible to tell; its tall head
see.ning in the shadowy moonlight to reach nearly to the
tree-tops, in a long, straight nun's dress, a black nun's veil, a
white band over the forehead, and another over the throat
and breast. The moon's rays fell distinctly on the face of
deadly whiteness, and with two stony eyes shining men-
acingly under bent and stern brows. Barbara stood stupefied,
spellbound, speechless. The figure raised its shrouded arm,

144 THE HEIRESS OF CASTI.E CUFFE.

and pointing at her with one flickering finger, the voide again
rose from the grave, for the white lips of the specter moved
not.

" Thrice have you been warned, and thrice have you
spurned the warning I Your good angel weeps, and the
doom is gathering thick and dark overhead 1 Once more,
Barbara, beware I "

Still Barbara stood mute, white almost as the specter, with
supernatural terror. With shrouded arm and flickering
finger still pointing toward her, the ghostly nun gazed it her,
while the sad, solemn voice rose again from the grave.

" You love, and think you are beloved in return, oh, rash,
infatuated child 1 Spurn every thought of him as you would
a deadly viper ; for there is ruin, there is misery, there is
death, in his love I "

*' Be it so, then 1 " cried Barbara, wildly, finding voice in
a sort of frantic desperation ; " better death with him than
life with another I "

" Barbara, be warned, for your doom is at hand I " said
the unseen voice. And as it spoke, the moon was lost in
shadow, a dark cloud shrouded the gloomy grave and the
black shape. There was a quick and angry rush as it
vanished among the trees, and the whole night seemed to
blacken as it passed.

»t

THE ROSE OF SUSSEX.

145

CHAPTER XVI.

THE ROSE OF SUSSEX.

While Barbara hf i)ed and Barbara feared, Leicester
Cliflfe was whirling away as fast as the steam-eagle cbuld
carry him toward London and his promised bride. And the
same white crescent moon that saw her standing at the
trysting-place, came peering through the closed shutters of
a West-End hotel, and saw that young gentleman standing
before a swing-glass, making a most elaborate and faultless
toilet. A magnificent watch, set with brilliants, that lay on
the dressing-table before him, was pointing its golden hands
to the hour of eleven, when there came a rap at the door,
and, opening it, Mr. Cliflfe was confronted by a tall waiter,
with a card in his hand.

" Show the gentleman up," said Leicester, glancing at it,
and going on with his toilet. And two minutes auer, a
quick, impetuous, noisy step was taking the stairs live at a
time, and Tom Shirley, flushed, excited and breathless, as
usual, 'itood before him.

" My dear fellow, how goes it ? " was his cry, seizing his
cousin's hand with a grip that made him wince. " I should
have been here ages ago, only I never received your note
until within the last ten minutes I I was at the opera, and
had just come to my lodgings to spread myself out in gor-
geous array for the ball, when I found your letter, and came
steaming up here without a second's loss of time. When
did you come ? And are you going to make one in my lady's
crush to-night ? "

" Sit down I " was Leicester's nonchalant reply to this
breathless outburst. " I had given you up in despair, and
was about starting on my own responsibility. What brought
you to the opera, to-night ? "

" Oh, this is the last night of the brightest star of the

\ ^

146 THE HEIRESS OF CASTI.E CUFFE.

season ; and besides, we are time enough for the ball. How
long before ycu have finished making yourself resplendent ? "

" I have finished now. Come 1 "

Tom, who had just seated himself, jumped up, and led the
way down-stairs, five at a time, as before, and, on reaching
the pavement, drew out a cigar-case, offered it to his com-
panion, lit one, and then, taking the other*s arm, marched
him off briskly.

" We won't call a cab — they're nothing but bores ; and * 's
not ten minutes' walk to Shirley House. How did you leave
all the good people in Cliftonlea — Sir Roland among the
rest?"

" Sir Roland has liad the gout ; otherwise I believe he's
had nothing to complain of."

" Well, that's a good old family disorder we must all come
to in the fulness of time. Was it to-day you arrived ? "

" Yes. Lady Agnes was good enough to send me a press-
ing invite to .this grand ball of hers, and, of course there
was novhing for it bnl obedience."

" You must have found life in Cliftonlea awfully slow for
the last two weeks," said Tom, with an energetic puff at his
cigar. " What did you do with yourself all the time ? "

Leicester laughed. »- • • ' v • i

" So many things that it would puzzle me to recount them.
Shocicing, fishing, riding, boating "

" With a little courting in between whiles I " interrupted
Tom, with gravity. " How did you leave little Barbara ? "

Leicester Cliffe took his cigar from his lips, and knocked
the white end off carefully with his finger.

" Ashes to ashes, eh ? I don't know what you mean."

" Don't you ? Oh, you are an artless youth I Perhaps
you think I don't know how steep you have been coming it
with our pretty May Queen ; but don't trouble yourself to
invent any little fictions about it, for I know the whole thing
from beginning to end I "

" What do you know ? " • "

" That you have been fooling that little girl, and I won't
have it I Oh, you needn't fire up. Barbara is a great
friend of mine, and you will just have the goodness to let
her alone 1 "

" Pshaw I what nonsense is all this ? "

2?!

••*

THE ROSE OF SUSSEX.

" Is it nonsense ? " : -

" Yes. Who has been talking to you ? "

" One who is too old a bird to be caught with chaff.
Fred Douglas, of the Dragoons — he came up here to London
a week ago." •

" I'll put a stray bullet through Fred Douglas' head, and
teach him to hold his tongue, and yours, too, my good
cousin, if you take it upon yourself to lecture me. How
are all the Shirleys ? "

" Tolerable. Lady Agnes is up to her eyes in the busi-
ness of balls and receptions, and concerts, and matinees.
The colonel has been voted un «nimously by all the young
ladies of Belgrave Square a love of a man, and Vic is all the
rage, and has turned more heads and declined more offers
this winter thait you or I could count in a week. The Rose
of Sussex is the toast of the town I "

" Indeed ! And at the head of her list of her killed an
wounded stands the name of Tom Shirley."

Tom winced perceptibly.

" Precisely 1 And I'll wager my diamond ring that yours
is there, too, before the end of a week."

" Is she so pretty, then ? "

" Pretty I That's a nice word to apply to the belle of
London. Here we are, and you will soon see for yourself."

A long file of carriages was drawn up before the door of
Shirley House, and a crowd of servants in livery were flitting
busily hither and thither. Some of the guests were just
passing into the great lighted hall, but, instead of follov/ing
their example, Ten drew his companion toward a deserted
side-door.

" We won't go in there and have our names bawled by the
flunkeys, and be stared at as we enter by a hundred pairs of
eyes. I know all the ins and outs of this place, and thefc's a
private way that will bring us to the ballroom, where you
can have a good look at the Rose of Sussex before you are
presented to her in form."

He rung, as he spK)ke, the bell of the side-door, and on its
being opened by a liveried slave, he led the way through the
marble hall up a wide and balustraded staircase, through
several empty rooms and passages, all sumptuously fitted up,
and echoing with the sounds of distant music and merry-

' -1

■

1,1

148 THE HEIRESS OF CASTILE CUFFE.

makings and finally into a great conservatory, with the moon*
light streaming through two large arched windows, which
opened into a forsaken music-room, which opened into the
crowded ballroom. There v/as no door between the music
and ballroom ; but instead a wide arch hung with curtains
of green and silver, and under their friendly shade the two
newcomers could sit unobserved, and look on the scene
before them to their heart's content.

The great ballroom was filled, but not to repletion. Lady
Agnes had too much taste and sense to suffocate her guests ;
and every moment the distinguished names of fresh arrivals
came from the lips of the tall gentleman in liveiy at the door.
The musicians, sitting perched in a gilded gallery, were
blowing away on their brass instruments, and filling the air
with German dance-music ; two or three sets of quadrilles
were in full swing at the upper end of the room, while the
wallflowers and the elderlys, who did not fancy cards, were
enjoying themselves after their own fashion at the lower end.
The glare of the myriad cluster of gas-jets fell on the splen-
did throng, where satins and velvets rustled, and point lace
— the twenty years' labor of some Brussels lace-maker —
draped snowy elbows and arms, where jewels flashed their
rainbow fires, where fans waved and plumes fluttered, and
perfumes scented the air ; where . each pretty and high-titled
lady seemed to vie and eclipse the other in splendor. And
near the center of the room, superb in family diamonds and
black velvet, stood Lady Agnes by the side of a starred and
ribboned foreigner, receiving her guests like a queen. Lady
Agnes always wore black — the malicious ones said, because
it suited her style, and made her look youthful ; but whether
from that cause or not, she certainly did look youthful, and
handsome, too, albeit her marriageable granddaughter was
the belle of the ball.- Pale and proud, she stood toying with
her fan, her rich black dress sweeping the chalked floor, her
diamonds blazing, and her haughty head erect, while the dis-
tinguished foreigner bent over her, listening with profoundest
respect to her lightest word. Tom touched Leicester on the
shoulder, and nodded toward her.

" That's my lady, standing there with the air of a dowager-
duchess, and talking to the Due de as if she thought

him honored by the condescension."

THE ROSE OF SUSSEX.

149

" Lady Agnes is handsome," said Leicester, glancing to-
ward her, " and looks as if the pride of all the Cliffes were
concentrated in herself. I remember her perfectly, though I
have not seen' her since I was a boy ; but where is your Rose
of Sussex ? "

" Behold her ! " said Tom, tragically. •* There she comes,
on the arm of Lord Henry Lisle. Look ! "

Leicester looked. Moving slowly down the room, at the
head of the dancers, came one whom he could almost have
known, without being told, to be the Rose of Sussex. A
youthful angel, girlish and slender, stately, but not tall, with
a profusion of golden curls falling over the shoulders to the
taper waist, beautiful eyes of bright, violet blue, and a bright,
radiant look within them like that of a happy child. Her
dress was of pale blue glac^ silk, under flounces of Honiton
lace, looped up with bouquets of rosebuds and jasmine, a
large cluster of the same flowers clasping the perfect cor-
sage, and pale pearls on the exquisite neck and arms. Her
dress was simple, one of the simplest, perhaps, in the who'e
room ; but as the artist looked at her, he thought of the
young May moon in its silver sheen, of a clear, white star in the
blue summer sky, of a spotless Jily, lifting its lovely head in
a silent mountain-tarn. It was hardly a beautiful face — there
were a score handsomer in the room, but there certainly was
not another half so lovely. A vision rose before him as he
looked, of the smiling faces of Madonnas and angels as he
had seen them pictured in grand old cathedrals ; and before
the sinless soul looking out of those clear eyes, he quailed
inwardly, feeling as though he were unworthy to touch the
hem of her robe.

" Well," said Tom, looking at him curiously, " there is
the Rose of Sussex, and what do you think of her ? "

" It is a sylph ; it is a snow-spirit ; it is a fairy by
moonlight ! That is the ideal face I've been trying all my
life to paint, and failed, because I never could find a
model ! "

" Bah 1 I would rather have one woman of flesh and
blood than a thousand on canvas I Come, we have stood
here long enough, and it is time we were paying our respects
to Lady Agnes." ; "

" With all my heart I " said Leicester, and making their

I50 THE HEIRESS OF CASTI.E CI.IFFE.

way through the throng, both stood the next moment be-
fore the stately lady of the mansion.

" Aunt," said Tom, describing a graceful circle with his
hand, as he bowed before that lady, " I come late, but I
bring my apology. Allow me to present your nephew, Mr.
Leicester Shirley Cliffe 1 "

Lady Agnes turned with a bright, sudden smile, and held
out her jeweled hand.

" Is it possible ? My dear Leicester. I am enchanted to
see you. How well you are looking 1 and how tall you have
grown I Can this really be the little boy, with the long
curls, who used to run wild, long ago, at Castle Clifte ? "

Leicester laughed.

" The same, madam, though the long curls are gone, and
the little boy stands before you six feet high."

" I had quite despaired of your coming. And you have
actually been in England a fortnight, and never came to see
us ! I am, positively, ashamed of you. Have you seen the
colonel ? "

"No; we have just arrived." -^ ^

" How was it you were not announced ? "

'< Oh, I brought him round by a side-door ; we were late,
and our modesty would not permit us to become the cynosure
of all eyes. There comes the colonel and Vic, now."

Colonel Shirley, looking quite as young and handsome as
on the day of the Cliftonlea races, six years before, was ad-
vancing with the belle of the room, and my lady tapped him
lightly with her fan on the arm.

" Cliffe I Do you know who this is ? " J

" Leicester Cliffe, by Jove I " cried the colonel, in de-
lighted recognition. " My dear boy, is it possible I see you
again after all those years, and grown out of all knowledge ?
Where in the world have you dropped from ? "

"From Cliftonlea, the last place. I have found out, after
all my wandering, that there is no place like home."

" Right, my boy, Vic, this is your cousin, Leicester
Cliffe."

The long lashes drooped, and the young lady courtesied
profoundly.

" You remember him, Vic, don't you ? " said Tom ; " or
at least you remember the picture in Cliffewood you used

THE ROSE OF SUSSEX.

151

to go into such raptures about long ago. Did you think I
was not coming to-night, Vic ? "

" I never thought of you at all I " said the young lady,
with the prettiest flush and pout imaginable.

" I know better than that. There goes the next quad-
rille. May I have the honor, Vic ? "

" No. I am engaged." "-■

"The next, then?" .-^ -

"Engaged! " ' ^ -

"And the next?" -

Miss Vic laughed, and consulted her tablets.

" Very well, sir, that is the last before supper, and per-
haps you may have the honor also of taking me down."

" And after supper, cousin mine ! " said Leicester, as her
partner for the set then forming came to lead her away.
" May I not hope to be equally honored ? "

" Oh, the first after supper," with another slight laugh
and blush, " is a waltz, monsieur, and I never waltz."

" For the first quadrille, then ? "

The young lady bowed assent and walked away, just as
the colonel, who had been absent for a moment, came up
with another lady on his arm — a plain, dark girl, not at all
pretty, very quietly dressed, and without jewels.

" You haven't forgotten this young lady, I hope, Leices-
ter. Don't you remember your former playmate, little
Maggie Shirley ? "

" Certainly. Why, Maggie ! " he cried, his eyes lighting
up with real pleasure, and catching the hand she held out
in both his.

" I am glad to see you again, Leicester," said Maggie, a
faint color coming for a moinent into her dark cheek, and
then fading away. " I thought you were never going to
come back to old England again."

" Ah 1 I was not quite so far gone as tliat. Are you en-
gaged ? "

"No." ■ ■■' ■

" Come, then. I have a thousand things to say to you,
and we can talk and dance together."

They took their places in one of the quadrilles, Leicester
talking all the time.

Margaret Shirley had been his playmate in childhood, his

152 THE HEIRESS OF CASTILE CIvlFFE.

friend and favorite always, and they had corresponded in
all his wanderings over the world ; but somehow in this,
their first meeting, they did not get on so very well after all.
Margaret was naturally taciturn as an Indian, and the habit
seemed to have grown with her growth, and to all his ques-
tions she would return none but the briefest and quietest
answers.

" Oh, confound your monosyllables 1 " muttered Leisces-
ter, as he led her down to supper, and watched Tom and
Vic chatting and laughing away opposite as if there were
nobody in the world but themselves. What a lovely face
she had 1 and how all the gentlemen in the room seemed to
flock round her like flies round a drop of honey ! Leicester
was too much of an artist not to have a perfect passion for
beauty in whatever shape it came ; and though he could ad-
mire a diamond in the rough, he certainly would have ad-
mired the same diamond far more in splendid setting. He
might love Barbara with his heart ; but he loved Vic already
with his eyes. Barbara was the dark daughter of the
earth : this fairy sprite seemed a vision from a better land.
He was not worthy of her, he felt that ; but yet what an
Sc/at there would be in his carrying off this reigning belle ;
and with the wily tempter whispering a thousand such
thoughts in his ear, he went back to the ballroom, and
claiming her promise, led her away from Tom, to improve
her acquaintance before the quadrille commenced. The
ballroom was by this time oppressively hot, so they strayed
into the music-room ; there a lady sat singing with a group
around her, and from thence on to the cool conservatory,
where the moonlight shone in through the arched windows ;
the words of the song — Tennyson's " Maude " — came float-
ing on the perfume of the flowers.

"Come into the garden, Maude, '

For the black -bat night has flown,
* Come into the garden, Maude,

I am here at the gate alone ;
And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad,
And the musk of the roses blown. ;-..'■

** For a breeze of morning moves, • ' .

And the planet of Love is on high, '!^- * •

Beginning to faint in the light that she lovea^^ .,

. i "^ On a bed of dafiodil sky ; . ".,/ .>

THE BOSK OF SUSSEX.

To faint in the light of the sun that she lov3S»
To faint in his light and die.

•

" All night have the roses heard

The flute, violin, bassoon ;
Aii night has the casement jessamine stirred,

To the dancers dancing in tune ;
Till a silence fell with the waking bird,

And a hush with the setting moon.

** The slender acacia would not s'.iake

One long milk-bloom on the tree :
The white-lake blossom fell into the lake,

As the pimpernel dozed on the lea ;
But the rose was awake all night for your sake,

Knowing your promise to me ;
The lilies and roses were all awake,

They sighed for the dawn and thee.

" Queen-rose of the rosebud garden of girls,
Come hither, the dancers are gone.

In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls,
Queen lily and rose in one ;

Shine out, little head running over with curls.
To the flowers and be their sun."

153

Side by side they stood together in the moonlight, she in
a cloud of white lace and lustrous pearls, the little head
" running over with curls," and the fair face looking dreamy
and sad as she listened — he leaning against the window,
and watching her with his heart in his eyes. They had
been talking at first of the ball, of Castle Cliff e, of his
wanderings ; but they had fallen into silence to listen to
the song.

" Lovely thing, is it not ? " she asked, looking up at last.

" Yes," said Leicester, thinking of herself, and feeling at
that moment there was no other "Maude "for him in the
world but her.

" We had better go back to the ballroom, I think, Mr.
Cliffe. If I am not greatly mistaken our quadrille is com-
mencing."

" How formally you call me Mr. Cliffe ; and yet we are
cousins."

" Oh, that is only a' polite fiction ! You are no more my
cousin than you are my brother."

154 ^HK HEIRESS OF CASTLE GI.IFFE.

" Yet, I think, you might drop the Mister. Leicester is
an easy name to say." -

"Is it?"

" Try it, and see."

" If it ever comes natural, perhaps I may," said the young
lady, with composure ; " but certainly not now. There, it
is the quadrille, and I know we will be late."

But they vere not late, and came in time to lead off the
set v.ith spirit. Somewhere, ugly old Time was mowing
down his tens of thousands, but it certainly was not in Shir-
ley House, where the gas-lit moments flew by all too quickly,
tinged with couleur de rose, until the di.n dawn began to steal
in, and carriages were called for, and the most successful
ball of the season came to an end. " •

Back in his own room, Leicester Cliffe was feverishly pac-
ing up and down, with a v/ar going on in his own heart. A
vision rose before him of pearls and floating lace, golden curls,
blue eyes, and the face of a smiling angel — a reigning belle,
and one of the richest heiresses in England — all to be his
for the asking ; but with it there came another vision — the
Nun's Grave under the gloomy yews ; the dark, wiM gipsy
standing beside him, while he carved her name and his to-
gether on the old tree ; his own words, " When I prove false
to you, 1 pray God that I may die ; " and the dreadful fire
that had filled her eyes ; and the dreadful " Alien " she had
hissed through her closed teelh. The skein had run fair
hitherto, but the tangle was coming now ; and, quite unable
to see how he was to unwind it, he lay down on his bed at
last. But Leicester Cliffe did not sleep much that night.

■W'^

OFF WITH THE OI.D I.OVE.

155

CHAPTER XVn.

OFF WITH THE OLD LOVE.

The daintiest of little Swiss clocks on a gilded mantelpiece
was beginning to play the " Sophia Waltz " preparatory to
striking eleven, and Lady Agnes Shirley looked up at it with
a little impatient frown. The Swiss clock and the gilded
mantelpiece were in the breakfast-parlor of Shirley House ;
and in a great carved armchair, cushioned in violet velvet,
before a sparkling coal fire, sat Lady Agnes. She had just
arisen ; and in her pretty morning-dress of a warm rose-tint,
lined and edged with snow-white fur ; the blonde hair, which
Time was too gallant to touch with silver, and only ventured
to thin out a little at the pa "ting, brushed in the old fashion
off the smooth, low forehead, and hidden under a gauzy af-
fair of black lace and ribbons, which she was pleased to call
a morning-cap ; a brooch of cluster diamonds sparkling on
her neck, and her daintily-slippered feet resting on a violet
velvet ottoman, she looked like an exquisite picture in a carved
oak frame. At her elbow was a little round stand, covered
with the whitest of damask, whereon stood a porcelaine cup
half-filled with chocolate ; a tiny glass, not much larger than
a thimble, filled with Cognac ; a little bird swimming in rich
sauce, and a plate of oyster-pitd But the lady did not eat,
she only stirred the cold chocolate with the golden spoon,
looked dreamily into the fire, and waited. Last night, before
the ball broke up, she had directed a certain gentleman to
call next morning and discuss with her a certain important
matter ; but it was eleven, and he had not called yet ; and so
she sat with her untasted breakfast before her, and waited
and thought. She thought of another morning, more than
eighteen years ago, when she had sat and waited for another
young gentleman, to talk to him on the very same subject —
matrimony. Eighteen years ago she had found the young

156 THK HEIRESS OF CASTI.E GUFFK.

gentleman obstinate and refractory, and herself outwitted ;
but then all young gentlemen were not as self-willed as he,
and she had great hopes of the particular one waited for this
morning. So, tapping her slippered foot on the ottoman,
and beating the devil's tattoo with her spoon, she alternately
watched the Swiss clock and the red cinders falling from the
grate, until the door was flung open by a footman, and Mr.
Cliffe announced in a stentorian voice. And hat in hand,
Leicester Cliffe stood before her the next moment.

" Punctual I " said Lady Agnes, glancing at the timepiece,
and languidly holding out her hand. '* I told you to come
early, and it is half-past eleven o'clock!"

" Ten thousand pardons ; but it is all the ,fault of the people
of the hotel, I assure you ; I gave orders to be called at ten
precisely ; but it was nearer eleven when the waiter came.
Am I forgiven ? "

" You've kept me waiting half an hour ; and I detest people
who make me wait ; but I think I can forgive you. Take a
seat near the fire — the morning is chilly."

" And how are the young ladies ? " inquired Leicester, as
he obeyed ; " not over-fatigued, I trust, after the ball."

" I cannot answer for Margaret, who is probably asleep
yet; but Victoria came to my room fully two hours ago,
dressed for a canter in the park. Quite true, I assure you,
my dear Leicester — it is the most energetic child in the world I
Will you have a cup of coffee ? "

" Not any, thank you. I have breakfasted. Miss Shirley
is certainly a modern miracle to get up so early ; but, perhaps,
to-day is an exception."

" Not at all ! Victoria is an early bird, and constantly
rises at some dismal hour in the early morning, and attends
church — convent habits, and so on I " said Lady Agnes, with
a shrug and a short laugh. " Shall I ever forget the first
morning after her arrival at Castle Cliflfe, when, on going to
her room at sunrise, I found her making her bed, like any
chambermaid! I believe you never saw her before last
night."

" I never had that pleasure ; but I knew her immediately.
There is a picture at the castle of a small child with blue
eyes and long curls, and it is like her, only Miss Shirley is
far lovelier." . . .«. .

_^l

OFF WITH THE OhD LOVE.

>57

Lr.

jce,
Ime

.•,;^

Lady Agnes lifted her keen eyes from the fire with a quick»
eager sparkle.

" Ah, you think her lovely, then ? "

'* Lady Agnes, who could look at her, and think other-
wise ? "

" You are right I Victoria is beautiful, as half the young
men in our set know to their cost. Ah, she is a finished co-
quette, is my handsome granddaughter l Who do you think
proposed for her last night ? "

" I cannot imagine."

" The young Marquis de St. Hilary, whom she knew long
ago in France. He spoke to me in the handsomest manner
first, and having obtained my consent — for I knew perfectly
well what the answer would be — proposed."

" And the answer was- -? " said Leicester, with a slight
and conscious smile.

" No, of course ! Had I dreamed for a moment it could
have been anything else, rest assured the Marquis de St.
Hilary would never have offered his hand and name to my
granddaughter. There is but one name I shall ever be glad
to see Victoria Shirley bear, and that is — Cliffe ! "

" Now it is coming ! " thought Leicester, suppressing
a smile with an effort, and looking with gravity at the
fire.

Lady Agnes, leaning back in the violet velvet arm-chair,
eyed her young kinsman askance. Hers was really an eagle
glance — sharp, sidelong, piercing ; and now she was recon-
noitering the enemy like a skilful general, before beginning
the attack. But the handsome face baffled her. It was as
emotionless as a waxed mask, and she bent over and laid
her hand on his with a slight laugh.

" What a boy it is ! sitting there as unreadable a* an oracle,
without a sign ; and yet he knows all ! "

" All what. Lady Agnes ? "

" Nonsense I I am not going to have any fencing here ;
so sheathe your sword, and let us have the whole thing, and
in plain English. Of course. Sir Rolond has told you all
about it."

" Madam," stammered Leicester, really at a loss.

" There, don't blush I Victoria herself cou)d not have
done it more palpably. Of course, I say Sir Roland has

'^^

158 THE HEIRESS OF CASTLE CUFFE.

told you the whole matter ; the object of my invitation, in
short. Yes, your face tells it ; I see he has 1 "

" Lady Agnes, I have read your letter."

" So much the better I I need not waste time making a
revelation ; and now, what do you think of it ? "

" Your ladyship, I have not had time to think of it at
all. Consider, I have seen Miss Shirley last night for the
first time I "

" What of it ? On the continent, the bridegroom only
sees his bride when they stand before the altar."

" But this is England, Lady Agnes, where we have quite
another way of doing those things 1 I am a true-born
Briton, and Miss Shirley is — "

" French to the core of her heart, and with an implicit
faith in the tontinental way of doing those things, as you
call it. You saw her last night for the first time. True.
But the sight was satisfactory, I trust." , .

'* Eminently so, yet "

" Yet what ? "

" Lady Agnes," said Leicester, laughing, yet coloring a
little under the cold, keen gaze of the woman of the world,
" there is an old-fashioned prejudice in favor of love before
marriage, and you will allow we have not had much time to
fall in love with each other."

" Bah ! " said Lady Agnes, with supreme scorn. " Is
that all ? How many times in your life, my dear Leicester,
have you been in love before this ? "

Leicester laughed, and shook back his fair, clustering
hair. \^

" It is past counting, your ladyship 1 "

" And how many of those ladyloves have you married ? "

" Rather a superfluous question, I should think, Lady
Agnes."

"Answer it 1 " ' \ - ^^^^ v ;;

" Not one, of course I " ~ ' ' \*

Again Lady Agnes shrugged her shoulders, with her
peculiar scornful laugh.

" We have met, we have loved, and we have parted 1 "
That is the burden of c.ie of Victoria's songs ; and, of
course, your heart was broken long ago, after all those sharp
blows upon it ! "

,:,i f

•

' ';'-V -■'

1:4 •

''Wt

-^P'

(

iHit'

OFF WITH THE OLD LOVE.

159

'»

. .■!

'; >

" I am not aware that it is 1 It feels all right — beats
much the same as usual 1 I never heard of a man with a
broken heart in all my life I ''

" Neither have I ; and so, Mr. Cliffe, as you've had love
enough without marriage, suppose you try marriage without
love ; that sentiment will come afterward, believe me I "

" You know best, of course 1 I bow to your superior
judgment, Lady Agnes 1 " said Leicester, bending to hide an
irrepressible smile.

" Love is all very fine, and excessively useful in its place,"
said Lady Agnes, leaning back with the air of one entering
upon an abstruse subject ; " the stock and trade with which
poets and authors set up business, and without which I
don't know how the poor wretches would ever get along.
It is also well enough in real life ; for you must know
I believe in the existence of such a feeling when in
Its proper place, and kept in due bonds, but, not at all
indispensable to the happiness of married life. For in-
stance, I made a mariage de convenance ; Dr. Shirley was
twenty years my senior, and I had not seen him half a
dozen times when I accepted him, and, of course, did not
care a straw for him in that way, yet I am sure we got along
extremely well together, and never had a quarrel in our
lives. Then there was Sir Roland and your mother. You
know very well they married, not tor love, but because it
was an eminently proper match, and she wanted a guardian
for her son — yourself ; yet how contentedly they lived to-
gether always. Oh, my dear Leicester, if that is all your
objection, pray don't mention it again, for it is utterly ab-
surd ! "

' So I perceive," said Leicester, dryly. " But is your
ladyship quite certain Miss Shirley will agree with you in
all these views? Suppose she has what is called a prior en-
gagement ? "

Lady Agnes drew herself up, and fixed her cold blue eyes
proudly on his face. .v -■

" The idea is simply absurd ! Miss Shirley nas nothing
of the sort 1 My granddaughter, my proud, pure-minded
Victoria, stoop to such a thing as a clandestine attachment
for any man I Sir, if any one else had uttered such an idea,
I should have considered it an insult 1 "

i6o THE HEIRESS OF CASTLE CLIFFE.

^1 i

" Pardon 1 I had no intention to offend."

" Perhaps " — still with hauteur — " perhaps you judge her
by yourself ; perhaps you have some prior attachment which
causes all those scruples. If so, speak the word, and you
have heard the last you will ever hear from me or any one
else on this subject I The heiress of Castle Cliffe," said
Lady Agnes, a flush crimsoning her delicate face, " is not
to be forced on any man ! "

Oh, Barbara ! his heart went back with a bound to the
cottage by the sea, but never before had your power over
him been so feeble. What would this satirjcal kinswoman
— this grand and scornful lady — ay, if he stood before her
like a great schoolboy, and blushingly blurted out his grand
passion for the fisherman's daughter. His cheek reddened
at the very thought ; and feeling that the eagle eyes were
piercing him like needles, he looked up and confronted
them with a gaze quite as unflinching md almost as haughty.

" You are somewhat inconsistent, I^ady Agnes. You
gave me carte blanche a moment ago to love as many as I
pleased I "

" I gave you absolution for the past, not indulgence for
the future 1 With Leicester Cliffe and his amours I have
nothing to do, but the husband cf my granddaughter must
be true to her as the needle to the North Star ! "

He bowed in haught}' silence. Lady Agnes looked at
him searchingly, and calmed down.

" If we commence at daggers drawn," she said, still
laughing her satirical laugh, " we will certainly end in war
to the knife 1 Listen to me, Leiscester, my nephew, the
last of the Cliffes, and learn why it is that this marriage is so
dear to my heart — why it has been my dream by day and
by night since I first saw Victoria. Some of the noblest
names in the peerage have been laid this winter at my
granddaughter's feet, and by me rejected — she the most
dutiful child in the world, never objecting. You know
what an heiress she is — worth at least twenty thousand a
year ; and do ycu think I would willingly let the millions
of our family go to swell the rent-roll of some impoverished
foreign duke, or spendthrift English earl? You are the
last, excent my son and Sir Roland, bearing the name of
Cliffe ; they will never marry, aad I don't want a name that

' w^

OFF WITH THE OI<D LOVE.

i6r

existed before the Conqueror to pass from our branch of
the family. By your marriage with my granddaughter, the
united fortunes of the Ciiffes and Shirleys v.'ill mingle, and
the name will descend, noble and honored, to posterity, as
it has been honored in the past. It is for you to decide
whether these hopes are to be realized or disappointed.
Victoria has no will but that of her natural guardians, and
your decision must be quick ; for I'm determined she shall
leave town engaged."

" You shall have my answer to-night ! " said Leiscester,
rising and taking his hat.

" That is well ! We go to the theater to-night, and you
may come to our box."

" I shall not fail to do so I Until then, adieu I and au
revoir / "

Lady Agnes held out her hand with a gracious smile, but
he just touched it, and ran down-stairs. As he passed
through the lower hall, the library door stood ajar ; he
caught sight of a figure sitting in the recess of a window.
It was Margaret, holding a book listlessly in one hand,
while the other supported her cheek. She was looking out
at the square, where a German band was playing " Love
Not," and her face wore a look so lonely and so sad that it
touched him to the heart. If Leicester Cliffe had one really
pure feeling for any human being it was — strangely enough
— for this plain, silent cousin of his, whom nobody ever
iK)ticed. He went in, and was bending over her, with his
fair hair touching her cheek, before she heard him.

" Maggie — little cousin — what is the matter ? "

She started up with a suppressed cry, her dark face turn-
ing, for a moment, brightest crimson, and then white, even
to the lips.

" Oh, Leicester ! " she cried, laying her hand on her fast-
throbbing heart ; " how could you startle me so ? "

" Did I ? I am sorry 1 What a nervous little puss it is 1
Her gracious majesty, up-staas, told me you were asleep."

" For shame, sir 1 Have you been with Lady Agnes ? "

" Oh, haven't I ? " said Leicester, making a slight grim-
ace. " What are you doing here alone ? Why are you not
out riding with your cousin ? "

" I prefer being here. Won't you sit down ? "

i-l!

t 1

i62 THE HEIRESS OF CASTLE CLIFFE.

((

No 1 What makes you so pale ? I remember, long
ago, when we played hide-and-seek together in the old halls
of Castle Cliffe, you had cheeks like rose-berries, but they
are as white as those lace curtains now.

• ' Oh, rare, pale Margaret ! " .

-^ Oh, fair, pale Margaret ! " «

tell your old playfellow what it is all about."

She glanced up for a moment at the handsome face bend-
ing over her, and then stooped lower over her book, turn-
ing almost paler than before,

" My good little cousin, tell me what it means." *

'• Nothing 1"

" I know better I Young ladies don't go about like white
shadows, with as much life in them as one of those marble
statues, for nothing. Are you ill ? "

"No!" '^

" Are you happy ? " ^ ' v

''Yes! "

" Is that grand sultana up-stairs good to you? " f*'

"Very."

" And the princess royal — how does she treat you ? "

" Cousin Victoria is like a sister."

" Then what, in Heaven's name, has crushed all the life
out of the little Maggie Shirley I romped with lang syne ?
Do you know you're but the ghost of your former self, Mag-
gie?"

She did not speak — she only held the book closer to her
face, and something fell on it, an4 wet it. There was a tap
on the door, and a servant entered.

" Miss Margaret, my lady wants you to come and read
to her."

" I must go, Lei9ester. Good-morning!"

She was gone in an instant, and Leicester, feeling there
was a screw loose somewhere, and, like all of his stupid sex,
too blind to guess within a mile of the truth, went down the
steps, took his horse from the groom in waiting, and dashed
off through the Park. As he entered Rotten Row, he was
confronted by three equestrians : Colonel Shirley, his
daughter, and Tom. The image of Victoria had been be*

OFF WITH THE OI.D I.OVE.

163

fore him all the way, Hashing in lace and jewels as he had
seen her last night, but now she dawned upon him in quite
another vision of beauty. From her childhood the girl had
■ taken to riding as naturally as she had to sleeping, and she
sat her spirited Arabian with as easy a grace as she would
have sat on a sofa. Nothing could have been more be-
witching than the exquisitely-fitting habit of dark-blue cloth ;
the exuberant curls confined in a net, seeing that curls
under a riding-hat are an abomination ; her fair cheeks
flushed with exercise, the violet eyes sparkling and laugh-
ing with the very happiness of living on such a day, and
the rosy lips all dimpled with glad smiles. She touched her
black-plumed hat coquettishly, d /a militaire^ with her yel-
low-gauntleted hand, as the young gentleman bowed before
her.

«'Well met, Cliffe 1 " said the colonel; "we were just
' speaking of you. Come home and dine with us."

" Thanks. I regret to say I am already engaged."

" To-morrow, then 1 Have you any engagement for to-
night? We are for the theater."

" None ; and I have promised her ladyship to drop into
her box. Miss Shirley, I need not ask if you have recovered
from the fatigue of last night ; you are as radiant as a

rose

** Oh, I am never fatigued I " said Miss Shirley, with her
frank laugh. " Papa, come ; Claude is impatient. Au
revoir^ Mr. Cliffe."

She looked back at him with a saucy glance, waving her
hand, and the next moment was dashing away out of sight.
And Leicester Cliffe went to his hotel to dress for dinner,
with " a dancing shape, an image gay," haunting his mind's
eye, to the exclusion of everything else — the princess royal
on horseback.

The dinner-party at Lord Henry Lisle's was a very noisy
and prolonged affair indeed. Leicester, thinking of the
theater, wished them all at Jericho a thousand times before
it was over. The Rose of Sussex was toasted so often in
punch and port, thick and sweet, that the whole party were
rather glorious when they issued forth — Leicester excepted.
Remembering his engagement, he had not imbibed quite so
much of the rosy as the rest, and was all right when he

^ )

1 64 THE HEIRESS OF CASTI.E CIvIFFB.

presented himself, according to order, at the stage-box be-
longing to the Shirleys. Lady Agnes was there, as usual, in
a splendid toilet ; beside her sat Vivia, looking like an angel
in moire antique and emeralds, with a magnificent opera-
cloak, half-dropping off her bare and beautiful shoulders.
Tom was leaning devotedly over her chair, talking nonsense
very fast, at all of which Miss Shirley was good-natured
enough to laugh ; and Margaret, very simply dressed, accord-
ing to custom, sat very still and quiet under the shadows
of the curtains. The colonel was absent ; and Lady Agnes
received him with gracious reproof.

" Lazy boy i The first act is over, and you are late, as
usual ! Such a charming play — ' Undine 1 ' Tom, hold
your tongue, and use your eyes, or else go and talk to Mar-
garet. There she sits, like little Jack Horner, alone in
the corner, moping 1 "

Vivia turned her beautiful face anvd welcomed him with
a bewildering smile ; and Tom, deal" to his aunt's hint,
merely moved aside a little ; while the newcomer bent over
her chair to pay his respects. The wine he had been
drinking had merely raised his spirits to an excellent
talking-point. Vivia was a good talker, too; and in ten
minutes conversation was in full flow.

" Have you ever seen that play — * Undine ' ? " she was
asking.

" Never."

" Ah ! it is beautiful 1 I love it, because I love * Un-
dine ' herself. Do you know, monsieur, I took a fancy to
study German first for the purpose of reading * Undine ' in
the original ? Look ! the curtain is rising now I "

It went up as she spoke, and showed the knight battling
with the spirits in the enchanted wood. Leicester looked
at the stage and smiled.

" This first visit to the theater since my return to Eng-
land reminds me .of the first time I ever visited a theater at
all."

" Do you remember it ? It must have been a long time
ago ? "

" It is. It is eighteen years. I was in a box with Lady
Agnes and my mother ; and, opposite, sat Sir Roland and
your father, then Lieutenant Cliffe, Lord Lisle and that

'ml

OFF WITH THE OLD I.OVE.

165

yellow lawyer — a i»ioney-lender he was then — Mr. Sweet.
It made a vivid impression on me — the lights, the gay
dresses and the brilliant iscenery. I forget what the play
was, but I know the house was crowded, because it was the
last appearance of a beautiful actress. Mademoiselle "

He had been speaking with animation, but he stopped
suddenly ; for the beautiful face was crimson, and there
was a quick uplifting of the haughty head, which reminded
him forcibly of Lady Agnes.

" Mademoiselle Vivia I " she said, lifting her violet eyes
with a bright free glance to his face. " My mother — my
beautiful mother, whom I have never seen ! "

" Miss Shirley, I did not mean — I never thought ! Can
you forgive me ? "'

" Out of my heart, monsieur. See, there is ' Undine ! ' "

She leaned forward. A tumult of applause shook the
house, and he bent over too. There was the seacoast and
the fisherman's cottage, and there from the sea-foam rose
" Undine," robed in white, with lilies in her hair. It
reminded Tom Shirley of the " Infant Venus ; " it reminded
Leicester Cliffe of Barbara — the same, though he did not
know it. In the dazzle of the music, and lights, and the girl
beside him, he had not thought of her before ; and now her
memory came back with a pang, half-pleasure, half-pain.
Somehow, Vivia's thoughts, by some mysterious rapport^ were
straying in the same direction too.

"Monsieur Cliffe," she said, so suddenly lifting her violet
eyes that he was disconcerted, " do you know Barbara ? "

The guilty blood flew to his face, and he drew back to
avoid the innocent eyes.

"I have seen her I "

She laughed a gay little mischievous laugh.

" I know that ! Tom told me all about the May Queen,
and how you were struck. I don't know how it is, but
Undine ' always reminds me of Barbara."

" Does she ? " '

" Yes. Barbara was a little water-sprite herself, you
now ; and I wonder she has not melted away into a minia-
ture cascade before this. Did she ever tell you she saved my
life ? " -

"Nol"^ ■ *• > '^ '

i66 THE HEIRESS OF CASTI.E CI.IFFE.

" Proud girl 1 Spartan Barbara I Is she as handsome as
she was long ago ? " .

"She is very handsome."

Mentally she rose before him as he spoke in her mimic
chariot, crowned and sceptered, with eyes shining like stars,
and cheeks lilce June roses; and he drew still further back,
lest the violet eyes should read his guilt in his face. She
drew back a little herself, to avoid the fire of lorgnettes di- ■
rected at their box — some at the great Sussex heiress, others
to the noble and lovely head alone.

" ♦ Undine ' reminds me of her," she went on, " only * Un-
dine ' died of a broken heart ; and if Barbara were deceived,
I think " .•

She stopped with a blush and a laugh.

" Go on, Miss Shirley."

" I think — but I am foolish, perhaps — that she would have
revenge ; that she would have it in her to kill her betrayer,
instead of melting away into the sea of neglect, and being
heard of no more."

He turned pale as he looked at the stage, where stood the
false knight and his high-born bride, while Undine floated
away in the moonlight, singing her death-song. Again Vivia
leaned forward to look.

" Poor, forsaken ' Undine I ' Ah ! how I have h?lf-cried
my eyes out over the stoiy 1 and how I hate that treacher-
ous Huldebrand I I could — could almost kill him my-
self I "

" Have you no pity for him ? " said Leicester, turning paler,
as he identified himself with the condemned knight. *• Think
how beautiful Bertralda is ; and ' Undine * was only the
fisherman's daughter ! "

" That makes it all the worse I Knights should have
nothing to do with fishermen's daughters I "

J' Not even if they are beautiful? "

" No; eagles don't mate with birds of paradise."

" How haughty you are ! "

** Not at all. You know the proverb, ' Birds of a feather.'
Poor Barbara ! I do pity her for being poor ! "

" Does wealth constitute happiness ? "

" I don't know ; but I do know that poverty would con-
stitute misery for me. I am thankful I am Victoria Shirley,

OFF WITH THE OLD LOVE.

167

the heiicss of Castle Cliffe ; and I would not be any one
else for the world 1 "

She rose, as she spoke, with a light laugh. The curtain
had fallen with the last scene of " Undine," and Lady
Agnes was rising, too.

" Where are you going ? " asked Leicester. " Will you
not wait for the afterpiece ? "

" A comedy after * Undine I ' How can you suggest suth
a thing! Oh, never mind me. I will follow you and
grandmamma."

So Leicester gave his arm to grandmamma, and led her
forth, Vivia gathering up her flowing robes and following.
Tom, who had long ago retreated, sulky and jealous, from
the field, came last with Margaret.

The carriage was at the pavement ; the footman held the
door open ; the ladies were handed within — Margaret
wrapping her mantle around her, and shrinking away into
a corner the moment she entered.

Vivia leaned forward, and held out her snowy hand, with
the smile of an angel.

" Good night, monsieur. Pleasant dreams."

" They will be enchanting. I shall dream of you ! "

<i<ady Agnes bent forward with a look of triumph.

" And your answer, Leicester, You were to give it to-
night. Quick I Yes or no."

"Yesl"

1 68 THE HEIRESS OF CASTLE CUFFE.

CHAPTER XVni.

A DUTIFUL GRANDDAUGHTER.

The drive home was a silent one, or, at least, it would
have been, only Vivia chatted like a magpie all the way.
Lady Agnes, sitting with her f ':e to the horse, looked
thoughtful and preoccupied ; ana as for Margaret, silence
was her forte.

Viyia stopped at length, with a poui.

" I declare you are too provoking, grandmamma ! Here
I have asked you three times what you thought of the
Countess Portici, to-night, and her superb opals, and you've
never deigned to answer me once."

Her ladyship, coming out of a brown study, looked at
her displeased granddaughter.

" My dear, excuse me ; I was thinking of something else.
What were you saying ? " •«

" Ever so many things ; but you and Margaret won't
speak a word. Perhaps Margaret is thinking of the con-
quest she made to-night."

" What conquest ? " asked Lady Agnes, looking suspi-
ciously at her niece, who shrunk further away as she was
spoken of, and had two scarlet spots on either cheek quite
foreign to her usual complexion.

" Tom, of course 1 Could you not sec he was her very
humble, most obedient servant all the evening ? I wish
you joy of your victory, Margaret."

" Thank you ! You forget he only came to me in des-
peration, because you discarded him, cousin Victoria."

" Both Tom and Margaret know better than to dream of
such a thing," said Lady Agnes, with dignity. " Tom must
marry a fortune ; for he can only take a poor wife on the
principle that what won't keep one will keep two. As for

A DUTIFUL GRANDDAUGHTER.

169

ny hand-
said the

Margaret, I shall see that she is properly settled in life,
alter you are married."

" Oh, grandmamma ! " said Vivia, laughing. " What an
idea I "

•' A very reasonable idea, my dear. You "xpect to be
married some time, I trust. And, apropos .1 'rtations,
what do you call your tete-d-tete this evening 'vith
some nephew ? "

"A cousinly chat, grandmamma, of cu s<
young lady, demurely.

** Ah I Cousinly chat ! Precisely I / \ 'vhat do you
think of this new-found cousin ? "

Miss Vivia shrugged her pretty shoulders in very French
fashion, that had a trick of grandmamma's self in it.

" I have not had time to think/)f him at all. I only met
him last night for the first time, you recollect.'^

" And how long does it take to form your mighty opin-
ions. Mademoiselle Talleyrand ? Do you like him ? "

" Yes ; that is, I don't know."

<' Do you like him better than the Marquis de St.
Hilary?"

" Oh, grandmamma ! " said Vivia, blushing vividly.

" You have changed your opinions, if you do," said Lady
Agnes, a little maliciously. " Long ago, when Sir Roland
gave you the pony, named Leicester, after this new-found
cousin, you insisted on changing the name to Claude, eti
amour. Do you recollect ? "

" Grandmamma ! I was such a goose, then."

" Exactly. And in six years more, when you look back,
you will think you were just as great a goose now. Of
course, you have decided that Leicester is handsome ? "

" There can be but one opinion about that," said the
young lady, as the carriage stopped before the door, and
she tripped lightly up the steps, humming an air from
♦' Undine."

A most aristocratic and sleepy porter threw open the
door, and they entered the brilliantly-lighted hall.

Margaret, with a \»ery brief good night, went to her room ;
and Vivia, gayly kissing her grandmother, was about to
follow, when that lady detained her, and opened the draw-
ing-roon oor.

lyo THE HEIRESS OF CASTLE CUFFE.

'* Not good night, Victoria. It is only ten o'clock, and
too early to think of bed. Come in here. I have five
words to say to you, that may as well be said to-night as
to-morrow."

Very much surprised at grandmamma's grave tone, Vic-
toria followed her into the deserted drawing-room, on whose
marble hearth a few red embers still glowed ; for the May
evenings were chilly, and her ladyship liked fires. The girl
sat down on a low ottoman beside the elder lady's couch,
looking very pretty with flushed cheeks and her brilliant
eyes, her golden hair falling damp and uncurled over her
shoulders, from which the gay Of)era-cloak was loosely slip-
ping to the floor. She lifted up an innocent, inquiring face,
like that of a little child.

" What is it, ma m^re ? "

Lady Agnes took one tiny, taper hand, spotless and ring-
less as the free young heart. Miss Shirley never wore rings.

'* Pretty little hand I " she said, caressing it, the cold blue
eyes looking fondly down into the beautiful upturned face ;
** and how well an engagement-ring would become it I "

" Oh, grandmamma 1 "

*' You expect to wear an engagement ring some time, my
dear I You do not always expect to be Miss Shirley ? "

" I wish I could be. It is such a pretty name, I never
want to change it 1" '

" Little simpleton I If I have' my way, you shall change
it within two months 1 " _^. ,

" Why, grandmamma ! "

" Don't look so astonished, child. One would think you
never had such an idea as marriage in your life 1 "

" But, grandmamma, I don't want to be married ! " said
mademoiselle, with the prettiest pout in the world ; " it
is so dowdyish I And then I am too young — I am only
eighteen 1 "

" Eighteen is an excellent marriageable age, my dear — I
was married a year younger than that I "

" Grandmamma, have you got tired of me all of a sudden,
that you want to send me away ? What have I done ? "

" You great baby ! What has it done ? " mimicking the
young lady's tone. " I shall have you put in pinafores and
sent back to the nursery, if you don't learn to talk sense 1

-4

-i

•X

A DUTIFUI, GRANDDAUGHTER.

171

r f

Do you know why I have rejected all the eligible offers you
have had this winter ? "

" Because you are the dearest, kindest grandmamma in
the world, and you knew your Vic did not want to accept
any of them I "

" Nothing of the kind I They have been rejected be-
cause I have reserved you, since you were twelve years old,
for another I "

Up flew the flaxen eyebrows, wide opened the v »olet eyes,
in undisguised amaze.

*' Since I was twelve years old 1 Why, I was only that
age when I came first from France."

" Right ! And from the first moment I saw you, your
destiny was settled in my mind."

Lady Agnes was certainly a wonderful woman. She
ought to have been at the head of a nation instead of at the
head of the fashionable society of London. The calm
consciousness of triumph radiated her pale face now, and
she looked down like an empress on the flaxen-haired fairy
at her feet, smiling, too, at the look of unutterable wonder
on the pretty countenance. '

" Can you guess who this favored gentleman is, my
dear ? "

" Guess! Oh, dear me, no, grandmamma 1 "

*' Try 1 "

" It can't be— it can't be "

"Who?" said Lady Agnes, curiously, as she ^ stopped
with an irrepressible little laugh.

" Tom 1 You can never mean Tom, grandmamma ? "

" Tom 1 Oh, what a child 1 You may well call yourself
a goose 1 Of course not, you little idiot. I mean a very dif-
erent person, indeed — no one else than Leicester Cliffe I "

The hand Lady Agnes held was suddenly snatched away,
and the girl covered her face with both, with a beautiful
movement of modesty. Lady Agnes laughed — her short,
satirical laugh.

" Don't blush, dear child 1 There is nobody here but
grandmamma to see it 1 What do you think of your in-
tended bridegroom ? "

" To think that I should have laughed and talked with
him as I did to-night 1 " said Vivia, in a choking voice, as

ill

17a THE HEIRESS OF CASTI.E CLIFFE.

she turned away her hidden face, •* and he knowing this 1
Oh, grandmamma, what have you tlone ? "

" Nothing that you need go into hysterics about I Are
you never going to laugh and talk with the person you in-
tend to marry ?"

She did not speak, and the lady saw that the averted
cheek was scarlet. ^ .'^'

" You are right in thinking he knows it. He does ; I
told him to-day, and he has consented 1 "

No answer.

" He admires you exceedingly — he loves you, I am sure,
and will tell you so at the proper opportunity. Nothing
could be mjre desirable, nothing more suitable than this
match. I have set my heart on it, and so has Sir Roland,
for years. You will be the happiest bride in the world, my
daughter."

The heiress of Castle Cliffe, one hand still shading the
averted face, the other again held in grandmamma's, the
scarlet cheek veiled by the falling hair, the graceful little
figure drooping, never spoke or looked round.

" He is everything the most romantic maiden could wish
— young, handsome, agreeable, a man and a gentleman,
every inch 1 Then he is a Cliffe — not your cousin, though :
cousins should never marry — and heir to a fortune second
only to your own."

Still silent.

" Child 1 " cried Lady Agnes, impatiently, " what are you
thinking of ? are you asleep ? do you hear me ? "

" Yes, grandmamma."

"Then why don't you answer? You will never dream
of refusing, surely."

«'Nol"

It came so hesitatingly, though, that the lady, who had
been leaning easily back, sat up very straight and looked at
her.

" Victoria, I am surprised at you I Did you ever dream
for a moment you would be left to choose any stray cox-
comb, such as girls are given to take a fancy to 1 Have
you not always understood that your marriage was to be
arranged by your guardians, myself and your father? "

" Does papa know of this ? "

A DUTIFUL GRANDDAUGHTER.

173

" Certainly I I told him to-day, after dinner."

Vivia remembered, now, that papa and grandmamma had
been closeted in close converse for over an hour, after din-
ner ; and how the colonel had come out, looking very grave,
and had given her a glance in passing, half-tender, half-
mirthful, half-sad ; had declined accom[)anying them to the
theater, and had solaced himself with cigars all the rest of
the afternoon. She started up now at the recollection.

" Grandmamma, 1 must see papa I I must speak to papa
about this to-night 1 "

Lady Agnes sat up very stately and displeased.

" Is it necessary you should speak to him before you an-
swer me, Miss Shirley ? "

" Oh, grandmamm.i, don't be angry ! but I feel so — so
strange ; and it is all so sudden and queer I "

•• Remember, Victoria, that I have set my heart on this
matter, and that it has been set on it for years. Take care
you do not disappoint me 1 "

Victoria knelt softly down, her beautiful eyes filled with
tears, and touched the still smooth white hand with her
lips.

"Grandmamma, you know I would not disappoint you
for the world I Surely, it is little as I can do, after all these
years '^f care and love, to yield my will to yours 1 But, I
must— f must see papa I "

" Very well. You will find him in the library, I dare say ;
but I mu, t have your answer to-night."

" You shall. I will be back here in ten minutes."

" That is my dutiful little granddaughter," .snid Lady
Agnes, stooping to touch the pretty pleading Ups with her
own. " Go, then ; I will wait here."

The fairy figure with he golden hair floa^Cfl down the
staircase, through the hall, and into the libraiy. An odor
met her at the door — not the odor of sanctity, but the fra-
grant one of cigars, heralding the gentleman wl)o sat in the
crimson armchair by the window. The gas had been
turned down, and one flickering ray alone pierced the dark-
ness like a lance. The lace curtains had been drawn back,
and the pale starlight shone in and rested on the colonel,
sitting with his back to the door, and his eyes looking up
at their tremulous beauty. One hand rested on a paper

" It

i': •"

and all

i '

" Yo

■*

174 THE HEIRESS OF CASTILE CUFFE.

on his knee ; the other absently held a cigar that had gone
out long ago. The handsome and ever gay face looked
strangely pale and grave, and he did not see the figure fioat-
;ng through the shadowy room, with wan green emeralds
flashing fe3bly on the white neck, until it sunk down with a
cry of ♦' Oil, papa ' " beside him ; and a pretty flushed face,
and a shov/er of gold hair, fell bowed on his knee. Then
he looked do\vn a': it, not in surprise, but with the same
glanr3, half-tender, half-gay, half-sad.

" Well, Vivia, it has come at last, and my little girl has
found out sho is no longer a child."

It WIS a characteristic trifle — character is always shown
best in trifles — that while Lady Agnes, overlooking in her
grand and lofty way the very memory of so plebeian a per-
sonage as t\\2 dead French actress, always called her grand-
daughter Victoria, not Vivia, the colonel scarcely ever
thought of calling her anything else.

" Papa 1 papa I " sobbed Vivia, he'* voice losing itself in a
sob. *• I never thought of this ! "

He laid his hand lovingly on the little bowed head.

** I have been sharper-eyed than you, Vivia, and have fore-
seen what was coming long ago, though my lady-mother has
never given me credit for so much penetration. She has
told yot',, to-night, then ? "

"This moment, papa."

"And whit has my Vivia said?"

" Oh, pap.i ! Do you think I could say anything until
I had seen you ? "

** My darling, I have not one word to say in the matter.
Vivia shall please herself."

" Oil, I don't know what to say 1 I don't know what to
dol It is all so sudden and so unexpected! and I don't
want to be mirried at all 1 Oh 1 I wish I was back in my
beautiful France, in my dear, dear old convent-home, where
I was always so peaceful and so happy 1 "

" Foolish child 1 " said the colonel, smiling in spite o£
himself at the storm of childish distress, " is it then so
dreadful a thing to be married ? "

" It is dreadful to leave you, papa, and grandmamma,
that I love."
Li forget, Vivia, that it is grandmamma who is" send-

A DUTIFUI< GRANDDAUGHTER.

175

ing you away ! And then you will have Leicester Cliflfe to
love — your bridegroom, you know — handsome and dashing
— and you will 'soon forget us old folks altogether! " laugh-
ing still, but with a little tremor of the voice.

" Papa, when I forget you, I will be dead ! "

One little hand lay in his, and he lifted it to his lips,
while the stars shook as if seen through water.

" When is my Vivia to answer grandmamma ? "

" To-night."

" And what does she intend to say ? "

" Papa, you know I must say Yes I "

His hand closed over hers, and his mouth grew stern and
resolute, as Lady Agnes had seen it once eighteen years
before.

" Never, my giil, unless you wish it ! The ambitious
dreams of all the Cliffes and Shirleys that ever existed,
from the first of them who spoke English at the Tower of
IJabel, shall not weigh one feather in the scale against my
daughter's inclination 1 Let your heart answer, Vivia, Yes
or No, as it chooses ; and no one living shall gainsay it ! "

Vivia looked half-frightened at the outbreak, and clung
closer to his protecting arm.

" Dear, dear papa I how good you arc to me ! Oh, the
most miserable thing about the whole affair is, ^hat L shall
have to leave you ! " ^

He laughed his own gay, careless laugh.

" Oh, if that be all, mignonne, we must get over the ob-
jection. You don't mean to live and die an old maid for
papa's sake, surely ! I have a plan of my own, when this
wedding comes off, that I shall tell you about presently ;
mean time grandmamma is waiting for you to say Yes.
It will be Yes, w ill it not ? "

" Will you consent, papa ? "

" My consent depends on yours. You're sure you have
no personal objection to this young man ? "

" None at all, papa. How could I ? "

" True ; he is good-looking and spirited — ever}'thing the
veriest heroine of romance could desire ; and the whole
affair i.' ver}^ much like a romance itself, I must say. And
you don't — but I hardly need ask that question — you don't
care for any one else ? "

176 THE HEIRESS OF CASTLE CUFFE.

" Papa, you know I don't 1 "

" Very good I I see no reason, then, why you should not
marry him to-morrow. If the hero of this sentimental plan of
grandmamma's had been any other man than Leicester Cliffe,
I should not have listened to it for a moment ; but as it is,
I fancy it's all right ; and we must conclude it's one of the
marriages made in heaven. I own 1 have a weakness for
people falling in love in the good old orthodox way, as I
did myself long ago. Look here, Vivia."

Vivia had often noticed a slender gold chain that her
father wore round his neck, and wondered what talisman
was attached. Now he withdrew it, displaying a locket,
which he opened and handed to her. Vivia looked it with
awe. The beautiful uplifted eyes ; the dark hair, half waves,
half curls, falling back from the oval face ; the superb lips
smiling upon the gazer — she knew it well. Reverentially
she lifted it to her lips.

*• It is my mamma — my dear dead mamma 1 "

"It is! and next to you, my Vivia, I have prized' it
through all those years as the most precious thing I pos-
sessed. I give it to you, now, and you must wear it all your
life!"

" I shall wear it over my heart till I die I But, papa ■"

She had been looking at it with strange intentness, and
now she glanced up at him with a puzzled face.

" Well, Vivia ? " '

" Papa, it is the oddest thing ; but, do you know, I think
it resembles somebody I've seen."

" Who ? "

" You will laugh, perhaps, but it is Barbara Black I It
is a long time since I have seen her ; but I have a good
memory for faces, and I do think she looks like this."

The colonel leaned forward and looked at it thoughtfully.

"I have noticed it before. There is something in the
turn of the head and in the smile that is like Barbara ; but
we see those chance resemblances every day. Are you not
afraid Lady Agnes will be tired waiting ? "

•^ I will go to her in a moment, papa ! " she said, kissing
the likeness again, and placing it round her neck. " But

first tell me about the plan you spoke of, after I am " she

stopped, blushing.

w
o

V
V

s
\
(

A DUTIFUI. GRANDDAUGHTER.

177

«' Married, Vivia ! " he said, laughing.

"Yes, papa. You spoke of a plan, you know ? " *^

" I did, and here it is 1 " ' . \

He pointed, as he- spoke, to the paper, which was filled
with accounts of the war, whose echo from the frozen shores
of Russia was then clanging through the world. A great
victory had just been gained, and the columns were dark
with deeds of blood and heroism. Vivia clasped her hands,
and turned pale, with a presentiment of what was coming.

" It is hardly the thing," said the colonel, •* that an old
soldier, like myself, should loiter here in inglorious idleness,
while such deeds as these are making men famous every
day. Now that Vivia is to leave, the old house at home
will be rather dreary for comfort, and I shall be off for
Sebastopol within a week after you become Mrs. Cliffe."

She did not sp*eak. She clasped her hands on his shoul-
der, and dropped her face thereon.

" The plan is — Lady Agnes has the whole thing arranged
— that you and she and Leicester (for she intends accom-
panying you) are to pass the summer in France and Swit-
zerland, the winter in Italy, enjoy the carnival in Venice,
Holy Week in Rome, and come back to Cliftonlea in the
following spring, so that you will be a whole year absent.
Meantime I shall be storming redoubts, and leading forlorn
hopes, and writing letters, in the Russian trenches, to my
pretty daughter, who will be-

" Praying for you, papa !

He had felt his shoulder growing wet with tears, and be-
fore he could speak, she had risen and glided lightly from
the room.

Up-stairs, Lady Agnes was pacing up and down, in a
little fever of impatience. Vivia paused for a moment as
she passed on her way to her own room.

" I will do everything you wish, grandmamma 1 " she said.
" Good night ! "

Conquering Lady Agnes 1 What a radiant smile she
cast after the graceful form, disappearing in its own cham-
ber. But once there, the bride-elect fell down on her knees
by the window, and buried her face in her hands, feeling
that the shining stream along which she had floated all her
life was becoming turbid and rough, and that she was drift-

178 THE HEIRESS OK CASTLE CUFFE.

ing, without rudder or compass, into an unknown sea, void
of sunshine or shore. So long she knelt there, that the
stars waxed pale and went dimly out, one by one, before
the gray eyes of the coming morning, and one — the morn-
ing star — looked brightly down on her alone. Well might
Vivia keep vigil. In one hour her whole childhood had
passed from her like a dream.

^li

BACK AGAIN.

179

CHAPTER XIX.

BACK AGAIN.

'f\

Once more the cathedral-bells were cracking their brazen
throats ringing out peals of joy ; once more there were
triumphal arches all along High street to the very gates of
Castle Cliffc, with " Welcome, Rose of Sussex 1 " " Long
life and happiness to the heiress of Castle Cliffe I " and
a score of other flaming mottoes ; once more the charity-
children turned out to strew the road with flowers; once
more the town was assembled in gala attire ; once more
there were to be public feaSting and rejoicing, and beer and
beef for every '* chawbacon " in Sussex, a// lihitum. That
day month there had been shouting for the ^ y Queen —
now there was shouting for a far greater per^ .age, no less
than the heiress of Castle Cliffe.

In the sunshine of a glorious June afterr m, under the
arches of evergreen, and over the flower-strt vn road, came
the triumphal chariot of the heiress, o+bfwise a grand
barouche, drawn by four handsome graj •, :n silver-plated
harness, with outriders. In this barouche sat the colonel
and Miss Shirley, Lady Agnes and Leicester Cliffe. The
young lady was kept busy bowing; for, as the crowd saw
the bright, smiling face, they hurrahed again and again, with
much the same enthusiasm as that which made the Scotch
Commons shout when Mary Stuart rode an) ig them, "God
bless that sweet face I" In the next cairiage came Sir
Roland and Lord Lisle, Tom and Margaret Shirley, and the
two that followed were filled with a crowd of ladies and
gentleman from the city, whom Lady Agnes had brought
down, though they knew it not, to be present at her grand-
daughter's wedding.

The great gates swung majestically back under the carved

■

.80 THE HEIRESS OF CASTLE CLIFFE.

arch, emblazoned with the escutcheon of the Cliffs, to let
the car of triumph in ; and the lodge-keeper stood in the
door of the Italian cottage, to bow to the passing princess.
The flag on the domed roof, flung out its folds proudly to
the breeze, and a long line of servants, many old and gray
in the service of the family, stood drawn up in the hall to
bid them welcome. Thore, too, stood Mr. Sweet, ever smil-
ir-' and debonair, ibe sunshine seeming to glint and scin-
tillate in his yellow hair and whiskers, in his jingling
jewelry and smiling mouth, until he made one wink again to
look at him. All sorts of miracles had been working in the
house for the last fortnight. A whole regiment of up-
holsterers had been sent down from London, to set every
room topsy-turvey, and the servants distracted, and to make
them perfectly resplendent with damask and velvet. And
now the heiress of all this wealth and splendor, fair and
youthful, her eyes filling with (ears, was entering, leaning on
the arm of her hero of a father, stately and handsome ; and
some of the servants were wiping their eyes, too, and whis-
pering how like she was to all the Clift'es generally, but partic-
ularly to the abbess, whose portrait hung in the hall above.
Marshaled by the housekeeper, everybody hurried off to
their rooms to dress for dinner. Vivia went to hers (the
Rose Room), where she had slept the first night she ever
entered Castle Cliffe. In all the changes and preparations it
had not been altered, by her own especial request ; and she
danced round it like the happy child she was, glad to be
home again. There stood the dainty bed in the recess,
guarded by the watchful ansjel ; there was the picture over
the mantel — the majestic figure, with the halo round the
head, blessing little children ; and there, yes, there was one
change, there was another picture — a fair-haired boy, with a
face beautiful as an angel ; the picture that had once hung
in the villa in Cliffewood, and sent to her by Sir Roland
within the last fortnight, as having decidedly the best right
to it. Alone as she was, her cheeks grew hot and crimson
at the sight, and then she laughed to herself and kissed her
finger-tips to it, and resigned herself into the hands of Jean-
nette, to make her pretty for dinner. And pretty she did
look when it was all over; for she was too impatient to go
through the house to see the changes, to waste time over

BACK AGAIN.

i8i

e
d

n
d

her toilet. Mr. Sweet, standing in the hall talking to the
housekeeper, looked at her, quite lost in admiration, as she
came out in a floating amplitude of bright blue silk, low-
necked and short-sleeved, according to her cool custom ;
her golden hair, freshly curled, falling around her in an amber
cloud ; her blue eyes shining, her rounded cheeks flushed.
Low he bent before her, with a gleam in his eyes that was
half admiration, half derision. Now, Vivia did not like Mr.
Sweet, and Mr. Sweet was not fond of Vivia. The young
lady had an unwinking way of looking out of her great blue
eyes, and discerning tinsel from gold, despite its pitiful glis-
tening, with much of her grandmother's eagle glance ; and
Mr. Sweet always shrunk a little under i- Die fearless, guilt-
less eyes.

"He is too sweet to be wholesome, Tom, ' she had said
once to her cousin. " No man that always smiles and never
frowns, is anything but a hypocrite."

But to-day she was at peace with the world and all therein,
and she bent her pretty head and shimmering curls till they
flashed back the sunlight, and then danced down the hall
like an incarnate sunbeam herself.

It was well Vivia knew the old house by heart, or she cer-
tainly would have got lost in the labyrinth of halls, and cor-
ridors, and passages, changed as they were now. A certain
suite of oak rooms in the Agnes Tower, with windows facing
the east — she liked a sunny eastern prospect — had been, by
the orders of Lady Agnes, fitted up ostensibly for Miss
Shirley ; in reality, for Mr. and Mrs. Clifife. There was a
boudoir whose very carpet was a miracle in itself — violets
and forget-me-nots so natural that you scarcely dared step
on them, on a groundwork of purest white, like flowers
blooming in a snow-bank. There were window curtains of
blue satin, with silvet embroidery, under white lace ; walls
paneled in azure satin and hung with exquisite pictures,
each of which had cost, in Italy and Germany, a small for-
tune in itself. There was a wonderful cabinet of ebony and
gold, vases half as tall as herself, a ceiling where silver stars
shone on a blue ground and chairs of some white wood,
that looked like ivory, cushioned in blue satin. There was
a rosewood piano in one corner, 'vith the music she liked on
the rack beside it. There were carved swinging-shelves of the

183 THE HEIRESS OF CASTILE CWFFE.

same white wood, with all her favorite authors, gayly bound,
the'"*'>n, from William Shakespeare to Charles Dickens.
Theix, were hot-house flowers on the table, and sweet-voiced
canaries, singing in silver-gilt cages ; and a portrait of her-
self, resplendent in the dress she had worn to Court, smiling
serenel}^ down on all. And —

" D2ar, dear grandmamma I *' she murmured. " How
good, how kind, how generous she is 1 "

The next of the suite was an oratory — a queer room fltted
up as a curiosity, to be shown to visitors. The floor was
of black polished oak, inlaid with polished wood of different
colors in fanciful mosaic, and slippery as ice. The walls
were hung with faded silken arras, representing the adven-
tures of Genevieve of Brabant, the work of some ancestress,
whose fingers had long ago moldered into dust ; and stand-
ing out on brackets around the four walls was carved in
ebony the W'< y of the Cross, representing the whole mourn-
ful journey to Calvary, from the Judgment Hall of Pilate to
the sepulcher wherein no man had ever lain before. There
was a great altar carved in oak, with a full length statue of
the Madonna crushing the head of the Serpent, and opposite
was another of Eve being tempted by the same enemy of
mankind. A dingy painting of the Last Supper served for
an altar-piece ; before, it was a prie-dieu, or kneeling-bench,
carved also in ebony, with a great illuminated Roman missal
thereon. A gothic window of stained glass, with the figures of
the Twelve Apostles gorgeously painted, admitted the after-
noon sunshine in rainbow hues. Everything in this room, a
visitor would think, was at least a century old. Nothing of
the kind ; Lady Agnes had had thcni all brought from (ler-
many for the occasion. Vivia looked round her in delight,
and having knelt for a moment to murmur a prayer before
the grand altar, passed on to the next — the dressing-room.
It was a bath-room as well as a dressing-room ; the walls

reaching from floor to ceiling,
either hand. On one of the
other-of-pcarl, and die carpet
iiiison. The next was the bed-
chamber, a super room, with four large windows draped in
green velvet, cut ai antique points, and lined with white
satin, overlooking ui. extensive prospect of terraces and

were incrusted with mirror
with fragrant cedar closets
tables lay a dressing-case '
and hangings we f darl

BACK AGAIN.

133

shrubbery, and plantations and avenues. Green and white
were the pervading tints throughout the room ; the bed-
hangings were of those shades ; the easy chairs and lounges
were upholstered in green velvet, and the c irpet looked like
green moss with wreaths of white roses laid on it. And
then came another dressing-room, whose shades were am-
ber and jet, which made Vivia open her eyes ; and beyond
it there was a little study, with rosewood slielves round three
sides of the room, well filled with books, and there was a
gentleman's Turkish dressing-gown of bri<^ht scarlet and
yellow, lying over the back of an arin-chnir; and on the
table was a long Turkish pipe, with an amber mouth-piece,
and beside a crimsom fez. The other side of the room
seemed to be a small armory, for there were swords and
daggers of Damascus steel, whose keen blue glitter made
her flesh creep ; and pistols and revolvers, at sight of which
she recoiled precipitately to the other end of the room.

" Grandmamma is determined <;hat I shall have a variety
of dressing-rooms!" thought Vivia in horrified surprise;
•' but what all those horrid things are for, I cannot imagine I
Does she expect me to wear that red and yellow dressing-
gown and flaming cap, and smoke thai dreadful long-stemmed
chilbouque, I wonder } I shall go and see I "

. Each of those rooms had two doors, one opening on the
outer hall, the other in a straight line of communication with
each other. Vivia hurried on to the beautiful boudoir, and
with the free, light elastic step peculiar to her, traversed the
hall and corridor, the last of which was her own. The door
of the lady's dressing-room was ajar, and the girl looked in.

" Grandmamma, I have been through the rooms and they
are charming 1 I never saw anything prettier in my life 1 "

Lady Agnes was sitting listlessly, with her eyes closed and
her hands folded, before a great Psyche mirror, under the
hands of her maid. At the sound of the voice, she opened
her eyes and looked round in surprise.

" My dear child, is this really you ? How is it possible
you are dressed already ? "

Miss Shirley pulled out a watch about the size of a penny-
piece, set with a blazing circlet of diamonds, and consulted
it with precision.

" I was dressed just twenty minutes ago, grandmamma ! "

184 THE HEIRESS OF CASTLE CUFFK.

*' What .in absurd toilet you must have made, then I
Come in and let me look at you 1 "

Vivia came in and made a respectful little housemaid's
courtsey.

"Oh, my ladyl don't scold, if you please I I was dying
to see the rooms ; and how could I think of my toilet the
very first hour I got home ? "

•' Well, you are tolerable," said Lady Agnes, leaning over
with a critical eye, ** but too plain, child ; simplicity is very
nice in young girls, but some ornament — a flower, a few
pearls, everything in keeping, remember." (She herself was
blazing in jewels.) *' And you have rather too much of a
milkmaid flush on your cheeks ; but still you are very well.
V Where did you say you had been ? "

" To see the oak rooms in the Agnes Tower. They are
lovely, grandmamma, especially that dear, delightful oratory,

which is prettier even than " Vivia paused suddenly,

and Lady Agnes, with a little, malicious laugh, finished the
sentence :

" Then the famous oratoire in the Chateau St. Hilary,
which you have described so often, and of which this is a
copy. Well, my dear, as you declined being mistress of
that, I determined you should possess a prettier one ; and
so you really like it ? "

" Of couiise ; who could do otherwise ! liut, grandmamma,
1 don't understand why I'm to use two dressing- rooms, and
what all those shocking swords and pistols are for 1 "

" Dear child 1 " said Lady Agnes, in German, that
Mademoiselle Hoitense, the maid, might not understand,
*' they are not thine alone, but Mr. and Mrs. Cliff e's ! The
amber dressing-room and study are your husband's 1 "

** Oh 1 " said Vivia, laughing and blushing.

*' After your bridal tour, you know, they will be occupied
— not until then ; and afterward, when you visit the Castle.
And now, Victoria, there's something else I want to speak
to you about — the announcement of your engagement. As
I ncceded to your silly entreaties in town, and did not an-
nounce it there, I think it is only proper that our guests
should be informed immediately. As the marriage is to take
place itself within a fortnight, the notice even now will be
absurdly short.''

BACK AGAIN.

185

J >

" Oh, grandmamma — no ! don't publish it yet, not on any
account I "

"Victoria, I'm surprised at you I I have no patience
with you? Now why, for Heaven's sake, might not the
whole world know it?"

"Grandmamma, you know very well. I told you in town,
why. I should feel so ashamed and so silly ! and I am sure
I should not be able to speak a word to monsieur, my cousin,
again, until after the ceremony. And then, to think that
every one in Cliftonlea, and in Lower Cliflfe, and in Lisle-
ham, and all round the country will talk about it, and my
name will be bandied on every lip, high and low ; and how
the trousseau, and settlements, and parure will be discussed 1
and how the sentimental people will wonder if it was a love-
match or a 7H(iriagt' de convenavce ; and how they will con-
jecture over there in the town what sort of an appetite I had
the day before, and how many tears I will shed on being led
to the altar. And then those people here — how, for the next
two or three weeks, it will be the sole subject of discus-
sion ; how they will shower conscious smiles and glances
at me, whenever I approach, and make our united names
their theme over the billiard and card tables ; and tell each
other what an excellent match it is ; and move away, and
leave us alone, if we chance by accident to come together
among the rest ; and I will be congratulated, and kissed,
and talked at. Oh, dreadful 1 I should never survive it ! "

All this liad been poured forth with such excited vehe-
mence, that Lady Agnes opened her light blue e) es in sur-
prise, and Mademoiselle Hortense, without understanding a
word, stared and pricked up her ears. As she stopped,
with very red cheeks, and very bright eyes, Lady Agnes
broke out, with energy :

" Victoria, you are nothing but a little fool ! "

" Yes, grandmamma ; but p-i>please don't tell 1 "

" Now, grant mc patience ! Was there ever anything
heard like this ? Pray tell me, me. Miss Shirley, if you are
ashamed of your coming wedding ? "

" Oh, grandmamma I "

" Is it ever to be announced at all, or are our guests to
know nothing of it until the wedding morning — tell me that ? ''
Oh, not so bad as that 1 Won't next week do ? "

((

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23 WEST MAIN STREET

WEBSTER, N.Y. i^SSO

(716)S72-4S03

•^^

186 THE HEIRESS OF CASTILE CWFFE.

" This week will do better I Are you not aware that
Leicester leaves to-morrow for London, to arrange about
the settlements, and will not return within three or four days
of the day ? "

" Yes, grandmamma ; and I don't want you to say any-
thing about it until he comes back."

" Victoria, tell me — do you care at all for your future
husband ? "

Victoria wilted suddenly down.

"I — I think so, grandmmama."

" I — I think so, grandmmama I " said her ladyship, mimick-
ing her tone. " Oh, was there ever such another simpleton
on the face of the earth ? Victoria, I am ashamed of you I
Where are you going now ? "

" To the Queen's Room. Don't be angry, grandmamma.
I shall do everything you tell me in all other ways and all
other matters; but, please, like a dear good grandmmma,
let me have mine in this I "

It was not in human nature to resist that sweet coaxing
tone, nor that smile, half gay, half deprecating, nor yet the
kiss with which the grand lady's lips were bribed and sealed.
Lady Agnes pushed her away, half smiling, half petulant.

" You're all the same as a great baby, Victoria, and alto-
gether spoiled by that other great baby — your papa 1 Go
away 1 "

Laughing Victoria went, and singing to herself a merry
chansonette, danced along the old halls to the Queen's
Room in the Queen's Tower. In this particular room, said
the traditions of the house, Queen Elizabeth had slept ; and,
from that memorable time, everything had remained precisely
as the great Queen had left it. It had been the awe and
admiration of Vivia's childhood — this room — and it seemed
filled with ghostly rustling now as she entered, as if good
Queen Bess's one silk dress still rattled stiffly against the
moulded wainscoting. It was a dismally-old apartment, very
long, and very low ceilinged, with great oaken beams cross-
ing it transversely, and quartered in the center in the same
wood, with the arms of Cliffe surmounted by the bloody
hand. A huge bed, in which the Seven Sleepers might have
reposed, with lots of room to kick about in, stood in the
center of the dusty oak floor, and the daylight came dimly

^ ^

BACK AGAIN.

187

Ithat
)out
iays

my-
cure

through two narrow, high windows, with minute diamond
panes set in leaden casements, all overrun with ivy. There
was a black gulf of a fireplace, wherein yule logs had blazed
a Christmas tune ; and there was a huge granite mantelpiece,
with a little ledge ever so far up. There must have been
giants in the day it was used, and Vivia kissed the cold gray
stone, and read the pious legend carved on it in quaint
letters : " Mater Dei, memento me ! ' (Dear reader, if you've
never loved wood or stone, you cannot understand Vivia.)
All sorts of grotesque heads were carved on the oak panels —
sylphs and satyrs, gods and goddesses heavenly and infernal ;
and opposite each other, one of the martyred abbesses and
Queen Elizabeth. This last was a sliding panel opening
with a secret spring, and leading by a subterraneous passage
out into the park — a secret passage by which many a crime
had been concealed in days gone by, and which Vivia knew
well, and had often passed through in her childhood. She
had been walking round the room examining the carvings,
and looking at her own pretty self in a dusty old mirror,
before which the royal tigress of England had once stood
combing out her red mane, when she was interrupted in a
startling and mysterious way enough.

" Victoria 1 " .

Vivia started and looked round. The voice, soft and low,
was close beside her — came actually from the carved lips of
the nun in the panel.

"Victoria I" ,

Again from the lips of wood came the name clear and
sweet. She started back and gazed with blanched cheeks
and dilating eyes on the beautiful dust-stained face. Once
more came the voice, vibrating clear and distinct through-
out the room.

" Victoria Shirley, the hour of your downfall is at hand I
For six years you have walked your way with a ring and a
clatter over the heads of those whose handmaid you were
born to be ; but the hour comes when might shall succumb
to right, anu you shall be thrust out into the slime from
which you have arisen 1 Heiress of Castle Cliffe, look to
yourself, and remember that the last shall be first, and the
first shall be last I "

The faint, low voice took a stern and menacing tone at

188 THE HEIRESS OF CASTI.E CUFFE.

the close, and then died away in impressive silence. Vivia
had been standing breathless, and spell-bound, and terror-
struck, with her eyes on the carved nun's face over the door.
When it ceased the spell was broken, and Vivia turned in
horror to fly. Not for worlds would she have gone near it
to pass through the door ; so she touched the spring in the
secret panel, and passed out into the opening beyond. As
it closed, shutting out the last ray of light and leaving her in
utter darkness, she caught a glimpse of a dark figure disap-
pearing before her in the gloom, and she flew down along
the spiral staircase — how, she scarcely ever afterward knew.
At the foot was a long arched stone passage, nearly a quarter
of a mile in extent, ending in a wilderness of ivy and
juniper, close beside one of the laurel walks. Through it
she flew, pale and breathless, pausing not until she found
herself out in sunshine, with the birds singing in the branches
overhead, and the pure breezes sweeping up cool and sweet
from the sea. Something else was there to reassure her
also — a figure walking up and down the laurel walk, and
smoking furiously. It turned the instant after she emerged
from the tangled wilderness of ivy, and, seeing her, took the
cigar between his finger and thumb, and stared with all his
might. Vivia's courage and presence of mind came back
all at once.

•* Does monsieur think I have dropped from the skies ? "
she asked, coquettishly, for being more than half French,
Mademoiselle Genevieve took to coquetry as naturally as a
wasp takes to stinging.

" Mademoiselle," said Leicester Cliffe, flinging away his
cigar, and coming up, " I might very easily be pardoned for
mistaking you for an angel, but, in the present instance, I
merely think you are a witch ! Two seconds ago I was all
alone ; no one was visible in any dir.ection but myself. At
the end of these two seconds I turn round, and lo ! there
stands before me a shining vision in gold and azure, like
the queen of the fairies in a moonlit ring. Will you vanish
if I come any nearer ? "

" You may come and see ? "

He needed no second bidding. And as he stood before
her, looking at her in astonishment, he saw how pale she
was, and the excited gleam in her serene blue eyes.

BACK AGAIN.

ivia
fror-
|oor.
in
ir it
the
As
|r in
5ap-
mg

189

" What has happened ? Has anything frightened you ?
Why are you looking so pale ? " he asked.

She shivered, drew closer to him involuntarily, and glanced
behind her with a startled face.

" Vivia, what is it ? Something has gone wrong ! ''

" Yes ; come away from here, and I will tell you."

He drew her hand within his arm, and turned down the
laurel walk. It ended in a long avenue leading past the old
ruin ; and, as they eiitered, he asked again :

" Well, Vivia, what has gone wrong, and how came you
to appear there so suddenly and mysteriously ? "

" There is nothing mysterious about my getting there.
You know the subterraneous passage leading from the
Queen's Tower to the park.-* I merely came through
that."

" A pleasant notion ! to come through that dark and
rheumatic old vault, when you could have stepped out
through the front-door with double the ease and convenience 1
Did you see the ghost of Queen Elizabeth on the way ? "

" No, monsieur ; but if you laugh at me, I shall not say
another word. The mysterious part is to come."

" Oh, there is a mystery, then — that's refreshing ! Let
me hear it 1 "

" You are laughing at me ! "

"By no means I Pray don't keep me in this torturing
suspense I ^'

" Monsieur, I had been through the house looking at the
improvements, and 1 came to the Queen's Room, to see if
they had been sacrilegious enough to alter that. In one of
the panels there is carved the head of a nun, the abbess
who "

" Oh, I know perfectly ! Lady Edith Cliffe, who was
murdered there in the old monastery — what else ? "

" Monsieur, there was a voice — it seemed to come from
that head — and it said things it chills my blood to think of 1
I think there was no one else in the whole tower but myself ;
I am sure there was no one else in the room ; and yet, there
was that voice, which seemed to come from the carved head t
Don't laugh at me, monsieur; I am telling the whole
truth!" -

Monsieur was not disposed to laugh — not at all. He was

•I was

190 THK HEIRESS OF CASTI.E CI.IFFE.

thinking of the Nun's Grave, and of the warning voice so
mysterious and solemn. This voice was possibly the same.
Vivia looked up with her earnest eyes.

'* What does monsieur think of this ? "

" That there is not the least reason in the world
afraid. Mademoiselle, I, too, have heard that voice 1

" You 1 "

" Even so ! "

" Where ? "

" At the Nun's Grave 1 "

" Oh, Monsieur, I, too, heard it there long ago 1
a child then, and I was there alone with Barbara Black I "

'* I, too, was alone with Barbara Black ! " thought Leices-
ter, but he only said : " Do not distress yourself, Miss
Shirley — believe me that mysterious voice is not super-
natural 1 "

" What, then, is it ? "

«' That I do not altogether know ! I have a suspicion :
if it prove a certainty, you will yet be able to laugh over to-
day's terror. Meantime, I have something else to speak t^
you about, as I believe this is the only time since I have
had the pleasure of seeing you, that we have ever been for
five minutes utterly and completely alone together 1 "

Vivia turned pale, and drawing her hand suddenly from
his arm, stooped to gather the daisies growing under their
feet. He looked at her with a smile that had a little of sar-
casm in it.

" Are you aware. Miss Shirley, we are to be married in a
fortnight ? "

Vivia, with a pale face and startled eyes, looked round
her for a moment, as if meditating flight ; and Leicester,
with an inward laugh at her evident dread of a love-scene,
took her hand and held it firmly.

" Are you sure you know we are to be married, Vivia ? "

" Yes, monsieur 1 " very faintly.

" You know, too, that I leave to-morrow for London, to
arrange the final settlements, and will not return till within
a day or two before the wedding." .

" Yes, monsieur ! "

" And though I never had an opportunity of telling you
SO} you know, of course, I love you I "

BACK AGAIN.

191

voice so
the same.

Hd to be
lei "

I was

ack 1 "

t Leices-
-if, Miss
t super-

ispicion ;
over to-
speak t^
e I have
Jeen for

ly from
er their
- of sar-

ed in a

round
icester,
-scene,

ia ? "

on, to
within

you

-^^\

" Grandmamma told me so, monsieur I "

Leicester smiled outright at this ; but as she was not
looking, it did not matter. Without lifting her eyes, she
tried to release her hand.

" Please to let me go, Monsieur Cliff e."

" You'll run away if I do."

*' No ; but it is time we were returning to the house — the
dinner-bell will ring diiectly."

" One moment only 1 As we are to be married so soon,
it strikes me I should like to know whether or not you care
for me." ^

With her released hand Vivia was tearing mercilessly to
pieces the daisies she had pulled. She was silent so long,
with face averted, that he repeated the question :

" Mademoiselle does not answer."

" If I do not answer, monsieur," she said, with infinite
composure, looking straight before her, " it is because I was
thinking how to say what I feel on the subject. If I marry
you, I shall love you, depend on that. Your honor, or as
much of it as will be in my keeping, shall be dearer to me
than my own life, and your happiness will be the most
sacred thing to me on earth. But as for love, such as I
have read of and heard of from other girls, I know nothing
of it, and if you ask me for passion, I have it not to give !
I love my papa best of all on earth ; next to him, and in a

different way, I respect and " a little tremor of the v6ice ;

" and love you 1 And, monsieur, I shall be your true and
faithful wife until death ! "

In speaking, they had drawn near to the Nun's Grave
without noticing it. They were standing on its verge now,
and one of them remembered how he had stood there last,
and how different a love had been given him then. Much
as he admired the heiress of Castle Cliffe, noble and high-
minded, unworthy as he felt to touch the hem of her dress,
he knew that Barbara was a thousand times more to his
taste. Miss Shirley was an angel, and he was a great deal
too much of the earth, earthy, not to prefer the dark, pas-
sionate daughter of his own world. He did not want to
marry an angel. Had Miss Shirley been a fisherman's
daughter, he would as soon have thought of falling in love
v/ith a drift of sea-foam as she. But it was too late for all

192 THE HEIRESS OF CASTI.E ClylFFE.

such thoughts now, and he suppressed a sigh, and looked
down at the fallen tree. He started to see the carved ini-
tials staring him full in the face, like reproachful ghosts,
and the guilty blood came crimson to his brow. Vivia saw
them, too, and was leaning on the grass, looking at them
curiously.

" Do look at this, monsieur ! B. B. and L. S. C. Why,
those last are your initials ; did you carve them ? " ,

" I think so — yes 1 " he said, carelessly.

" And whose are the others ? " ,

Leicester Cliffe did not like the idea of wilfully telling a
lie, but it would never do to say " Barbara Black ; " so he
answered, with the guilty color high in his face :

" I don't know 1 There is the five minutes bell ; had we
not better return to the house ? "

" I should think so ; what will grandmamma say ? I have
been fully an hour rambling about the place, and I love
every tree and stone in it, even that frightful, charming and
romantic Queen's Room. It is like paradise, this 'place — is
it not, monsieur ? "

" Any place would be like paradise to me where you were,
Vivia ? "

She laughed gayly, and they walked away under the elms,
and disappeared. And neither dreamed of the unseen
listener who had heard every word.

ACCEPTED.

193

CHAPTER XX.

ACCEPTED.

Away beyond the Nun's Grave the green lanes and wind-
ing avenues of Cliff e Park lost themselves in a dry arid
marsh, where tall, blue rockets and flame-colored flowers
danced crazy fandangoes in the wind, where sheep and cattle
grazed in the rank grass, and where wild strawberries were
sown like scarlet stars, on the golden June evening, when
the betrothed lovers stood talking by the fallen elm. At
the head of the grave was a wild jungle of tall fern, and
juniper, and reeds, shaded by thick elms and beeches — a
lonely spot, in whose greenish black gloom many a dark
deed might be committed, and no one the wiser — a jJtace
as gloomy and silent, and lonely, as the heart of a primeval
forest. But it was not deserted now : crouching among the
fern and reedy blossoms was a figure in white — a slender,
girlish figure, with crimson buds wreathed in the bands of
her shining dark hair — a figure that on coming toward the
Nun's Grave, had discovered two others approaching it
from an opposite direction, and had shrunk down here out
of sight. Unseen and unheard, she had listened to the
whole conversation ; and it was well neither saw the ter-
rible eyes gleaming upon them from the green vines, or they
scarcely would have walked back to the dinner-table as com-
posedly and as happily as they did. She had started at
first, flushing redder than the roses in her hair ; but this
had passed away as quickly as it cime ; and as she half-
sat, half-knelt, and listened, she seemed slowly petrifying,
turning from stone to ice. Long after they went away she
knelt there, like something carved in marble, her dress and
face all one color ; her eyes looking straight before her
with a dull, glazed, vacant stare. So long she knelt, that
the red lances of sunset piercing the shifting green gloom
had died out one by one, and the evening wind sighing

•*;

194 THE HEIRESS OF CASTLE CLIFFE.

from the sea stirred restlessly in the branches of the elms
overhead. Then she arose, with a face that no one had
ever seen Barbara Black wear before. They had seen her
in sorrow, in anger, in pride, in joy ; but never with a face
like that, so set, so stone-like, so rigidly calm. She might
have been a galvanized corpse ; only no corpse ever had
the eyes wherein the light of life burned with so fierce and
steady a glare. She had not gone to Cliftonlea that day to
see the triumphal procession enter ; always jealously proud,
she was more exclusively so now than ever, for the sake of
another. Oh, no ; it would never do for the future bride of
Leicester Cliffe to be splashed with the mud of his chariot
wheels, like the rest of the common herd ; so, smiling in
heart she had dressed herself in the flowing white robes
of the May Queen, in which he had seen her first, and gone
forth like a bride to meet him.

Of course he had been thinking of her all day, and losing
his sleep thinking of her all night, and fretting himself into
a fever ever since he went away, to get back to love and
her — men always do in such cases ! Of course, the first
visit of so ardent a lover would be to the spot made sacred
by their plighted vows ; and she would be there, beautiful
and radiant in her bridal robes, and be the first to greet
him home ! Young ladies in love are invariably fools, and
they generally get a fool's reward. Barbara was no ex-
ception ; and verily she had her reward. As she rose up
and turned away, she tottered, and leaned for a moment
against a tree, with both hands clasped hard over her heart.
. " Oh, fool I fool ! " she cried out, in bitter scorn of her-
self. " Poor, pitiful fool I to think that this heart should
quail for one instant, though trodden under the feet of such
a traitor and dastard as. that 1 "

There was a strong net-work of tall rank vines in her
path, but she brushed them aside like a cobweb, and went
on over the arid marsh on her way to the gates. Bubbling
from a rock very near thejn, and sparkling clear and bright
beneath the shadow of the overhanging fern, was a crystal
spring, with a sea-nymph watching over it, and a beautiful
little drinking cup, made from a sea shell, hanging from the
stone girdle round its waist. " v.

Barbara filled the cup, and was - raising it to her lips,

ACCEPTED.

195

when she stopped. For the carved face of the goddess was
that of Victoria Shirley, and carved on the rose-tinted shell
were the words : "

" Victoria Regia."

Barbara drew her white lips off her glistening teeth with
a low, derisive laugh, and dashed the shell so furiously
against the statue that it shivered on her stone bosom into
a thousand fragments.

" Oh, if that pretty, rosy, smiling face were only here,
how I could beat out every trace of its wax-doll beauty, and
send it back, hideous and lacerated, for him to kiss I " she
said, looking at the unmoved smile on the stone face, with
the eyes of a tigress. " Pretty little devil 1 If that were
she in reality, instead of her stone image, how I could
throttle her as she stands 1 Why, I would rather drink
poison than anything on which she had looked 1 sooner ^
touch my lips to red-hot iron than to anything bearing her
name ! "

She literally hissed the words out through her set teeth,
without raising her voice ; and casting one parting look
with the same wolfish eyes on the smiling block of stone,
she hurried on through the park-gates, and into the cottage,
just as the last little pink cloud of sunset was dipping and
fading behind the distant hills.

The cottage looked disorderly as usual, with piles of nets
and oars, and filsh-baskets and oilcloth garments scattered
in the corners, and chairs and tables at sixes and sevens, and
perfumed with an ancient and fish-like smell. A wood-fire
burned on the hearth, and the green wood did not mend
matters by vomiting puffs of smoke, and the kettle on the
crane seemed in a fair way to boil some time before mid-
night.

In a chair in the chimney-corner, smoking serenely, sat
Mr. Peter Black, his hands in his pockets, his hat on his
head, and his eyes on the fire ; and Barbara, entering, a
spotless and shining vision, made him look up. Mr. Black
did more than look up — he stared with his eyes open to the
widest possible extent.

" Good Lord 1 " said Mr. Black, still staring in the ut-
most consternation, " whatever is the matter with the girl ? '*

Barbara took a long drink of water, and then coming over,

■

196 THE HEIRESS OF CASTI.E CUFFE.

rested her arm on the mantel, and faced him with perfect
composure.

" What is it, father ? "

" What tlie foul fiend is the matter with you ? You look
as though you had been dead a week."

" Am I pale ? "

" Pale ? It's quite horrible, I tell you. Have you seen a
ghost ? "

"Yes, father."

Mr. Black's jaw dropped so suddenly at this announce-
ment, and his eyes opened so wide, that there seemed strong
danger of their ever being able to regain their natural posi-
tion again.

" What— what's that you said ? "

" That I have seen a ghost, father — the ghost of truth and
honor forever dead 1 "

Before Mr. Black could frame an answer to this speech,
•which was to him Greek or thereabouts, the door opened
and old Judith, attired in promenade costume — that is, a
faded scarlet cloak, with a hood thrown over her head —
entered. Now, Judith's promenading three yards beyond
her own threshold was so very unusual and striking a circum-
stance, that Barbara turned to look at her, and Mr. Black
took the pipe from his lips, and stared, if possible, harder
than ever.

" Why, grandmother," said Barbara, " where have you
been ? "

The old woman threw back the hood of her cloak, and
showed an animated and sprightly countenance as she drew
up her chair and held out her hands, with a shiver, to the
blaze.

" Ah 1 " said Mr. Black, still holding his pipe, and still
staring, " that's just what I should like to know. Where
have you been ? "

" Up to Cliftonlea, to be sure," said Judith, with a low
dry, cackling laugh, and a sly look out of her eyes, first at
her granddaughter and then at her son. " Everybody went,
and why couldn't I go among the rest ? "

Mr. Black gave vent to his suppressed feelings by a
deeply bass oath, and Barbara stood looking at her steadily
out of her great dark eyes. -

ACCEPTED.

197

* Old Judith cackled again and rubbed her hands. • • •

" It was a fine sight I a grand sight I a brave sight 1 —
finer than anything even at the theater 1 There were
arches with her name on 'em ; and flags a-flying ; and
flowers all along the road for her wheels to go over ;
and there were four shining horses all covered with
silver, holding up their heads as if they were proud of
her, and walking on the flowers as if they scorned them
and the common-folks who threw them ; and there was she,
among all the grand ladies and gentlemen, with her silk
dress rustling, and her eyes like blue stars, and her cheeks
like pink velvet, and her smile like — ah, like an angel I —
and she a-flinging of handfuls of silver among the charity-
children, as if it was dirt, and she despised it I Ah I she is
a great lady — a great lady — a great lady 1 "

Old Judith rubbed her hands so hard that there seemed
some danger of her flaying them, and looked alternately at
her son and granddaughter, with a glance of such mingled
shyness, cunning, exultation, that the gentleman got exas-
perated,

" What in blazes 1 " inquired Mr. Black, putting it tem-
perately, " is the blessed old scarecrow a-talking of ? She
can't have been drinking, can she ? " Though the adjective
Mr. Black used was not exactly " blessed," and though the
look with which he favored his tender parent was not the
blandest, yet old Judith cackled her shrill laugh again, and
diving one skinny arm into the greasy depths of a pocket
by her side, fished up a handful of silver coins.

" Look at them I " cried the old lady, thrusting them very
near Mr. Black's nose, with an exultant gleam in her green-
ish black eyes. " Look at them I She saw me Sitting by
the roadside, and she threw them to me as she rode past, and
asked for Barbara. Stop — keep off — it's mine I give me
my money, Barbara ! "

Across Barbara's white face there had shot a sudden
crimson streak, and in each of Barbara's eyes there had
leaped a demon. She had clutched the skinny arm of the
old woman in a hand like iron, and wrenched the money
from her avaricious clutch, and dashed it with all her
might through the window, smashing the glass as it went.
Then, without a word she resumed her place at the mantel ;

193 THE HEIRESS OF CASTLE CI.IFFE. :

but father and grandmother sprung to their feet, the one
with a savage oath, the other with a shrill and angry
scream,

" What's all this for ? " demanded Mr. Black, looking
fiercely at his unmovable daughter. " What the devil has
got into the girl ? "

She looked at him with a quiet eye.

" You've said it, father — the devil 1 "

" My money is gone ! all my money 1 " whined old Judith,
who stood in mortal dread of her tameless granddaughter.
'* All my money, and there was three crowns, two half-
crowns, and a fi'penny bit I And she gave it to me, too, all
for myself — the pretty young lady i "

" What did you do it for, you " Mr. Black paused with

the ephithet on his tongue, for something like the savage
light in his own eyes shone in his daughter's, and warned
him that it would be safer unsaid.

"That's not much!" she said, looking at him with a
strange laugh. " What would you say if I murdered some-
body and was going to be hanged ? "

" Oh, the girl's gone mad I stark, staring mad ! " said Mr.
Black, staring again, until his eyes seemed starting from
their sockets,

"No, father," n

" Curse it, then ! " he cried ferociously, " what do you
mean by looking and acting like this ? Stop glowering on
me like that, or I'll smash in your face for you as I would
smash an eggshell"

" And this is my father I " said Barbara with the same
wild laugh, and turning toward the door ; " don't try it,
father ; it would not be safe. Good evening to you
botho''

She walked rapidly out and down to the shore with a step
that rung like steel on the rocks. A slender new moon was
rising away in the east, and its radiance silvered the waves
and lighted the long, white, sandy beach, and black piles of
sea-weedy rocks, above them. The tide was far out, and
Barbara strode over the wet shingles and slippery seaweed,
heeding them no more than if she were gliding over a
moonlit lawn, and never stopped until she found herself
within the gloomy precincts of the Demon's Tower. Then

ACCEPTED.

199

she glanced round with a look that the arch fiend himself
might have envied.

" Here, six years ago, I saved her life," she said. " Oh,
beautiful heiress of Castle Cliffe! if that hour would only
come back, and I were looking down on your dying strug-
gles, as I could have done that night ! "

She leaned against the dark archway, and looked over
the rocks. The scene was placid and serene ; the waves
murmured low on the sands ; the boats glided over the silver
shining waters, and a gay party of fishermen's girls, their
boat floating idly on the long, lazy swell, were singing the
" Evening hymn to the Virgin," and the words came clear
and sweet to where she stoodo

" Ave sanctissima I

We lift our souls to thee,
Ora pro not'.,

'Tis nightfall on the sea.
Watch us while shadows lie

Far o'er the waters spread,
Hear the heart's lonely sigh,

Thine, too, hath bled.
. Thou that hast looked on death

Aid us, when death is near,
Whisper of Heaven to faith,

Sweet mother, sweet mother, hear.
Ora pro nobis.

The waves must rock our sleep ;
Ora mater, ora,

Bright star of the deep."

It was no whisper of Heaven that changed Barbara's face
so strongly as she listened. Her bent brow grew rigid and
stern, her eye darkened with deadly resolve, her lips com-
pressed with resolute determination, her hands clenched
until the nails sunk into the rosy flesh, and her very figure
seemed to dilate and grow tall with the deadliest resolve
new-born within her.

" Barbara I " A gentle voice behind pronounced her
name, but she never moved or turned round. " Barbara,
my dear girl, what are you doing here alone in this place,
and at this hour ? "

" Thinking, Mr. Sweet/* '

Mr. Sweet, shining with subdued yellow luster in the

200 THE hkire;ss of casti^k cuffe.

■ I.

(

white moonlight, got over the rocks with a face full of con-
cern, and stood beside her.

" .ind your hands. Barbara — what ails them? they are
all bleeding."

She had cut them while coming over the rocks, without
ever knowing it ; and now she looked down at the flowing
blood with an icy smile.

*' It's nothing. I have been bleeding inwardly for the
last two or three hours, so I am not likely to mind such a
trifle as torn hands."

" Poor little hands ! " said Mr. Sweet, tenderly, as he
took out his handkerchief and began \viping away the blood.
*' My dear, dear Barbara, what is the meaning of all this ? "

" Your dear Barbara ! How many have you called dear,
besides me, to day, Mr. Sweet ? "

*' No one ; you alone are dear to me, Barbara."

" Oh, to be sure ! Men always say that, and always mean
it, and always are true. I believe you of course."

" How bitter you are ! "

" Not at all ! Broken vows and broken hearts are such
everyday matters, that it is hardly worth while growing
bitter over them."

" So ! " said the lawyer, looking at her steadily. " So
you've heard all ? "

"Everything, Mr Sweet."

*• Who told you ? "

" A little bird ; or, perhaps, I dreamed it ! Is it such a
mystery then that Miss Shirley and Mr. Cliffe are to be-
come man and wife ? "

** It is a fact but it is also a secret. Lady Agnes told me
as soon as she arrived ; but she also told me that no one
knew it here but myself. Where can you have heard it,
Barbara ? "

" Would you like to know ? " ..J

"Yes."

" It is quite romantic ! I dressed myself, as you see, to
meet my love ; for I beg to inform you that the heir of
Cliflfewood and the fisherman's daughter were engaged.
He came, but not alone, to the trysting-place — Miss Shirley
was with him, and they had quite an animated talk over
their approaching nuptials. Some initials were <jut upon a

; t.

ACCEPTED.

20 1

tree, his and mine, and it was his hand carved them, but I
heard him deny it, with as much composure as any vulgar
liar who never had an ancestor in the world."

" Barbara, how strangely you talk, and how wild you
look I Your hand is like ice ; you are ill I " he said, really
alarmed.

" Don't distress yourself, Mr. Sweet ! I am perfectly
well ! " ^ :

" May I talk to you, then ? Will you listen to what I have
to say ? "

" With all the pleasure in life."

" Will you answer my questions ? "

" Begin ! "

" You love Leicester Cliffe ? "

"Yes." .

*' He said he loved you ? " -'^-

"He did."

'* He promised to marry you? "

*'Yes." ,.v,,

" Do you love him still ? " "*?^

'* Just at present, very much."

" You know he is to be married to Miss Shirley in two
weeks ? "

** I think I had the pleasure of hearing himself mention
the fact."

" You know that you have been slighted, scorned, jilted,
cast off for her ? "

" I don't need you to remind me of that, my good
friend,"

" You are a woman. Slighted women, they say, never
forgive ! Barbara, would you be revenged ? "

" Such is my intention, Mr. Sweet." ^

There was such deadly intensity of purpose, in her very
quietude, as she said it, that it chilled even Mr. Sweet for
an instant — albeit, lawyers' blood does not easily run cold.

" How ? " he asked, looking at her earnestly.

" That is my affair, sir 1 "

" Shall I tell you of a speedy reVenge, that he will feel,
as you can make him feel no other I "

"You may."
r " A revenge ! " said Mr. Sweet, his very voice trembling

202 THE HEIRESS OF CASTILE CI.IFFE.

with eagerness — " a revenge that will pierce his heart, Hke
an arrow from its shaft — a revenge that will make him feel
that he is the jilted one, and not you ? "

"Name it?"

" Marry me I "

" Bah 1 " said she, looking down on him with her scorn-
ful eyes. •* As if he could not see through so pitiful a sham
as that. How reasonable it would look, that I would for-
sake the heir 'of Cliflfewood, the handsomest man in Sussex,
for a poor, paltry attorney, old enough to be my father, and
who was, certainly, behind the door when beauty was given
out!"

The sallow face of the lawyer turned actually scarlet for
cne moment ; but the next, he laughed, his gay and musi-
cal laugh.

" Well, I don't set up for a beauty, Barbara, and you
know Madame De Stael says men have the privilege of look-
ing ugly 1 You have not answered my question. Will you
marry me ? "

" No 1 " she said, coldly. " What good would it do ? "

" Only this. The young gentleman leaves to-morrow for
London, and will not return until next Tuesday. As he re-
turns, let his first greeting be the news that Barbara Black
is married ! Think how he will feel that ? "

" He will not care."

" He will. Men never like the women who have once
loved them to marry another, whether or not they have
ceased to love her themselves. He never loved you, that is
plain ; but it will cut him to the quick, nevertheless, to find
you care so little for him as to be the bride of another I "

" If I thought he would care I " said Barbara, breathing
quick.

" He would care. And if he ever had the smallest spark of
love for you, it will spring into a flame the moment he finds
he has lost you forever I Think what a triumph it would be
for him to bear off his beautiful bride in triumph, while he
fancied you were pining here like a love-lorn damsel, fit to
cry your eyes out for his sweet sake I "

Her eye was kindling, her cheek flashing, her breath com-
ing quick and fast, but she did not speak.

" You shall be a lady, too, Barbara ! " said the phlegmatic

ACCKPTKD.

203

Mr. Sweet, kindling, for once, into something like excite-
ment. " You shall hold up your head with the highest in
the land — yes, higher than she has ever held hers, with its
yellow curls ! You shall be a lady, Barbara ; yes, I swear
it!"

Barbara laughed, something like her old laugh,

" You are simply talking nonsense, Mr. Sweet ; neither
you nor anybody else can change me from what God made
me — a fisherman's daughter I "

" You were never made a fisherman's daughter 1 " he said,
energetically, and then he stopped and knit his brows, and
changed his tone. " But, Barbara, if you want revenge,
marry me ! I am a rich man, and Mrs. Leicester Cliff e
will not long look down on Mrs. Leicester Sweet, depend
on that"

" You are very kind, but I am not quite so bad as to take
you at your word ; for, rest assured, if you married me you
would repent it, in mental sackcloth and ashes, all the rest
of your life ! "

" I will risk it ! " he said, with an incredulous smile,
" Only consent."

" If I do, you will repent ! " '^ ' -

"No,"

" I have no love for you. I cannot answer for myself.
It shall never be said that I entrapped you or any one else
into a marriage, for my own ends. Nothing but evil can
come from a connection with me. I am not good ; and so
I tell you!"

" You are good enough for me, for I love you."

" You will have it, I see. Remember, if I consent, tiiid
you repent of it afterward, you have been warned."

" I take all the risk, so that I can take you with it ! "

" Very well then, Mr. Sweet ! " she said, quietly. " I
will marry you whe^never you like! " .4 •

.*s

v-r

204 THE HEIRESS OF CASTI.E CUFFE.

CHAPTER XXL

Barbara's bridal eve.

." Where is Barbara ? " ~

Mr. Sweet was th/» speaker, and Mr. Sweet was leaning
in Barbara's favorue position on the mantel, beating an
impatient tattoo on its smoky ledge, and looking down on
old Judith, who sat very blear-eyed and .very grimy with
smoke, on her creepy on the hearth. Breakfast was just
over in the cottage, for a quantity of very sloppy earthen-
ware strewed the wooden table.

*< Where is Barbara ? " repeated Mr. Sweet, as Judith's
only reply was to blink and look at him with a cute smile.

" In her own room ! Ah ! you've done it at last, sir ! "

" Done what ? "

" What you always said you would do — make her marry
you,"

" She hasn't married me yet, that I know of."

"No, sir; no, of course not; but she's coming to it — ^
coming to it fast."

" How do you know ? "

" Mr. Sweet, I ain't blind, though my old eyes are red
and watery with smoke, and I saw you coming up from the
beach last night, and ah ! you was sweet upon her, you was,
Mr. Sweet ! " .

"Well?"

To this query old Judith only grinned in answer ; and
Mr. Sweet relaxed into a smile himself.

" You are quite right," said he, pulling out his watch and
glancing at it. " She has promised to marry me."

" I always knew it I " cried Judith, rubbing her hands in
glee — " I always said it ! Nobody could ever hold out long
against you. Mr. Sweet, you have the winningest ways

'at'

■"0' ■'■
I I

v; '

BARBARA'S BRIDAI, EVE-

205

tff'^

\ »

with you ! Ah ! she has come to luck, has my handsome
granddaughter ! " v

" It is a pity your handsome granddaughter is not of the
same opinion as her amiable grandmother. When can I
see her ? "

" Directly, sir. I will go and tell her ; but first — it's no
use asking her, for she never tells me anything — when is it
going to be ? "

" When is what going to be ? " /^

'' The wedding."

" That is precisely what I want to know. That is why I
have made such an early call on your handsome grand-
daughter this morning."

" Didn't you settle it last night ? "

" No. She told me she would marry me whenever I
liked, and then she turned and was gone like a flash before
we could come to any further terms."

" That is just like her I " said old Judith, no way aston-
ished at this characteristic trait, as ,she walked across the
room and rapped at her granddaughter's door. There was
no answer ; and she knocked again, and still there was no
reply. Judith turned the handle of the door, which opened
readily ; and she entered, while .Mr. Sweet, a little startled,
stood on the threshold and looked in.

Barbara's room was small, and not at all the immaculate
apartment the heroine's 6f a story should be ; for dresses,
and mantles, and bonnets, and all sorts of wearing apparel
were hung . ''ound the walls ; and there were two or three
pairs of gaiter-boots strewn over the floor, with books, and
papers, and magazines ; and the table in the corner was
one great lifter of sketches and engravings, and novels, and
painting materials, and a guitar (Mr. Sweet's gift) on the
top of all. There was a little easel in one corner, for Bar-
bara was quite an artist ; and this, with the small bed and
one chair, quite filled the little chamber, so that there was
scarcely room to move. But the bed was neatly made —
evidently it had not been slept in the preceding night, and
sitting on the solitary chair at the window, in the gauzy-
white dress of the preceding evening, her arms resting on
the ledge, her head on them, was Barbara, asleep. The
exclamation of Judith at the sight awoke her ; and she

2o6 THE HEIRESS OF CASTI.E CUFFE. l^'

lifted her face, and looked at them vaguely at first, as if
wondering how she and they came to be where they were.
It all came back to her in a moment, however ; and she
rose to her feet, gathered up the fallen braids of her hair,
and looked at Mr, Sweet with a haughty eye.

"Well sir," she demanded, angrily, "and what are you
doing here ? "

" It wasn't his fault, " cut in Judith. 'M rapped twice,
and you never answered, and I thought something had hap-
pened, and I asked him to come in."

This last little fiction being invented to avert the storm of
wrath that was kindling in Barbara's fiery eye.

"Well, sir/' reiterated Miss Barbara, still transfixing her
disconcerted suitor with her steady glance, "and being here,
what do you want ? "

This was certainly not very encouraging, and by no means
smoothed the way for so ardent a lover to ask his lady-love
to name the day. So Mr. Sweet began in a very humble
and subdued tone indeed :

"I am very sorry, Miss Barbara, for this intrusion ; but
surely you have not been sitting by that window, exposed
to the draft all night ? "

* ' Have you come all the way from Cliftonlea, and taken
the trouble to wake me up to say that, Mr. Sweet ? "

Mr. Sweet thought of the plastic Barbara he had had last
night, and wondered where she had gone to. Mr. Sweet
did not know, perhaps, that

'* Colors seen by candlelight
Do not look the same by day." -

and women, being like weathercocks or chameleons, are
liable to change sixty times an hour. - ,:

" Barbara," he cried in desperation, " have you forgotten
your promise of last night ? " . - _

^ "No!"

"It is on that subject that I came to speak. Can I not
see you for a moment alone ? "

" There is not the slightest need, sir. If you have any-
thing to say, out with it ! "

For once in his life, the oily and debonair Mr. Sweet was
tot illy disconcerted. "Not at home to suitors " was written

\
i

\:r

•i>-7A.

BARBARA'S BRIDAly EVK.

207

in capital letters on Barbara's bent brow and stern eye ; yet
there was nothing for it but to go on. -

" You said last night, Barbara, that you would marry me
whenever f*liked I That would be within this hour, if I
could ; and as, perhaps, you would not fancy so rapid a busi-
ness, will you please to name some more definite date ? "

He quailed inwardly as he spoke, lest she should retract
the promise of last night altogether. He knew he held her
only by a hair, and that it was liable to snap at any mo-
ment. Her face looked foreboding, sunless, smileless, and
dark ; and the eye immovably fixed upon him, had little of
yielding or tenderness in it.

" The time is so short, Barbara," he pleaded with a sink-
ing heart, " that it must be soon." x.-

" What do you mean by that ? "

" Within this present week, Barbara, or if that is top
soon, next Monday. That will give you time for your prep-
arations."

" I have no preparations to make I "

" For mine then. Do you consent that it shall be next
Monday?" - s.

'* Mr. Sweet, I said last night it should be whenever you
pleased. I say the same thing to-day I There, you need
not thank me ; do me the favor to go away 1 "

" Only one moment, Barbara. You must have dresses,
you know. I shall give orders to that Frenchwoman up in
Cliftonlea. and she will come down here to see you, and
provide you with everything you want."

Barbara stood looking at him stonily, with the door in her
hand. Old Judith was glancing from one to the other with
her keen eyes.

" On Monday morning, at ten, you will be ready, and I
will drive down here and take you to the church, and an-
other thing, you must have a bridemaid."

" I have one thing to say to you, sir," said Barbara,
opening her compressed lips, " that if you torment me too
much with these wretched details, there shall neither be
bridesmaid nor bride on that day. Whatever is to be done,
you must do yourself. I shall have neither act nor part in
this business. Let me alone and 1 will marry you on Mon-
day, since you wish it. Begin to harass me with this stupid

2o8 THE HEIRESS OF CASTI.E CI.IFFE.

rubbish, about dresses and bridemaids, and I will have
nothing whatever to say to you."

With which harsh and decided valedictory, the impatient
bride-elect closed the door in their faces, and turned the
key inside to the unspeakable discomposure of the lawyer,
and the intense delight of the amiable old lady, who grinned
maliciously, until a very yellow blush in her sunken jaws
was visible.

** Oh, it is a charming courtship, a charming courtship 1 "
she chuckled, rubbing her hands and leering up sideways
at her visitor. '* And she is a sweet bride, she is. I wish
you joy of her, Mr. Sweet I "

" My good old soul ! " said that gentleman, bringing the
yellow luster of his eyes and smile to bear on his friend,
" don't be malicious. Don't, or you and I will fall out I
Think what a pity that would be, after having been tried
and trusty friends so long ! "

Perhaps it was at the bare idea of losing the invaluable
friendship of so good a man, or, perhaps, it was at some
hidden menace in his tone and look, that made Judith cower
down, and shrink away fearfully under his calm gaze.

" I expect you to do everything in your power for me," he
went on, " in the present case. You see she is wilful, and
will do nothing herself ; her promise is as frail and brittle as
glass ; if I leaned on it ever so lightly it would shiver into
atoms beneath me, therefore I cannot venture to speak to
her. You must act for her ; and, my dear old friend,
if you don't act to the utmost of your power, you will find
yourself within the stone walls of Cliftonlea jail before the
wedding-day dawns I "

" Oh what can I do ? " whimpered old Judith, putting her
dirty apron to her eyes. " I dassent speak to her. I'm
afraid of her. Her eyes are like coals of fire ! I am sure
I want her married as much as you do. I never have any
peace with her at all 1 "

" Very well, I think we shall not fall out. I am going
now, and I will send my housekeeper down here for one of
her gowns, and the Frenchwoman must make them by that,
for Barbara won't be measured, it appears. Does my dear
friend, Peter Black, know anything about this yet ? "

"No, he don't."

* 1 '■

BARBARA'S BRIDAI, EVE.

209

/ ' ■

" Then I shall take the earliest opportunity of letting him
know. I should like to have my intended father-in-law's
blessing, and all that sort of thing. Where is he ? "

" Oh, where he always is, drinking goes of gin and water
at the Cliffe Arms 1 "

^* Dear, imprudent boy I I suppose he requires a gentle
stimulant to keep up his spirits. Good morning, Mistress
Judith, and try if the future Mrs. Sweet will not partake of
some breakfast ?

With this parting piece of advice, the pleasant lawyer
walked away, drawing on his gloves and humming gayly, the
" Time I have Lost in Wooing."

Judith did not take his advice, however, regarding the
breakfast. She would almost as soon have put her head inside
of a lion's den as into the little room where her handsome
granddaughter sat. It needed no second sight to see that
the old woman stood in the greatest awe of the grave,
majestic girl, who looked at people so strangely and wildly
out of her dark spectral eyes — an awe which, truth to tell,
her sulky and savage son shared. The dogged and sullen
ferocity of the man cowered under the fiercer and higher
spirit of his daughter, and Miss Black, for the last two or
three years, had pretty much reigned Lady Paramount in
the cottage. The gray mare in that stable was by long odds
the better horse 1 So Judith lit her pipe, and sat on her
stool by the smoldering lire, and she and it puffed out little
clouds of smoke together, and the big brass hands of the old
Dutch clock went swinging round to twelve, and nobody en-
tered the cottage, and no sounds came from the little cham-
ber, and the future Mrs. Sweet got no breakfast, when, at
last, a shadow darkened the sunny doorway, and a meek
little woman presented herself, and claimed the honor of be-
ing Mr. Sweet's housekeeper. Luckily there was a dress of
Barbara's hanging in the kitchen, or Judith would have been
between the horns of a very sad dilemma, in fear of the
lawyer on one hand and the young lady on the other ; and
the meek little matron rolled it up, and hastened off to the
French modiste up in the town. ' - '

That was Wednesday : and as there was only three work-
ing days between him and his bridal morning, Mr. Sweet
seemed in a fair way to have his hands full. There was a

2IO THE HEIRESS OF CASTLE CUFFE.

long talk to be had in the first place with that dear boy,
Peter Black, who swore a great many oaths under his un-
kempt beard, and couldn't be brought to reason until Mr.
Sweet had smiled a great deal, and referred several times to
Mr. Jack Wildman, and finally ordered another go of gin
and water for his future parent-in-law, and clapped him on
the back, and slipped two guineas into his horny palm.
Then Mr. Black growled out his paternal assent, and scowled
like a tipsy tiger on his new son, who only laughed good-
naturedly, and patting him on the back again, walked away.

Then he had to visit Madame Modiste, the fashionable
dressmaker, who came in smiling and dipping, and with
whom he held another consultation, and filled out a blank
check, and obtained a promise that everything should be
ready on Saturday night.

There were a thousand and one other little things to do,
for getting married is a very fussy piece of business ; but the
Cliftonlea lawyer was equal to matrimony or any other emer-
gency, and everything bade fair to come off swimmingly.

Lady Agnes Shirley had to be informed the next day, for
he wanted leave of absence for two or three days, to make
a short bridal-tour to London and back ; and Lady Agnes,
with as much languid amaze as any lady in her position
could be expected to get up, gave him carte blanche to stay
a month, if he pleased. Then there was the license and
ring to procure, and the wedding-breakfast to order, and
some presents of jewelry to make to his bride, and new
furniture to get for his house, and the short week went ; and
only he was so impatient to make sure of his bride, Mr.
Sweet could have wished every day forty-eight hours long,
and then found them too short for all he had to do.

But if the bridegroom was busy from day-dawn to mid-
night, the bride made up for it by doing nothing whatever
on the face of the earth, unless sitting listlessly by the win-
dow, with her hands folded, could be called doing something.
All the restlessness, all the fire, all the energy of her nature
seemed to have gone like a dream ; and she sat all day long
looking out with dyll, dread eyes over the misty marshes
and the ceaseless sea. She scarcely ate ; she scarcely slept
at all ; she turned her listless eyes without pleasure or in-
terest on the pretty dresses and jewels, the flowers and fruity

BARBARA'S BRIDAI. EVE.

81.

her friends daily brought, and then turned away again, as if
they had merely struck on the nerve of vision without con-
veying the slightest idea to her mind. Thursday, Friday,
and Saturday, she passed in a dull dream — the lull that pre-
cedes the tempest. But when Sunday came, her bridal eve,
she awoke from her lethargy at last.

Sunday had always been the pleasantest day in Barbara's
week. She liked to hear the musical bells chiming over the
sunny downs ; she liked to go up into the grand old cathe-
dral with its old-fashioned stained-glass windows and sleepy
hollows of pews. She liked to wander through the quiet
streets of the town, hu.shed in Sabbath stillness ; and in the
purple sunset she liked to lie on the rocks, lazy as a Syb-
arite, and listen drowsily to the murmuring trees and waves.
But it was a dull Sunday this — a dreary day, with the
watery sky of lead — a dismal day, with a raw sea wind and
fog — a miserable day, with the drizzling rain blotting out the
mirshes in a blank of v/et and cold — a suicidal day, with a
ceaseless drip, drip, dr.p. The windows were blurred and
clammy ; the waves roaring and swashing witli an eerie roar
over the rocks, and everything slimy and damp, cheerless
and uncomfortable. And on this wretched day, the bride-
elect woke from her heavy trance, and became possessed of
a walking demon. She wandered aimlessly in and out of
her own room, down to the soaking and splashing shore,
over the wet and shiny rocks, along the dark and dreary
marshes, and back again into the house, with her clothes wet
and clinging around her, and still unable to sit down any-
where.

After the one o'clock dinner, she retreated again to her
chamber, heedless of Judith's warnings to change her clothes,
and did not make her appearance until the dark day was
changed into a darker and dismaler evening. The cottage
kitchen looked, if possible, more cheerless and disordered than
ever. The green wood on the hearth sputtered, and hissed,
and puffed out vicious clouds of smoke ; and Judith and her
son were at the wooden table partaking of a repast of beef
and brown bread, when her door opened, and Barbara came
out shawled and bonneted for a walk. She paused to give
one look of unutterable disgust at the whole scene, and then,
without heeding the words of either, walked out into the dis-

■

212 THE HEIRESS OF CASTI.E CWFFE.

mal evening. Little pools of water filled the road, and the
chill wind blew the rain in her face ; but> perfectly indifferent
to all outward things, she went on, entering the park gate,
and took her way through the avenues, and heavy and drip-
ping trees, up to the old manor.

Night was falling when she reached it — a miserable night
— enough to give any wayfarer the horrors ; but long lines
of light streamed from the rows of windows, and showed her
the way to the side-door, where she stopped and rung the
servants' bell.

A footman opened it, and a flood of light from the hall-
lamp fell on the tall, wet figure standing pale in the doorway.

" Oh, it's you. Miss Black, is it ? " said the man, who
knew Barbara very well ; " come in. Wet night — isn't it ? "

" La ! Barbara, my dear I " cried Mrs. Wilder the house-
keeper, who was passing through the hall with a trayful of
bedroom candlesticks. " I haven't seen you for a month, I
think. What in the world has brought you out such a nasty
night ? "

" I have come to see Colonel Shirley," said Barbara, en-
tering. " Is he at home ? " ^

She had scarcely spoken before that day, and her voice
seemed strange and unnatural even to herself. Mrs. Wilder
started as she heard it, and gave a little scream as she took
another look at Barbara's face.

" What on hearth ! " said Mrs. Wilder, who, when flus-
tered, had a free-and-easy way of taking up and dropping
her " h's " at pleasure. " What on hearth hails you, my
dear ? You look like a ghost — don't she, Johnson ? "

" Uncommon like, I should say ! " remarked "Mr. Johnson.
♦* Been sick, Miss Black ? "

" No I " said Barbara, impatiently. " I want to see
Colonel Shirley. Will you have the goodness, Mrs. Wilder,
to tell him Barbara Black is here, and wishes particularly to
see him ? "

" Oh, yes, I'll tell him ! Come along up-stairs. I was
just going into the drawing-room with these candlesticks, any
wajr, " 'Ere, just step into the dining-room, and I'll let Win
know."

Barbara stepped into the blaze of light filling the spacious
dining-room from a huge chandelier, where gods and god"

BARBARA'S BRIDAI. EVE.

213

t
■i

desses played hide-and-seek in a forest of frosted silver ;
where a long table flashed with cut-glass, and porcelain, and
silver-plate, and bouquets of hot-house exotics, in splendid
vases of purple spar and snowy alabaster ; where a carved
oaken sideboard was loaded with wine and dessert, and where
the walls were brilliant with pictures of the chase and ban-
queting scenes. It was all so glaringly bright and dazzling,
that Barbara was half blinded for a moment ; but she only
looked quietly around, and thought of the smoky kitchen,
and the bare deal table, with the brown bread and beef at
home. She could hear voices in the blue drawing-room
(which was only separated from the one she was in by a
curtained arch), and the echo of gay laughter, and then the
curtain was lifted, and Colonel Shirley appeared, his whole
face lit with an eager smile of welcome, and both his friendly
hands extended.

" My good little Barbara ! my dear little Barbara 1 and so
you have come to see us at last ! "

She let him take both her hands in his ; but as he clasped
them", the glad smile faded from his animated face, and gave
place to one of astonishment and concern. For the beauti-
ful face was so haggard and worn, so wasted and pale ; the
smooth white brow furrowed by such deep lines of suffering ;
- the eyes so unnaturally, so feverishly bright ; the hands so
wan and icily cold, that he might well look in surprised con-
sternation.

" My dear little Barbara ! " he said, in wonder and in sor-
row ; " what is the meaning of all this ? Have you been
ill ? "

voice is changed ! Barbara, what is the

I think 1 Sit down here and tell me what

" No, sir ! "

" Your very
matter ? "

" Nothing ! "

" Something,
it is."

He drew up an easy-chair and placed her in it, taking
one opposite, and looking anxiously into the wasted and
worn face.

" Barbara, Barbara ! something is wrong —very much is
wrong ! Will you not tell an old friend what has changed
you like this ? "

214 THE HEIRESS OF CASTI.E CIvIFFE.

" No," she said, looking with her lustrous eyes straight
into his.

He sat silent, watching her with grave, pitying tenderness,
then :

" Why have you not been to see us before, Barbara ? "

" I did not wish to," said Barbara, whose innate upright-
ness and indomitable pride made her always speak the
straightforward truth.

" Do you know that Vivia sent for you almost every
day ? "

"Yesl"

" Why did you not come ? "

" I did not wish to."

" Do you know that my daughter and I went to your
cottage the day after our return to see you ? "

"Yes I"

" We did not see you ; your grandmother said you were
ill. What was the matter ? "

" I was not ill, but I could not see you."

More perplexed than ever, the colonel looked at her,
wondered what mystery was behind all this to have changed
her so.

" I have heard, Barbara," he said, after a pause, " that you
are going to be married. Is it true ? "

" It is."

"And to Mr. Sweet?"

" To Mr. Sweet I " she said, calmly ; but with the feverish
fire still streaming from her eyes.

His only answer was to take her hand again in both his
own, and look at her in a way he sometimes looked at his
own daughter of late — half sadly, half gayly, half tenderly.
Barbara was looking at him, too. There was something so
grand in the man's face, something so noble in his broad,
serene brow ; something so genial in his blue eye, shining
with the blended fire of man and tenderness of woman ;
something so sweet and strong in the handsome, smiling
mouth, something so protecting in the clasp of the firm
hand ; something so infinitely good and great in the up-
right bearing of figure, and kind voice, that Barbara's heart
broke out into a great cry, and clinging, to the strong arm

Jim

\"- ■..:

BARBARA'S BRIDAI. EVE.

215

as if it were her last hope, she dropped down on her knees
at his feet, and covered his hand with passionate kisses.

"Oh, my friend ! my friend I " she cried, " you who are
so noble, and so good, who have been kind and tender to
me always, and whom I love and revere more than all the
world besides, I could not do it until I had heard you say
one kind word to me again I I could not sell my soul to
perdition, until I had knelt at your feet, and told you how
much I thank you, how much I love you, and now, if I
dared, I would pray for you all the rest of my life 1 Oh, I
am the wickedest and basest wretch on God's earth ! but if
there is anything in this world that could have redeemed
me, and made me what I once was, what I never will be
again, it is the memory of you and your goodness — you,
for whose sake I could die."

She sunk lower down, her face and his hand all blotted
with the rain of tears ; and quite beside himself with con-
sternation, the Indian officer strove to raise her up.

" Barbara, my dear child, for Heaven's sake, rise I Tell
me, I beg of you, what you mean 1 "

" No, no, I cannot I I dare not 1 but if in the time to
come, the miserable time to come, you hear me spoken of
as something not fit to name, you will think there is one
spot in my wretched heart free from guilt, where your
memory will be ever cherished 1 Try and think of me at
my best, no matter what people may say ! "

Before he could speak, the door opened, and Barbara
leaped to her feet with a rebound. A fairy figure, in a
splendid dinner toilet, with jewels flashing on the neck and
arms, and a circlet of gems clasping back the flowing curls,
came in with a delighted little cry of girlish delight.

" Oh, Barbara I Barbara I how glad I am to see you 1 "

But Barbara recoiled and held out both arms with a ges-
ture of such unnatural terror and repulsion, that the shining
figure stopped and looked at her in speechless amaze ; and
then before either she or her father could speak, or inter-
cept her, she was across the room, out of the door, through
the hall, down the stairs, and out into the wet, black night
again. Mr. Peter Black had long retired to seek the balmy
before his daughter got home ; Judith was sitting up for her,
very cross and sleepy in her corner ; and Mr. Sweet was

2i6 THK he;irk3S of casti,^ cuffk.

there, too, walking up and down the room, feverishly im-
patient and anxious. Barbara came in soaking wet, and
without looking or speaking to either of them, walked
straight to her room. The bridegroom sought his own
home, with an anxious heart ; and the happy bride sat by
her window the whole livelong night I

FOR BREAD RECEIVING A STONE. 217

CHAPTER XXII.

ASKING FOR BREAD AND RECEIVTTir; a STONE.

It is not a very pleasant notion for any lady or gentle-
man to take it into their heads that they have made fools
of themselves, yet Mr. Leicester Cliffe, albeit not given to
hold too humble an opinion of himself, had just arrived at
that comfortable conclusion, as the cars whirled him back
from London to Sussex. Absence, like death, shows per-
sons and things in their proper light, and strips the gilding
from granite ; and as distance removed the glamour from
his eyes, the heir of Cliffewood had taken to serious reflec-
tion and come to a few very decided decisions — imprimis ^
that he had fallen in love with Barbara the first time that
he had ever seen her ; that he had loved her ever since,
that he loved her now, and that he was likely to keep on
doing so as long as it was in him to love anybody. Sec-
ond, that he admired and respected his pretty cousin exces-
sively ; that he knew she was a thousand times too pure for
such a sinner as he, and that he had never for one instant
felt a stronger sentiment for her than admiration. ' Thirdly,
he was neither more nor less than an unmitigated coward
and villain for whom hanging woula be too good. But just
as he arrived at this consoling conclusion, and was uttering
a mental " Mea culpa ! " he suddenly bethought himself of
the wise old saw — " It is never too late to mend ! " and
Hope once more planted her shining foot on the threshold
of his heart. What if now that his eyes were opened, even
now at the eleventh hour, he were to draw back, kneel be-
fore the lady of his love, and be forgiven. He knew she
would forgive ; she loved him, and women are so much like
spaniels by nature, that the worse they are used the more
they will fawn on the abuser. Perhaps she even had not
heard it yet, and he could easily find excuses that would

2i8 THE HEIRESS OF CASTI.E CI.IFFE.

satisfy her for his absence and silence. It was true that
would leave him in a nice predicament with Miss Shirley —
so nice a one that it was like jumping out of the frying-pan
into the fire ; but then Miss Shirley did not care a straw
about him one way or the other ; she married him as a
matter of obedience, just as she would have married Mr,
Sweet, the lawyer, if papa and grandmamma had insisted
upon it. She would not suffer by his leaving her — ^there
were scores of better men ready and willing to take his
place, and her name would not be injured by it, for no one
knew of their engagement. Not that Mr. Leicester'
dreamed for one instant of being Quixote enough to avow
his sentimental intention. He shrunk in horror at the bare
idea of the unheard-of scene that would ensue, and which
would probably end by his being shot like a dog by that
fire-eating Colonel Cliffe ; but he would induce Barbara to
elope with him ; he would marry her probably in London,
and then with his bride would set sail for America or Aus-
tralia, or some other howling wilderness, and live happy
forever after. And having settled the whole matter to his
infinite satisfaction, he leaned back in his seat, opened the
Times, and was borne swiftly on, not to Victoria's but to
Barbara's feet.

And while the grimy engine was tearing over the level track,
vomiting clouds of black smoke, and groaning with the com-
motion in its iron bowels, the said Barbara, all unconscious of
her good fortune, was very differently employed, in nothing
less than in dressing for her bridal. A splendid morning of
sunshine and summer breezes had followed the gloomy night,
and Mr. Sweet had risen with the lark ; nay, fully two hours
before that early bird had woke from his morning nap, and
had busily proceeded to make all the final arrangements for
his marriage. Before sitting down to his eight o'clock
breakfast, of which he found he could not swallow a morsel,
for matrimony takes away the appetite as effectually as sea-
sickness, he had dispatched the meek little housekeeper
down to Tower Cliffe with sundry bundles and bandboxes,
wherein the bride was to be arrayed, and it was with a
troubled spirit Mr. Sweet had seen her depart. .For half
an hour he paced up and down in a perfect agony of fever-
ish impatience, and still the burden of his thoughts was,

''-> i

FOR BREAD RECEIVING A STONE. 219

>., if

what if after all, at the last moment, the wilful, wayward
Barbara should draw back. No one could ever count on
that impulsive and headstrong young lady more than two
minutes at a time, and just as likely as not, when he arrived
at the cottage, he would find her locked in her room and
refusing ail entreaties to come out ; or she might come
out with a vengeance, and with two or three sharp sentences
knock all his beautiful plans remorselessly on the head.
So the lawyer paced up and down with a more anxious
heart than any other happy bridegroom ever had on his
bridal morning, and certainly none ever had a more exas-
perating bride. And in the middle of a dismal train of re-
flections about finding himself dished, the clock struck nine,
a cab drove up to the door, and he jumped in and was
driven through the town and down to Tower ClifFe. Ra-
diant as Mr. Sweet always was, he had never been seen so
intensely radiant as on this particular morning, in a bran
new suit of lawyer-like black, a brilliant canary-colored waist-
coat, ditto stock, and ditto gloves, and nattily stuck in his
button-hole appeared a bouquet of the yellowest possible
primroses. But his sallow face was pale with excitement,
and his eyes gleamed with feverish eagerness as he entered
the cottage, from which he could not tell whether or no he
was to bear away a bride.

But he might have spared his fears, for it was all right.
The cottage looked neat for once, for the little housekeeper
had put it to rights ; and Mr. Black and Judith were ar-
rayed in their best, and neither was smoking, and in the
middle of the floor was Barbara — ^the bride. Barbara was
not looking her best, as brides should always make it a
point of conscience to do ; for her face and lips were a
great deal too colorless, her eyes, surrounded by dark cir-
cles, telling of sleepless nights and wof ul days, looked too
large and hollow, and solemn ; but stately and majestic
she must always look and she looked it now — looked as a
dethroned and imprisoned queen might do at her jailers.
She was to be married in her traveling-dress, as they
started immediately after the ceremony for London ; and
Mrv Sweet countermanded the order for the wedding break-
fast, on finding there would be nobody but himself to eat,
it, and the dress was of silvery-gray barege, relieved with

220 THE HEIRESS OF CASTI.E CUFFE.

knots and bows of mauve ribbon, a pretty mantle of silk and
lace, and a straw bonnet, trimmed also with mauve and
silver-gray. The toilet was simple but elegant, and if Bar-
bara did not look one half so brilliant and beautiful in it,
as she had done a fortnight before in her plain, crimson
merino, it was her fault, and not Madame Modiste's. The
housekeeper was just fastening the last little kid glove, and
Barbara lifted her eyes from the floor on which they had '
been bent, and looked at him out of their solemn dark
depths as he entered.

" Are you quite ready ? " he nervously asked.

"* Quite ready, sir," answered the housekeeper, who was
to accompany them to church.

" The carriage is at the door. Come, Barbara."

She would not see his proffered arm, yet she followed
him quietly and without a word, and let him hand her into
the carriage. The little housekeeper came next, and then
Mr. Black, who had enjoyed the unusual blessings of shav-
ing and hair-cutting, stumbled up the steps, looking particu-
larly sulky and uncomfortable in his new clothes ; and
then Mr. Sweet jumped in, too, and gave the order to
drive to the cathedral. It was a weird wedding-party, with-
out bridesmaids or blessings, or flowers or frippery; and
on the way not one word was spoken by any of the party.
Barbara sat like a cold, white statue, her hands lying list-
lessly in her lap, her eyes fixed on the floor, her thoughts
— where ? Mr. Sweet's heart was beating in feverish and
impatient throbs, and his breath came quick, and on his
sallow cheeks were two burning spots ; in his serene eyes
shone a strange fire, and his yellow-gloved hands trembled
so that he had to grasp the window to keep them from
seeing it. The little housekeeper looked frightened and
awe-struck ; and Mr. Black, with his hands stuck very deep
in his coat pockets, was scowling desperately on them all
by turns. Fifteen minutes' ^ast driving brought the grim
bridal-party to the cathedral, where a curious crowd was
collected ; some come to attend morning service which
was then going on, and others brought there by the rumors
of the marriage. The lawyer drew his bride's arm firmly
within his own, and led her in while the two others fol-
lowed, while more than one audible comment on the

FOR BREAD RECEIVING A STONE. 221

strange looks of Barbara reached his ears as he passed.
The cathedral was half filled, and the organ poured forth
grand swelling notes as they walked up the aisle. Behind the
rails, in stole and surplice, and book in hand stood one of
the curates ; bride and bridegroom placed themselves be-
fore him, and the bridegroom could hear nothing, not even
the music, for the loud beating of his heart. Everybody
held their breath, and leaned forward to lock, and :

" Who gives this woman to be married to this man ? "
demanded the curate, looking curiously at the strange bride.
And Mr. Black stepped forward and gave her, and then :

" Wilt thou take this woman to be thy wedded wife ? " de-
manded the curate again.

And Mr. Sweet said, " I will I " in a voice that was husky
and shook ; and the bride said, " I will," too, clearly, dis-
tinctly, unfalteringly. And then the ring was on her finger,
and they joined hands, and the curate pronounced them
man and wife. \

The organ that had been silent for a moment, as if it,
too, had stopped to listen, now broke out into an exultant
strain, and the voices of the choristers made the domed
roof ring. The names of the married pair were inserted in
the register, and Mr. Sweet took his wife's arm — his wife's
this time — to lead her down the aisle. The dark eyes were
looking straight before her, with a fixed, fierce, yet calm in-
tensity, and as they neared the door they fell on something
she had hardly bargained for. Leaning against a pillar,
pale and haughty, stood Leicester ClifFe, who had arrived
just in time to witness the charming sight, and whose blue
eyes met those of the bride with a powerful look. The
happy bridegroom saw him at the same instant, and the
two burning spots deepened on his cheek bones, and the
fire in his eyes took a defiant and triumphant sparkle.
There had been a galvanic start on the part of the bride ;
but he held her arm, tightly, and Mr. Sweet, with a smile
on his lip, bowed low to him as he passed, and Barbara's
sweeping skirts brushed him, and then they were gone, shut
up in the carriage, and driving away rapidly to catch the
next London train.

Leicester Cliffe turned slowly from the cathedral, mounted
his horse, and rode to Cliifewood. There he had his dusty

\.v

222 THE HEIRESS OF CASTLE CUFFE.

traveling-dress to change, his breakfast to take, and a great
deal to hear from Sir Roland, who was full of news, and
whose first question was, if he knew that his old flame,
pretty little Barbara, had married that oily fellow. Sweet.
Then, as in duty bound, he had to ride to his lady-love, and
report the successful accomplishment of all his trusts and
charges, and spend with a gay party there the remainder of
the day. It was on that eventful day the engagement was
publicly and formally announced, and all the kissing and
congratulating Vivia had dreaded so much, was gone
through with, to her great discomposure ; and she was glad
when evening came to leave the talking crowd, and wander
under the trees alone with her thoughts. It was a lovely
night, moonlit and starlit, and she was leaning against a
tree, looking wistfully up at the far-off sky, thinking of the
wedding that had taken place that day, and the other so
soon to follow, when the sound of a horse galloping furiously
up the avenue made her look round and behold Tom Shir-
ley dashing along like a madman. He had been spending
the day at Lisleham with Lord Henry ; and Vivia as she
watched him flying along so fiercely, began to think the
wine at dinner had been a little too strong.

" Why, Tom 1 " was her cry ; " have you gone crazy ? "

Tom had not seen her, but at the sound of her voice he
checked his horse so sharply and suddenly that the steed
came down on his haunches and pawed the air animatedly
witl^ his two fore legs.

The next moment his rider had jumped recklessly to the
ground, leaving him to find his way to the stables himself,
and was standing beside Vivia, very red in the face, and
very excited in the eyes, holding both her hands in a fierce
clasp. •

" Vic 1 Vic ! it's hot true 1 it can't be true 1 I don't be-
lieve a word of it 1 " began the young man with the utmost
incoherence. " Tell me, for Heaven's sake, that it's all a
lie."

" The wine was certainly dreadfully strong," thought
Vic, looking at him in terror, and trying to free her hands.
But Tom only held them the tighter, and broke out again,
more hotly, and wildly, and vehemently, than before :

*- You shall not go, Vic ' you shall never leave me again

M«

FOR BREAD RECEIVING A STONE. 223

until you have heard all. Tell me, I say, that it is not
true."

" What is not true ? Oh, I don't know what you're talk-
ing about, cousin Tom I " said Vivia, looking round her in
distress.

In spite of his momentary craziness, Tom saw her pale
face and terrified eyes, and became aware that he was
crushing the little hands as if they were in thumb-screws,
and relaxed his bear-like grip contritely.

" I am a brute ! " said Tom, in a burst of penitence hardly
less vehement than his former tone. " Poor little hands !
I didn't mean to hurt them ; but you know, Vic, what a fel-
low I am, and that infernal story they told me has nearly
driven me crazy. I am a savage, I know, and what must
you think of me, Vic ? "

Vic laughed, but yet with a rather pale cheek.

" That Lord Lisle's port is rather strong, and you have
been imbibing more than is good for you, cousin Tom."

" Oh, she thinks I am drunk 1 " said Tom, with another
burst, this time with indignation ; " but allow me tell you.
Miss Shirley, I haven't dined at all I Port, indeed I Faith
it was more than wine that has got into my head to-night."

There was a cadence so bitter in his tone that Vic opened
her prelty blue eyes very wide, and looked at him in as-
tonishment. Cousin Vic was very fond of cousin Tom ;
and she never felt inclined to run away from him, as she
invariably did from cousin Leicester.

" Something has gone wrong, cousin Tom, and you are
excited. Come, sit down here, and tell me what it is."

There was a rustic bench under the waving chestnuts.
Vic sat down, spread out her rosy skirts, and made room
for him beside her ; but Tom would not be tempted to sit
down at any price, and burst out again :

" It is just this, Vic ! They told me you were going to be
married ? "

"The bright eyes dropped, and the pale cheeks took the
tint of the reddest rose ever was seen.

" I know it is not true 1 It can't be true ! " ■

She did not answer.

" Speak I " exclaimed Tom, almost fiercely ; " speak and
tell me it is not true 1 "

224' THE HEIRESS OF CASTLE CUFFE.

" I cannot I " very faintly.

" Mv God 1 " he said ; " you can never mean to say it is
true I '^

She arose suddenly, and looked at him, a cold terror
chilling her heart.

" What do you mean ? " she asked. "*•

" Vic, is it true ? "

" It is I "

" You are going to be married to Leicester Cliflfe ? "

'* I am 1 "

The rosy light had left her cheeks, for there was some-
thing in his face that no one had ever seen in Tom Shir-
ley's face before.

" Do you love him ? "

"Tom, what are you thinking of, to- ask such a ques-
tion ? "

" Answer it ! " he said, savagely. ^

" I will Ic '^ him I " said Vivia, firmly, and Tom broke
out into a bitter jeering laugh.

" Which means you will marry him now because he is an
excellent parti, and papa and grandmamma, and uncle
Roland, wish it, and trust to the love to come afterward !
Vic Shirley, you are a miserable, heartless coquette, and I
despise you ! "

She was leaning against a tree ; clinging to it for sup-
port ; her whole face perfectly colorless, but the blue eyes
quailed not beneath his own.

" You 1 " — he went on, in passionate scorn, and with flam-
ing eyes — " you, the spotless, immaculate Victoria Shirley.
You who set up fo«r an angel, and made common mortals
feel unworthy to touch the hem of your garment I You the
angel on earth 1 a wretched, cold-blooded, perjured girl 1
Oh, Lucifer I star of the morning, how thou art fallen ! "

" Tom, what have I ever done to you to make you talk
like this ? "

" Oh, nothing 1 only sold yourself body and soul — a mere
trifle not worth speaking of."

She gave him a look full of sorrow and reproach, and
turned with quiet dignity to go away.

" Stay ! " he half shouted, " and tell me for what end you
have been fooling me all these months." , .

FOR BRKAD RHCI^IVING A STONK. 225

" I do not understand.'*

" Poor child I Its little head never was made to untangle
such knotty problems. Will you understand if 1 ask you
why you've led me on, like a blind fool, to love you ? "

" Tom ? "

" You never thought of it before, of course ; but you have
done it, and 1 love you. And now, before you stir a step,
you shall tell me whether or not it is returned.''

" I do love you, Tom — I always have — as dearly as if
you were my brother."

" I'm exceedingly obliged to you ; but, as it happens, I
don't want your brotherly love, and I shall take the first op-
portunity of sending a bullet through Mr. Leicester Cliffe's
head. I have the honor. Miss Shirley, to bid you good
night."

" Tom, stay I Tom, for God's sake "

And here the voice broke down, and covering her face
with both hands, she burst into a hysterical passion of weep-
ing. Tom turned, and the great grieved giant heart, so
fiery in its wrath, melted like a boy's at sight of her tears.
He could have cried himself, but for shame, as he flung
himself down on the bench with a sobbing groan.

" Oh, Vic 1 how could you lo it } How could you treat
me so ? "

She came over, and kneeling beside him, put one arm
around his neck, as if, indeed, he had been the dear
brother she thought him.

" Oh, Tom, I never meant it — I never meant it I "

" And you will marry Leicester ? *'

" You know I must, Tom ; but you will be my dear
brother always."

He turned away and dropped his head on his arm.

" You know it is my duty, Tom. And, oh, you must not
think such dreadful things of me any more I If you do, I
shall die I "

" Go 1 "*he said, lifting his head for a moment and then
dropping it again. " Go and leave me 1 I know, Vic, you
are an angel, and I — I am nothing but a miserable fool 1 "

And with the words the boy's heart went out from; Tom
Shirley, and never came back any more.

226 THE HEIRESS OF CASTI.E CI^IFFE-

CHAPTER XXITI.

victoria's bridal eve.

In the bluest of summer skies, heralded by the rosiest
banners of cloud, rose up the sun on Victoria Shirley's
wedding-day.

The rose-gardens around Castle Cliffe were in full bloom,
the bees and butterflies held grand carnivals there all the
long sultry days, and the air was heavy with their burden of
perfume. The chestnuts, tlie oaks, the poplars, the beeches
were out in their greenest garments ; the swans floated
about serenely in their lakes ; the Swiss farmhouse was
radiant in the glory of new paint ; and the Italian cottage
was lost in a wilderness of scented creepers. The peacocks
and gazelles, the deer and the dogs, had fine times in the
June sunshine ; and over all, the banner floated out from the
flag-tower, and everybody knew that it was the bridal-day of
the heiress of Castle Cliffe.

And within the mansion wonderful were the preparations.
At nine in the evening the ceremony was to take place, and
Lady Agnes had resolved and announced, that a grand ball
should follow ; and at twelve the next day, they were to step
into the cars and bid good-by to Cliftonlea for two long
years. A whole regiment of Gunther's men had come down
from London to attend to the ^upper, which was to be the
greatest miracle of cookery of modern times ; and another
regiment of young persons in the dressmakirig department
filled the dressing-ioom up-stairs. Invitations had been sent
to half the county, besides ever so many in London — so many,
in fact, that the railway trains had tl eir first-class coup'es
crowded all day, and their proprietors realized a small fortune.
The gi^^nds were all to be illuminated with colored lamps,
hung iti all sorts of fanciful devices. And there was to be
such a feast there for the tenantry, with music and dancing

VICTORIA'S BRIDAI, EVK.

227

afterward, and such a display of fireworks, and such a lot of
bonfires, and such ringing of bells and beating of drums, and
shouting and cheering, ana general joy, as had never been
seen or heard of before. Lady Agnes declared herself dis-
tracted and nearly at death's door, although Mr. Sweet, who
had come back from his short wedding tour, helped her as
much as he could, and proved himself perfectly invaluable.
And in the midst of it all, the bridegroom spent his time in
riding over the sunny Sussex downs, lounging lazily through
the rooms at Cliftonlea, and smoking unheard-of quantities
of cigars. And the bride, shut up with Lady Agnes and the
dressmakers, in the former's room, was hardly ever seen by
anybody — least of all by her intended husband. But the
wedding-day came, and all the snoAvy gear in which she was
to be tricked out lay on the bed in the rose room — gloves
and slippers, and veil, and wreath, and dress ; and the inlaid
tables were strewn with magnificent presents, every one of
them a small fortune in itself, to be publicly displayed that
evening. And Vivia, who had been shut up all day with the
seamstresses, a good two hours before it was time to dress,
had broken from her captors and turned to leave the room.

" Where are you going, child } " asked Lady Agnes.
"There is the dressing-bell ringing."

" I don't care for the dressing-bell. I'm not going down
to dinner! "

" Where are you going, then ? "

" Through the house — the dear old house — to say good-by
to it before I go ! There will be no time to-morrow, I sup-
pose."

" I should think not, indeed, since we start at noon ! I
suppose you expect the house will say good-by to you in
return ? "

" I shall think it does, at all events. I wish we were not
going away at all."

" Of course you do 1 I never knew you wishing for any-
thing but what was absurd 1 You must have, dinner in your
own room, and remember you are not late to dress for your
wedding ! It would be just like you to do it ! "

Lady Agnes sailed past majestically to make her own toilet,
and Vivia, with a fluttering little heart yet happy while she
trembled, went from room to room to take a last look. She

228 THE HEIRESS OF CASTI.E CUFFE.

had nearly finished the circuit, even to the dreadful Queen's ..
Room, and was standing in the picture-gallery, looking wist-
fully at the haunted faces of all her dead ancestors, when
some one came wearily up the stairs, and turning, she saw
Margaret Shirley. If others had been changing within the
last few weeks, so had Margaret; always pale and thin, she
moved about like a colorless ghost now ; her black eyes, the
only beauty she had ever possessed, sunken and hollow ; and
the deep lines about the mouth and forehead told their" own
story of silent suffering. She shunned everybody, and most
of all, her bright and beautiful cousin Victoria, and, seeing
her now standing radiant and refulgent in the amber haze of
the sunset, she stopped, and made a motion as if to retreat.
But the cleaT, sweet voice called her back :

" Don't go. Marguerite ; I want you. Come here ! "
Margaret came to the head of the stairs and there
stopped.

" I have been wanting to see you all the week, but I could
not get near you. Why do you keep away from me ? "
" I do not keep away ! "

" You know you do ! Why are you not cordial as you
used to be ? "

"I am cordial! " still hovering aloof.
" Come nearer, then 1 "

Again Margaret moved a step or two, and again stopped.
" We onght to be friends. Marguerite, since we are
- cousins ! But we have not been friends this long time ! "
' No answer. Marguerite's eyes were on the floor, and her
face looked petrified. '^%e

"You are to be one of my bridesmaids, and my travel- w
ing companion for the next two years ; and all that proves ^
that we ought to be friends." ^

" You mistake, cousin Victoria ; I am not going to be
your traveling companion ! " .^ .

" No ! Grandmamma said so 1 " ^ -^

" Probably she thinks so I " ^:

*' You are jesting, Maguerite I " ...

"Nol " ' '_ ■'*"■ J

" Where are you going ? What are you going to do ? "
** Excuse me ; you will learn that at the proper time 1 "
Vivia looked at her earnestly. An intelligent light was in

' J

VICTORIA'S BRIDAL EVE.

229

her eye, and a scarlet effusion rising hot to her face, and
rapidly fading out.

•' You are unhappy !" • V

"Am I?" ' -

"Yis; and I know the reason ! "

Th(* black eyes were raised from the floor and fixed quietly
on her face.

" Shall I tell you what it is ? " ' '

" As you like ! "

Vivia leaned forward, and would have laid her hand on
the other's shoulder, but Marguerite recoiled, with a look on
her face that reminded her cousin of Barbara. She drew
back proudly and a little coldly.

" You have no right to be angry with me, cousin Mar-
guerite 1 Whatever I have done has been in obedience to
grandmamma's commands. If by it you are unhappy, it is no
fault of mine ! "

The black eyes were still looking at her quietly, and over
the dark, grave face there dawned a smile sad and scornful,
that said as plainly as words, " She talks, and knows not
what she is talking about ! " but before she could speak.
Mademoiselle Jeannette came tripping up-stairs.

" Mademoiselle Genevieve, I've been searching for you all
over. My lady says you are to go directly and take your
dinner ! "

Margaret had vanished like ?. spirit at the appearance of
the maid ; so Mademoiselle Genevieve, with a little sigh,
followed her cousin to her boudoir, where the slender meal
was placed. There was a little Sevres cup of coffee ; a
petite verre of sparkling champagne, p&tk d la crime, and an
omelet ; and Vivia ate the paste, and tasted the omelet,
and drank the coffee and wine with a very good appetite ;
and had only just finished when Lady Agnes came in, and
announced that it was time to dress. After her came half a
dozen bridesmaids, cousin Margaret among the rest, and
they were all marshaled into Lady Agnes' dressing-room, and
handed over to a certain French art)3t, who had come all the
way from London to dress their hair. Vivia 's beautiful
\ tresses required least time of all, for they were to be simply
worn in flowing curls, according to her jaunty custom ; but
most of the other damsels had to be braided, and banded,
and scented, and " done up " in the latest style. This im-

I t

230 THE HEIRESS OF CASTLE CUEFE.

portant piece of business took a long time, and when it was
over, monsieur withdrew. The femmes de chambre flocked
in ; and Vivia, under the hands of Jeannette and Hortense,
went to her own room to be dressed. Lady Agnes followed,
looking as if she had something on her mind.

" There is no time to lose I " she said to the maids. " You
will have to make your young lady's toilet as fast as you can ;
and Victoria, child, don't look so pale ! A little paleness is
eminently proptr in a bride ; but I want you to look ever so
pretty to-night ! "

" I shall try to, grandmamma ! What are all the people
about down stairs ? "

" They are all dressing, of course ! and it is time I was
following their example," glancing at her watch.

" Grandmamma," said Vivia, struck with a little cloud on
that lady's serene brow, " you have been annoyed. What is
it ? "

** It is nothing — ^that is, nothing but a trifle ; and all about
that absurd boy, Tom I " .

Vivia started suddenly, and caught her breath. Since the
night under the chestnuts she had not seen Tom — no one
had ; and it was a daily subject of wonder and inquiry.

'* Grandmamma, has anything happened to him ? "

" Nothing that I am aware of — certainly nothing to make
you wear such a frightened face. But what will you think
when I tell you he is in Cliftonlea and never comes here ?
It is the most annoying and absurd thing I ever heard of,
and everybody talks about it 1 " ^

" How do you know he is in Cliftonlea ? "

" Your papa saw him last night. He, and Captain Doug-
las, and some more of the gentlemen had been out at the

meet of the Duke of B 's hounds ; and, riding home

about dark, they saw him down there near the beech woods.
They called to lim, but he disappeared among the trees, and
the people here have done nothing but talk of it all day long.
Rogers, the gamekeeper, says he has seen him haunting the
place in the strangest manner for the last few days, as if he
was afraid to be seen."

The paleness with w^hich the speaker had found fault
deepened as Vivia listened, and her heart seemed to stand
still.

VICTORIA'S BRIDAIy KVE.

231

was
:ked

nse,
ved,

>S IS

so
pie

" It is the most unaccountable thing I ever heard of ; and
I never saw your papa so vexed about a trifle as he is about
this. I cannot understand it at all."

But her granddaughter could ; and she averted her face
that grandmamma's sharp eyes might not read the tale it
told. The eagle eyes saw, however, and her arm was sud-
denly grasped.

" Victoria, you can read the riddle. I see it in your eyes.
When did you meet Tom last ? "

No answer.

" Speak ! " said the lady, low but imperiously. " When
was it ? "

" Last Monday night."

" Where ? "

"Out under the chestnuts."

" What did he say to you ? "

" Grandmamma, don't ask me ! "

And the pale cheek turned scarlet.

Lady Agnes looked at her a moment with her cold and
piercing eyes, and then dropped her arm.

" I see it all," she said, a haughty flush dyeing her own
delicate cheek. " He has been making a fool of himself,
and has got what he deserved. He is wise to stay away ; if
he comes within reach of me, he will probably hear some-
thing more to the point than he heard under the chestnuts !
When I am dressed I will come back."

The thin lips were compressed. The proud eyes flashed
blue flame as Lady Agnes swept out of the rose-room. If
looks were lightning, and Tom Shirley near enough, he
would certainly never make love. to any one else on earth !

But Vivia's face had changed sadly, and she stood under
the hands of the two maids all unconscious of their doings
and their presence, and thinking only of him. She thought
of a thousand other things, too — things almost forgotten.
Her whole life seemed to pass like a panorama before her.
She thought dimly, as we think of a confused dream, of a
poor home, and a little playmate that had been hers long,
long ago ; then of the quiet content in her dear France,
•where year after year passed so serenely ; of the pleasant
chateau, where her holidays were spent ; o' Claude who had
been almost as dear to her as Tom, and whose life she had

232 THK HEIRESS OF CASTI.E CUFFE.

embittered like his ; of the first visit to England and to this
beloved home, where she had met this stately grandmamma
and idolized father ; and then, more vividly than all the rest,
came back the first meeting with Barbara Black. Again
she was kneeling in the Demon's Tower with Margaret
crouching in a corner, her black eyes shining like stars in
the gloom — Tom at her feet, bleeding and helpless; the
raging sea upon them in its might ; the black night sky ; the
wailing wind and lashing rain, and a little figure in a frail
skiff flying over the billows to save them. They had been
so good to her, and had loved her so well — Barbara and
Margaret ; but, somehow, she had alienated them all, and
they loved her no longer. What was it that was wanting in
her ? what was this string out of tune that had made the dis-
cord ? Was she only a sounding brass and tinkling cymbal,
and was the real germ of good wanting in her after all ?
Vivia's blue eyes were full of tears, but she could not find
the jarring chords ; and now all that was past, and a new
day was dawning for her. Her whole life was changed, but
the dark veil of Futurity was down, and it was well for her
she could not see what was beyond it.

And. while Vivia sighed and mused the handmaidens
were going on with their work, and the moments were flying
fast. The wreath and veil were on ; the diamond necklace
and bracelets clasped ; the last ribbon and fold of lace ar-
ranged, and the door was opened, and Lady Agnes, in velvet
and jewels, looking still youthful and unmistakably fair, re-
appeared. At her coming, Vivia awoke from her dream.
She had something to do besides dream now.

" Ah ! you have finished I " was my lady's cry. " Turn
round, Victoria, and let me see you ! "

Victoria, who had not once seen herself, turned round
with a bright face.

" Will I do, grandmamma ? "

" It is charming I It is superb ! It is lovely 1 " said
Lady Agnes, in a sort of rapture. " My child, you never
looked so beautiful before in your life ! "

Hearing this, Vivia turned to look for herself, and a radiant
glow came to her face at the sight. Lovely she must have
looked in anything. Dazzling she appeared in her bridal
dress. The dress itself was superb. It had been imported

VICTORIA'S BRIDAI. EVK.

233

" \

from Paris, and had cost a fortune. It was of rich white
velvet, the heavy skirts looped with clusters of creamy-white
roses, the corsage and sleeves embroidered with seed-pearls,
and a bouquet of jessamine flowers on the breast. The
arching throat, the large and exquisitely-molded arms were
clasped with diamonds that streamed like rivers of light ;
the sunny curls showered to the small waist crowned with a
wreath of jeweled orange-blossoms sparkling with diamond
dew-drops ; and over all, and sweeping the carpet, a bridal
veil, encircling the shining figure like a cloud of mist. But
the lovely head, the perfect face drooping in its exquisite
modesty, and blushing and smiling at its own beauty, neither
lace, nor velvets, nor jewels were aught compared to that.

"My darling !" cried Lady Agnes, in an ecstasy very,
very uncommon with her, " you look like an angel to-
night 1 "

" Dear, dear grandmamma, I care for nothing if I only
please you. Are the rest all ready ? "

" I have not been to see, but I am going. Do you know,"
lowering her voice, " a most singular thing has occurred."

"What?"

" It is only half an hour to the time appointed for the
ceremony, the drawing-room is filled, everybody is there, but
the one that should be there most of all."

"Who's that?"

" There's a question I Leicester Cliffe, of course."

" Has he not come, then ? "

" No, indeed ; and when he does come, he shall be taken
most severely to task for this delay. The man who would
keep such a bride waiting, deserves — deserves — the basti-
nado ! No, that v/ould be too good for him ; deserves to
lose her."

Vivia laughed.

" Oh, grandmamma, that would be too bfri. Has Uncle
Roland come ? "

" Uncle Roland has been here fully an hour, and knows
nothing about the matter. It appears the young gentleman
has been out riding all day, and never made his appearance
until dinner, when he drank more wine than is usual or
prudent with bridegrooms, and behaved himself in a manner
that was very strange altogether."

234 THE HKlRESvS OF CASTLK CI.IFFK.

"What did he do?"

" Oh, I don't know ; he was queer and excited, Sir Roland
says ; but he thought little of that, cohsidering the circum-
stances. He has seen nothing of him since, and came here
in the full expectation of seeing him here before him."

" Well, grandmamma, he will be here before the end of
the half-hour, I suppose, and that will do, won't it ? "

" It will do for the wedding, but it won't save him from a
severe Caudle lecture from me — a sort of foretaste of what
he may expect of you in the future. Everything seems to
be going wrong, and I feel as if it would be the greatest
relief to box somebody's ears."

Lady Agnes looked it, nnd Vivia laughed again.

" You might box mine, grandmamma, and relieve your
feelings, only it would spoil my veil, and Jeannette would
never forgive you for that."

But I^ady Agnes was knitting her brows, and not paying
the least attention to her.

" To think he should be late on such an occasion i it is
unheard of — it is outrageous 1 "

" Oh, grandmamma, don't worry. I am §ure he cannot
help it ; perhaps, he is come now."

" Here come your bridemaids, at all events," said Lady
Agnes, as the communicating door opened, and the bevy of
gay girls floated in, robed in white, and crowned with
flowers, and gathered round the bride like butterflies round
a rose, and •

" Oh, how charming ! Oh, how lovely ! Oh, how beau-
tiful I " was the universal cry. " You are looking your very
best to-night, Victoria."

" So she ought, and so will you all, young ladies, on your
wedding night," said Lady Agnes.

" Is it time to go down ? has everybody come ? " inquired
one.

'' It is certainly time to go down, but I do not know
whether anybody has come. Hark 1 is not that your papa's
vofce in the hall, Victoria ? "

" Yes. Do let him come in, grandmamma. I know he
would like to see me before going down-stairs."

Lady Agnes opened the door, and saAv her son coming
rapidly through the hall, looking very pale and stern.

VICTORIA'S BRIDAI, EVE).

2f r»

" Has Leicester come yet ? "

"No!" '•: .

•' Good Heavens ! And it is nine o'clock ! "

" Exactly. And all those people below are gathered in
groups, and whispering mysteriously. By Heavens 1 I feel
tempted to put a bullet through his head when he does
come."

" Oh, Cliffe ! something has happened I "

'* Perhaps — iy the bride ready ? "

" Yes ; come in, she wishes to see you — the bride is
ready ; but where is the bridegroom ? "

" Where, indeed ? But don't alarm yourself yet ; he may
come after all."

He followed his mother into the bride's maiden bower,
and that dazzling young lady came forward with a radiant
face.

" Papa, how do I look ? "

'' Don t ask me ; look in the glass. You are all angels,
every one of you."

He touched his lips to the pretty brow, and tried to laugh,
but it was a failure I and then, nervous as a girl, ^for the
first time in his life, with anxiety, he hurried out and down-
stairs, to see if the truant had come.

No, he had not come. The bonfires were blazing, the
joy-bells were ringing, the park was one blaze of rainbow-
light, all the clocks in the town were striking nine, and Lei-
cester Cliffe had not come. Sir Roland, nearly beside him-
self with mortification and rage, was striding up and down
the hall.

"Is she ready?" he asked.

" Yes," said the colonel, using the words of his mother,
" the bride is ready and waiting, but where the devil is t v:
bridegroom ? "

■•s*

236 THE HEIRESS OF CASTI.E CUFFE.

■ V ■ . .

i'l

CHAPTER XXIV.

WHERE THE BRIDEGROOM VAS.

The waning sunlight of Vivia's bridal-day, streaming
through the rather dirty windows of Peter Black's cottage,
fell on Mr. Silvester Sweet, sitting beside the hearth, and'
talking very earnestly indeed. His only listener was old
Judith, who had covered her face with her hands, and was
moaning and crying, and rocking to and fro.

" My dear Judith — my good Judith 1 " he was soothingly
saying, " don't distress yourself ; there is no occasion — not
the least in the world 1 "

But his good Judith was not to be comforted ; she only
lifted up her voice and wept the louder.

" You knew all along it must come to this ; or if you
didn't, you ought to have known it. Such guilty secrets
cannot be kept forever I "

" And they will put me in prison ; they will transport me ;
may be they will hang me 1 Oh, I wish I was dead ! I
wish I was dead 1 " wailed the old woman, rocking to that
extent that there seemed some danger of her rocking off her
stool.

" Nonsense 1 They will neither put you in prison, trans-
port, nor hang you. Though," added Mr. Sweet, politely,
" you know you deserve it all."

" And then there's Barbara I " cried old Judith, paying
no attention whatever to him, and breaking out into a frtsh
burst of wailing. " She'll kill me. I know she will. She
always was fierce and savage ; and when she hears this —
Oh, dear me I I wish I was dead — I do 1 "

"Yes; but, my dear old soull we can't spare you yet
awhile. Now, dry up your tears and be reasonable ; now
do. Remember, if all doesn't go well, I'll hang your son 1 **

WHERE THE BRIDEGROOM WAS. 237

f ■ '

" Oh, I don't expect anything but that we'll all hang to-
gether I Oh, I wish I was dead I " reiterated Judith, de-
termined to stick to that to the last.

" I'll soon gratify that wish, you old Jezebel ! " said Mr.
Sweet, setting his teeth, " if you don't stop your whimper-
ing. What did you do it for, if you are such a coward
about it now ? "

" I didn't expect it would ever be found out. Oh 1 I
"wish — "

Exasperatad beyond endurance, her companion seized the
tongs ; and old Judith, with a shrill shriek, cowered back
and held out her arms in terror.

" Be still, then, or by " (Mr. Sweet swore a frightful

oath, that would have done honor to Mr. Black himself)
** I'll smash your head for you I Stop your whining and
hear to reason. Are you prepared to take your oath con-
cerning the story I have to tell } "

Again Judith took to rocking and wringing her hands.

" I must — I must — I must ! and I will be killed for it, I
know 1 " ^.

" You won't, I tell you. Neither you nor your son will
come to harm. I'll see to that 1 But mind, if you don't
swear to everything, straight and true, I'll have both of you
hanging, by the end of the month, as high as Haman I "

Judith set up such a howl of despair at this pleasant in-
timation that the lawyer had to grasp the tongs again, and
brandish them within half an inch of her nose, before she
would consent to subside.

" My worthy old lady, I'll knock your brains out if you
try that again ; and so I give you notice 1 You have only
to swear to the facts before Colonel Shirley, or any other
person or persons concerned, and you will be all right!
Stick to the truth, through thick and thin ; there's nothing
like it, and I'll protect you through it all."

Judith's only answer was to rock and whine, and whimper
dismally.

" You know," said Mr. Sweet, looking at her steadily,
" you had no advisers, no accomplices. You plotted the
whole thing, and carried it out alone. Didn't you ? "

"Yes; I did— I did!"

" Yoif had the very natural desire to benefit your own

238 THE HEIRESS OF CAvSTI^E CI.IFFE.

flesh and blood, and you thought it would never be found
out. Your daughter-in-law went crazy, was sent to a lunatic
asylum, and you told your son, on his return from — no
matter where — that she was dead. Didn't you ? "

" Yes, yes 1 Oh, dear me, yes 1 "

" Some things that you dropped made me suspect. I ac-
cused you, and in your guilt you confessed all. Didn't you ? "

" Yes ; I s'pose I did. I don't know. Oh, I wish I
was — "

For the third time hvir companion grabbed the tongs, and
the old woman subsided again into pitiful whimpering.

" Now you know, Judith Wildman, if you aggravate me too
much, what will be the consequence. I am going up to the
castle, to tell this story, to-night — a shameful story, that you
should have told long ago — and you must hold yourself pre-
pared to swear to it, when called upon to do so. Your son
knew nothing of it — he knows nothing of it yet ; so no blame
attaches to him, and all will end right."

That might be ; but Judith couldn't see it, and her misery
was a piteous sight to behold. For that matter, Mr. Sweet
himself did not look too much at his ease, nothing near so
much as was his suave wont, and the paleness that lay on
his face, and the excited light that gleamed in his eyes, were
much the same as had been seen on his wedding-day.

" The whole extent of the matter is this," he said, laying
it down with the linger of his right hand on the palm of his
left: "I will tell- the story, and you will be called upon. I^
you do right, and keep to the truth, you and your son will
get off scot free, and I will send you away from this place
richer than you ever were before in your life. If, on the
contrary, you bungle, and make a mess of it, out will come
the pleasant little episode of Jack Wildman, who will swing
from the top of the Cliftonlea jail, immediately after assizes ;
and you, my worthy soul ! if you escape a similar fate, will
rot out the rest of your life in the workhouse. Do you un-
derstand that ? "

The question was rather superfluous, for Judith understood
it so well that she rolled off her stool, and worked on the
floor in a sort of fit. ' Rather dismayed, the lawyer jumped
up ; but, as in the course of a little more kicking and strug-
gling, she worked herself out of it again, into a state of

•M

WHERE THE BRIDEGROOM WAS.

230

nd
tic
no

.-5J

moaning and gasping, he took his hat and gloves and turned
to go.

" You had better get up off the floor, Mrs. Wildman, and
take a smoke," was his parting advice. ** Good-by. Don't
go to bed. You will probably be wanted before morning."

He walked away, turning one backward glance on the
waving trees at the park, smiling as he did so. The fisher-
men he met pulled off their hats to the steward of their lady,
and never before had they known him to be so condescend-
ingly gracious in returning it. As he passed through the
town, too, everybody noticed that the lawyer was in uncommon
good humor, even for him , and he quite beamed on the
servant-maid who opened the door of his own house, when
he knocked. It was a very nice house — was Mr. Sweet's —
with a spacious garden around it, belonging to Lady Agnes,
and always occupied by her agent.

" Where is your mistress, Elizabeth ? " he asked.

** Missis be in the parlor, sir, if you please."

Two doors flanked the hall. He opened one to the right
and entered a pretty room — medallion carpet on the floor,
tasteful paper-hangings on the walls, nice tables and sofas,
some pictures in gilt frames, a large marble-topped table
strewn with books in the center of the floor, and a great
many China dogs and cats on the mantelpiece. But the
window — for it had only one window, this parlor — was
pleasanter than all — a deep bay-window, with a sort of divan
all around it ; and when the crismon moreen curtains were
down it was the coziest little room in the world. It was in
this recess, lying among soft cushions, that the new Mrs.
Sweet had spent all her time since her return to Cliftonlea ;
and it was there her husband expected to find her now.
There she was not, however ; but walking up and down the
room with the air of a tragedy-queen. Neither Rachel nor
Mrs. Siddons in their palmiest day could have surpassed it.
Her hands were clenched ; her eyes were flaming ; her step
had a fiercely-metallic ring ; her dark profusion of hair, as if
to add to the effect, was unbound and streaming around her ;
and had any stranger entered just then, and seen her, his
thofught would have been that he had got by mistake into the
cell of some private lunatic asylum.

" What new tantrum is this my lady has got into ? '*

240 THE HEIRESS OF CASTlvE CUFFE.

thought Mr. Sweet, quailing a little before the terriblie light
in his lady's eyes, as he shut the door and stood looking at
her with his back to it. " My dear Barbara, what is the
matter ? "

The only answer as she strode past was a glare out of the
flashing eyes, which he cowered inwardly under, even as he
repeated the question :

"My dear Barbara, what is the matter ? "

She stopped this time and stood before him, looki'ig so
much like a frenzied maniac, that his sallow complexion
turned a sort of sea-green with terror.

" Don't ar^k me ! " she said, fairly hisiing the words
through her closed teeth, " don't ! There is a spirit within
me that is not from heaven ; and the less you of all people
say to me to-night, the better ! "

" But, my dear Barbara " . '

" Your dear Barbara 1 " she broke out, wich passionate
scorn. " Oh, blind, blind fool ! blind, besotted fool that I
was ever to come to this ! Go, I tell you 1 If you have any
mercy on yourself, go and leave me 1 I am not myself. I
am mad, and you are not sr.fe in the same room with me ! '*

" Barbara, hear me !" --,

" Not a word, not a syllable. I have awoke from my
trance — the horrible trance in which I was inveigled to
marry you. Man ! '" she cried, in a sort of frenzy, stopping
before him again, " if you had murdered me, I could have
forgiven you ; but for making me your wife, I can never
forgive you — never, until my dying day I " * >

" Barbara I "

But she would not hear him ; for the time she was really
insane, and tore up and down the room like a very fury.

" Oh, miserable, driveling idiot that I have been 1 Sunken,
degraded wretch that I am, ever to have married this thing I
And you, poor, pitiful hound, whom I hate and despise more
than any other creature on God's earth, you forced me into
this marriage when I was beside myself and knew not what
I did ! You, knowing I loved another, cajoled me into mar-
rying yourself ; and I hate you for it 1 I hate you 1 I hate
youl"

Mr. Sweet's complexion, from sea-green, turned livid and
ghastly ; but his voice, though husky, was strangely calm.

WHERE THE BRIDEGROOM WAS. 241

ght

the

^ >■

< " I did not force you, Barbara 1 You know what you
married me for — revenge 1 "

" Revenge 1" she echoed, breaking into a hysterical laugh.
" Why, man, I tell you, one other such victory would cost
me my kingdom I Yes, I have the revenge of knowing I am
despised by the man whom I love I Do you hear that,
Sylvester Sweet — whom I love ! Every hair of whose head
is dearer to me than your whole niiserable sou) and body 1 "

Strange lividness this in Mr. Sweet's placid face I Strange
fire this in his calm eye ; but his voice was steady and un-
moved still.

" You forget, Barbara, that he jilted you 1 "
■ ." And you dare to taunt me with that ! " she almost
shrieked, all her tiger passions unchained. " Oh, that I had
a knife, and I would drive it to the hilt in your heart for
daring to say such a thing to me I Oh, I htid fallen low
before — a forsaken, despised, cast-off wretch 1 but I never
sunk entirely into the slime until I married you 1 Yes, he
jilted me ; but I love him still — love him as much as I hate
and despise you 1 Go, I tell you 1 go, and leave me, or I
will strangle you where you stand I "

She was mad. He saw that in her terrible face. But,
through all his horror, he strove to soothe her.

" Barbara ! Barbara, let me say one word I The hour for
full and complete vengeance has come at last I To-night
you will triumph over him — over them all. This very bride
shall be torn from him at the altar, and you shall be pro-
claimed — Barbara — ^great heavens ! "

She had been standing before him, but she reeled suddenly
and would have fallen, had he not caught her. The frantic
lit of fury into which she had lashed herself had given way,
and with it all her mad strength. But she was not fainting ;
for, at his hated touch, a look of unutterable loathing came
over the white face, and, with a sort of expiring effort, she
lifted her hands and pushed him away.

" Go 1 " she said, rising and clinging to the table, while
her stormy voice was scarcely louder than a whisper. " Go I
If you do not leave me I shall die 1 "

He saw that she would. It was written in every^ line of her
deathlike face — in every quiver of the tottering fonn all
thrilling with repulsion. He turned and opened the door.

242 THE HEIRESS OF CASTILE CUFFE.

" I will go, then, Barbara 1 " he said, turning for a last
look as he passed out. " I go to fulfil my promise and com-
plete your revenge I " >

He closed the door, went through the hall, down the steps,
along the graveled walk, and out into the busy, bustling
street. And how was Mr. Sweet to know that he and his
bride had parted forever ?

With the last sounds of his footsteps, Barbara had tottered
to the divan and sunk down among the cushions with a prayer
in her heart she had not strength enough to utter in words,
that she might never rise again. All the giant fury of her pas-
sion had passed away ; but she had no tears to shed — nothing
to do but lie there and feel that she had lost life, and that her
seared heart had turned to dust and ashes. There was no
revenge loft ; that was gone with her strength — no wish for
anything but to lie there and die. She knew that it was his
wedding night. She heard carriage after carriage rolling
away to Castle Cliffe, and she felt as if the wheels of all were
crashing over her heart. The last rosy ray of daylight faded ;
the summer moon rose up, stealing in through the open
curtains, and its pale light lay on the bowed young head like
the pitying hand of a friend.

There came a knock at the front door — a knock loud and
imperative, that rung from end to end of the house. Why
did Barbara's heart bound, as if it would leap from her
breast? She had never heard that knock before. There
was a step in the hall, light, quick, and decided — a voice, too,
that she would have known all the world over. She had
hungered and thirsted for that voice — she had desired it as
the blind desire sight.

" And am I really going mad ? " was Barbara's thought.

It was no madness. The door was opened, the step was
in the room, arid Elizabeth, the housemaid, was speaking :

" Missis be in here, sir. I'll go and fetch a light." :

" Never mind a light."

The door was closed in Elizabeth's face ; the kev turned
to keep out intrviders, and some one was bending over her as
she lay, or, rather, crouched. She could not tell whether she
was sane or mad. She dared not look up ; it must be all an
illusion. What could he be doing here, and to-night ?

"Barbara!" ....-,.., . ,

WHERK THE BRIDEGROOM WAS. 243

Oh, that voice ! If this was madness, she never wished
to be sane again. -^

"Barbara I"

Some one's hair was touching her cheek — some one's
hand was holding her own — the dear voice was at her ear.

" Barbara, have you no word for me, either of hatred or
forgiveness ? Will you not even look at me, Barbara ? "

She lifted her face for one instant. Yes, it was he, pale
and passionate — he here, even at this hour. She dared not
look — she dropped her face again in the cushion.

" Have I then sinned beyond redemption ? Am I so
utterly hateful to you, Barbara, that you cannot even look ? "

Barbara was mute.

" Do you knpw that I was to be married to-night — that my
bride is waiting for me even now ? "

"I know it! I know it! " she said with a sort of cry —
that arrow going to the m irk. " Oh, Leicester, you have
broken my heart ! "

" I have been a traitor and a villain, I know ; but, villain
as I am, I could not finish what I had begun. At the last
hour I have deserted them all, Barbara, to kneel at your feet
again. She is beautiful and good ; but I only love you, and
so to you I have come back. Will you send me av.av, Bar-
bara ? "

Her hand only tightened over his for answer. In that
moment she only knew that she was utterly miserable and
desperate, and that she loved this man. She felt herself
standing on a quicksand, and that it was shifting away under
her feet, and letting her down.

*' When I left you and went to London, Barbara," the
dear low voice went on, " and saw her first, I was dazzled ;
and somehow, Heaven only knows how 1 I promised to fulfil
an engagement made years before I had even heard of her.
While she glittered before me, the daze continued ; but the
moment I left her, the scales fell from my eyes, and I saw it
all. I came back to Cliftonlea, determined to give up every-
thing for love and you — to make you my wife, and seek
together a home in the New World. I came. As I passed
the cathedral, I saw a crowd, and entering, the first thing I
beheld was you, Barbara, the wife of another man — my
repentance and resolution all too late."

244 ^HE HEIRESS OF CASTLE CUFFE.

His listener had a long account to settle with that other
man. It was only one more item added to the catalogue,
and she said nothing ; and still holding her hand tighter, and
coming nearer, the voice went on :

" I thought I would give you up, forget you, and take the
bride they had chosen for me ; but now, at the last hour, I
find that life without you is less than worthless. Your
marriage was a mockery. You cannot care for this man.
Will you send me away, desolate and alone, over the world ? "

Still she did not speak. The sand was slipping away fast,
and she was going down.

" Barbara 1 " he whispered, " you do not love this man —
you love me. Then leave him forever, and fly with me." .

>'•-.:

V .a

- - ^"

. A SOfRANGK REQUEST.

845

■"i'^i/ ,'.

CHAPTER XXV.

A STRANGE REQUEST.

The road from the town of Cliftonlea to the castle was a
somewhat long one ; but by turning off and going through
Lower Ciiffe and the park gates, the distance was shortened
by half. Mr. Sweet, however, did not choose to take this
short cut ; but walked on through the town, at his usual
steady space, neither slowly nor hurriedly, and the white
summer moon was shining over his head as he passed the
Italian cottage. The whole park seemed alive. Up on a
hill fireworks in full blaze, and a vast crowd was gathered
round them. Down in a smooth hollow the Cliftonlea brass
band was discoursing merry music ; and on the velvet sward
the dancers were enjoying themselves in another way. The
place was one blaze of rainbow light, from the myriad colored
lamps hung in the trees ; and the moon was more like a dim
tallow candle, set up in the sky to be out of the way, than
anything else. The joy-bells were clashing out high over all,
and mingled with their loud ringing, the lawyer caught the
sound of the cathedral clock tolling nine as he entered the
paved court-yard. « He paused for a moment with a smile on
his lips.

" Nine o'clock — the appointed hour I Perhaps I will be
too late for the ceremony, after all," he said to himself, as he
ran up the steps. The great hall door stood open to admit
the cool night air, and, standing in a blaze of light, he saw
Sir Roland and Colonel Shirley at the foot of the stairs. No
one else was in the domed hall but the servants, who flitted
ceaselessly to and fro at the further end ; and he stepped in,
hat in hand. The two gentlemen turned simultaneously and
eagerly, but the faces of both fell when they saw who it was.

" Good-evening, Sir Roland ; good-evening. Colonel Shir-
ley," began Mr. Sweet, bowing low. " Permit me to offer
my congratulations on this happy occasion."

246 THE HEIRESS OF CASTLE CLIFFE.

" Congratulations ! " exclaimed the Colonel ; '- faith, 1
think there will be something besides congratulations needed
shortly I Have you seen Mr. Leicester Cliffe anywhere in
your travels so-night, Mr. Sweet?

Mr. Sweet looked at the speaker in undisguised astonish-
ment.

" Mr. Leicester ! is it possible that he is not here ? "

" Very possible, my dear sir. I shall be most happy to
see him when he comes, and let him know what it is to have
a bullet through the head I "

" Is it really possible ? Where in the world can he be to-
night of all nights, if not here ? "

" Ah I that is what I would like to have some one tell me.
Wherever he may be, Castle Cliffe has certainly not the
honor of containing him ; and the hour for the ceremony,
you see, is past."

" It is astonishing I " said Mr. Sweet, slowly, and looking
a little bewildered by the news. "It is incomprehensible 1
I never heard anything like it in my life 1 "

" I agree with you. But that does not mend the matter,
unhappily ; and if he does not appear within the next fifteen
minutes, you will have the goodness to go and stop those
confounded bells, and send all those good people in the park
about their business ! "

*' And there has been no wedding, then, to-night ? " said
Mr. Sweet, still looking bewildered.

" None 1 Nor is there likely to be, as far as I can see."

" And Miss Shirley is still—"

" Miss Shirley ! and seems in a fair way of remaining so
for the present, at least."

" You have something to say. Sweet, have you not ? "
asked Sir Roland, who had been watching the lawyer, and
seemed struck by something in his face.

Mr. Sweet hesitated a little ; but the colonel interposed
impatiently :

" Out with it, man ! If you have anything to say, let us
have it at once."

" My request may seem strange — bold — almost inadmis-
sible," said the lawyer, still hesitating. " But I do assure you,
I would not make it vvere it not necessary."

" What is the man driving at ? " broke out the colonel, ia

A STRANGE REQUEST.

247

astoriishment and impatience. "What's all this palaver
about ? Come to the point at once, Sweet, and let us have
this inadmissible request of yours."

" It is, colonel, that I see Miss Shirley at once and alone !
I have two or three words to say to her that it is absolutely
necessary she should hear."

Sir Roland ?»nd Colonel Shirley looked at each other, and
then at Mr. Sweet, who, in spite of every effort, seemed a
littl 3 nervous and excited.

" See Miss Shirley at once, and alone I " repeated Sir
Roland, looking at him with some of his sister's piercing
intentness. " You did right to say that your request was ^
strange and bold one. What can you possibly have to say
to Miss Shirley ? "

" A few very important words, Sir Roland."

' Say them, then, to the young lady's father j she has no
secrets from him."

"I beg your pardon, I cannot do so. That is, I would
infinitely rather say them to herself first, and leave it to her
own good pleasure to repeat them."

" Are you sure it is nothing about my son ? ''

"Certainly, Sir Roland. Of your son I know nothing."

"Well, it's odd!" said the colonel. **But I have no
objection to your seeing Vivia if she has none. Come this
way, Mr. Sweet."

Taking the wide staircase in long bounds, as lightly as he
could have done twenty years before, the colonel gained the
upper hall, followed by the lawyer, and tapped at the door
of the rose room. It was opened immediately by Lady Agnes,
who looked out with an anxious face.
. " Oh, Cliffe ! has Leicester come ? "

"No, indeed! but a very different person has — Mr.
Sweet."

" Mr. Sweet 1 Does he bring any news ? Has anything
happened ? "

" No ; though he says he wants to see Vivia."

" See Vivia I " exclaimed her ladyship, looking in the last
degree amazed, not to say shocked, at the unprecedented
request. " Has Mr. Sweet gone crazy ? "

" Not that I know of. But here he is to answer for him-
self." -' v

24« THE HEIRESS OF CASTILE CI.IFFE.

!
I

Thus invoked, Mr. Sweet presented himself with a depre-
cating bow.

" I beg your pardon, my lady. I know the request seems
''trange ; but I cannot help it, unreasonable as the time is.
I beg of you to let me see Miss Shirley at once, and the
explanation shall come afterward."

"I shall do nothing of the sort! I'm surprised at you,
Mr. Sweet 1 What can you mean by so outrageous a
request ? '*

" My lady, if you insist upon it, I must tell you ; but I
earnestly entreat you not to force me to a public explanation,
until I ha e spoken in private to Miss Shirley."

" Oh, it is something about Leicester I I know it is, and
he wants to prepare her for some shock. Mr. Sweet, do not
dare to trifle with me 1 I am no baby ; and if it's anything
about him, I command you to speak out at once 1 "

" Lady Agnes, I have said, again and again, that it is
nothing about him, and I repeat it. Of Mr. Leicester Cliffe
I know nothing whatever. The matter simply and solel/
concerns Miss Shirley alone."

"Me void r'' cried a silvery voice. And the beautiful
smilmg face of the bride peeped over grandmamma's satin
shoulder. .; . , .*

"Who wants Miss Shirley? Oh, Mr. Sv/eet, is it you?
Has anything ha^>pened to — "

She paused, coloring vividly.

" Nothing has happened to Mr. Cliffe, I hope. Miss Shir-
ley," said Mr. Sweet, turning his anxious face toward that
young lady. " I have no d'>ubt he will be here presently ;
but before he comes, it is of the utmost importance I should
see you a few minutes in private."

Miss Shirley opened her blue eyes, according to custom,
extremely widC; and turned them in bewildering inquiry upon
papa.

" Mr. Sweet has some awful secret to reveal to you, Vivia,"
observed that gentlemen, smiling. " The * Mysteries of
Udolpho,* were plain reading compared to him this evening."

" If Mr. Sweet has anything to say to Miss ^liirley,"
said Lady Agnes, haughtily, " let him say it here and at once.
I cannot have any secret inierview and mysterious nonsense.

" It is not nonssnse, my lady.''

WHERE THE BRIDEGROOM WAS. 249

" The more reason you should out with it at once. You
do not need to be told that anything that concerns Miss
Shirley concerns her father and myself. If you do not like
that, you had better take your leave."

Mr. Sweet turned so distressed and imploring a face at
this sharp speech toward Miss Vivia, that that good-natured
young lady felt called upon to strike in.

«* Never mind, grandmamma. 1 lere is nothing so veiy
dreadful in his speaking to me in private, since he wishes it
so much. It is not wrong — is it, papa ? "

" Not wrong, but rather silly, I think.

" Well, Mr. Sweet and I are-sowise generally that we can
afford to be silly for once 1 Don't say a word, grandmamma ;
it's all right. This way, if you please, Mr. Sweet."

Turning her pretty face as she went, with an arch little
smile, she tripped across the hall, and opened a door opposite
— what was called the winter drawing-room. The lawyer
followed the shining figure of the bride into the apartment,
whose pervading tints were gold and crimson, and which was
illuminated with amber shaded lamps, filling it with a sort
of golden haze. He closed the door after him, and stood
for a moment with his back to it.

" Will your two or three words take long to say, Mr,
Sweet ? ** asked Miss Shirley, still smiling — " which means,
am I to sit down or stand ? "

"You had better sit down, I think, Miss Shirley."

" Ah ? I thought it was more than two or three words ;
but you had better be quick, for I have not much time to
spare on this particular evening 1 "

She sunk into 2ifauteuil oi scarlet velvet ; her gossamer
robes floating about her like white mist ; her graceful head,
with its snowy veil, and golden curls, and jeweled orange-
blossoms, leaning lightly against its glowing back ; the ex-
quisite face whereon the smile still lingered, as she lightly
waved him to a distant chair. Truly, she was dazzling in
her beauty and her splendor ; but her companion was not
dazzled — he was smiling a little as he took his seat.

" Well, Mr. Sweet, what is this terrible mystery of which
papa speaks ? "

" Colonel Shirley has termed it rightly — it is a terrible
mystery."

250 THE HKIRESS OF CASTI.K CWFFE.

" Indeed I And it concerns me, I suppose, or you would
not be so an^iious to tell it to me."

" Yes, Miss Shirley, I am sorry to say it concerns you
very closely indeed."

" Sorry to say I Well, go on and let me hear it then."

" It is a somewhat complexed story. Miss Shirley, and re-
quires me to go back a long time — over eighteen years."

Miss Shirley bowed slowly her willingness for him to go
back to the flood, if he liked.

" More than eighteen years ago. Miss Shirley, there lived,
several miles from London, in a poor enough cottage — for
they were very poor people — a certain man and wife — Mr.
and Mrs. John Wildman."

At this unexpected announcement. Miss Shirley opened
her bhie eyes again, and smiled a little amused smile, as
she looked at him inquiringly.

" This Mr. John Wildman was by trade a bricklayer, and
often absent from home weeks at a time. One morning,
very early, during one of these absences, a carriage drove
up to the door, and a young lady and gentleman made their
appearance in the cottage. The young lady appeared to be
ill, and the gentleman seemed exceedingly anxious that she
should lodge there. Mrs. Wildman was not many months
married ; they were poor ; she wished to help her husband,
if she could ; the gentleman promised to pay well, and she
consented. He went away immediately, and for the next
two or three weeks did not make his appearance again,
though money and furniture were sent to the cottage. At
the end of that time, two events happened — a child was
born and the lady died. Before her death, she had sent a
message to the young gentleman, who came in time to see
her laid in the grave, and consigned his infant daughter to
the care of Mrs.' Wildman before departing, as he thought,
forever, from his native land."

During this preamble, the blue eyes had opened to their
widest extent, and were fixed on the speaker with a little
bewildered stare that said plainly enough, she could make
neither head nor tail of the whole thing.

** Several months after this," Mr. Sweet went on steadily,
"this John Wildman, with a few others, perpetrated a
crime for which he was transported, leaving his wife and

WH^RE THE BRIDEGROOM WAS 251

re-

«o

child — for they had a child some weeks old — to get on as
best they might ; the strange gentleman's infant with them.
It was by means of this very infant they managed to exist
at all ; for its father, immediately on his arrival in India,
for which place he had sailed, sent her plentiful remittances ;
and so, for nearly six years, they got along tolerably well.
At the end of that time, she fell ill, and her husband's
mother, who lived in some out-of-the-way place in the north
part of England, was sent for, and came to nurse her and
the two little girls — whose names, by the way, I forgot to
tell you, were Victoria and Barbara."

During all this time his listener had been " far wide."
But now she started as if she had received a galvanic shock.

" What I Victoria and Barbara I It isn't possible
that '

" Permit me to continue, Miss Shirley," said Mr. Sweet,
bowing without looking up, " and you will soon recognize the
characters. Yes, their names were Victoria and Barbara.
Victoria, the elder by a few months, was the daughter of
the dead lady ; and Barbara, the daughter of the trans-
ported felon. Judith, the mother-in-law, came to take
charge of them, and heard for the first time the whole
story. She was a crafty old woman, was Judith, with little
love for the daughter-in-law or granddaughter whom she
had come to take care of. But she was wicked, ambitious,
and mischievous, and a demoniac plot at once entered into
her head. A letter was despatched to the gentleman in
India — he was an officer, too — telling him that the Wild-
mans were about to leave for America, and that he had
better come and take charge of his daughter. Miss Shir-
ley, he came ; but it was not his daughter he received from
the old woman, but her granddaughter. The children were
not unlike ; both had the same fair complexions, and light
hair and blue eyes. The real Victoria was kept carefully
out of sight, and he carried off the false one in implicit
trust and placed her in a convent in France. Miss Shirley,
I beg "

He stopped and rose hastily, for Miss Shirley had sprung
from her seat, and was confronting him with flashing eyes.

" It is false 1 It is false ! I shall never believe it I
What is this you have dared to tell me, Mr. Sweet ? "

952 THE HEIRESS OF CASTI.E CUFFE.

" The truth, Miss Shirley."

" My God 1 Do you mean to say that I am really — that

I am not Oh, it is too false, too absurd to hear I I

will not stop and listen to you any longer."

She turned excitedly to go ; but he placed himself be-
tween her and the door.

" Miss Shirley, I beg, I entreat, for Heaven's sake hear
me out 1 It is every word true. Do you think I would
come here and repeat such a tale, if I was not positive ? "

" Ohy Man Dieu ! what is he saying ? Am I dreaming or
awake ? "

" Miss Shirley, will you sit down and hear me out ? "

" Miss Shirley I " she said, with a sort of wildness in her
look. " If what you have dared to say be true, I have no
right to that name. It has never for one poor moment be-
longed to me 1 "

" You are quite right ; but the name, just now, is of
little consequence. Will you be pleased to sit down and
listen while I finish ? " -^ v

" I am listening — go on."

She sunk back into the seat, not leaning back this time,
but sitting erect, her little white hands clinging to one arm
of the chair, the wonderful blue eyes fixed upon him wild
and dilated. Her companion * resumed his seat and his
story ; his own eyes fixed on the carpet.

" The little girl in the convent, who bore the name of
Victoria Genevieve Shirley, but who in reality was Barbara
Wildman, remained there until she was twelve years old,
when the Indian officer, who fancied himself her father, re-
turned to England, his mother, and his native home, and
his little girl, the supposed heiress of Castle Cliflfe, wa.>» sent
for and came here. Miss Shirley, to tell you any more of
her history would be superfluous ; but perhaps you would
like to hear the story of the real, the defrauded heiress, the
supposed Barbara ? "

He paused to see if she would speak, and looked at her ;
but one glance was all he dared venture, and he lowered
his eyes and went hurriedly on :

" The sick mother knevf nothing of the change until it
was too late, and then she went frantic with grief. Old
Judith, alarmed, as she very well might be, managed to

■■'•1

WHERE THE BRIDEGROOM WAS. 253

lat

>e-

'fi

ar .

r •

•;

er
10

•

1 ;

•

n ' - -

■

, ■

remove her to London, by telling her she would recover her
child there ; and when there, gave out she was mad, and
had her imprisoned in a madhouse. It is all very dread-
ful, Miss Shirley, but I regret to repeat it is all quite true,
nevertheless."

She covered her face with her hands/^ and sunk down
among the cushions of the seat, quivering all over for a
moment, then becoming perfectly still.

" The old woman changed the name of Wildman for that
of Black ; and during the next two or three years lived on
the money paid her by Colonel Shirley. That began to
give out, and she resolved to make Colonel Shirley's daugh-
ter find her more. Barbara — the children's names, as I
told you, were changed — was a pretty little girl of nine, and
attracted the attention of the manager cf a band of stroll-
ing players. She became one c* *he hand — the most pop-
ular one among them — and for the next two years she and
her grandmother managed very well, when one day they
were astonished by the unlooked-for appearance of the trans-
ported Mr. Wildman, who had made his escape, and had
found them out. He, too, took the name of Black — Peter
Black — attached himself to the same company, and the
three went wandering over England together. Are you
listening, Miss Shirley ? "

He really thought she was not, she lay so rigid and still ;
but at the question she partly raised herself and looked
at him. "j

" Barbara Black that was — your wife that is — is then the
real Victoria Shirley ? " . ,

«*Sheis."

" He did not dare look at her ; but he felt the blue eyes
were transfixing him and reading his very heart. It was
only for a few seconds, and then she dropped down among
the cushions again and lay still.

" They came he. j to Sussex six years ago, and strange
enough settled here. The old woman and her son had each
probably their own reasons for so doing. It is an out-of-the-
way place, this little seacoast town, and the returned con-
vict was not ambitious to extend the circle of his acquaint-
ance {, and his mother, probably, was actuated by a desire to
see how her wicked and cruel plot worked. So the real and

254 'I'HB HEIRESS OF CASTI.E CLIF^E.

supposed heiress grew up, both benutif ul ; but all similarity
ended between them there — one in the lap of luxury, envied,
admired and happy ; the other wretchedly poor, little cared
for and miserable. But I, Miss Shirley, knowing nothing of
all this, loved her and married her ; and it is only wiihin the
last day or two these facts have come to my knowledge. T
beg your pardon, but are you really listening ? "

He could not tell what to make of her. She lay drooping
over the side of the chair so immovably that she might have
been dead, for all the signs of life she exhibited. But she
was very far from dead ; for she answered as she had done
before, and at once ; and the sweet voice was almost harsh,
so full was. it of suppressed inward pain.

" I am listening. Why need you ask. Go on."

" This miserable old woman was fond of you — excuse me
if I pain you — and her exultation began to come out when
she found you were to be the bride of the first gentleman in
Sussex. Her reputed granddaughter, whom she feared and
disliked, was my \vife ; all her schemes seemed accomplished,
and, in her triumph, she dropped hints that roused my sus-
picions. I followed them up, suspected a great deal, and
at last boldly accused her of all. She was frightened and
denied ; but her denials confirmed my suspicions, and at
last I forced from her the whole disgraceful truth. It
wasn't over an hour ago. I came here immediately. And
that. Miss Shirley, is the whole story."

He drew a long breath, and looked rather anxious. She
neither spoke nor moved.

"Miss Shirley I "

" I am listening."

'M have told you all. What is to be done now ? "

"You are to go and leave me."

He rose up and walked to the door.

'' Yes, Miss Shirley ; but I will remain here. Lady Agnes
and Colonel Shirley must knov/ all to-night."

He opened the door and passed out. The hall, in a blaze
of light, was deserted ; but he heard the murmur of voices
from the room opposite and from below.

" Yes," he murmured to himself ; " yes, my dear Barbara,
thanks to you, it is all mine at last.'*

DIAMOND CUT DIAMOND.

255

CHAPTER XXVI.

DIAJHOND CUT DIAMOND.

The interview between the lawyer and the bride-elect had
not lasted over a quarter of an hour ; but, as he stood in the
hall he felt that a strange and ominous silence seemed to
have fallen over the house. As he was about to descend,
the door of the rose room opened, and the pale and haughty
face of Lady Agnes looked out.

" Is your conference over ? " she asked. \

*' It is Over, my lady." ' "

" And where is my granddaughter? "

* In the drawing-room, my lady,"

" Why does she not come out ? "

" She — she — I am afraid she is not quite well, my lady."

" Not well 1 " exclaimed Lady Agnes, fixing her piercing
eyes in stern suspicion on him. " Not well I what have you
been saying to her, then ? " . ' ".

" My lady, pardon me ; but I think you had better go to
Miss Shirley directly."

" Very well, sir I And you will have the goodness to
stay where you are until this mysterious matter is cleared
up."

She swept proudly past him with a majestic rustle of her
silk skirts, and opened tlie door of the winter drawing-room.
But she paused on the threshold with a shrill shriek — such
a shriek as made Mr. Sweet turn ashy white, terrified th?5
guests below, and made her son come from the lower hall in
half a dozen fleet bounds' to her side.

Vivia had fallen to the floor, not quite prostrate, but
her hands grasping the arm of the chair, her head on them,
and her whole attitude unnatural and distorted. It was
a strange sight — the glowing room filled with amber
light, all gold and fire; the slender shape in its floating

256 THE HEIRESS OF CASTl^E CWFFE.

robes, misty vail, and sparkling bridal wreath, crouching
down in that strange, writhing position — its profusion of
long ringlets sweeping the carpet. » v

" The child has fainted 1 " screamed Lady Agnes, " or
that wretch has killed her 1 "

" Vivia, my darling 1 " cried her father, flying in and lift-
ing her in his arms. " Viviaj my child, what is the matter ? "

Lady Agnes was wrong; she had not fainted. Her
eyes were wide open, staring straight before her with a fixed,
unnatural look ; her face was quite ghastly ; but she made a
feeble motion when raised, as if struggling to get away.

" Vivia, for Heaven's sake do not look so 1 Vivia, dear-
est, do you not know me ? "

The glazed and fixed intensity slowly left her eyes, and
they came back to his face with a look of unutterable love.

" Dear papa I "

" My darling, what is this ? What ails you ? " he asked,
pushing back the curls from the pale brow, and touching it
tenderly with his lips.

" Oh, papa, don't 1 " she cried, in a voice so full of sharp
pain that he scarcely knew it ; and again the feeble struggle
to rise from his arms commenced.

Wondering exceedingly, he lifted and placed her in a
chair, just as Jeannette rushed in with smelling-salts and sal
volatile ; and Lady Agnes held a handkerchief steeped in
("ologne to her temples. A crowd had collected by this
time in the doorway, and seeing them, and revived by
stimulants, she rose up.

" Papa I Grandmamma I take me away 1 Where is Mr,
Sweet ? "

" Here, Miss Shirley," said that gentleman, presenting
himself promptly, with a very pale and startled face.

The well-bred crowd in the doorway, seeing by this time
they were de trop, hurried immediately down-stairs, and no
one remained in the drawing-room, except Vivia, her father
and grandmother, and Mr. Sweet.

" I knew no good would come out of this outrageous
interview 1 " exclaimed Lady Agnes, flashing a look on her
agent that might have scorched him, so fierce was its fire ;
" but I scarcely thought it would end like this. What have
you been saying to her, sir ? Out with it at once, and no

DIAMOND CUT DIAMOND.

257

more fooling, or I will have you thrust out within the next
five minutes I "

" My lady," hurriedly began Mr. Sweet. But Vivia
started up, all her strength recovered — more than her usual
strength for that matter. In the height of her pride and
power, she had been beaten to the- dust ; but in her last
effort she reared herself higher and prouder than ever before
in her life.

" Grandmamma, it is useless to talk to him like this.
I have heard nothing but what I should have heard before
— what he should have told us all long ago ! "

" Miss Shirley, you forgot — "

" I forget nothing, Mr. Sweet, In spite of all that you
have said, I am convinced you have known the matter all
along, and have been silent for your own ends. Those
ends are not very difficult to see, and you have accom-
plished them."

" But, my dear Vivia, what are you talking about ? " said
her father, looking to the last degree puzzled. " What does
this all mean ? "

" It means that I am not Vivia I that I have never had
a right to that name i that for twelve years I have been an
usurper ; that, in short, twelve years ago you were deceived,
and I am no daughter of yours 1"

The same unnatural look that had been in her eyes before
came back, and jarred in her tone, whose very calmness and
steadiness were unnatural, too. For the time being, quiet
as she seemed, she was quite beside herself, or, as the
French say, out of herself, and could no more have shed a
tear, or uttered a cry, or made a scene, than she could have
sunk down at their feet and died. She was not even con-
scious of sorrow at the revelation ; every nerve seemed
numb, every feeling callous, her very heart dead. She only
felt there^was a dull, heavy pain aching there; but the
swiftness and keenness of the stroke deadened every other
feeling. She stood before them, a dazzling figure, and calm
as if made of marble ; her eyes wildly bright alone betokening
momentary insanity. Lady Agnes and the colonel looked
at her as if they thought she had really gone insane.

" Vivia, what are you talking about ? I don't under-
stand."

258 THE HEIRESS OF CASTILE CI.IFFK.

h .

" It is plain, nevertheless; and sudden, and quite un«
expected as it is, I believe it all. It comes back to me, now,
what I had almost forgotten before, that Barbara was my
name long, long ago, and that she was Victoria 1 Oh, I
know it is true 1 I feel it in my heart 1 ''

The colonel turned in desperation to the lawyer. .

*' Sweet, will you explain that ? I do not comprehend a
word of what she is saying."

" Colonel Shirley, I am sorry — I am very sorry — but it is
out of my power to help you. The young lady speaks the
truth. Twelve years ago you were deceived, and she is not
your daughter."

" Not my daughter 1 "

" No, colonel I Can you remember twelve years back,
when you came from India and received her ? "

" Certainly. I remember. But what of it ? "

" it was not the person you intrusted her to that gave her
to you back, but an old woman — was it not ? " .

" Yes."

" Do you recollect what she looked like ? "

" Recollect ,' No. I did not pay so much attention to
her as that. What the deuce are you driving at, man ? "

" Only that you have seen her since 1 She lives in Lower
CliiTe, she is Black's, the fisherman's, mother — she is old
Judith I "

" By Jove ! " cried the colonel, his face lighting up with
sudden intelligence, *' I believe you are right. That woman's
face puzzled me whea I saw it. I was sure I had seen it
some place before, but could uct tell where. It is all plain
now. And it puzzled me the more, as she always seemed
dreading to look or speak to me."

" She had reason to dread you. By her you have been
most grossly and basely deceived."

" How ? " •

" The child she gave you twelve years ago was not yours,
but her own granddaughter. This young lady is not your
child I "

" What 1 " exclaimed the colonel, starting forward and
turning very pale. ** You villain 1 wliat are you daring to
say ? '-'

" The truth, Colonel Shirley, told by her own lips."

DIAMOND CUT DIAMOND.

259

" Do you mean to say — do you dare to say that Vivia is
not my daughter ? "

" I do/'

Colonel Shirley stopped and looked at him, mute with
consternation. The lawyer stood before him very pale, but
meeting his eye without quailing —sincerity and sympathy on
every feature. ,

" I know you are stunned by the suddenness of the
shock, sir. I know it is hard to believe it at first ; but it is
Heaven's truth for all that ! If you will only listen to me
five minutes, I will tell you all I have told to — " a pause —
" to this young lady 1 "

" Go on."

Mr. Sweet went on accordingly. The story was listened
to with profoundest silence, and a long and ominous pause
followed, passionately broken at last by Lady Agnes :

" It is a lie, from beginning to end ! I will never believe
a word of it ! The man has fabricated the whole thing
himself, for the purpose of trumping his own miserable wife
upon us I Cliffe, if you do right, you will make the servants ■
kick him out ! "

" I will spare your servants that trouble. Lady Agnes 1 "
said Mr. Sweet, whose face was perfectly colorless, as he
moved toward the door ; " but no amount of kicking can
alter the truth ; and justice must be had, though the heavens
fall ! "

" Stop ! " cried Colonel Shirley, in a voice that made the
room ring, " Come back I What proof can you give of the
truth of all this, beyond that of your word, and that of this
old woman, whom you may easily have bullied into the
plot ? "

" The old woman is ready to depose to the facts, on oath ;
and you can visit the daughter, if you choose, in her mad-
house, where she raves incessantly of her lost child, and
tells the story to every one who visits her. Consider, too,
the probabilities. What more natural, than that this wretch-
ed women should, with her own granddaughter, be placed
in affluence, when she had it in her power. It is not the
first time the same thing has been done, and the young lady
herself believes it."

Colonel Shirley turned to her; she was standing as be-

26o THE HEIRESS OF CASTI.E CI.IFFE.

fore. She had not moved once, but her eyes had restlessly
wandered from face to face of the speakers.

" Oh, Vivia, can you believe it ? "

" I believe it all 1 " she said, quite calmly. " I can re-
member it with perfect distinctness now. I could remember
it all along, like a dim dream, that long ago I was called
Barbara, and that I played with another child who was
Victoria. I believe it, every word ! "

"Another thing. Colonel Shirley," said Mr. Sweet, em-
boldened ; " this young lady has been said to resemble your
family very much, because she is a blonde, and so are all
your race. But Barbara is the living image of your dead
wife. I remember hec well. Here is her portrait ; look at
it for yourself."

He drew a miniature out of his pocket, and placed it
respectfully in the Indian officer's hand. It was a likeness of
Barbara, painted in ivory while in London, and strikingly
like her. Vivia, at the same instant, drew from her neck
the gold chain to which the portrait the colonel had given
her was attached, and placed it in his other hand. Strange
and striking, indeed, was the resemblance ; the same oval
contour of face, with the deep bloom on the cheeks; the
same profusion of dark, waving hair swept back from the
broad brow ; the saii^e large, uplifted eyes, clear and bright ;
the same characteristic mouth and chin ; the most striking
difference being the expression. Barbara looked far colder,
and sterner, and prouder than the other. Those faces
settled the matter. The colonel was convinced, and his
face seemed changed to marble, ere he looked up.

" The night you gave me this, papa," said Vivia, calling
him the old familiar name, " I told you they were alike, and
you said it was a chance resemblance. It was no chance
resemblance, you see now I "

"I see I But, oh, Vivia " .-

He leaned against a tall, ebony cabinet, and covered his
eyes with his hand. Lady Agnes, who had been standing in
dumb bewilderment all the time, broke out with a wild cry :

" Cliffe 1 Cliffe ! This cannot be true I You cannot be-
lieve it 1 "

"Mother, I do ! " ^' '

" Dear, dear grandmamma 1 " exclaimed Vivia, springing

DIAMOND CUT DIAMOND.

261

forward and catching her hand, terrified at her changing
face, " I will always Oh, papa, come here 1 "

For Lady Agnes, with a gasping cry, had fallen back
quite senseless. Her son caught her in his arms, and Mr.
Sweet violently rung the bell. Jeannette and Hortense
were there in a moment. Colonel Shirley carried her to
her room, and was back directly.

" Well, sir 1 " he said to Mr. Sweet, " and what now ? "

The lawyer looked really distressed and at a loss, but
Vivia came to the rescue at once.

" The first thing to be done is, to go to Lower Cliffe im-
mediately, and see this woman. I can never rest now until
the whole matter is settled. If you will wait for me, ^ ,vill
be ready to go with you in five minutes."

The colonel took both her hands in his, and looked down
pityingly and tenderly into the death-white face.

" You go, Vivia 1 You look fit to die this moment."

" I am not going to die. I never was so strong in my
life. Don't say a word, papa, it is of no use. I will not
keep you five minutes."

She disappeared in the rose room ; and both gentlemen
looked after her, more astonished by the sudden and com-
plete change the girl's whole nature seemed to have under-
gone within the hour, than by anything that had happened
that night. True to her word, she was back in an incred-
ibly short space of time, the bridal-dress doffed, and arrayed
in mantle and hat. Again objections were upon the colonel's
lips; but they died out at sight of the pale, resolute
face.

" We must go out this way," she said. " It will never do
to go down-stairs and pass all those people."

She led the way to another flight of stairs at the opposite
end of the hall, and the three went down, and out of one of
the side doors, into the shrubbery 1 The bells had ceased
to ring ; but the fireworks were still blazing ; the music still
clanging ; the people still dancing and feasting — the whole
park like a glimpse of fairy-land. What a bitter satire it
all was I and the keenest pang the colonel had yet felt, wrung
his heart as he drew Vivia's arm within his own, and hurried
by sundry by-paths, to the village. Not one word - was
spoken on the way. They hastened alongp apd soon came

362 THE HEIRESS OF CASTI,} CI.IFFE.

in sight of tl i cottage. A light shone from the windows.
The lawyer, without hesitation, opened the door and walked
in, followed by his two companions. Old Judith, cowering
..id shivering, was in her usual seat. A tallow candle, in a
dirty, brass candlestick, flared, and glittered, and dripped
6ig tears of fat all over it. No one else was present. At
sight of them, she shrunk away, holding out her arms, with
a piteous cry.

" Don't take me away I Don't send me to prison ! I
confess it all — all — all 1 "

" What have you to confess ? " aske^a Colonel Shirley,
standing sternly before her.

" I changed them, I did ! I changed them, I did ; but I
no'cr meant no harm I Oh, good gentlemen, have mercy I
I'ni an old woman now, and don't send me to prison 1 "

Vivia bent over her, with a face like that of an angel.

" You shall not be sent to prison. No one will harm you
if you speak the truth. Am I your granddaughter ? "

But the sound of the sweet voice, the sight of the lovely
face, and the earnest question, seemed to act worse than all
on old Judith ; for she sprung up and Hed into the farthest
corner of the room, as she had done once before, long ago,
at sight of Mr. Sweet, holding out her arms in a sort of
horror.

" Speak, woman I " cried the colonel, striding forward.
" Speak at once, and tell me if you gave me your grand-
daughter, twelve years ago, and kept my child ? "

" Papa, papa, she is in a fit ! " exclaimed Vivia, in terror.

It was true. Whether from fear or some other cause, the
wretched woman had fallen back fn a fit of paralysis, her
features blackened and convulsed, the foam oozing from
her lips — a horrible sight to iook on. Of all the terrible
changes of that fatal bridal-night, there was nothing to equal
this ; and Vivia covered her face with her hands, and turned
away, shuddering, from the revolting spectacle.

" If ycu'U have the kindness to knock at the cottage next
door," said Mr. Sweet, who had sprung forward and lifted
her up, " I'll place her on the bed and send a messenger
for the doctor."

The colonel obeyed, quite horror-stricken, and the women
from the next house came flocking in. A man was sent v

DIAMOND CUT DIAMOND.

263

hot haste to Cliftonlea for a doctor, and Mr. Sweet con-
signed old Judith to their care.

'* Do any of you know where heir son is ? " he asked.
One of the women did ; and, with numberless courtesies to
her master and he»" young lady, told how, a couple of hours
before, he had iU d the cottage, and, after staying for
some ten minu' **s, h < left it again in haste, and took the
road for the ^ <» 1. rhcii, as they could do no more, the
two left, and ^ x^^sk i for a moment in the moonlight.

" Nothing mo : can be done to-night," remarked Mr.
Sweet; "an- wi*^h your permission, I will return home."

" As you jy«ease ; but I shall expect you very early to-
morrow, and — your wife also. Now that we have com-
menced, this matter must be investigated to the bottom."

Raising his hat coldly and haughtily, the colonel turned
away, and Mr. Sweet hurried off rapidly toward his own
home. It was late when he reached it — the cathedral clock
was striking eleven. Most of the houses were silent and
dark ; but a light burned in his, and his knock at the door
was promptly answered. Elizabeth looked rather startled ;
but he did not notice that, and hurried at once into the
parlor, where his wife usually sat up to all hours. She was
not there to-night. And he ran up to her room. She was
not there either. But something else was — something that
made Mr. Sweet pause on the threshold, as if a hand of iron
had thrust him back. Over the bed, over the floor, over the
table, clear in the moonlight, lay all the gifts he had ever given
her, before and after their marriage. Something gleamed
at his feet. He stooped and picked it up. A broken ring
— broken into three or four pieces — but he knew it at once.
It was his wife's wedding-ring, broken and trodden in the
dust, like the vows she had plighted — vows that were brit-
tle as glass — slippery withes, that she had snapped like
hairs, and trampled under her feet as she had trampled the
ring that bound them. He saw all in an instant ; and in
that instant his face altered so frightfully, that no one would
have known it. He tore down the stairs, livid with fear
and fury, to find himself baffled in the very hour of triumph,
and clutched Elizabeth by the arm in a terrible grip.

" Where is your mistress ? '' he cried, furiously.

" Please, sir, she is gone.! " said the terrified handmaid.

264 THE HEIRESS OF CASTI.E CUFFB.

'* Gone ! Gone where ? Speak, or I'll strangle you I '*

" Please, sir, I don't know. The gentleman went away ;
and the next I saw, she went out the back way, in her bon-
net and shawl ; and it was dark, and I couldn't see where
she went."

" Who was the gentleman ? Who was he ? " Mr. Sweet
almost screamed, shaking the girl until she writhed in his
grasp.

" Please, sir, it was young Mr. Cliflfe. Oh, Lor', let go
my arm 1 "

Mr. Sweet clapped on his hat and rushed out like a mad-
man. Through the streets he tore, knocking down every-
thing and everybody that came in his way. He fled through
Lower ClifEe, through the park-gates, up the avenue, and
into the house. Everybody ran screaming before him ; but
he rushed on until he found himself in the presence of Sir
Roland Cliffe, Colonel Shirley, and the crowd of unknown
ladies and gentlemen.

" She is gone I she is gone i " he screamed, frantically.
** They have both gone together. My wife has -eloped with
Leicester Cliffe 1" ,

on-
ere

WHAT LAY ON THK NUN'S GRAVE. 265

eet
his

CHAPTER* XXVII.

ad-
;ry-
igh
ind

but
Sir
wn

lly.
ith

WHAT LAY ON THE NUN's GRAVE.

Within the memory of the oldest inhabitant, that pleasant-
spoken gentleman, the agent of Lady Agnes Shirley, had
never been known to be otherwise than perfectly self-pos-
sessed and equal to any emergency. The said legal gentle-
man had imagined himself that nothing earthly could have
moved his admirable sang froid ; but, on the present occa-
sion, both he and the oldest inhabitant found their mistake.
Ever afterward, he had a very vague and indistinct idea of
what followed his startling announcement. He had a
dim recollection oi a sense of suffocation ; of a roaring sound
in his ears ; of being the center of a surging sea of white
and terrified faces ; of hearing cries and exclamations ; and,
deep and high over all, the clear, authoritative voice of Colo-
nel Shirley, giving some orders. Then he felt himself car-
ried away and laid on a bed ; felt mistily that some one was
bleeding him, rnd some one else holding ice to his hot head ;
of being relieved from the unpleasant sense of strangulation,
and at last of gradually dropping off into a profound and
dreamless sleep ; and, being left alone in his distant room
to sleep the sleep of the just, he knew nothing of what was
going on in the other parts of the great mansion — how Sir
Roland Cliffe had dropped down in a fit of apoplexy, and
been borne away to another ch nber, a dreadful sight —
how the guests had all dispersed in consternation and dis-
may ; how the news had flown like wildfire through the
town ; how the lights had been put out, the tenantry sent
home all agape, Castle Cliffe shut up in silence and darkness,
an^ the crowd of servants — an hour before so busy and
bustling — grouped together in the lower regions, talking in
hushed and awe-struck whispers, and never thinking of bed.
How Colonel Shirley was pacing ceaselessly up and dowa

266 THE HEIRESS OF CASTI.E CLIFFS.

the lower hall, and unable to stop for one instant ; how the
head doctor of the town was flying incessantly from Sir
Roland to Lady Agnes ; and how she who should have felt it
all the most was the calmest and most collected person in the
house. In a simple morning-wrapper, all her bright curls
gathered up and confined in a net, Yivia bent over Lady
Agnes, very pale, very quiet, very calm, obeying all the doc-
tor's directions implicitly ; and when at last that lady con-
sented to come out of her hysterics, swallowed an opiate,
and fell asleep, the ex-bride left her to the care of a nurse,
and went away to her own room — her own pretty rose room
— wherein she had so often slept the innocent sleep of care-
less girlhood — that she never, never could sleep more. Over
the mantel, looked down on her still the sweet, majestic
face, encircled by the golden halo ; and Vivia dropped down
before it, her face hidden in her hands, and prayed as only
those pray who see the whole world darkening around them,
and no light but the light of Heaven. Long ago, when a
little child, she had knelt before the great altar in her dear
old convent, in sunny France, and prayed as she was doing
now, and " Oh ! " cried Vivia*s heart, " if I had only died
then 1 "

And Mr. Sweet, sleeping serenely, as all good men should
do, knew nothing of all this, and never woke until the sun
mer sunbeams were glancing in through the curtains. Then
he awoke with a jerk from some unpleasant dream, and rose
slowly up on his elbow, a little confused and bewildered
still. His right arm felt stiff and sOre, and looking down,
he saw it was bandaged, and the bandage stained with blood.
That recalled the bleeding, and the bleeding recalled the
rest ; and feeling his head a little hot and giddy still, he got
out of bed, filled a basin with cold water, and plunged his
cranium into it. This cooling process had the desired ef-
fect — having mopped his yellow hair dry with a towel, he
felt he was his own collected, clear-headed self again, and
sat down on the edge of the bed to dress himself slowly,
and think over all that had happened. To sleep over a
matter sometimes changes its complexion very materially ;
and Mr. Sweet's first idea was one of wonder, how he ever
could have been such a ninny as to be overcome for a mo-
ment by the little affair of last night. It was true, all the

WHAT I,AY ON THE NUN'S GRAVE. 267

plans he had been forming and cherishing so long were
knocked in the head at one blow ; but he could still form
new plans, and nobody knew better than he that all is not
lost that is in danger. His wife, Colonel Shirley's daughter
and heiress, had eloped, to be sure, but there was yet a pos-
sibility that she might be found again and reclaimed ; and,
for his part, he was a sufficiently good Christian to overlook
the little episode and take her back again, as if nothing had
happened. Even should she refuse to come back — it would
be just like Barbara to do it — that did not alter in the least
the facts of the case, she was none the less his wife and the
heiress of Castle Cliffe. The only thing he blamed himself
for was, not having told her all beforehand. It might have
prevented this disagreeable contretemps. But it was too late
now, and

Here Mr. Sweet's meditations were cut short by a rap at
the door.

*' Come in 1 '* he called ; and Hurst, Colonel Shirley's
valet, came in accordingly.

"Ah, good morning, Hurst!" said Mr. Sweet, blandly,
hastily putting the finishing touches to his toilet.

Mr. Hurst bowed respectfully.

" Good morning, sir. How do you find yourself this
morning ? "

•* Much better, thank you — quite well, I may say."

** Then my master sends his compliments, and begs you
will come to him immediately."

Mr. Sweet being quite as anxious to see the colonel as
that gentleman corld possibly be to see him, needed no
second invitation' and followed, the valet with alacrity through
various halls, dov> a-stairs and iito the morning-room. Colo-
nel Shirley was \bere, di-essea is on the preceding evening,
walking restlessly Up and down still, and looking very pale,
very stern. He stopped and glanced searchingly at the law-
yer's melancholy face.

" Are you better ? " he asked, briefly.

" Quite recovered, thank you. I scarcely know yet how
it happened, or what was the matter with me."

" A rush of blood to the head, or something that way. I
hope you remember the extraordinary announcement you
came rushing here with, just as you were taken ? "

•t

268 THE HEIRESS OF CASTI.E CLIFFE.

t.ii

Mr. Sweet raised a pair of reproachful eyes.

" It would be still more extraordinary, colonel, if I could
ever forget it. When a man's wife elopes, it is not likely ta
slip from his memory in a single night." ^

" It is quitr^ true, then ? "

" Entirely 1" * '

" And Barbara has fled ? " ,

"She has."

" And with Leicester Cliff e ? "

"Yes." ■;..'./

Mr. Sweet put his handkerchief to his eyes, and turned
awav to conceal his emotion.

" How did you discover it ? What proof have you of it ? '*
continued the colonel, rapidly, casting a somewhat cynical
eye on his bereaved companion.

" There can be no doubt of the fact, colonel," said the
lawyer, in a tremulous tone. " I wish to Heaven there was !
My wife has fled ; and Leicester Cliffe is a traitor and vil-
lain!"

" Be good enough, sir, to keep to the point. What proof
have you of what you say ? "

" Colonel, last night, when I went home, my servant — we
keep only one — met me at the door, and told me her mis-
tress had left the house, and was not returned ; that Mr.
Leicester Cliffe had been there with her all the evening, and
that his departure had preceded hers but a few moments. I
went over the house in search of her. In her room I found
scattered about all I had ever given her — her wedding-ring
i^ioken and lying on the ground among the rest. There
was no longer a doubt ; and, almost beside myself, I came
'here with the news."

" And that is all the proof you have that they have fled
together ? " . • '. '

" I scarcely think that any more is required. What else
could have caused his absence last night ? "

" But why in Heaven's name should he elope with your
wife ? " exclaimed the colonel, impatiently. " What did he
care for Barbara ? "

" A great deal. Colonel Shirley 1 " said Mr. Sweet, quietly,
" since he was in love with her, and promised to marry her,
before ever he saw your daugh — I mean Miss Vivia 1 "

>,;

WllAT LAY ON THE NUN'S GRAVE. 269

Colonel Shirley stopped in his excited walk, and looked
at him with so much astonishment that Mr. Sweet felt called
upon to explain.

" Last May day, sir, he saw her. She was the May
Queen ; and he fell in love with her, I take it, on the spot.
From that time, until he went to London, they were insepa-
rable. The people in Lower CliflFe could tell you the moon-
light walks on the shore, and the sails on the water ;. and the
lodge-keepers could tell you many a tale of their rambles in
the park under the trees. Sir Roland knew it all ; but he
took good care to keep silent ; and I believe, but for him,
Mr. Leicester would never have accepted my lady's invita-
tion, and gone up that time to London."

Still the colonel stood silently looking at him, in stern
inquiry.

" The evening before he went, sir, I chanced to be stroll-
ing about under the trees down there, near the Nun's Grave,
when I happened to hear voices ; and, looking through the
branches, I saw Mr. Leicester and Barbara together, ex-
changing vows of love and promising everlasting fidelity.
He told her — he almost swore— he would marry her secretly
when he came back ; and they would fly to America, or some
other distant place ; and, then, not wishing to be an eaves-
dropper, I hurried away from the spot."

" Well," said Colonel Shirley, his stern eyes still immov-
ably fixed on his companion, " and how came Barbara to
marry you after this ? "

" For spite, sir I A woman would sell her soul for spite ;
and I, I loved her so well that was only too happy to marry
her, no matter what was the motive."

Again Mr. Sweet's handkerchief came in requisition ; and
Colonel Shirley seized the bell-rope and rung a violent peal.
The valet appeared.

" Hurst, bring my breakfast immediately, and order round
my horse and another for this gentleman."

Hurst flew to obey. The lawyer used his handkerchief,
and the colonel strode up and down unceasingly, until break-
fast appeared. Mr. Sweet was invited to take a seat, which
he did ; and despite his illness and his bereavement, drank
the strong coffee and ate the buttered waffles with infinite
relish. But the colonel neither ate nor drank j and, throw-

270 THE HEIRESS OF CASTI.E CUFFE. ^

ing a large military cloak over his evening costume, imper-
atively ordered him to come out, mount, and follow him.

" Where to, sir ? ** Mr. Sweet took the liberty of in-
quiring.

" To your house, sir " the colonel answered, sternly.

" You do not doubt what I told you, colonel ? "

" I shall investigate the matter myself," reiterated the
colonel, coldly.

" And after that, sir ? " again Mr. Sweet ventured.

" After that, sir ?" cried the colonel, turning his paleface
and flashing eyes full on his companion. " After that, I
shall search for them, if it be to the ends of the earth 1 And
if, when they are found, things should turn out as I more
than half suspect, you, Mr. Sweet, had better look to your-
self I Now, come on 1 "

With this last abrupt order, given in the same ringing tone
of command with which, in former days, he had headed
many a gallant charge, the colonel dashed spurs into his
horse and galloped down the avenue. Mr. Sweet followed
and kept up to him as best he could, in silence ; for he had
enough to do to keep up within sight of his reckless leader,
without thinking of talking. Early as the hour was, Clif-
tonlea was up and doing; and the people stared with all
their eyes as the two riders dashed past. The lawyer's house
v/as soon gained, and the Indian officer was storming at
the knocker as if he thought it was an enemy's fortress.
Elizabeth answered the appalling clatter, so terrified by the
noise that she was fit to drop ; and the colonel strode in and
caught her by the arm.

"Is this the servant you spoke of, Mr. Sweet ? "

" This is the servant, sir," said Mr. Sweet.

And Elizabeth's mouth flew open, and her complexion
turned sea-green, with terror.

" My good girl, you need not be frightened. I am not
going to hurt you. I merely want you to answer me a few
questions. What time did your master leave home yester-
day afternoon ? "

" Please, sir," gasped Elizabeth, quaking all over, " it
were nigh onto seven o'clock. I know I was in the h^ll
when he went out, and the clock struck seven a little
after."

1*1

WHAT I,AY ON THK NUN'S GRAVK. 271

" Was your mistress at home then ? "

'' Please, sir, yes. She was in the parlor."

" Who was with her ? "

" Please, sir, nobody. It was after that he come."

" Who came ? "

" Young Mr. Cliffe, please, sir — Mr. Leicester."

** How long did he stay ? "

" Please, sir, a good long while. Him and missis was
a-talking in the parlor ; and it was after dark when he went
away."

" Did yom* mistress go with him ? Did he go alone ? "

" Please, sir, yes. And missis she come out all dressed
in her bonnet and shawl, a little after, and went out the back
Avay ; and she ain't never come back since."

" Do you know which way she went ? "

" Please, sir, no ; I don't. I don't know nothing else. I
declare for't," said Elizabeth, putting her apron to her
countenance, and beginning to whimper.

It was quite evident she did not. The colonel dropped a
gold coin into her hand, went out, remounted, followed in
silence still by Elizabeth's master.

" To Cliffewood I " was the second sententious order.

And again away they galloped over " brake, bush and
scar," to the great mental and physical discomfort of one of
them at least.

A rumor of the extraordinary events going on at the
castle hall reached Cliffewood, and a flock of curious serv-
ants met them as they entered. The colonel singled out
one of them — Sir Roland's confidential ; and he followed the
two gentlemen into the drawing-room.

" Edwards," he began, " what time did Mr. Leicester
leave here for the castle, yesterday ? Sir Roland, you know,
came early, and he remained behind."

" I know, sir. It was about sunset Mr. Leicester left, I
think."

" He was out all day. Did he dress, or did he leave in
what he had worn previously ? " • .

'•No, sir. He was in full evening dress." ^

, " Did he walk or ride ? " ^ v

"He left here on foot, sir." v ,

" Do you know which way he took ?

^< I

»»

'ik:

1^^

272 THE HEIRESS OF CASTl^E C%IFFE.

" Yes, sir. He took the road direct to the town." :.. ,

"And you have not seen or heard of him since?"
, "No, sir."

The colonel turned as abruptly as before, and strode outt
followed still by the mute lawyer.

" To Lower Cliffe 1 " came again the order.

And once more they were dashing through the town, and
on and on, until they reached the road that turned oflE to-
ward the village. Here the horses were left at the Cross
Roads Inn — an inn where, many a time and oft, Leicester
Cliffe had left his gallant gray when going to visit Barbara ;
and they struck down the rocky footpath that led to the
cottage. The wonderful news had created as much sensa-
tion in the village as the town, and curious faces came to
the doors and windows as they passed, and watched them
eagerly until they vanished within Peter Black's roof-tree.
The cottage looked unusually tidy, and three gentlemen
stood near one of the windows conversing earnestly ; and in
those three the nev/comers recognized : Mr. Jones, the town
apothecary ; Squire Channing, the village magistrate, and in
the third, no less an individual than the bishop of Cliftonlea.
This latter august personage held in his hand a paper which
he had been diligently perusing ; and with it in his hand, he
came forward to address the colonel. «

" Ah 1 you've come at last 1 I feared our messenger
would scarcely find you in time."

" What messenger ? "

" Joe, the game-keeper's son. Did you not see him ? "

" No. ' What did he want of me ? "

" That wretched old woman," said the bishop, jerking his
thumb over his shoulder toward the door of Judith's bed-
chamber, " recovered her speech and her senses during the
night, as many do at the point of death ; for she is dying,
and became frantic in her entreaties for a clergyman and a
magistrate. Considering the matter, I could do no less than
come myself ; Mr. Channing accompanied me, and Mr.
Jones followed shortly after, but too latr *o be of any serv-
ice, The woman is at the point of death."

" And what did she want ? "

" To make a dying deposition concerning the truth of
the story Mr. Sweet told you last night. She stated the

guilt^'

WHAT I.AY ON THE NUN'S GRAVE. 273

case clearly and distinctly. Here it is in black and white ;
and she was most anxious to see you ; and Providence must
have sent you, since Joe has not succeeded. Come in at
once. There is no time to lose."

The colonel followed him into the chamber. Old Judith
lay on the bed, her eyes restless, and the gray shadow of
coming death over her face. The prelate bent over her in
his urbane way.

" My good woman, here is Colonel Shirley."

The eyes, dulling in death, turned from their restless
wandering and fixed themselves on the colonel's face.

" It is true 1 " she whispered, he irsely. " It is all true !
I am sorry for it now, but I changed them ; Barbara is your
child. It drove her mad, and I'm dying with it all on my
, soul!"

She stopped speaking suddenly ; he face turned livid ;
the death-rattle sounded in her throat , she half sprung up,
and fell back dead I Colonel Shirley stood for a moment,
horror-struck, and then turned and hastily left the room. If
one Ungering do ht remained 0:1 his mind, concerning the
truth of the stc

" She has g<
panions. " It

They all Ir the house, and bent their steps in the di-
rection of th I .rk-gates. The colonel, the bishop, and the
magistrate, going first ; the lawyer and the apothecary fol-
lowing.

" Have you ^een this old woman's son — this Peter Black ? "
asked Colonel Shirley, as they walked along.

" No," said Mr. Channing. ♦' The nurse mentioned that
he had not been seen since yesterday evening."

" Is it true ^Lout the elopement ? " asked the bic,hop, in a
low voice.

"Quite true."

" How dreadful it all is, and yet how calmly you bear it,
Cliffe ? "

The colonel turned on him a look — a look that answered
him without words — and they walked on. in silence When
the bishop spoke again, if was in an uncommonly subdued
tone.

it had all van '.shed ?iow.
i," said the bishcp, addressing his corn-
useless remaining longer here. Let us

'.'! M

% III
if ■

274 I'HE HEIRESS OF CASTLE CUFFE.

"How are Sir Roland and Lady Agnes, this morning? I
should have been up to see, but for——"

The sentence was never finished. A yell broke the si-
lence — a yell to which an Indian war-whoop was as nothing;
and out from among the trees burst Joe, the game-keeper's
son, with a face of ghastly whiteness, hair standing on end,
and eyes starting from their sockets. At sight of them, an-
other yell which he was setting up seemed to freeze on his
lips, and he, himself, stood stock-still, rooted to the spot.
At the same instant, Squire Chaniiing set up an echoing
shout :

*' There goes Tom Shirley I Look how he runs I "

They looked ; bursting out from the trees, in another di-
rection, was a tall figure, its black hair flowing. It vanished
again, almost as soon as it appeared, into a by-path ; and
they turned their attention to the seemly horror-struck young
person before them.

" What is the matter ? What has frightened you, my
boy ? '' asked the bishop.

" Oh, my Lord 1 Oh, colonel, oh, colonel 1 " gasped Joe,
almost paralyzed, " he's dead I he's killed I he's murdered 1 "

The three gentlemen looked at each other, and then, in
wonder, at Joe.

" He's up here on the Nun's Grave ; he is, with his head
all sniashed to pieces. Come, quick, and see 1 "

They followed him up the avenue, into the by-path, under
tlie gloomy elms, to the forsaken spot. A figure lay there,
on its face, its hat off, a terrible gash on the back of the
head, where it had been felled down from behind — its own
fair brown hair, and the grass arounu, soaked in blood.
Though the face was hidden in the dust, the moment they
saw it they knew who it was, and all recoiled as if struck
back by a giant hand. It was the colonel who recovered
first, and, stooping, he raised the body and turned the face
to the garish sunlight. The blood that had rained down
from the gash in the head had discolored it all, but they
knew it — knew that, on the. spot where he had prayed for a
short life if he proved false, Leicester Cliffe lay cold and
deadl

MAISON DK DEUIL*

875

SI-

>■ " ' '^

CHAPTER XXVIII.

MAISON DE DEl'IL.

Murdered ! there could be no doubt of it — this, then,
was whei : ' e bridegroom was. While they had been ac-
cusing him in their thoughts, and vowing future vengeance,
he had been lying here, assassinated by some unknown
hand. The faces of all had whitened with horror at the
sight; but Colonel Shirley, whose stern calmness nothing
seemed able to move, lifted his head an instant after, with a
face that looked as if changed to stone."

" A horrible murder has been done here I My boy,"
turning to Joe, whose teeth were chattering in his head,
" how and when did you discover this ? "

" It were just now, sir," replied Joe, keeping far from the
body, and looking at it in intensest terror. " My lord and
Mr. Channing, they sent me up to the castle a-looking for
you, sir, and you waju't there ; and I was a-coming back to
tell them, so I was, f own this way, which it's a short cut to
Lower Cliffe ; and as I got here, I saw a man standing up
and looking down on this here, which it were Mr. Tom
Shirley, as I knowed the minute I seen him. Then, sir, he
turned round, and when he saw me, he ran away ; and then
I saw him lying there, all over blood ; and I got frightened
and ran away, too ; and then I met you ; and that's every-
thing I know about it."

" Can Tom Shirley be the murderer ? " asked the bishop,
in a low, deep voice.

" Circumstances, at least, are strong enough against him
to warrant his arrest," said Mr. Channing. " As a magis-
trate, I feel it my duty to go in search of him before he
escapes."

He hurried away, as he spoke ; and the colonel, taking
off his large military cloak, spread it on the ground.

276 THE HEIRESS OF CASTILE CI^IFFE.

" Help me to place the body on this," he said, quietly ;
and, with the assistance>of Mr. Sweet, the still-bleeding form
was laid upon it, and covered from the mocking sunlight in
its folds. Then, at another motion from the colonel, the
apothecary and the lawyer lifted it by the lower ends, while
he himself took the head, and they slowly turned with their
dreadful burden toward the house. Joe followed at a re-
spectful distance, still with an excessively scared and horri-
fied visage. .^

Mr. Channing had, meantime, been making an arrest.
Getting over the ground with tremendous sweeps of limb,
he had nearly reached the house, thinking to call the servants
to aid him in his search, when he espied a tall, dark figure
leaning against a tree, one arm thrown over a high branch,
and the head, with all its dark curls, bare to the morning
breeze, lying thereon. The magistrale went up and dropped
his hand heavily on the shoulder of the drooping figure, and
Tom Shirley lifted his face and looked at him. What a
face 1 What a change in a few brief days ! Usually it was
red enough and bold enough ; but now it was almost ghastly
in its thinness and pallor. The face of the murdered man
could scarcely have been more corpse-like — the black hair
heightening the effect, as it hung damp and disordered around
it, and the black eyes looking unnaturally large and sunken.
Nothing, Mr. Channing thought, but remorse for some
enacted crime could have wrought so vivid a change ; but
then, perhaps, Mr. Channing had never been in love — at all
events, so crazily in love — and been jilted, like po(5r Tom
Shirley.

" Well 1 " said Tom, in a voice as hollow, and changed,
and unnatural, as his face.

" Mr. Shirley, it is my painful duty to arrest you."

Tom sprung erect as if some one had struck him. *

" Arrest me I What do you mean ? "

" Mr. Shirley, I am very sorry ; but duty must be fulfilled,
nd it is mine to make you my prisoner."

" Your prisoner, sir ! " exclaimed Tom,, in something like
his customary tone, shaking him off as if he had been a baby.
" On what charge ? "
- " On that of murdering your cousin, Leicester Cliffe."

Tom stood perfectly still — stunned. A volley of fierce

MAISON DE DEUII^

277

words, that had been rising hotly to his lips, seemed to
freeze there. His face turned dark-red, and then whiter
than before, and the arm he had raised dropped powerless
by his side. Whatever the emotion which prompted the dis-
play, the magistrate set it down to one cause, guilt ; and
again laid his hand firmly on the young man's shoulder.

" I regret it, Tom, but it must be done. I beg you will
not offer any resistance, but will come with me peaceably to
the house. Ah I there they go with the body now 1 "

Tom compressed his lips and lifted up his head.

" I will go with you, Mr. Channing. It matters very little
what becomes of me one way or the other ! "

He raised his hat from the ground, to which it had fallen ;
and they walked on together, side by side. The body was
borne before them into the morning-room, and through that
into a smaller one, used by Vivia as a studio. It was strewn
with easels, blank canvas, busts, and lay figures ; and on a
low couch therein their burden was laid. The cloak was re-
moved. The colonel sent one of the servants in search of
the physician, who had remained all night in the house,
stc-.ily warning the rest not to let a word of the event reach
the ears of Lady Agnes or the young ladies. Hurst brought
in warm water and sponge, and the blood was washed off
the dead face. It was perfectly calm — there was no dis-
tortion to mar its almost womanly beauty, or to show that
he had suffered in the last struggle. The blue eyes were
wide open in the cold glaze of death ; and the bishop, bend-
ing down, had just closed them reverently, as the physician
came in. The examination that followed was brief. The
blow had evidently been given by a thick club, and he had
been struck but once — death following almost instantaneously.
The deed, too, from the appearance of the wound, must
have been committed some hours previously ; for the blood
on his clothes was thickly clotted and dry. In silence they
left the studio, and gathered together in the morning-room.
The colonel had warned the servants to keep quiet ; but
who ever knew warnings to avail in such cases ? Half a
dozen gentlemen, the guests who had remain*"' in the house
the previous night, had been told, and v o rhere already.
The magistrate had taken a seat of authority, and prepared
to hold a sort of inquest and investigate the matter. The

• 4

;

878 THE HEIRESS OF CASTILE ClylFFE.

■ ♦
prisoner stood near a window, drawn up to his full height,

with folded arms, looking particularly proud, and especially

scornful, guarded by Messrs. Sweet and Jones. The colonel

took a seat, and motioned the rest to follow his example ;

and Mr. Channing desired Hurst, keeping sentry at the

door, to call in Joe.

Joe, standing in the hall, telling his story over and over
again to a curious crowd of servants, came in, looking scared
as ever, and told his tale once more, keeping to the same
facts steadily, in spite of any amount of cross-questioning.
When this first witness was dismissed, the bishop turned to
the prisoner.

" Tom, what have you to say to all this ? "

" Nothing, my lord."

" Is what this boy says true ? Did he really discover you
by the body ? "

" He did."

" And why, if you are not guilty, should you fly at his
approach ? "

*< I did nothing of the sort. Joe makes a mistake there ;
for I never saw him at all."

" And how do you account for your presence there ? "

" Very simply, my lord. I chanced to be walking through
the grounds, and came to that particular spot by mere ac-
cident."

" How long had you been there when Joo discovered
you ? "

" I did not remain five minutes altogether. I saw and rec-
ognized who it was ; and when I recovered from the first
shock of horror, I turned and fled to give the alarm."

Mr. Channing leaned over and spoke in a low voice to
Colonel Shirley.

" Some one told me, when here last evening, that the
prisoner has been absent for several days — is it true ? "

" Yes."

" Mr. Shirley," said the magistrate, speaking aloud, " you
have been absent for the past week — will you inform us
where ? "

" I have been absent," said Tom, coldly. ** I have been
in Cliftonlea."

"Where?"

T.'

MAISON DE DEUIL.

279

«* At the Cliflfe Arms."

" Why were you not at home ? "

" I decline answering that question, sir."

" Were you in the town last night ? "

♦' No, sir; I was on the grounds."

Everybody looked at each other blankly. Tom stood up
haughty and defiant, evidently perfectly reckless what he
admitted.

" It is very strange," said Mr. Channing, slowly, "that
you should have been there instead of at the house here —
your proper place. What reasons had you for such a
course ? "

" I decline answering that question, too I I decline,"
said Tom, with compressed lips and flashing eyes, " answer-
ing any more questions whatever. My motives are my own ;
and you nor any one else shall ever hear them ! "

There was very little need for Tom to make his motives
known. Not one present — the colonel, perhaps, alone ex-
cepted — but knew how madly he had been in love with his
cousin, and that his furious jealousy of the accepted lover
had driven him from home. All knew his violent temper,
too ; his fierce outbursts of passion ; and believing him guilty,
not one of them needed to be told the cause of his prowling
about in the grounds in secret last night. Dead silence fol-
lowed, broken by a rap at the door. Hurst opened it, and
the gamekeeper entered, carrying in his hand a great bludg-
eon, all stained with blood and thickly-matted tufts of
hair.

" Gentlemen," said the man, coming forward and bowing,
" this here is what did the deed 1 I found it lying among
the marsh grass, where it had been chucked. You can see
the blood and the hairs sticking in it. I know the stick very
well. I have seen it lying down there near the Nun's Grave
fifty times."

The gentlemen examined the stick — a murderous-looking
bludgeon, with a thick head, full of great knobs and knots
—capable, in a strong hand, of felling an ox.

" And, gentlemen," continued the gamekeeper, " I have
something else to say. Last evening, about half-past eight,
as I was standing down near the park gates, I saw Mr. Lei-
cester come through, walking very fast. I thought, of

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28o THE HEIRESS OF CASTILE CI.IFFE.

course, he was going up to the castle, and had come through
Lower Cliffe by way of a short cut."

" Was he alone ? " asked Mr. Channing.

"Yes, sir."

" Did you see any one following him ? "

" I didn't wait to see, sir. Me and some more went up to
see the fireworks, and that was the last I saw of him."

" I think the facts are quite strong enough to warrant his
committal," said Mr^ Channing to the colonel.

" I think so ! " was the cold reply.

And the warrant of committal was made out immediately.
Then there was a general uprising ; a carriage was ordered,
and Mr. Channing approached Tom.

" I am sorry — I am very sorry — but "

" Don't distress yourself, Mr. Channing," said Tom,
cynically. " I am ready to go with you at any moment."

The bishop came over, and began, in his urbane way,
some pious admonition ; to which Tom listened as unmoved
as if he were talking Greek. The carriage came round to the
door, and he and Mr. Channing turned to go. One glance
he cast back toward the- colonel ; but he was standing w?*^h
his face averted ; and Tom passed the great portico of
Castle Cliffe, the home of his boyhood, for the last time, and
in five minutes was on his way to Cliftonlea jail, to be tried
for his life for wilful murder.

And still the news fled ; and while the examination was
going on below, it had been whispered, up-stairs, and down-
stairs and had reached the ears of her who should have been
the last to hear it. As all slowly dispersed from the morn-
ing-room, the colonel turned into the studio to take one last
look at what lay there, and found that another had preceded
him. Besides the door of communication with the morning-
room, the studio had another opening in the hall. It stood
wide now ; and standing over the rigid form, gazing at it as
if the sight were slowly turning her to marble, was Vivia !

" Vivia I My God 1 " cried the colonel, in horror. " What
do you do here ? " „ - r^i , '-

She turned and lifted her eyes ; and the next moment, with-
out word or cry, she had fallen back senseless in his
arms.

It was the first time in his life he had ever seen Vivia

MAISON DK DEUII..

281

a suppressed
« Tell me, or

faint. She was of too sanguine a temperament for that ; and
he nearly tore the bell down in his frantic summons for help,
as he quitted the room of death and carried her up to her
chamber. Jeannette came in dismay, with smelling-salts
and cologne ; and leaving her in her charge, the colonel went
out. In the hall he was encountered by Margaret, looking,
like everybody else, pale and wild.

" Is it true ? What is this story they are telling ? Has
Leicester CUffe been murdered ? "

" Margaret, go to your room ! It is no story for you to
hear ! "

" I must hear ! " exclaimed Margaret, in
voice, her dark eyes filling with a dusky fire.
I shall die I"

He looked at her in wonder.

" Margaret, you are ill. You look like a ghost ! Do go
to your own room and lie down."

" Will you tell me, or shall I go and see for myself ? "

"If you will hear such horrors, it is quite true 1 He has
been murdered ! "

" And they have arrested some one for it," she hoarsely
whispered.

" They have arrested Tom Shirley."

She clasped both hands over her heart, and a spasm
crossed her face.

" And do you believe him guilty ? "

" I do," he coldly and sternly said.

She sunk down with a sort of cry.

But he had other things to think of besides her ; and he
left her leaning against the wall, her hands still clasped over
her heart, and her face working in a sort of inward anguish.
So she stood for nearly an hour, without moving, and then
Jeannette came out of the rose-room, crying and wiping her
eyes, followed by Vivia, who seemed to have no tears to
shed.

" You ought to lie down and be nursed yourself, made-
moiselle, instead of going to nurse other people," cried the
bonne. " You are hardly fit to stand now ! "

" It will not be for long, Jeannette," said Vivia, wearily.

All my labors here will soon be at an end."

Your grandmamma won't see you, either ; so your going

((

282 THE HEIRESS OF CASTI.E CI.IFFE.

is of no use. Hortense told me that she gave orders you
were not to be admitted to her room."

It was quite true. In the revulsion of feeling that followed
the awakening from her hysteria, Lady Agnes had been
seized with a violent aversion to seeing her once almost
idolized granddaughter. She could no longer think of her
without also thinking of her connection with some wretched
old woman in Lower Cliffe and a returned transport. She
felt — unjustly enough — as if Vivia had been imposing on her
all her life, and that she never wanted to see her again. And
so, when Hortense opened the door in answer to the well-
known gentle tap, she was quietly and firmly refused admit-
tance, and the door civilly shut in her face. It was only one
more blow added to the rest — only fulfilling the rude but ex-
pressive adage, •* When a dog is drowning, every one offers
him water " — but Vivia tottered as she received it, and stood
for a moment clinging to the gilded stair-balustrade for sup-
port, with everything swimming around her. Then this, too,
passed, as all blows do, and she walked back, almost totter-
ing as she went, to her own room.

Even there, still another blow awaited her. Margaret stood
in the middle of the floor, her face livid, her eyes blazing.

" Oh, Margaret 1 " was Vivia's cry, as she dropped her
head on her shoulder.

But Margaret thrust her off with repulsion.

" Don't touch me — don't ! " she said, in the same sup-
pressed voice. " You murderess I "

Vivia had been standing looking at 4ier as a deer dioes
with a knife at its throat, but at the terrible word she dropped
into a seat, as if the last blow she could ever receive had
fallen.

" You," said Margaret, with her pitiless black eyes seem-
ing to scorch into her face, and her voice frightful in its
depth of suppressed passion — "you, who have walked all
your life over our heads with a ring and a clatter — you, who
are nothing, after all, but a pitiful upstart — you, who have
been the curse of my life and of all who have ever known
you. I tell you, you are a double murderess I for not only
is his blood on your head who lies down there a ghastly
corpse, but another who will die on the scaffold for your
crime 1 "

MAISON DE DEUII..

2C3

■

The corpse down-stairs could scarcely have looked more
ghastly than did Vivia herself at that moment. Her white
lips parted to speak, but no sound came forth. Pitilessly
Margaret went on :

♦' You, who stood so high and queenly in your pride, could
stoop to lure and wile, like any other coquette — could win
hearts by your false smiles, and then cast them in scorn
from your feet. I tell you I despise you ! I hate you 1
You've brought disgrace and ruin on him, on all connected
with you, and you have broken my heart I "

" Oh, Margaret ! have you no mercy ? "

" None for such as you ! I loved him — I loved him with
my whole heart, ten thousand times better than you ever
could do, and you had no mercy on me. You won his heart,
and then cast it from you as a child does a broken toy ! "

" Margaret, listen to me. I will be heard 1 I know you
loved Leicester, but it was not my fault that "

Margaret broke into a hysterical laugh.

" Loved Leicester I Is she a fool as well as a miserable
jilt ? Oh, you might have married him with all my heart ! "

" And who, then Margaret, is it possible you are

speaking of Tom Shir -"

" No 1 " cried Margaret, holding out her hands with a
sort of scream, " not his name from your lips 1 Oh, I loved
him, you know it well ; and now he is" to be tried for his
life, and all through you I Murderess you are — a double
murderess ; for if he dies it will be through you, as much
as if you placed the rope around his neck 1 "

Vivia had dropped down, with her face hidden in her
hands.

" Margaret, spare me ! Oh, what have I done — what
have I done, that all should turn from me like this ? Mar-
garet, I am going away. I am going back to my convent
ill France, where I shall never trouble you nor anybody else
again. All the world has turned against me ; but there, at
least, I can go and die ! "

" Go, then ; the sooner the better. You are no longer
needed here."

" Oh, I know it 1 All have turned against me — all whom
I love ; and I would die for them. Even you, Margaret,
might forgive me now."

384 ^HE HEIRESS OF CASTI.E CUFFE.

" Ask forgiveness from God 1 I never will."

Vivia's head dropped down on the arm of the chair.

Margaret left her, sought her own room, and appeared no
more that day.

In the gray dawn of the next morning, when the first train
went shrieking from the Cliftonlea depot, on its way to
London, a slight, girlish figure, shrouded in a long mantle,
and closely veiled, glided in, took a seat in a remote cor-
ner, and was borne swiftly away from the home to which
she had returned so short a time before like a triumphant
queen, which she now left like a stealthy culprit.

That same morning. Colonel Shirley found a brief note
lying on his dressing-table, that moved him more than all
the strange and tragical events of the past two days :

" Dear Papa : — Let me call you so this once, for the
last time. When you read this, I shall be far away ; but I
could not go without saying good-by. I am going back to
my dear France, to my dear convent, where I was so happy ;
and I shair strive to atone by a life of penance for the misery
I have caused you all to suffer. Dear, dear papa, I shall love
you and pray for you always ; and I know, much as you
have been wronged, you will not quite forget Vivia.

She, too, was lost! Down below, Leicester Cliflfe lay
dead. Tom Shirley was in a felon's cell. In his room,
Sii Roland lay ill unto death. Lady Agnes and Margaret,
shut up in their own apartments, never came out ; and he
was left utterly alone. Truly, Castle Cliffe was a house of
mourning.

■ -.'^-i

THE SENTENCE.

285

CHAPTER XXIX.

THE SENTENCE.

The August roses were in full bloom, in the scorching
heat of early afternoon, within a pretty garden, in a pretty
village, some miles from London, as a gig, holding two
gentlemen, drove through the wooden gates, and up a
shaded avenue, toward a large brick building. The gentle-
men — one tall and handsome, with a grand kingly sort of
face, and dark, grave eyes ; the other, middle-sized, but
looking puny compared with his companion, a very shining
personage, with yellow tinseled hair, wearing a bright buff
waistcoat, and a great profusion of jewelry — alighted be-
fore the principal entrance. A stout little gentleman,
standing on the steps awaiting them, ran down at their ap- -
proach, and shook hands with the latter, in the manner of
an old friend.

" Good afternoon, Mr. Sweet ! It is a sight for sair een,
as the Scotch say, to see you again."

"Thank you, doctor," said the tinseled individual.
" This is the gentleman I told you of. Doctor South,
Colonel Shirley 1 "

The doctor bowed low, and the colonel raised his hat.

" You are welcome, colonel I I presume you have come
to see my unfortunate patient, Mrs. Wildman ? "

" I have. We can see her, I hope."

" Oh, certainly, poor thing ! A very quiet case, hers, but
quite incurable. Most cases of melancholy madness are.
This way, if you please."

Leading them through a long hall, the doctor ascended a
staircase, entered a corridor with a long array of doors on
either hand, followed by his two companions.

" My female patients are all on this side," he said, un-

286 THE HEIRESS OF CASTI.E CUFFE.

locking one of the doors, and again leading the way into
another, with neat little sleeping-rooms on each side, and,
finally, into a large, long apartment, with the summer sun-
shine coming pleasantly through two high windows, grated
without, filled with women of all ages. Some sat peaceably
knitting and sewing ; some were walking up and down ;
some sat talking to themselves ; but the colonel was as-
tonished to see how comparatively quiet they all were. His
eye wandered round in search of her he had come to see,
and it rested and lingered at last on one sitting close to a
window, who neither moved nor looked up at their entrance,,
but remained gazing vacantly out, and slowly and con-
t'*^ually wringing her hands. A pallid and faded creature,

.ii dim, fair hair, cut short like a child's, and streaking
..er furrowed forehead ; a thin, wan face, pitiable in its
quiet hopelessness, the light blue eyes vacant and dull, and
the poor fingers she twisted continually, nothing but skin
and bone. Yet, as Colonel Shirley looked, his thoughts
went back to a certain stormy night, eighteen years before,
where a pretty, fair-haired woman had kissed and cried
over his little child ; and he recognized this faded shadow
instantly. The doctor went over, and patted her lightly on
the shoulder.

" Mrs. Wildman, my dear, look round ! Here is a gentle-
man come to see you."

The woman turned her pale, pinched face, and looked
up, in a hopeless sort of way, in the pitying eyes of the
Indian officer.

" Have you brought her back ? " she asked, mournfully.
" She sent her away ; my little Barbara ; my only child ; my
only child 1 "

" She keeps that up continually," said the doctor, with an
intelligent nod to the colonel. " Nobody ever can get any-
thing out of her but that."

" I wish you would bring her back to me ! " said the im-
becile, still looking in the same hopeless way at the visitor.
" She sent her away — my little Barbara — and I love her so
much I Do go and bring her back ! "

The colonel sat down beside her and took one of the
wasted hands in his, with a look that was infinitely kind
and gentle. .

THE SENTENCE.

287

;!v

" Who was it sent her away — your little Barbara ? "

" She did 1 The one she kept was the gentleman's child,
and it was always crying and troublesome, and not kind
and good like my little Barbara. I wish you would go and
bring her back. It is so lonesome here without her ; and
she was my only child, my only child 1 ''

" I told you so," said the doctor, with another nod.
"You won't get her beyond that, if you keep at her till
doomsday ! "

" Where did she send her to ? " asked the colonel ; but
the woman only looked at him vacantly.

" She sent her away," she repeated, '' and kept the gentle-
man's child — the tall gentleman that was so handsome, and
gave me the money. But she sent away my little Barbara ;
my only child, my only child 1 Oh, won't somebody go
and bring her back ? "

The colonel bent over her, took her other hand, and
looked steadfastly into the dull eyes.

" Mrs. Wildman, do you not know me ? I am the gentle-
man who left the child."

She looked at him silently ; but her gaze was listless and
without meaning.

" Your little Barbara has grown up — is a young lady,
beautiful and accomplished — do you understand ? "

No ; she did not. She only turned away her eyes, with
a little weary sigh, very sad to hear, and murmured over
again :

" Oh, I wish somebody would bring her back I She was
my only child, my only child ! "

" It's all no use I " interposed the doctor. " No earthly
power will ever get her beyond that. Hers is a case quite
harmless and quite hopeless."

Colonel Shirley arose, and pressed something he took
out of his waistcoat pocket into the doctor's hand.

" Be good to her, doctor. Poor creature 1 "

" Thank you, colonel," said the doctor, glancing with in-
finite complacency at the bank-note for fifty pounds. " She
shall have the best of care. Perhaps you would like to go
over the whole establishment? " - -

" Not to-day, I think. We must catch the two o'clock
train back to London."

288 THE HEIRESS OF CASTLE CUEFE.

The doctor led the way down-stairs, and bowed them ob-
sequiously out.

Only one sentence was spoken as they drove rapidly
down to the depot.

" Poor thing I she is greatly changed, but looks like Miss
— Vivia," Mr. Sweet had said, anH had received a look in
answer that effectually silenced him for the rest of the
way.

Next day, when the early afternoon train from London
came steaming into Cliftonlea, Colonel Shirley and Mr.
Sweet had got out and walked up the town. The latter
gentleman speedily turned off in the direction of his own
house, and the colonel walked, with a grave face, up High
street, turning neither to the right nor the left, until he
stood knocking at the principal entrance of the town-jail.
The turnkey who opened it, opened his eyes, too ; for, dur-
ing the two months his young relative had been a lodger
there, the colonel had not come once to visit him.

All Cliftonlea was in a state of ferment ; for the assizes
were on, and Tom Shirley's trial would begin to-morrow ;
and setting his visit down to this cause, the turnkey ad-
mitted him.

There was no difficulty in obtaining the desired interview,
and in a few minutes a ponderous key was turning in a pon-
derous lock, a strong door swung open, the colonel was in
the prison-cell, listening to the re-locking of the door with-
out, and retreating steps of the jailer.

The cell was as dismal as could be desired, and a$ empty
of furniture, holding but a bed, a chair, and a table ; but
the August sunshine came just as brightly through the little
grated square of light as it did through the plate-glass of
Castle Cliffe, and lay broad, and bright, and warm on the
stone floor.

The prisoner sat beside the table, reading a little book
bound in gold and purple velvet, that looked odd enough in
the dreary cell. It was a gift, prized hitherto for the sake
of the giver — a little French Testament, with " To cousin
Tom, with Vivia's love," written in a delicate Italian hand
on the fly-leaf ; but of late days Tom had learned to prize
it for a sake far higher.

He rose at sight of his visitor, looking very thin, very

the; sentence.

289

pale, very quiet, and both stood gazing at each other for a
few seconds in silence.

" Is it really Colonel Shirley ? " said Tom, at last, with
just a shade of sarcasm in his tone. ** This is indeed an
unexpected honor."

*' You do not need to ask, Tom, why I have never been
here before," said the colonel, whose face, always pale
lately, had grown even a shade paler.

" Scarcely. Do me the honor to be seated, and let me
know to what I am indebted for this visit."

He presented his chair with formal politeness as he spoke ;
but his visitor only availed himself of it to lean one hand
lightly on its back and the other on the young man's shoul-
der.

" Tom," he said, looking earnestly and searchingly at
him, " I have come here to ask you one question, and I
want you to answer it truthfully before God 1 Are you in-
nocent 1 "

" It is late to ask that question," said Tom, disdainfully.

" Answer it Tom ! " .

" Excuse me, sir. The very question is an insult."
, " Tom, for Heaven's sake, do not stand balancing hairs
with me 1 You always were the soul of honor and straight-
forwardness, and, late as it is, if you will only tell me, in
the face of Heaven, you are innocent, I will believe you ! "

Tom's honest black eyes, that never quailed before mortal
man, rose boldly and truthfully to the speaker's face.

" Before Heaven," he said, solemnly raising his arm and
dropping it on the purple book, " as I shall have to answer
to God, I am innocent ! "

" Enough 1 " said the colonel, taking his hand in a firm
grasp. " I believe you, with all my heart ! My dear boy,
forgive me for ever thinking you guilty for a moment."

" Don't ask it ! How could you help thinking me guilty,
in the face of all this circumstantial evidence ? But sit down,
and let me look at you. It is good to see a friend's face
again. You have been getting thin and pale, colonel."

" I am afraid I must return the compliment. I see only
the shadow of the ruddy, boisterous Tom Shirley of old."

Tom smiled, and pushed back in a careless way his lux-
uriant black curls.

290 THE HEIRESS OF CASTI.E CUFFE.

" Nothing very odd in that, sir. Solitude and prison-
fare are not the best things I ever heard of for putting a
man in good condition. How goes the world outside ? "

" Much as usual. Have you no visitors then ? "

** None to speak of. A few mere acquaintances came
out of curiosity, but I declined to see them ; and as my
fric.Hli " — said Tom, with another smile that had very much
of sadness in it — •" thought me guilty, and held aloof, I have
been left pretty much to my own devices."

" Your trial comes on to-morrow ? "

<' It does."

** You have engaged counsel, of course ?

((

Yes ; one of the best advocates in England. But his
anticipations, I am afraid, are not over brilliant."

*' The evidence is very strong, certainly, although merely
circumstantial, but — "

'* But better men than I have been condemned on circum-
stantial evidence. I know it," said Torn, very quietly.

" What do you anticipate yourself ? "

" Unless Providence should interpose and send the real
murderer forward to make a clean breast of it, I anticipate
a very speedy termination of my mortal cares."

" And you can speak of it like this 1 You are indeed
changed, Tom."

" Colonel," said Tom, gravely, " when a man sits within
four stone walls, like this, for two months, with a prospect
of death before him, he must be something more than human
not to change. I have had at least one constant visitor, his
lordship the bishop ; and though I am perfectly certain he
believes me guilty, he has done me good ; and this small
book has helped the work. Had I anything to bind me
very strongly to life, it would be different ; but there is
nothing much in the outer world I care for ; and so, let the
result be what it may, I think I shall meet it quietly. If
one had a choice in so delicate a matter " — with another
smile — " I might, perhaps, prefer a different mode of leav-
ing this world ; but w^hat can't be cured — you know the
proverb. Don't let us talk of it. How is Lady Agnes ? "

" Well in body, but ill in mind. She is shut up in her
room, and I never see her." , , . >

,_ " And Margaret ? " ' , „ : .

THE SENTENCE.

291

prison-
jtting a
;?"

s came

as my

y much

, I have

But his

merely

circum-

ly.

he real
ticipate

indeed

within

rospect

human

or, his

ain he

small

ind me

lere is

let the

tly. If

another

)f leav-

ow the

es?"

in her

" Margaret followed her example. Sir Roland is laid up
again with the gout at Cliftonwood."

" Castle^ Cliffe must be a dreary place. I wonder you
can stay there."

" I shall be there a short time now. My old rcj^iment is
doing some hard fighting before Sebastopol ; and as soon
as your trial is over, I shall rejoin them."

Tom's eyes lighted, his face flushed hotly, and then turned
to its former pale and sickly color.

" Oh that I — " he began, and then stopped short ; but
he was understood.

" I wi.h to Heaven it were possible, Tom ; but whatever
happens, we must content ourselves with the cry of the
strong old crusaders, * God wills it 1 ' You must learn, as
we all have to, the great lesson of life — endurance."

Poor Tom had begun the lesson, but his face showed that
he had found the rudiments very bitter.

The colonel paused for a moment ; and then, looking at
the floor, went on, in a more subdued tone :

" Somebody else is learning it, too, in the solitude of a
French convent — Vivia."

Tom gave a little start at the unexpected sound of that
name, and the flush came back to his face.

" You have heard from her, then ? "

" I have done better — I have seen her. A shadow, a
spirit, came behind the convent grate and shook hands with
me through it. She was so wan and wasted with fasting
and vigils, I suppose, that I scarcely knew her ; and we
talked for fifteen minutes with the grate between us. Satis-
factory — was it not ? "

" Very. Has she taken the veil ? "

" Not yet. No thanks to her, though. It was her wish ;
but the superior, knowing it was merely the natural revul-
sion of feeling, and that she had no real vocation, would
not permit it. Then Vivia wished to go out as a governess
— think of that — but Mother Ursula would not hear of that
either. She is to make the convent her home for a year,
and if, at the end of that time, she still desires it, she will
be permitted to enter upon her novitiate. I will go by Paris
and see her again before I depart for the Crimea."

"Does she know — "

i i

i ■ !

292 THE HEIRESS OF CASTI.E CUFFE.

Tom paused.

" She knows all. She gave me this for you."
The colonel produced his pocket-book, and took from
between the leaves a little twisted note.
Tom opened it and read :

" My Brother. — I know you are innocent. I love you, and pray
for you every night and day. God keep you always !

ViVIA."

That was all.

Tom dropped his face on the table without a word.

Colonel Shirley looked at him an instant, then arose.

" I shall leave you now. Remember, I have firm faith
in your innocence from henceforth. Keep up a good heart,
and, until to-morrow, farewell.'*

He pressed his hand.

But Tom neither spoke nor looked up ; and the Colonel
went out and left him, with his head lying on the wooden
table, and the tiny note still crushed in his hand.

'fi-

THE SENTENCE.

293

N '

CHAPTER XXX.

THE SENTENCE.

At day-dawn the next morning Cliftonlea was all bustle
and stir ; and at ten o'clock the court-house was a perfect
jam. There were troops of people down from London, who
all knew the Shirleys ; swarms of newspaper-reporters, note-
book and pencil in hand, not .to speak of half the county
besides. The gallery was filled with ladies, and among
them glided in one in a long, shrouding mantle, and wearing
a thick veil ; but people knew the white face of Margaret
Shirley, despite any disguise. The colonel was there, and
so was Sir Roland, malgrk his gout ; and so was Joe, the
gamekeeper's son, looking scared beyond everything, and
full of the vague notion that he stood in as much danger of
hanging, himself, as the prisoner. The prisoner did not
look at all scared ; he sat in the dock as he had sat in his cell
the day before, pale, quiet, and perfectly calm, scanning the
crowd with his dauntless black eyes, and meeting the gaze
of all known and unknown with the stoicism of an Indian
at the stake. Some of the reporters began sketching his
face in their note-books. Tom saw it, and smiled ; and the
crowd set him down as a cool hand, and a guilty one.
Very few present had any doubt of his guilt ; the facts that
had come out of the inquest were strong against him ; and
there was nobody else, apparently, in the world who had
the least interest in the death of the murdered man. All
knew by that time how everything stood — how infatuated
he had been with the young lady, and how madly jealous
he was of the accepted lover. And everybody knew, too,
what jealousy will make, and has made, the best of men do,
from King David down ; and Tom's hasty and violent tem-
per was notorious. Worst of all, he refused to give any
account of himself whatever ; for the simple fact that he had

294 THE HEIRESS OF CASTI.E CI.IFFE.

no account to give that would not involve Vivia's name ; and
the tortures of a martyr would not have drawn that from him
in a crowded court-room. After the scene in the starlight
under the chestnuts, he had fled from t' s place, and haunted
Cliftonlea like a lost spirit. On the bridal-night an insane
impulse drew him back again with a relentless hand, and he
had wandered up and down among the trees almost beside
himself, but wholly unable to go away.

Tom could not very well have told his pitiable tale of
love-sickness and insanity to a grim judge and jury ; so he
just held his tongue, resolved to let things take their course,
almost indifferent to the issue.

Things did take their course. They always do, where these
two inexorable fates. Time and Lav, are in question. The
case was opened in a brilliant speech by the counsel for the
crown, that told hard on the prisoner, and then the wit-
nesses were called. Joe came in requisition, and so did Mr.
Sweet's Elizabeth, and it would be hard to say which of the
two was the most terrified, or which cried the most before
they were sent down. Mr. Sweet had to give evidence, so
had Colonel Shirley, so had Sir Roland, so had the doctor,
so had the gamekeeper, so had a number of other people,
whom one would think had nothing to do with it. And at
three o'cjock the court adjourned, leaving things pretty much
as they were before ; the prisoner was remanded back to his
cell ; the mob went home to their dinners, and to assert,
confidently, that before long there would be an execution in
Cliftonlea.

The trial lasted three days ; and with each passing one
the interest grew deeper, and the case more and more hope-
less. Every day the crowd in and around the court-house
grew more dense ; and always the first on the ground was
the shrinking figure of the veiled lady. But on the third,
just as the case was drawing to a final close, something hap-
pened that settled the last doubt in the minds of the jury,
if such a thing as a doubt had ever rested there. A woman
had made her way through the crowd by dint of sharp el-
bows and sharper tongue, and had taken her place on the
witness-stand, in a very determined and excited state of
mind. The young woman was Jeannette, who had followed
her young lady to France, and had evidently just come back

1 \.

THE SENTENCE.

295

one

from that delightful land ; and on informing them she had
taken a long journey to give important evidence, she was
sworn, and asked what she had to say.

Jeannette had a good deal to say, chiefly in parentheses,
with a strong French accent, a great many Mon Dietis,
and no punctuation marks to speak of. It appeared, how-
ever, when the evidence was shorn of all French embellish-
ment, that on the night the deceased had returned from
London (a couple of days before the one fixed for the wed-
ding,) Miss Vivia had been wandering alone in the park,
where she was suddenly joined by the prisoner. She, Jean-
nette, had followed her young lady out to warn her against
night-dews, when, hearing a loud and angry voice, she halted,
discreetly, at a distance, with the true instinct of her class,
to listen. There she had overheard the prisoner making
very loud and honest protestations of love to Miss Shirley ;
and when rejected, and assured by her she would marry
none but Mr. Cliffe, he had flown out in such a way,
that she, Jeannette, was scared pretty nearly into fits, and
she was perfectly sure she had heard him threaten to mur-
der the bridegroom elect. Mademoiselle Jeannette further
informed her audience that, believing the prisoner guilty,
her conscience would not let her keep the matter secret, and
. it had sent her across the Channel, in spite of seasickness,
unknown to her young lady, to unburden her mind. It
was hard evidence against the prisoner ; and though
mademoiselle underwent a galling cross-examination, her
testimony could not be shaken, though it left her, as it well
, might, in a very wild and hysterical state of mind at its
close. Colonel Sh' ley, standing near Tom, stooped down
in dismay, and whispered : -

" Have you anything to say to all this ? "

"Nothing; it is perfectly true." -^

" Then your case is hopeless."

" It has been hopeless all along ! " said Tom, quietly, as.
Mademoiselle Jeannette descended, quite out of herself with
the cross-examination she had un'lergone.

There was nothing more to be done. The evidence was
summed up in one mighty mass against the prisoner, and
the jury retired to find a verdict. It was not hard to find.
In five minutes they were back, and the swaying and mur-

296 THE HEIRESS OF CASTLE CI.IFFE.

muring of the crowd subsided into an awful hush of expeo
tation as the foreman arose.

" Gentlemen of the jury, is the prisoner at the bar guilty
or not guilty of the felony with which he is charged ? "

And solemnly the answer came, what everybody knew it
would be :

" Guilty 1 my lord."

The judge arose with his black cap on his head. His ad-
dress to the prisoner was eloquent and touching, and the
crowd seemed to hush their very heart-beating to listen.
There were tears in his eyes before he had done, and his
voice was tremulous as he wound up with the usual ghastly
formula.

" Your sentence is, that you be taken hence to the place
from whence you came, from thence to the place of execu-
tion, to be hung by the neck till dead, and may God have
mercy on your soul 1 "

He sat down, but the same dead silence reigned still. It
was broken at last by a sound common enough at such
times — a veiled lady in the gallery had fallen forward in a
dead swoon.

%-.

-^^.

THE TURN OF THE WHEEL.

297

■•>:>*■.

CHAPTER XXXI.

THE TURN OF THE WHEEL.

-»" '

It was a wild night on the Sussex coast. A north
wind roared over the Channel — a terrible north wind, that
shrieked and raved, and lashed the waVes into white fury ;
that tore up trees by the roots, blew off tall steeples, and
filled the air with a sharp shower of tiles and chimney-pots,
and demolishing frailer buildings altogether. A terrible
night down there on the coast — a terrible night for the ships
at sea — a night that had everything its own way, and defied
the hardiest of wayfarers to venture out. Great sheets of
lurid lighting flashed incessantly ; great shocks of thun-
der pealed overhead, shaking sky, and earth, and sea, to
their very foundations. A terrible night in Cliftonlea — the
oldest inhabitant had never remembered anything like it.
Very few thought of going to bed — a gentleman had come
preaching there shortly before, with the important infor-
mation that the end of the world was at hand ; and all
Cliftonlea, particularly the fairer portion, believing that it
had come on this particular night, resolved to appear with
their clothes on. A terrible night in Lower Cliff e, where
nobody thought of going to bed at all ; for the dreadful
roaring of the storm and the cannonading of the rising sea
on the shore seemed to threaten entire destruction to the
little village before morning. A terrible night within the
park, where tall trees of a century's growth were torn up
and flung aside like straws ; where the rooks were cawing
and screeching in their nests ; where the peacocks were
hidden away in their houses, the §wans in their sheds, and
the roses in the parterres were stripped and beaten to
the dust. A terrible night, even within the strong walls of
the old castle, where the great kitchen, and the servants'

298 THE HEIRESS OF CASTI.E CI.IFFE.

hall, and butler's pantry, and the housekeeper's room were
lilled with terrified footmen and housemaids ; where Lady
Agnes shivered as she listened to it in the gl ostly solitude
of her own room ; where Margaret woke up, cowering and
shuddering from the stupor in which she lay, and covered
her eyes from the lightning, and wondered how he bore it
in his prison-cell. He, sitting reading by the light of a
flaring candle, in a little gold and purple book, lifted his
pale and quiet face, and listened to it much more calmly
than any of them. Much more calmly than Colonel Shirley,
pacing up and down in his own room, as the midnight hour
was striking, like an uneasy ghost. It was a splendid room
— splendid in green velvet and malachite, with walnut pan-
eling and wainscoting, the furniture cf massive mahogany,
upholstered in green billijird-cloth, and the bed-hangings of
green velvet and while satin. The same sober tints of
green and brown were repeated in the medallion carpet'; a
buhl clock ticked on the carved walnut mantel, and over it
a bright portrait of Vivia looked down and smiled. There
was a small armory on one side, full of Damascus swords,
daggers and poniards, pistols and muskets, ccl spears, bows
and arrows and riding-whips, all flashing in the light of a
bright wood fire burning on the marble hearth ; for, though
the month was August, these grand, vast old rooms v.-ere
always chilly, and on this tempestuous night particularly so.
A round table, on which burned two wax candles, was
drawn up before the fire, and covered over with ledgers,
check-books and packages of fresher-looking documents
tied up Vv'itli red tape. A green cushioned arm-chair stood
on either side of the table ; and though they were empty
now, they had not been a couple of hours previously. In
the first train to-morrow Colonel Shirley was leaving Clifton-
lea, perhaps forever, and going where glory led him, and so
on ; anu he and Mr. Sweet had had a very busy afternoon
and evening in settling the complicated accounts of the es-
tate. They had finished about ten ; and Mr. Sweet had
gone home, despite the rising storm which was now at its
hight and ever since the colonel had been walking up and
down, up and down, anxiously impatient for the morning
that was to see him off. It was the evening that had con-
cluded Tom Shirley's trial ; and he, too, like Margaret, was

THE TURN OF THE WHEEI<.

299

thinking of him in his lonely cell ; and though the light-
ning came blazing through the shuttered and curtained win-
dow, and the roar of the storm, the sea and the wind, boomed
an awful harmony around them, he scarcely heeded either ;
and as the buhl clock vibrated on the last silvery stroke of
twelve there was a tap at the door, and then the handle was
turned, and the respectful face of Mr. Hurst looked in.

" There's a man down below, sir, that has just arrived,
and he insists on seeing you. It is a matter of life or death,
he says."

The colonel stopped, astonished, in his walk.

" Some one to see me on such a night ! Wiio is he ? "

" I don't know, sir. He looks Hke a sailor, in a pea-
jacket and a sou'-wester hat ; but the collar of the jacket is
turned up, and the hat is pulled down, and there's no seeing
anything of him but his nose."

'■ And he said it was a matter of life or death. It ought
to be, certainly, to bring him out in a night like this."

'• Yes, sir. He said he would see you, if he had to search
the house over for you ! He's a precious rough-looking
customer, sir ! "

" Show him up ! " was the curt reply. And Mr. Hurst
bowed and withdrew.

He was leaning against the carved mantel, one elbow
resting upon it, and his eyes fixed thoughtfully on the fire,
when his visitor entered — a somewhat stout and not very
tall man, in a large, rough jacket, a shining hat, and splashed
top-boots. There was more of the man splashed than his
boots, for he was dripping all over like a water-god ; and,
as Mr. Hurst had intimated, his coat-collar was turned up,
and his hat pulled down so that, besides the nose, nothing
was visible but a pair of fierce eyes. This nocturnal in-
truder took the precaution to turn the key in the lock as
soon as the valet disappeared, and then came slowly for-
ward and stood before the colonel.

" Well, my friend," said that gentleman, quietly, " you
wanted to see me!" ^

'* Yes, I did I "

" On a matter of importance, my servant said."

" If it warn't imporiant," said the man, gruffly, " it ain't
very likely I'd come here to tell it to you on a .-'^ht that

300 THE HEIRESS OF CASTLE CLIFFE.

ain't fit for a mad dog to be out. It's something you'd give
half your estates to learn, Colonel Shirley, or I'm mis-
taken 1 "

" Out with it, then ; and, in the mean time, suppose you
sit down."

His visitor drew up one of the green arm-chairs closer to
the hearth, and subsiding into it, without, however, re-
moving his hat, spread out his splashed top-boots to the
genial influence of the hot wood-fire. There was something
familiar about the man, in his burly figure, rough voice
and fierce eyes ; but the colonel could not remember
where he had seen and heard those items before ; and a
long silence followed, during which the man in the top-
boots looked at the fire, the colonel* looked at him, the
lightning flashed, the wind shrieked, and the portrait of
Vivia smiled down on all. At last :

" If you merely wish to warm yourself, my friend," said
the colonel, with composure, " I presume there is a fire in
the servants* hall. Allow me to inform you that it is past
twelve, and I have a long journey to commence to-morrow
morning ! "

" You'll commence no journey to-morrow morning," the
man in the pea-jacket coolly said.

" Indeed I Suppose, for politeness' sake, you remove that
hat, and let me see the gentleman who makes so extraordinary
an assertion I"

" Just you hold on a minute, and you'll see me soon enough 1
As I said, it's a matter of life or death that brings me here ;
and you'll hear it all in time, and you won't take any journey
to-morrow 1 I've been fool enough in my time, Lord knows 1
but I ain't such a fool as to come out on such a night, and
get half-drowned for nothing I "

" Very good 1 I am waiting for you to go on I "

" There was a murder committed here a couple of months
ago," said the mysterious person in the pea-jacket, " wasn't
there?"

" Yes I " said the colonel, with a slight recoil, as he thought
that perhaps the real murderer sat before him.

" The young gentleman as was murdered was Mr. Leicester
Cliff e ; and another young gentleman, Mr. Tom Shirley, has
been tried and condemned for the murder I" .

•-asr?-"

THE TURN OF THE WHEEL-

30 1

., «Yesl" •

" Well," said the man in the pea-jacket, still quite coolly,
" he is innocent ! "

" I know it I "

"Do you? Perhaps you know, too, who's the guilty
party ? "

"No. Do you?"

" Yes, I do 1 " said the man ; -" and that's what brings me
here to night 1 "

Again there was a pause. The colonel's lips had turned
white, but nothing could shake his stoical composure. The
man in the sailor's dress had his hands on his knees, and
was leaning forward, looking up at him.

"And who — but first, my mysterious friend, before any
more questions are asked or answered, I must insist on your
removing that hat, and showing me who you are."

" All right 1 It's only a hanging matter, anyway 1 Look
here! "

His visitor rose up, turned down the collar of the pea-
jacket, lifted off the dripping sou'wester, and glared up at
him in the firelight with a pair of exceedingly green and
wolfish eyes.

" Ah I " said the colonel, slowly, *' I thought it was you ;
and you have come back, then ? "

" I have come back ! " said his visitor, with a savage gleam
in his wolfish eyes. " I have come back to be hung, very

likely ; but by I'll hang over and over again a thousand

times, for the pleasure of seeing him hang beside me once 1
hvnted down I hunted down 1 He's been at it for the last
six years, until he's got me to the end of the rope at last !
My dog's life hasn't been such a comfort to me, Lord knows I
that I should care to lose it ; but when I do hang, he'll hang
beside me, by " ^

" Have the goodness to calm yourself, Mr. Black, and
become intelligible 1 Whom are you talking about ? "

"My name ain't Black, and you know it! My name is
Wildman — Jack Wildman, as was transported for life ; and I
don't care if the devil heard it ! Whom am I talking about?
I'm talking about a man as I hate, as I've hated for years ;
and if I had him here, I would tear the eyes out of his head.

302 THE HEIRESS OF CAvSTLE CI.IFFE.

and the black heart out of his body, and dash his brains out
against this here wall 1 I would, by "

The man's oaths were appalling. The colonel shuddered
slightly with disgust and repulsion as he heard him, and his
face was like that of a human demon.

" Will you come to the point, Mr. Black, or Mr. Wildman,
whichever you choose ? You say you know the real mur-
derer of Leicester Cliffe — who is he ? "

"Him as I am talking of — a yellow devil with a black
heart, and his name is Sweet I "

Colonel Shirley started up, and grasped the mantel against
which he leaned.

"Man," he cried, " what have you said ? " . •

" I have .said the truth, and I can prove it I That yellow
dog, that I would strangle if I had him near me, that Lawyer
Sweet — he killed the young gentleman 1 I saw him with
my own eyes ! "

The colonel stood looking a hundred questions he could
not speak — struck for the moment perfectly speechless.

" Yes ; you may wonder," said Mr. Black, subsiding into his
chair again, and letting himself cool down like a bottle of
ginger beer after the first explosion ; " but it's true as gospel 1
1 saw him do the deed myself, the night of the wedding ; and
Mr. Tom Shirley — he is innocent 1 "

" Tell me all," said the colonel, finding voice ; " and, for
Heaven's sake, do it instantly 1 "

" I am a-going to. I have taken all this journey in the
wind and rain to-night to do it ; and I'll hunt him down as
lie has hunted me, if they were to hang, and draw, and quar-
ter me the next minute ! You know that evening I went
away ; and I don't think anybody here ever heard of me
since."

" Go on ! " -

" I had been out that day, and it was nigh on to sundown
when I came home. I found iny old mother on the ground,
just recovering from a fit, and just able to tell me that that
3'ellow villain had been with her, and was going to tell all —
the secret he had kept so long. That was the first I ever
knew of Barbara's being your daughter instead of mine ;
though I did know he had some power over the old woman
I could not get at the bottom of. Whatever he may s^.y, he

;

THE TURN OF THE WHEEI..

303

knowed it all along ; and it was that made him many her.
From the time he met you in the graveyard, the night you
buried your wife, he never lost sight of my wife and that
baby. But when she told me it all, and how he threatened
to peach about my being a returned transport, I believe the
very old Satan got into me, and I started up, and went out
to find him and kill him. They say a worm will turn if trod-
den on ; he had trodden on me long enough, Lord knows I
and it was my turn now. If I had met him in the middle of
the town, with all the people in it looking on, I would have
torn his throat out as I would a mad dog's. I would have
done it if they was to burn me alive for it the next minute I
As I got up near his house, I saw him come out, and I hid
behind a tree to watch him. Before he got far, he stopped,
and began watching somebody himself ; it was Mr. Leicester
Cliffe, who came along High street without seeing either of
us, and went in. Then Sweet dodged round the back way,
and went into the house after him, and I was left alone wait-
ing behind the tree, and waiting for my game to conic out.
I don't know exactly what passed, but I have a notion that
Mr. Leicester wanted Barbara to run away with him, and
that the yellow viper was listening, and heard it all. It was
nigh onto dark when Mr. Leicester came out, and set off like
a steam-engine toward Lower Cliffe, to take a short cut, I
expect, to the castle ; and Sweet came sneaking after him,
like the snake in the grass he is. There we was, a-dodging
after each other, the three of us, and Sweet and me trying to
keep out of sight as well as we could, and getting into alley-
v/ays and behind trees whenever we saw anybody coming.
There wasn't many out to sfee us for that matter ; for all the
town, and the village, too, was up in the park ; and Mr. Lei-
cester went up through the park gates, and we two sneaked
after him without meeting a soul. Instead of going straight
up to the castle, as he'd ought to do, Mr. Leicester turned
off to that lonesome spot they call the Nun's Grave; and
still we two was dodging in through the trees after him.
When he got there he stopped, and stood, with his arms
crossed, looking down at it ; and there was the yellow devil
behind him, and I could see his face in the moonlight, and
he looked more like a devil than ever. There was a club
lying on the grass, just as if Old Nick had left it there for

111

ail

304 THE HEIRESS OF CASTILE CLIFFE.

his favorite son — a big knotted stick, that would have felled
an ox ; and Sweet he raised it, his grinning mouth grinning
more than you ever saw it, and, with one blow, knocked the
young gentleman stiff on the ground I "

Mr. Black paused in his long narration to turn the other
side of his steaming legs to the influence of the blaze, and
to look up searchingly at the colonel. But as that gentle-
man stood as rigid as the marble guest in Don Giovanni,
and made no comment, he went on :

•* The minute he did the deed, as if he knew his work
was finished, he dropped the club, made a rush through
the trees, and I lost him. So there I was foiled again,
with the young gentleman lying as stiff if he had been a
month dead at my feet. I shouldn't at all have minded
being hung for murdering Sweet ; I wouldn't have cared a
curse for it ; but I didn't want to hang for a murder I hadn't
done ; so I took leg bail, and got away from the place as he
had done. I knew Cliftonlea would be too hot to hold me
now. I didn't know but what that lying villain would make
me out to be the muderer ; so my notion was to be off in
the evening train for London, and take my time for revenge.
Just as I got through the park gates, who should I see but
Barbara on the beach, pushing off in a boat from the shore.
I sung out to her, but it was no use ; she wouldn't stop ; so I
just swam up to her, got on board, and asked her wnere she
was gping. I don't know what she said. I think she was out
of her mind ; but I found out she was running away from
hijn — from Cliftonlea ; and then it struck me, as I was in the
boat, the best thing I could do w.vs to row to Lisleham, take'
the cars for London there, and so throw folks off the scent.
And that is the way it happened you couldn't hear any-
thing from either of us." <■ • • --

" Well," said the colonel, " you went to London ? "

" No we didn't. The first person we met on the wharf at
Lisleham was an old chum of mine. He had been with me
from New South Wales, but he was well off now, and the
captain of a schooner. I had nothing to do but to tell him
the t)olice were on my tracks and I was sure of safe quarters
on -loard his craft until the heat of the hunt was over. We
sailed that very day for Dover; and before we were two
hours out, Barbara was down raving mad with brain fever.

'-:>'

•»r

THE TURN OF THE WHEEI..

305

doctor on
way she

There was no

of it the best

stayed awhile in France,

before she stopped raving

English papers in Dover,

murder ; I saw

knew I had held

have

board, and she had to get out

could ; but we made the voyage,

and was back in Lisleham long

or knew anybody. I got some

and there I saw all about the

how Mr. Tom was took up for it ; and I

my tongue about long enough. I would

come posting back by express ; but I couldn't leave

Barbara alone in the schooner, and 1 knew I was time enough.
We got in two hours ago. The schooner is at anchor out there
now ; and, in spite of the storm, I came on shore. And
now, sir, that's the whole story. Sweet he's the murderer,
and I'll see him hung for it, if I hang myself beside him."

There was a long pause. The storm seemed to increase
in fury, and the uproar without had become terrific. The
colonel lifted his head and listened to it. .

" Barbara, you say, is in the schooner ? "

•' She is — but more like a ghost or a skeleton than any-
thing living 1 "

" You're sure the schooner is safely anchored, and not
exposed to the fury of this storm ? "

Mr. Black opened his mouth to reply in the affirmative,
when he was ominously stopped by the sharp report of a
minute-gun echoing through the roar of the hurricane, and
rapidly followed by another and another.

"I thought it would come to that," said the colonel.

" The coast in the morning will be strewn with wrecks 1
I am going down to the shore."

" All right," said Mr. Black ; " we can't be of any use, you
know ; but I have got cramped with sitting here, and want
to stretch my legs a bit. Lord, how it's storming 1 "

The colonel rapidly donned cap and overcoat, and fol-
lowed by Mr. Black, left his bright fire and pleasant room,
and hastened out into the night and storm. The sharp re-
port of the minute-guns still rung through the uproar but
though they were met in the door by a rush of wind and
rain that for an instant beat them back — though the light-
ning still flashed, and the thunder rolled, the storm had
passed its meridian, and was subsiding. Dawn was lifting a
leaden eye, too, above the mountains of black cloud, and
lighting up with a pale and ghpstly glimmer the black and

1
i.

I .

306 THE HEIRESS OF CASTI.E CI.IFFE.

foam-crested sea and the storm-beaten earth. Long before
they reached the shore in the lashing tempest, the mournful
minute-guns had ceased their cry for help, and the vessel,
whatever it was, must inevitably have sunk with all its crew.
Despite the wind, and rain, and lightning, the shore
was lined when they reached it by the fishermen, and
thrown up high on the shingly beach were broken spars,
fragments of wreck, and, most ghastly sight of all, the stark
bodies of drowned men. A crowd had collected in one spot
around a man who, it had turned out, was the unly survivor,
and who was telling the story of the disaster, as the new-
comers came up.

*' We were scudding along like Old Nick in a gale of wind,'*
the man was saying, "our spars snapped off like knitting-
needles, when we run afoul of the other craft, smashed her
like an egg shell, and down she went, head foremost, like a
stone."

A shrill screech from Mr. Black, and off he darted like
one possessed. Something had just been washed ashore,
something his quick eye had caught, and over which he was
bending now with a face as ghastly as those of the drowned
men. With an awful presentiment, the colonel followed him,
and his presentiment was realized to its utmost extent of
horror. In the ooze and mud of the beach, her long hair
streaming around her, her soaking dress clinging to her
slender form, lay the drowned heiress of Castle Cliffe, with
her face in the loathsome slime.

RETRIBUTION.

307

CHAPTER XXXII.

RETRIBUTION. ';

Vhomme propose ^ mats Dieu dispose! You know the
proverb Colonel Shirley was not the only one who had
intended starting on a journey that morning, and was doomed
to disappointment. Mr. Sylvester Sweet having settled all
the affairs of the estate, and having nothing to do for the
next month or two, intended in his bereavement to give
himself a long holiday, and to go post-haste to Paris.
Perhaps, too, being such an uncommonly tender-hearted
gentleman, he did not wish to stay to witness the execution
of his young friend, Tom Shirley — to drown his grief fpr the
recent loss of his wife in the delights of that delightful city.
At all events, whatever his motives, Mr. Sweet was going on
a journey, a'"«d was sitting down to an early breakfast in the
back parlor. Most elaborately was he got up ; always
radiant, he was considerably more so this morning than
ever ; his buff waistcoat had the gloss of spick-span newness,
his breast-pin and studs were dazzling, the opal rings he wore
on his fingers made you wink, his pocket-handkerchief was
of the brightest yellow China silk, his Malacca cane had a
gold head, his canary-colored gloves were as new as his
waistcoat, and his watch-chain with its glist'^ning ornaments,
his yellow whiskers and hair, and white teeth gleamed out
with more than ordinary brilliancy, and his smile was so
bland and debonair, it would have done your heart good to
see it. He had so far recovered from his late bereavement
that he laughed a little silvery laugh as he sat down to
breakfast — whether at it, or at his own cleverness, or at his
expected two months' holiday, would be hard to say. So he
was sitting, pleasantly sipping his Mocha, and eating his
eggs and rolls, when the door-bell rung sharply ; and too
minutes after. Colonel Shirley stood in the doorway, regard-
ing him. Mr. Sweet arose in a little surprise.

3o8 THE HEIRESS OF CASTI.E CUFFE.

" Good -morning, colonel. This is an unexpected pleasure.
I thought you were off in the six o'clock train ? "

" I have been delayed 1 Will you be good enough to
order your horse, and ride back with me to Castle Cliff e ? "

" Certainly, colonel I " But Mr. Sweet hesitated a little,
with his hand on the bell-rope. " I have purchased my
ticket for London, but if the business is pressing "

" It it most pressing 1 Order your horse immediately I "

Mr. Sweet knew better than to disobey the Indian officer
when his dark eye flashed and his voice rung out in that
ringing tone of command ; so he ordered his horse, drew
oil his overcoat, and substituted buckskin gloves for the
yellow kids, with a little disappointment and a great deal of
curiosity in his sallow face. But his unceremonious com-
panion seemed no way inclined to satisfy curiosity, and was
in a mood Mr. Sweet dared not question. So they mounted
their horses, and drove through the town as rapidly as they
had ridden once before, when on the search for Barbara.
The storm had subsided, the rain had entirely ceased, but
the wind still blew in long, lamentable blasts ; and between ^
his keeping his seat in the saddle and his hat on his head,
Mr. Sweet had enough to do until Castle Cliff e was gained.
And still, in grim silence, its master strode into the hall and
into the morning-room, where that memorable inquest had
been held, and where Mr. Sweet again found Mr. Channing,
the magistrate, and the head doctor of the town. Lying on
a long table, at the further end of the room, was something -
that looked like a human figure ; but it was so muffled from
sight, in a great cloak, that he could scarcely tell what to
make of it. He turned from it to the others, and their stern
faces and ominous silence sent a sudden and strange chill to
his heart. Trying to look easy and composed, he pulled out
his watch and glanced at it.

" Half-past seven I If the business is brief, perhaps I may
be in time to catch the nine o'clock train yet."

" You need not trouble yourself about the nine o'clock
train. You will not catch it I " said the colonel, frigidly.

" Excuse me ! Of course I'm willing to wait any time you
please ! I merely thought it might have been some unim-
portant matter we had forgotten last night. A terrible night
last night, gentlemen — was it not ? " -^ ,.^

RETRIBUTION.

309

No one spoke. Mr. Sweet felt as if their three pairs of
eyes were three pairs of burning-glasses scorching into his
very skin. At last :

" Your wife has returned, Mr. Sweet 1 " said the colonel,
in a voice that thrilled with the same nameless terror io Mr.
Sweet's inmost heart.

" Returned ! When — where — how ? "

" Last night, in the storm I "

"Good heaven I Alone?"
' " Quite alone ! "

" And where is she now ? "
, " She is here 1 Will you come and look at her ? "

He walked toward the table whereon the muffled figure
lay. Mr. Sweet, with his knees knocking together, followed.
The muffling was removed, the dead face, livid and bruised,
the dark eyes staring wide open, the white teeth gleaming
behind the blue lips, as if she were grinning up at him a
ghastly grin. It was an awful sight ; and Mr. Sweet recoiled
with a sort of shriek, and made a frantic rush for the door.
But a man in a blue coat and brass buttons, the captain of
the Cliftonlea police, stood suddenly between him and it, and
laid his hand forcibly on his shoulder.

" Not so fast, Mr. Sweet 1 You are my prisoner ! "

That brought Mr. Sweet to his senses faster than cold water
or smelling salts. He stood stock-still and looked at the man.

"What?"

" Just so, sir. You are my prisoner ! I arrest you for the
murder of Leicestei Cliffe 1 "

The shock was so sudden, so unexpected; his nerves
were so unstrung by the appalling sight he had just seen,
that his self-control left him. His sallow face turned to a
blue white, his eyes seemed starting, he stood there paralyzed,
glaring at the man. Then, with a yell that was more like the
cry of a wild beast than anything human, he dashed his
clenched fist into the constable's face, tore him from the
door, rushed out, and into the arms of Mr. Peter Black, who
stood airing his eye at the keyhole. There was another
screech, wilder than the first — an appalling volley of oaths,
and then Mr. Black's hand was twisted in Mr. Sweet's
canary-colored necktie, and Mr. Sweet was black in the face,
and foaming at the mouth. Then he was down, and Peter

3IO THE HEIRESS OF CASTI.E CI^IFFE.

Black's knee was on his breast, and the lawyer's eyes burst-
uig from their sockets, and the blood flowing from his
mouth, nose and ears, but the others crowded round, and
were tearing the avenger off. Not in time, however ; for a
murderous clasp knife, with which the returned transport
was wont, in days gone by, to slice his bread and beef, was
out, and up to the hilt in the lawyer's breast. The hot blood
spouted upon his face as he withdrew the blade ; but they
flung him off, and the constable lifted the bleeding form
from the ground.

" I have done it ! " said Mr. Black, whose own face was
purple, and whose teeth were clenched. ** I swore I would,
and now you may hang me as soon as you like I "

Both were brought back into the morning-room. Mr.
Black, like a perfect lamb, offering no resistance, and Mr.
Sweet, altogether unable to do so. He lay a ghastly spec-
tacle in the arms of the constable, catching his breath in
short gasps, and the life blood pumping out of the wound
with each one.

" Lay him down on this sofa," said the doctor, " and stand
out of the way until I examine the wound."

Mr. Sweet was not insensible. As they laid him down
and the doctor bent over him, he fixed his protruding eyes
on that functionary's face with an intensely eager look. The
examination soon ended, the doctor arose and shook his
head dismally.

'* It's of no use — the wound is fatal I If you have anything
to say, Mr. Sweet, you had better say it at once, for your
hours are numbered 1 "

Mr. Sweet's face, by no earthly possibility, could turn
more ghastly than it was ; so he only let his head fall back
with a hollow groan, and lay perfectly motionless. Mr.
Channing, with a business-like air, drew up a seat and sat
down beside him.

" You have heard what the doctor says. Sweet ! You had
better make a clean breast of it before you go 1 "

Another hollow groan was Mr. Sweet's answer. All his
spirits seemed to have fled, leaving nothing behind but most
abject terror.

" Out with it. Sweet ! it may ease your conscience 1 We
will send for a clergyman, if you like 1 "

RETRIBUTION.

" No, it would be of no use ! he could do me no good !
Oh-oh-oh I " Another prolonged and dismal groan.

" Commence, then, at once — do one act of justice before
you die ! It was you who murdered Leicester Cliffe — was it
not? " said Mr. Channing, briskly producing note-book and
pencil. .

•» It was ! It's of no use denying it now ! "

" Why did you do it ? What was your motive ? "

" Jealousy ! I heard him urging my wife to elope with him.
I was mad with jealousy, and I follov.c cl nnd killed him 1 "

" You came hare directly after the murder ? "

"I did."

*' Would you have let Tom Shirley hang for your crime ? "

*' How could I help it ? Either he or I must hang for it 1
Oh-oh-oh-oh 1 " Another prolonged groan.

" You've been a nice hypocrite ! " said Mr. Channing,
taking notes rapidly. " Is this other story about your wife
having been the daughter of Colonel Shirley quite true ? "

" It is — every word of it! " >

" Not every word 1 You knew it all along, of course ? "
. " Yes ! "

" You said you didn't, though. And Miss Vivia is really
the daughter of that man at the door ? "

" Yes — curse him I " cried Mr. Sweet, with momentary
fury ; " and he is an escaped transport ; and you know what
the penalty of that is ? "

" I know very well 1 Another thing, Mr. Sweet, Black
mentioned, while the colonel was absent fetching you, that
before you struck Leicester Cliflfe, a mysterious voice arose
from the grave and told him his doom was come, or some-
thing to that effect. Can you account for that little cir-
cumstance ? "

" Very easily ! I am a ventriloquist 1 And I have made
use of my power more than once to terrify Barbara and him,
at the Nun's Grave ! "

" Humph ! They say open confessions are good for the
soul, and yours ought to feel relieved after this I Is there
anything else, colonel ? "~

'* I think not ! What miserable dupes we have all been ! "

" Ah 1 you may say that ! It's a thousand pities so clever
a rascal should have cheated the hangn^an 1

312 THE HEIRESS OF CASTXE CLIFFE.

" He hasn't cheated him 1 " said the doctor, composedly.

he is no more likely to die than I am I The stab is a mere
trifle, that some lint and linen bandages will set all right in
no time. Colonel, ring the bell, and order both articles,
while I stop the blood which is flowing rather fast I "

" You said — ^you said — " gasped Mr. Sweet, with horrible
eagerness. " You said the wound was fatal ! "

" So I did, my dear sir I so I did 1 but I just wanted to
frighten you a little, and so get all the truth. All is fair in
war, you know, and white lies are excusable in such cases !
Here's the lint — now the bandages — thank you, colonel I
Don't twitch so — I wouldn't hurt you for the world I Please
the pigs, we'll have you all ready to stand your trial in a
week I "

Every one drew a deep breath of relief, not even except-
ing Mr. Black, who felt, upon after-thought, a little sorry he
had ended Mr. Sweet's sufferings so soon. But whether
from the reaction or the loss of blood, Mr. Sweet himself
had no sooner heard the conclusion of the doctor's speech
than he fell back on the sofa, fainting.

" Can he be removed, doctor ? " asked the colonel.

** Of course he can I Put him in the carriage and drive
slowly, and he can go to the jail as safely as any of us I I
shall make a point of conscience of visiting him there every
day. I never knew a gentleman I shall have more pleasure
in restoring to health than my dear friend, Mr. Sweet 1 "

" Of course Tom is free to leave immediately, Mr. Chan-
ning? "

" Of course, colonel, of course 1 Poor boy ! how shame-
fully he has been wronged 1 and what a providential thing
the wrong did not go still further ! "

" It's all right now 1 " said the doctor ; " the wheel turns
slowly, but it turns surely ! Blood will cry for vengeance,
and murder will out 1 "

A carriage was ordered round, and the blinds closely
drawn down. Mr. Sweet, still insensible, was placed on the
back seat in charge of the doctor and Mr. Channing, and
Mr. Black and the constable were accommodated with the
opposite one. The colonel mounted his horse and rode on
in advance, to bring glad tidings of great joy to Tom Shir-
ley in his prison cell. ,^

THE FAI,Iv OF THE CURTAIN.

313

CHAPTER XXXIII.

THE FALL OF THE CURTAIN.

The sun shines on the just and the unjust — yes, for it
shone one sunny afternoon on the glistening spires, and
domes, and palaces, and thronged paves of a great city, and
on a large, quiet-looking gray buildmg, enshrined in tall
trees, away from the ceaseless hum of busy life in a remote
street, and the great city was gay, brilliant, wicked Paris,
and the quiet gray building among the trees was the Ursu-
line Convent. It is fourteen months since we were in Clif-
tonlea, fourteen months since Colonel Shirley and Tom left
for the frozen and blood-stained shores of Russia ; fourteen
months since Cliftonlea was thrown into a state of unparal-
leled excitement upon seeing Mr. Sweet with a rope round
his neck, dancing on nothing ; fourteen months since Mar-
garet Shirley joined the band of ^evoted women who fol-
lowed Florence Nightingale to the Crimea. Fourteen
months is a tolerable time, with room for many changes.
The war was over, the allies had gone back to their own
countries. Colonel Shirley had won, by hard fighting, a
baronetage, and the Cross of the Bath, and was now General
Sir Cliffe Shirley. Margaret had joined the Sisters of
Charity, whom she met in the hospitals, and was now the
humble servant of the very humblest class in London ; and
poor Tom Shirley was lying in a soldier's grave outside the
walls of Sebastopol. But all this was passed, and on this
summer afternoon you are going through an iron gate, up
an avenue of golden laburnums, and are ringing a bell at
the great convent door. An old portress, sitting in an arm-
chair, with her missal on her lap, the beads of her rosary
slipping through her lingers, and dozing over both, admits
you, and you pass through a long hall into the convent

314 'THE HEIRESS OF CASTI.E CI.IFFE.

church. The sunshine coming through the magnificent
stained-glass windows fills it with a solemn gloom ; an im-
mense golden lamp, suspended from the carved ceiling by a
long chain, burns before the grand altar. Superb pictures
line the walls, lovely statues look down from niches and
brackets, and the holy- water fount at the door is a perfect
miracle of exquisite carving. The solemn air is filled with
music ; for a young nun, lovely of face, slender of figure, sits
up in the organ-loft, playing and singing the " Stabat Mater."
It is Sister Ignacia, once Mademoiselle de St. Hilary — Vivia
Shirley's old friend, who might have been Vivia Shirley's
sister, and she looks like the pictures of St. Cecilia, as the
grand notes of the organ wail sadly ouL and she sings the
mournful words : -^ -

" Stabat Mater dolorosa,
Juxtem crucem lachrymosa, ' ,

■ ^ Dum pendabat filiiis."

One other figure only is in the church, and it kneels on a
prie-dieu before a magnificent picture, a copy of Paul
Rubens' Descent from the Cross. There Mary Magdalen
kneels with her floating golden hair falling around her like
a veil, her lovely face uplifted ; there stands the Mater
Dolorosa, her colorless face and upraised eyes full of her
great woe ; there stands John, the beloved apostle, with his
beautiful boyish face, aad there hangs the drooping livid
figure they are slowly lifting to the ground. It is not a nun
who kneels before this picture, not even a novice ; for she
wears no veil, either white or black ; her golden hair, like
Magdalen's own, is pushed from her face and confined in a
silken net ; her dress is unrelieved black, but she wears
neither cross nor rosary at her girdle. You cannot see her
face, it is hidden in her hands as she kneels ; but you can
tell she is young, by the exquisite beauty of those hands,
and the slender, delicate figure. While she kneels and
j^rays, and the young nun sings the " Stabat Mater," the
door softly opens. Sister Anastasia, the old portress, glides
in and taps her softly on the shoulder, and the kneeler rises
and follows her out of the vestibule. You can see now that
the face is youthful and lovely, made more lovely by the
marvelous purity and calm that looks at you througlv the dark

TH^ FAI,!, OF THE CURTAIN.

315

violet eyes than by any perfection of feature or of com-
plexion ; for the face is thin, wan and wasted to a degree.
Sister Anastasia takes a card out of her pocket, and hands
it to the young lady, who becomes livid crimson the moment
she looks at it, and who covers her face with her hands, and
turns away even from the averted eyes of the portress.
*' He is in the parlor," Sister Anastasia says with phlegm,
and goes back to her missal, and her rosary, and her doz-
ing.
""- The young girl stood for a moment in the same attitude,
her bowed face hidden in her hands ; and then starting sud-
denly up, hastened along a corridor, up a flight of stairs, and
tapped at a door on the landing above, ^ " Enter," said a
sweet voice ; and obeying the order, the young lady went in
' and knelt down at the feet of the stately Lady Abbess, who
sat with a pile of letters before her, reading.

" Well, dear child," said the lady, laying her hand kindly
on the bowed head, " what is it ? "

For all answer the young lady placed in her hand the card
she had just received, and bowed her face lower than ever.
The nun looked at it gravely at first, and then, with a little
smile :

" Well, my dear, it is very well> you have my permission
to receive your visitor."

'* But not alone, mother I dear mother, not alone 1 "

The lady still sat and looked at her with the same quiet
smile.

" Will you not come with me, mother ? I — I — should like
it so much 1 "

*> Certainly, my dear, if you wish it."

^Both arose, descended the stairs, passed through the ves-
tibule, and opening a door to the left, entered the very
plainest of convent parlors. The only occupant was a gen-
tleman, stalwart and tall, in undress military uniform, bronzed
and mustached, and looking wonderfully out of place within
those monastic walls. He rose as they entered, bowed low
to the stately superior ; and, crossing the room, eagerly held
out his hand to the younger lady, who dropped her eyes, and
colored again, as she touched it.

*' I am very glad that you have returned safe from your
. dangerous mission, Sir Cliff e," said the superior, sitting

3i6 THE HEIRESS OF CASTI.E CUFFE.

down. '* Allow me to congratulate you on the success you
have achieved."

" You are very kind, madam 1 " said the soldier, looking
a little reproachfully, as he spoke, at the young lady, who
persistently refused to meet his eye. " Can I not say two
or three words in private to Miss Shirley ? "

" Undoubtedly, sir ; it was by her own request I came 1
Vivia, take a seat over there by the window, and hear what
your friend has to say."

Vivia and the gentleman seated themselves near the win-
dow as directed ; and the superior, taking out a rosary, be-
gan saying her Ave Marias, with her eyes fixed on the floor,
to all intents and purposes a hundred miles away.

" You have just come from England, I suppose," said
Vivia, at last breakir']; a somewhat embarrassing pause.

" I reached Paris an hour ago. And how have you been,
Vivia ? Are you always going to be pale and wan, and never
get your roses back ? I believe they half starve you here."

Vivia looked up with something like her old laugh.

" Sister Therese, our cook, could tell a different story 1
She would cook me p&,tk de fois gras every day if I would
eat them. And how are all in Cliftonlea — dear, dear old
Cliftonlea ? How often I have dreamed of it since I left ! "

" You shall see it again before the end of the week. All
are well, but terribly lonely without Vivia ! I believe I have
a couple of billets doux for you somewhere."

" Hardly billets-doux, I think," smiled Vivia, as h** drew
out his pocketbook, and took from between the leaves two
dainty little missives, one three-cornered, rose-colored, and
perfumed ; the other in a plain white envelope. Vivia smiled
again as she looked at the first. •

" Lady Agnes will always be elegant ; I could tell this was
hers in Tartary ! " she said, as she broke it open and glanced
over its brief contents. Very brief they were :

" My Darling : — Con\e back. I have been dying of en-
nui since you left* Nothing in the world could have made
me so happy as to know you are to be my daughter after
all. . A. S."

Vivia glanced shyly up ; and seeing the grave smiling eyes

THE FAI.I. OF THE CURTAIN.

317

bent upon her, blushed, and opened the other without a
word:

" My Dear Cousin : — Try and forgive me for the past —
I never can forgive myself. Sometimes, in your prayers,
remember Margaret Shirley."

" Your letters are somewhat shorter than those ladies
usually write," her companion said, with his grave smile ;
but Vivia's eyes were full of tears.

" Poor Margaret 1 dear Margaret 1 I hope she is happy
in her convent 1 When did you see her ? "

** Yesterday. And if one might judge by faces, she is as
happy as it is in her nature to be. Poor Tom's death was
a terrible shock to her ; she saw him when he was brought
in riddled with Russian bullets 1 "

" Did she ? "

She was sitting with averted face, her eyes shaded by her
hands, and Sir ClifFe went on :

" You heard, of course, he was dead, but you never heard
the particulars. Poor fellow ! shall I ever forget that half
an hour before he was talking to me, sound and well, in my
tent ? But these things are merely the fortunes of war."

" Go on ! " Vivia said, softly.

" We were expecting an engagement, and my post was one
of imminent danger ; and not knowing what the result might
be, I was making a few arrangements in case the worst
should happen. It was then for the first time I told him how
I had called here when en route for the seat of war, the ques-
tion I asked you, and the answer my good little Vivia gave.
As he heard it, he laid his head down on the table as he did
once before, I remember, when I gave him your note in per-
son ; and those were the last words we ever exchanged.
The engagement began, a forlorn hope was storming a breach
in the wall, and had been hurled back again and again by
a rain of bullets, until they were half cut to pieces, and no
one could be found to lead them again. Then it was that
Tom sprung from the ranks with a cheer, and a wild cry of
* Come on, lads I ' that rings in my ears even now. In one
instant he scaled the wall, in another he had fallen back,

3i8 THE HEIRESS OF CASTLE CLIFFE.

pierced with a score of Russian balls, but the last trial suc-
ceeded, and the breach was won 1 "

Vivia did not speak, but he could see how fast the tears
were falling through the hands that covered her face.

" When they came to bury him," concluded the colonel,
hastily, *• they found in his breast, all torn and shattered, a
little book you had once given him, and within it the note
you sent him in prison. Poor Tom 1 they buried him with
military honors, but the shock of seeing him nearly killed
Margaret."

Still Vivia could do nothing but weep. Her companion
looked at her anxiously.

*' I ought not to have told you this story — such horrors
are not for your ears."

" Oh, yes, yes ; it is better I should know it 1 Poor Tom 1
poor Margaret 1 "

" Do not think of it any longer 1 1 have a thousand
tilings to say to you, and no time to say one of t' <^m. Do
you know I return to England to-morrow ? "

" So soon ! "

" Yes. And I'm going to take you with me."

" Ohl " exclaimed Vivia, with a little cry of consternation.
" It is impossible I I never could ! "

" There is no such word as impossible in my vocabulary 1
You must I There is no occasion for delay, and they ex-
pect us at home."

" But it is so very sudden. I never can be ready 1 "

" Permit me to judge of that 1 What readiness do you
require ? "

" Oh, I have nothing to wear I " said Vivia, with a laugh
and a blush.

" You can wear what you have on — can you not ? "

" Black ! Nonsense — what are you thinking of ? No
one ever heard of such a thing 1 "

" Very well 1 Since you are inexorable, I shall appeal to
higher powers, and see if they cannot coerce you into obedi-
ence."

He crossed the room as he spoke, and took a seat near
the superior, who lifted her eyes inquiringly from the carpet
pattern. ' - ^

^'" Madame, business obliges me to return to England to-

THE FALJU OF THE CURTAIN.

319

morrow ? Is tliere any valid reason why Vivia should not
return with me ? "

" It is very soon," said the lady, musingly.

•' True, but I assure you the haste is unavoidable, and as
the ceremony is to be strictly private, a day more or less
cannot make much diflferencc."

«' I suppose not. Well, monsieur, it shall be as you wish.
Her friend, Madame la Marquise de St. Hilary, and her
bonne Jeannette, can accompany her in the carriage, and
meet you at the church. I cannot tell you, monsieur, how
sorry we all will be to part with her."

So that matter was settled, and Monsieur le General took
his departure with a beaming face to prepare for the cere-
mony of to-morrow, and Mile. Vivia went to prepare for
it in her own way, by spending the remainder of the day,
and long into the night, on W\q prie-dicti before the altar.
She was back there again by daydawn tlic next morning ;
but when the grand carriage of the St. Hilarys stopped at
the convent door she was ready in the simplest and plainest
of traveling-dresses to take her seat beside the marquise.
Adieu had been said to all her convent friends, and she sat
Quietly crying behind her veil, until they drew up before
Notre Dame, where they found General Shirley and a few
of his friends awaiting them. And then a very quiet mar-
riage-ceremony was performed, and Vivia had a right to the
name of Shirley no one could dispute now, and was sitting
the happiest bride on earth, beside her soldier-husband, in
the express-train for Calais.

Once more the joy-bells were ringing in Cliftonlea ; once
more the charity-children turned out to strew the streets with
flowers ; once more triumphal arches were raised, and the
flag of welcome floated from the cupola of Castle Cliffe ;
once more bonfires were kindled, fireworks went off, and
music and dancing, drinking and feasting were to be had
for the asking, and crowds upon crowds of well dressed
people filled the park. Castle Cliflfe from cellar to battle-
ment was one blaze of light ; once more the German band
came down from London to delight the ears of hundreds of
guests ; once more Lady Agnes was blazing resplendent in
velvet and diamonds, and once more Sir Roland, on his
gold-headed cane, limped from room to room, in spite of his

320 THE HEIRESS OF CASTI.E CI.IFFE.

gout, in perfect ecstasies at seeing his pet Vivia again — it
was so delightfully like the old times. And Vivia was there
again, robed as a bride, in white lace and satin, and orange-
blossoms and jewels, lovely as a vision ; and this time the
'bridegroom was nrt absent. He stood there in his grand
general's uniform ; and no shadow from the past was per-
mitted to dim the brightness of that night. Not even Lady
Agnes could think of her obscure birth ; for no princess
could look more noble and stately than did she ; no one
thought of that father of hers who had broken so artfully
from jail, and made his escape to parts unknown, helped,
rumor said, by Colonel Shirley himself. No one thought of
anything but that the bride and bridegroom were the hand-
somest and happiest couple in the world.

" Come out here, Vivia I " he said to her, opening a glass
door leading down to the terrace ; " it is a lovely night,
•and this ball-room is oppressively hot."

He drew her arm within his, and Sir Cliflfe and Lady
Shirley walked along the terrace in the serene moonlight.
The park, looking like fairy-land, lay at their feet, filled with
their tenantry, and the townsfolk, and music, and happy
voices ; the town lay quiet and tranquil, looking pretty and
picturesque as all places do In the moonlight ; and far away,
spread out the wide sea, its ceaseless waves surging the
same old song to the shore they had sung when she had
heard them first, a happy, careless child.

" Dear, dear Cliftonlea ! " said Vivia, her eyes filling with
happy tears. " How glad I am to see it again I "

"I thought you would not forget it in your French con-
vent ! " he said, laughing. " My dear little. wife, there is no
place like home 1 "

" True, but I have learned one thing in my French con-
vent, that favor is deceitful, and beauty is vain, and that
after all, mon ante / " pointing upward, " there is the true
/faine ! "

He did not speak. He only lifted the lovely hand rever-
ently to his lips ; and in silence the bronzed soldier and his
pretty bride stood on the terrace watching the young moon
rise* '■ ~^ ' ' -■<■■■'

THE END.

,■- V.

■'.fC^>